Deathscape by Dana Marton Page A

strode to the back wall and carried the paintings out by the armload, all wrapped in the paper bags from the local grocery store. Thank God for stores that stayed open around the clock. She braved a trip once every couple of weeks in the middle of the night, when she could be sure she would be virtually alone. During the times when she couldn’t go as far as the store down the road, she lived on pizza and Chinese delivery.
    That too would change, she thought as she tossed the first batch of canvases onto the ground in front of the garage, where the hard wind the previous day had blown a patch clear of snow.
    When the phone rang in her pocket, she was tempted to ignore it. But what if it was the police? If they had another question, she’d just as soon answer it over the phone than have them come back here.
    But instead of Captain Bing, the caller turned out to be Graham Lanius, the art dealer.
    “ Just checking in if you might have something for me. I’m going to do a big summer show this year. As one of my favorite local artists, I’d love it if you would participate.”
    He called every couple of months, trying to talk her into a show. But her agent, Isabelle, wasn’t crazy about the man. Neither was Ashley, truthfully. He was smarmy, for one. And the few times she’d met him in person, she’d gotten the impression that while he made a living off artists, he looked down on them.
    “ I truly appreciate the offer. I’m working on a series, actually. But all my scheduling goes through my agent.”
    “ Ah, yes, the lovely Isabelle.” The words were still complimentary, but the tone had chilled a few degrees. “I’ll be sure to get in touch with her as well. Would you mind if I just stopped by and looked at your new series in the meanwhile? We’re practically neighbors.”
    The work wasn’t ready. She didn’t like strangers in her house. Living in the same town didn’t make them neighbors. Yet she understood that since Broslin had three times as many galleries as the average small town, competition was rough. Although, her kind of art wasn’t exactly what appealed to tourists who came to see Franklin Milton’s birthplace and studio, his museum.
    Milton had painted barns and fields and covered bridges, the cows, the horse farms, quintessential Pennsylvania countryside. His grandson, Andre, continued in that vein. But Graham didn’t have Andre, and at least Ashley Price was a fairly well-known name in the contemporary art world.
    She had broken in, after years of hard work. But what she had achieved could be lost in a heartbeat. Her gaze stayed on the small pile of canvases in front of her. She needed to deal with that now.
    “ I’m sorry. I’m in the middle of something. I really need to go.”
    “ Sure. No problem at all. We’ll be in touch,” he promised.
    She hung up and carried the rest of her dark creations outside.
    She’d never destroyed a painting before. But now, once her pile was complete, she lifted the paint thinner and poured. The liquid splashed onto the top package, immediately bleeding through the wrapping. She set down the bottle and pulled the matches from her pocket as she shivered, feeling as if she was about to commit murder.
    But they weren’t right, those images she’d created. Jackson Pollock had said that paintings had a life of their own; his job was to let it come through.
    Her paintings had a death of their own. And her job was to destroy the dark images.
    She was so focused on her thoughts that the question, “Need help?” coming from behind her, nearly made her jump out of her boots. Her heart broke into a mad rhythm as she whipped around.
    The man had appeared out of nowhere, his hands in the pockets of his black coat, his wiry frame standing in contrast to the white background. His cerulean gaze sharp, he focused his full attention on her, and she couldn’t breathe for a second. She had pretty good color memory. She would have recognized that russet hair and those