The Sketcher's Mark (Lara McBride Thrillers Book 1) Read online

  THE SKETCHER’S MARK

  A Lara McBride Thriller

  By

  Chris O’Neill

  Copyright 2013 Chape Works LLC, USA

  All rights reserved

  2nd Edition 2015

  For Rochelle, a true Angel

  Part One

  ANGELS

  Chapter One

  PARIS

  She had absolutely no reason to not trust the man drawing her portrait. Janelle McBride was in her early twenties, last year of college studying marketing, no idea what to do once she graduated. She was beautiful, even without make up, which she was today. She’d got up late- the last day in Paris and it had been a heavy night drinking with fellow international travellers the night before. She’d drifted in to the square behind the Pompidou Centre to pick up some souvenirs for herself and her sister, which were now stuffed in her backpack at her feet, when she’d seen the sketch artists across from the shops. She had walked over, taken with the display that one of the artists had by his easel that looked down in to the square below where students sat obliviously eating, drinking, smoking, playing music and lost on their phones.

  The detail in his work was amazing. Her jaw was open when she saw it, struck by the sheer detail and mood of the pieces he had arranged in a square, a giant calling card on his easel that advertised his talent. He must have seen the look on her face because she heard him chuckling. The young women in the four sketches he had tacked to the back of his easel were so detailed, so real she felt she could almost reach in to the paper and caress their faces and feel their skin. There was something… otherworldly about them. As though he had drawn them in pencil and brushed them with a glaze of heaven.

  “Have a seat,” he’d said, motioning to the empty folding chair across from him. She couldn’t quite see his face as he was partially hidden behind the easel. His accent wasn’t French, it was somehow neutral with no way to tell whether English was his first language or not. That intrigued her, just another element about being in Europe that surprised and impressed her. It wasn’t like Los Angeles. It had culture and sophistication, an intelligence that was imprinted in the DNA of the people who swept by her. She was already smiling, ready to just congratulate him on his work and then head for the Metro to make it to the airport. She had stepped around to the folding chair and he looked up at her and smiled as though he had just seen the woman of his dreams. That impressed her even more than his work. It was that look in his eyes that made her stay.

  Her breath had caught in the back of her throat for a second and she felt the burn of guilt and shame for letting this emotion show externally. Her sister was all about keeping emotions internal and had told her on many occasions that she should be more guarded with her feelings so as not to play her hand to those around her who would use the information to better manipulate her. Her sister, the optimist. His face was scarred. He was a young man, in his thirties, lean, athletic, she could tell he was tall even though he was folded in to his own chair right now looking up at her with the most magnetic blue eyes she had ever seen. He was strangely beautiful, just like his work, as though somebody had somehow conjured him out of flesh and bone just as he had conjured magical renditions with simple pencil and paper. She was entranced. Those eyes. The handsome, perfectly angled face. And those scars.

  There were four of them. Two were half circles like crescent moons across his cheeks, the other two were small straight lines and looked like lips waiting to be kissed. They formed a tribal pattern, a skin tattoo. They were brutally sexual, bold and confident- just like him. His smile made everything else fade for her.

  “I’m sorry. A childhood accident. We’re all imperfect in some way,” he said, touching his face delicately, almost embarrassed. That was it. She sat down.

  “I didn’t mean to be rude,” she said.

  “Oh, please, you have no reason to be sorry. It’s a perfectly natural reaction to something so horrific.”

  He laughed and suddenly she felt like a teenager in high school when the captain of the football team, Bobby Lang, had sat across from her in the cafeteria. She went with it. She was on vacation, why not? He was already moving the pencil over the canvass, his eyes locked on her, devouring her essence. She could feel him doing it. She felt more turned on now than she could ever remember having been before. The experience was strange, invasive, arousing. His eyes explored her face, taking in every detail. It had been a long time since Janelle McBride had felt genuinely wanted by a man who took such a deep and focused interest in her.

  “Will this take long?” she asked, ready to sit and wait forever if he asked.

  “Greatness has no deadline,” he replied.

  “Sure of yourself, aren’t you?”

  “So are you- or you wouldn’t have sat down. How’s your trip going?”

  “Great. Today’s my last day. I love this city. I think I want to stay.”

  “Oh, why’s that?”

  “Everything about this place is just amazing. The architecture. The food. Just the whole vibe of the place. It gets in your blood.”

  “I know what you mean.”

  “There’s so much culture here. The windows on that church over there are older than my apartment building.”

  “Where are you from?”

  “Los Angeles.”

  “Ah. How fitting. The City of Angels.”

  “Which is ironic since it has no soul.”

  “I’ve never been so I couldn’t say. Is that what you came to Paris to find? Some kind of soul? Are you a Lost Angel?”

  “No, I came here to decompress. My friends wanted to go to Cabo for Spring Break and that sounded like a nightmare. I wanted some culture. To get away.”

  “From what?”

  “Bad break up. Best left in the past. I don’t want to talk about negative things. It’s in the past now. Where negative things belong.”

  “Did you come here on your own?”

  “My sister told me not to and I almost brought someone with me, but, you know, I’m glad I didn’t because I’ve had the most amazing time.”

  “Very brave of you.”

  “At least this way I get to do what I want when I want and not have to listen to somebody whining all the time.”

  “Hence the break up..?”

  “You do therapy as well as sketches?”

  “I should. I hear it pays better. How was your hotel?”

  “Fine. I checked out late, grabbed some touristy shit for the folks back home and now here we are.”

  “Here we are, indeed.”

  His eyes pierced right inside her, seemed to know her already, understand her and see her completely. And want her. She really didn’t know how to respond. She just focused on trying not to make a fool of herself. She straightened up in the chair and brushed her hair from her face. She wanted to play this cool, mainly to stop herself from doing anything stupid. Where would this go, anyway, she was leaving in a few hours. She checked her watch.

  “Shit,” she uttered.

  “What time is your flight?” he asked.

  “Like, in two hours. How long does it take to get to the airport?”

  “About two hours. You’re in the center of Paris and it’s about to hit rush hour. I don’t fancy your chances.”

  “Shit. Excuse me for a second?”

  She got up, pulling her cellphone from her pocket and stepped away from the man drawing her portrait. She speed dialed a number. The phone display said LARA. She heard it ring. Three times and she knew her sister wasn’t going to pick up.

  “You’ve reached Lara McBride. Leave a message.” Lara, all business as usual,
no fat on anything she did.

  “Lara, it’s Janelle. I think I might miss my flight. You always say I do everything last minute and I hate it when you’re right. I’ll call you when I get to DeGaulle. Love you, sis.” She hung up and turned back to the sketch artist.

  “I think I’ve almost got you,” he said and beckoned for her to come over. She felt herself blush.

  The sketch was immersive, almost three dimensional. He had whittled this in no time at all and perfectly captured her presence, her features and then elevated them to another level. He was masterful. She was speechless.

  “My god, that’s insane. How do you do that?”

  “I just draw people the way I see them. I saw you as…”

  “..angelic.”

  “Yes. I thought that was appropriate.”

  “I wish I had a talent like this. Must be why god put you on this earth.”

  “We all have a reason.”

  “I haven’t found mine yet.”

  At the bottom of the sketch, he had made his mark with two initials. “HH”.

  “What’s that stand for? Your name?”

  “No. ‘Heaven and Hell’. My name is Luc. But my ‘stage name’ if you will is Guillotine”.

  “Guillotine? That’s a little dark. So is ‘Heaven and Hell’.”

  “I believe both exist on earth. People exist in one or the other. I’ve always been fascinated by which one is the stronger.”

  “Are you religious?”

  “Only on Sundays.”

  “Lucky for me it’s only Thursday.”

  “And you’re about to get on a plane and fly out of my life forever.”

  “Why is it you always meet the most interesting people just when you have to be somewhere else?”

  “The Fates have a sense of humor.”

  He took the sketch off the easel, rolled it up and tied it off with a small piece of string.

  “A souvenir of your visit. Perhaps you’ll think of me when you’re halfway across the world.”

  She took the sketch and he began to pack up. She picked up her back pack and unzipped the side pocket, pulled out a bottle of water and replaced it with the sketch. She took a slug of the water, watching him fold the two chairs and easel. Of course, she knew she was just burning time while he packed up. She didn’t want to leave yet.

  “I guess this is it, then...” she said, totally lost now as to what to do. She was going to miss that plane and lose out on something else here, an adventure, a side street in her life she was genuinely intrigued to go down and explore. Shit. She hoped he would rise to the challenge she had passively laid down for him. He seemed sharp enough to take the hint. He looked at her and she knew he could read her.

  “I have to drive past the airport. If we leave now, I might just have you there in time. No promises but I can try. And I’d love to keep talking to you. If you’re interested.”

  “Yes. I am. Shit, is this really happening right now? Damnit!”

  She laughed involuntarily and hated herself for it when she was trying to be sophisticated and aloof. All those games and tricks she felt compelled to play back home in the dating scene were fast becoming infantile to her while she was in his presence. So far, he had got everything right. She really was in the hands of The Fates right now as he called it and she had no idea which direction they were going to take her.

  “Where were you a week ago?”

  “Biding my time. We should leave now if we want to beat the traffic.”

  “Ok. Lead the way, sir.”

  He walked beside her carrying the two folding chairs and the easel. Together, they strolled through the square towards the church on the other side of the Pompidou Centre on Rue de Cloitre Saint Merri. They passed by the fountain, where couples were talking close, kissing. Janelle felt an ache of envy watching them. On the brick wall behind them, a giant painting of a man’s head, his finger to his lips intoning a conspiratorial “shhh”. She loved this city.

  “Can I ask you something?” she said.

  “Of course.”

  “What happened? With the scars, I mean. You don’t have to tell me if I’m being too personal.”

  “Not at all. I’m not ashamed. I was in a car accident when I was a child. I walked away, thankfully. My parents weren’t… so lucky.”

  “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to drag it up.”

  “I was very young. I’ve had time to get over it. I don’t remember them much at all. I was taken in by my aunts afterwards. That was worse.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. We’re both orphans.”

  “Can I ask what happened? If I’m not being too personal?”

  “I was very little. I don’t remember seeing it. There were two guys in a parking lot at the mall. One of them had a gun. I just remember my sister telling me in the hospital it was just us now. She’s a lot older than me. I was the miracle child they never thought they’d have. I always felt bad for her because of that. She had to give up a lot to look after me. It can’t have been easy.”

  “How much older than you?”

  “Ten years. She was in college when it happened. I’m sorry, I don’t even know why we’re talking about this. It’s my fault.”

  “Never apologize for speaking your mind. I assume you have to do that a lot back home.”

  “I do and, you know, it’s so freeing to not have to do that out here. God, I love Paris!”

  He led her to a large white Mercedes work van parked beside the church. The street was small, cobbled on this end. The church was to her left, running a little further down from the apartments on their right. Cars were parked on both sides of the street. Even though the Pompidou was a busy area, this side street was quiet, no foot traffic, just the two of them in the early evening air. She looked at the windows of the apartments, saw televisions on inside, paintings hanging on walls, dining tables, people moving around inside preparing dinner. There were no faces at the windows looking down on the street, everybody was too busy with their own lives. That reminded her of home.

  Guillotine set the folding chairs and easel down against the front bumper of the white van and fumbled the keys out of his pocket. She walked around to the passenger side. The van was so tall she couldn’t see over the top of it, the view of the apartments on the other side was completely blocked. That meant they couldn’t see her, either.

  Guillotine opened the driver’s door, tossed in his satchel and reached down under the seat for the rag he kept there and the small bottle of chloroform. He popped open the cap and quickly doused it as she tried the door across from him. It was stuck. Of course it was. He’d disabled it for just this very purpose- it had always made for a great stalling tactic.

  “I think I broke your door here,” she said, hoping he wasn’t going to get pissed off she’d broken his van.

  Calmly, he walked around to the church side of the van, out of sight of the lovers in the square by the painting and the windows of the apartments. It was no accident the van was positioned here. It was where he always parked it.

  “Sometimes, you just need to use force,” he smiled and then his arms snaked under hers from behind and he had the rag to her face as he lifted her off the ground.

  Her boots flailed out, kicking the side of the vehicle and she tried to call out from beneath the rag, but the chemical was already shutting down her senses.

  He held her tight and close until she stopped thrashing and went limp in his arms. He could smell the shampoo she had used to wash her hair this morning in the hotel shower. She smelled clean and young and her skin was smooth and soft to the touch when he pressed his cheek against hers. He lowered the rag and held her like a rag doll as he slid open the loading door on this side of the van.

  The hatch inside was already open. He had learned a long time ago that so much time could be burned if he wasn’t prepared to store his prey once he had them. Gently, he lowered her down in to the hatch in the floor, a storage compartment beneath the van. She fit inside in a fetal
position. Perfect. He reached over for his workbox, a metal toolbox he had picked up years ago, scuffed and worn from years of abuse. Flipping open the lid, he retrieved a fresh syringe and a vial of very powerful sedative he had acquired from one of the many unsavory characters who could get anything a man wanted if he had the money to pay for it. Seconds later, he had finished injecting Janelle McBride with the powerful sedative and she would sleep well in to the night, giving him plenty of time to get her quietly out of Paris.

  He closed the hatch, secured the padlock on the handle that was inlaid in the flooring and then he covered it with the old rug he’d picked up in a charity shop in Provence, a ratty old thing that nobody would like twice at- exactly what had made him buy it. He pulled the folding chairs and easel around from the front of the van and placed them on the rug, their weight keeping the rug in place to cover the hatch. He rolled the door shut and walked around to the driver’s side.

  It was a beautiful evening. He could smell honeysuckle from the plant pots on one of the apartment windows drifting over to him. He closed the door, secured his seatbelt and turned on the stereo. Saint-Saens’ “Samson and Delilah” washed over him from the speakers and he felt a soothing calm. He looked in the rearview mirror and saw the black silhouettes kneeling over the hatch. Black figures clothed in funeral attire, black veils over their faces. Two women. His Aunts, Madeline and Marie.

  He readjusted the mirror so he couldn’t see them any more.

  “No. You will not ruin this for me.”

  Guillotine put the van in gear and eased out of the quiet street, melting in to the busy Paris traffic, just another white van in the city. Nobody paid him much attention. He liked it that way. It served his purpose. But soon, they would pay attention to him. The entire world would.