Midnight Exposure (Midnight #1)(6)
One thing was clear. She didn’t have time to wait for R. S. Morgan to find her.
Five minutes later, the town appeared as Jayne rounded a gentle bend in the road. A rustic wooden sign announced Jayne was entering Huntsville, Maine, population 1,067.
Hills rose on either side of the town, creating a small valley. Beyond the gentle knolls, jagged mountains loomed over the town. After driving by a smattering of homes, spaced closer and closer together as she encroached upon the main drag, Jayne sighted a combination gas station and convenience store. She pulled up to the pump and turned off the engine with a relieved sigh. Her arthritic Jeep complained with a cough, rattle, and shudder before shutting down. The car door bounced open with a hard shove and Jayne stepped out into the empty lot.
Wind whipped across the pavement, nearly pulling the door from her grip. As she slammed it shut, the back of her neck began to tingle. Having been stalked once before, she knew that feeling, and she sure as hell wasn’t going to ignore her primitive alarm system this time.
Someone was watching her.
She scanned the surrounding area. Nothing. Through the glass of the Quickie Mart she could see an old man working the register, but he was concentrating on something behind the counter, not looking at her.
She turned around. Behind the lot, a small snow-covered field separated her from a thick band of woods. Something moved in the trees, something tall and dark. Her camera was in her hand before she could think, sweeping across the forest’s edge, snapping a quick burst of shots. She didn’t have the telephoto lens attached, but with fourteen megapixels of resolution, she’d be able to zoom in on the dark shape later on her laptop.
Had to be an animal. But why did she still feel like she was being watched? Maybe the animal was a predator. Bears hibernated, right?
She shook it off. Paranoia was getting the best of her.
Gas tank full, Jayne followed the directions she’d printed from the B and B’s website. A few minutes later, after a brief stop at a pizza joint for slices to go, she pulled up in front of the Black Bear Inn, a huge white clapboard house trimmed with glossy black shutters. A tiny electric candle glowed in the center of each windowsill, right above a red-bowed swag of greenery.
“Can I help you?” The middle-aged innkeeper was short and stout, with auburn hair that hovered somewhere between mahogany and magenta. Tinsel and holly dripped from the antique furniture, and Bing Crosby crooned “Silent Night” softly in the background. “I’m Mae Brown, the owner.”
“Jayne Sullivan. I have a reservation.” Jayne slid her credit card across the old-fashioned registration desk.
Mae consulted her laptop. “I have you down for three nights. You know there’s a storm coming right in the middle of your stay?”
“Yes, I do.”
“OK, then. What brings you to our town, Miss Sullivan?”
“Jayne, please. I’m a photographer.”
“Oh. That’s nice. Lots of pretty things to take pictures of around here.” Mae handed Jayne a room key—a real metal key, not one of those plastic cards. Mae shouted over her shoulder. “Bill, come out and help this lady with her bag.”
A large man shuffled in, head bent, shoulders stooped. In his late twenties, he looked like his bones were too big for his body. He gave Jayne’s feet a quick sideways glance. His pale blue eyes were vague, his expression lost and timid as a child’s on the first day of kindergarten.
Jayne tried a smile. “Nice to meet you, Bill.”
Under a shock of sandy hair, his ruddy complexion flushed deeper. He whirled around and disappeared through a swinging door.
“I’m sorry.” Mae sighed. “My son is a little shy.”
“No problem. I only have the one bag.” Following directions, Jayne grabbed her duffel and trooped up the steps.
The room was larger than she’d anticipated. The double bed, armoire, and writing desk were stained a warm cherry; the comforter looked thick and inviting. After changing into sweats, Jayne settled at the desk with her pizza and laptop. At Jason’s insistence, her departure had been immediate, with no time for any research on her subject other than grabbing the Arts & Leisure section of The New York Times from the recycling bin. Inside, along with the review of Morgan’s latest work, a columnist had speculated that the artist’s mysterious identity was just a new fresh way to generate media buzz. The picture of his carving that ran alongside the column was too small to see every detail, but what she could see was intriguing. She plugged in her AirCard and crossed her fingers.
Yes! The Internet connection was slow, but it was there. It was also free, a nice boon to her tight budget. She hated to dip into her secret stashes of emergency cash.
A Google search on Reed Kimball yielded a list of names from across the country, but none seemed applicable to the man she’d met that afternoon. The man with the green eyes she couldn’t get out of her head. The search on R. S. Morgan was a different story. The man was a mystery, but photos and reviews of his sculptures were numerous. His style was unique, the lines modern with an abstract bent. All his subjects were female and nude, but not sexual. Unlike some other critically acclaimed human sculptures Jayne had seen, these had no giant boobs, no explicitly detailed or grossly enlarged sexual organs. The figures were waiflike, more elegant than erotic. If anything, the subjects’ sexuality was downplayed. The bodies were thin and delicate, the expressions sad, lonely, tortured. The blend of primitive and modern made the statues compelling. The more she looked at them, the more raw despair welled from them.