Painted Black

“You’re always a step ahead of the other agents,” Prentiss Moneymaker says, handing Estelle Mitchum a $50,000 bonus check. “You’ve sold more homes than all my other agents combined. What’s your secret?”

Estelle smiles slyly. “I’m clairvoyant.”

                                               ***

Back in her split-level luxury penthouse, Estelle studies her portrait hanging above the fireplace. This morning, it showed her closing her three-million-dollar sale.

The picture now shows her face down on the floor. Blood pools around her dead body.

Estelle hears a shuffling sound behind her.

“May twenty-fourth,” a voice says.

She turns around to look at her killer.

                                               ***

When the police conduct a welfare check three days later, they find Estelle’s body has been stabbed two dozen times.

They’re mystified by the painting hanging above her fireplace.

There’s no image, no scenery, or color. It’s entirely black.

                                               ***

Frida Pollock’s ragged cough brings her son, Henry, to her bedside.

Decades of hard living have caught up to Frida. Her grey hair is in wisps, blue veins are visible through her sallow skin, and her body has shrunk to eighty pounds.

Henry takes her hand.

“…You know I love you, don’t you?”

“Yes, mother.”

“The best thing I ever did for you was to send you to live with my sister when you were five… Your father’s sudden death shattered me. I couldn’t take care of you…There I was, nearly forty, with no skills, trying to raise two children.”

Henry’s eyebrows furrow. “Two kids?”

“Do you remember your babysitter?”

“The girl with the gold cross...”

“Yes, Aria. She cherished that cross because her father gave it to her. She never took it off. Aria wasn’t just your babysitter. She was your sister. When I sent you to your aunt upstate, I sent Aria to live with your father’s brother in Texas. I should have known better. He was an abusive drunk. Aria ran away. I heard a rumor she’d moved back home. But no one’s seen or heard from her in twenty years…”

Tears run down Frida’s cheeks as she lets out a wheezy cough.

“…Your sister was such a natural beauty… I knew life might rob her of her looks like it stole mine... I wanted something to remember her by. Just before I sent her away, I met a man in a bar who said he painted portraits. He painted a picture of your sister. I hung it in the living room. That way, I could see her, watch her grow, and know she was all right.”

Doubt crosses Henry’s features.

“How could you know all that?”

Frida grabs Henry by his collar, pulling him close.

“It’s a living picture… It’s in the living room closet… I took it down when it showed me Aria playing with a little girl, my granddaughter… I realized then that Aria had grown up and become a woman without me… Go look in the closet…”

Worried about his mother’s mental state, Henry pauses in the doorway, giving Frida a guarded look.

He searches the closet, moving aside obsolete appliances, lightbulbs, and dusty bric-a-brac, finding the painting crammed in a corner.

The portrait depicts a stately-looking woman sitting on a bench smiling agreeably for the artist, her hair tied back in a ponytail.

Henry takes the painting out of the closet, putting it on the floor to get a better look at it.

Pulling out his cell phone, he takes several shots of the picture, taking note of the artist’s signature.

Looking down at the painting again, he laughs, attributing what he sees to stress.

“Did you move, Aria?”

Aria’s head is now turned to the side. Her hair is untied, blowing freely in the wind.

Henry brings the painting to Frida.

His mother is dead.

                                               ***

The landlord of the small apartment building suspiciously eyes the eager, bushy-haired young man at his door.

“Is this the home of Race Kilborn?” Henry asks, returning the stocky, bald man’s beady gaze.

“He doesn’t give lessons, sonny.”

“And you are?”

“Craven Moore, his landlord… And his agent.”

“I’d like to talk to him about a painting.”

Craven winks at Henry. “So, you’ve heard the rumors. I assure you, they’re true. Kilborn paints livin’ paintin’s.”

“I didn’t travel a thousand miles back to my hometown to sit for some trick portrait.”

Craven snorts disapprovingly. “I was wonderin’ how you were gonna pony up the five grand for a paintin’. You look too young to have that kinda scratch.”

“I’m twenty-five, and I’ve got a well-paying job as a computer programmer. I want to speak with Mister Kilborn about a painting he did twenty years ago.”

Craven puts his hands on his hips, blocking the stairway upstairs. “No refunds.”

“I want to ask him about one of his subjects.”

“That’ll be five hundred bucks for a consultation. I take credit cards. I’ll warn ya. He may not remember much. Most days, he’s a manic-depressive drunk. Says bein’ in a haze relieves the pressure. He’s what you call a tortured artist.”

“Then he should get help before he destroys his talent.”

“He wants to die,” Craven replies. “Kilborn doesn’t think his talent is god given. He thinks it comes from the dark side, if you know what I mean. Kilborn can look at a person and see their future. He can’t help it. He sees it even if he doesn’t want to. Then, he paints what he’s seen. The paintin’ changes, showin’ the owner what’s gonna happen to them, maybe tomorrow, next week, or next year. There’s a lot of discreet and wealthy people willin’ to pay any price for a livin’ portrait that can predict their future.”

“Which is where your managerial skills come in…”

“Hey, he lives here for free. I feed him and pay for his booze, which is no small feat.”

“So, you’re not only his landlord and agent. You’re also his enabler and jailer.”

“Kilborn’s not a prisoner. He’s free to stumble around anywhere he pleases.”

Craven points to a picture hanging on the wall in the hallway. It shows Craven smoking an expensive cigar, wearing a bowler hat, and grinning jubilantly.

“He painted that picture of me when he first came here. Nothin’ special, I thought, until I looked at it again the next day. I wasn’t wearin’ a hat or smokin’ a cigar when he painted me. And instead of scenery behind me, there was a race track in the background. See that group of horses racin’ behind me? You can see the numbers they wear. So, I played a hunch. I went to the track, bet on the lead horse in the paintin’, a forty-to-one shot, and struck it rich. The horses in the picture change every day. I keep bettin’ on the lead horse, and I keep winnin’.”

“You’re despicable, Moore.”

“Yeah, but I’m one of the richest men in Ono, Pennsylvania. If I didn’t think of takin’ advantage of his talent, somebody else would. I’m not tryin’ to harm Kilborn. He can do that to himself without my help.”

                                               ***

Henry already senses Race Kilborn’s self-loathing as he opens the door to his cluttered apartment.

Race’s dour, craggy face, dark, bushy brows, and upswept silvery hair reflect his inner turmoil, which is matched by his agonizing limp.

Henry looks around the living room at the canvases stacked on the floor like headstones.

Race points to a stool in the middle of the room.

“Sit down, and we’ll get started.”

“I’m not here to have my portrait painted. I’m here to ask a few questions. Five hundred dollars worth.”

“All right. I sense your cynicism. But I assure you, the things Moore bragged about are true… I met a shaggy blonde-haired kid in a bar five years ago. He played me some of his songs. They were full of angst as if a much older man had written them. I painted his portrait. It soon changed, showing a well-dressed, short-haired blonde man holding a Grammy. Two years later, he was named New Artist of the Year.”

“So, your portraits foresee people’s good fortune.”

“A year later, his portrait changed to a man jumping off a building. So, no.”

“You sound jaded. Moore is taking advantage of you, but he says you’re not a prisoner. Why not leave?”

“Au contraire. Craven protects me. I grew up here in Ono. The ink on my high school diploma wasn’t even dry when I left. I traveled throughout the country. I’d paint a portrait now and again whenever I needed money. Many years ago, I painted a portrait of a beautiful woman, Allison Krause. I fell in love with Allison. I looked at the portrait a few days later, and Allison’s beauty was gone. She had sores on her face, her hair had fallen out, and she was sickly looking and gaunt. Allison died from cancer two months later. I’ll always remember the day Allison died. It was May twenty-fourth.”

“I’m sorry you had to go through that,” Henry says.

“So was I. I put down my brush and picked up a bottle. The liquor blurred the premonitions crowding my mind. But I couldn’t erase Allison’s memory. I got into my share of fights. A drunken patron was making fun of my limp one night. I saw red and smashed him over the head with a bottle. When he fell, he hit his head against the bar and died. Craven got me out of there and helped me hide. He also helped me make peace with Allison’s death and my talent.”

“Where did it come from?”

“I’ve loved painting ever since I was a child. It was my only friend. As you can see, I’m disabled. I was in a horrible accident when I was eight. I was riding my bike to Lennon Park. A drunk ran a red light and hit me. My pelvis was crushed, I had several fractures in my right leg, and my right foot was twisted and broken. I spent all summer recovering.”

“…And you took up painting…”

Race looks at his hands, rubbing them together. “Most beginners paint bowls of fruit or scenery. I painted portraits… There was this bully in junior high, Manson Maderos, who’d steal my sodas and beat me up. I fixed him. One day, I replaced my Coke with paint. He drank it. Everyone laughed at him. He beat me until I was a bloody mess. That night, I prayed that he’d die. I sat in front of a blank canvas. Suddenly, my hands began to move on their own. It was as if instead of standing outside the painting, I was inside of it, looking out. I painted a picture of Maderos swinging on the high bar in the gym. The next day, he was trying to impress the girls on the high bar. He twirled in the air, missed the bar, and missed the mat, too. He hit the floor and broke his neck. It was then that I realized I could paint people’s futures. It should have been a blessing, but it was a curse. I only saw death and misery, not happiness. I burnt Maderos’s picture. That quieted the curse for a while.”   

Henry watches Race finish painting a portrait of a striking woman with kohl-rimmed eyes and long, jet-black hair.

“So, what do you want to know?” Race asks.

“Twenty years ago, you painted a portrait of my sister. I’m trying to find her.”

Henry shows Race the photos of Aria’s portrait.

“I remember her. She was a beautiful, well-mannered child. Her mother, not so much.”

Race moves to a group of portraits stacked in the corner of the room. “I always paint two portraits, one for the client, one for me. Watching the changes they go through is better than having cable TV.”

He shuffles past several black canvases, lamenting, “This is what I’m left with when they die. Black, empty canvases. It’s like a light shuts off… I remember your sister. She was wearing a large gold crucifix. When I decided to leave Ono, I gave my copy of your sister’s portrait to a bartender for safekeeping. He was creeped out that it changed, so he stored it in his back room. When I returned to town, I reclaimed your sister’s picture. Perhaps because my subconscious knew this day would come.”

“Do you recognize the background?”

“It’s Lennon Park.”

                                               ***

Henry spends the next two days reading on a bench in Lennon Park, reading books and magazines, hoping his sister will appear. He brings a newspaper with him on the third day of his vigil. He nearly falls off the bench when he looks at the front page.

A photo of a striking woman with kohl-rimmed eyes and long, jet-black hair dominates the page.

Above her photo is the headline:

NORA NOBLE

BELOVED TEACHER

MURDERED!!!

Sixth unsolved murder in five years.

                                               ***

Craven Moore answers the door. “He’s sleeping one off.”

Henry waves the newspaper in his face.

“See this woman. Kilborn painted her. Now she’s dead.”

“That’s not his fault.”

“Prove it. Let me talk to him. If his portraits can really predict the future, then he would have known what was going to happen to her. He could have stopped this woman from being murdered.”

Henry and Craven enter Kilborn’s apartment, yelling his name.

Henry looks at the painting on the easel.

Nora Noble’s striking beauty, kohl-rimmed eyes, and long, jet-black hair are gone.

Her portrait is black.

“Where was Kilborn last night?”

“Here,” Craven answers hesitantly.

Henry notices an untouched tray of food on a nearby desk.

“You’re sure of that?”

Craven’s eyes widen. “…He wasn’t here when I brung his food... I just assumed he was in the can.”

Henry files through the stacked portraits on the floor.

“What are you looking for?”

Henry holds up the portrait of his sister. It’s changed.

Kilborn is now sitting on the bench beside Aria, leering at her.

                                               ***

“I’m telling you, Race Kilborn is your killer!” Henry shouts at Officer Stan Still.

“How do you know?”

“How do birds know when it’s time to fly south? Instinct. They just know.”

The sandy-haired officer rolls his sleepy eyes. “That doesn’t answer my question.”

Henry nearly cringes as he lies. “He got drunk last night and confessed.”

“We’ve had a few calls from bartenders asking us to get Kilborn out of their place. He’s gotten handsy with some of the ladies and tried to bash a few guy's heads in. If he said he killed Nora Noble, he was only trying to make himself look tougher than he is. What you’re suggesting doesn’t make sense. He’s practically a cripple.”

“You want proof? Something that wasn’t in the papers? All of his victims were stabbed twenty-four times.”

Still’s sleepy eyes widen. “Yeah, only the killer would know that. So, maybe you’re the killer.”

“A serial killer wouldn’t come in here and offer information that would get him executed. How many unsolved murders have there been in Ono? Six? A dozen? If I’m right, you’ll get credit for solving all of them.”

                                               ***

Henry and Officers Still and Justin Case spot Kilborn and Aria sitting on a bench, laughing cheerfully.

“See? Race is a troubled guy for sure, but a murderer? Nah.”

Race brandishes a knife. Aria screams, fighting him off.

The three men run toward the bench.

Still draws his weapon. “Put down the butcher knife, Kilborn!”

Race rises from the bench, the knife clattering as it hits the ground.

He holds his hands up in surrender. “I’m just fulfilling her prophecy. Her portrait showed me what I had to do… I have to kill her!”

“I’ve heard a lot of lame excuses, but the picture made me do it is a new one,” Still says, looking down at his gun as he holsters it.

Putting his head down, Race charges at Officer Case, bowling him over.

Henry and the pair of stupefied officers watch as Race limps off.

“I feel confident in saying he won’t get far,” Still comments. “Justin, you stay with the victim while I catch up to our track star.”

“I’m coming with you,” Henry insists.

“Suit yourself, but stay out of my way.”

Henry turns to Aria. “You and I have a lot to talk about, sis.”

                                               ***

Henry and Officer Still search the streets and businesses near the park.

Still scratches his head. “He’s a cripple. How the heck did he escape?”

Henry looks up at a sign reading: Smithson Gallery.

“…Maybe he didn’t…”

Officer Still continues searching as Henry walks into the gallery.

A motherly-looking clerk comes out of the backroom.

“Can I help you?”

Henry spots a portrait of a dour, craggy-faced man with dark, bushy brows and upswept silvery hair in front of a collection of blank canvasses.

“I’m interested in that portrait.”

The clerk looks at the portrait. “Must be a new one. I haven’t noticed it before. There’s no price on it. Kind of a sad-looking man. Are you sure you want this one?”

“Money’s no object. I must have it.”

                                               ***

Henry adds more wood to the bonfire as he and Aria watch her husband and daughter play in their backyard.

“The police found eight black portraits in Kilborn’s apartment. There’s no telling how many other women he’s murdered.”

Aria’s gold crucifix gleams against the flames.

“It’s nice to see you’ve had a happy life,” Henry says.

“It might have ended if you hadn’t come along,” Aria replies. “I guess a person can change their fate.”

“Fate doesn’t determine our lives. We do.”

Henry picks up the portrait of Kilborn.

“…He’s still stuck inside the canvas, trying to paint his way out…”

A tear runs down the portrait’s cheek.

Henry throws the painting into the fire.