Promise Not To Tell(96)

Although there was a lot of art on display, it was the picture from Hannah Brewster’s Visions that got his attention. The fiery scene was displayed against a stark white wall. The local media had gone all out to dig up the old story about Zane’s cult. Television crews and cameras had descended on the gallery shortly before the doors had been opened. It seemed like every guest in the room had his or her cell phone camera out and was snapping pictures like mad.

Anson had to admit that he was as fascinated as everyone else by the Visions painting. Even standing on the far side of the room, it was hard to take his eyes off the blazing scene. With her brushes and paints, Hannah Brewster had somehow captured the terrible events of the night of the compound fire in a way that was far more revealing than any photograph or video, as far as he was concerned.

He remembered Virginia’s words the day she had walked into the offices of Cutler, Sutter & Salinas. “Here’s the thing about Hannah Brewster. She had trouble dealing with reality, but that was why she painted. She said it was the only way she could get at the truth.”

“She was right,” Anson said quietly.

“What?” Octavia asked.

“Hannah Brewster painted the truth. That’s how it was that night out at Zane’s compound. That’s exactly how it was.”

“Dear heaven,” Octavia whispered. She gazed at the painting. “I’ve always known it must have been a nightmare.”

Anson thought about the screams of the children that he still heard in his worst dreams.

“Yes,” he said.

Octavia sighed. “I hoped Virginia would be able to forget it or, at least, put the memory behind her. She was so young, after all.”

“Some things you can’t forget.”

Octavia looked at the painting. “No.”

Anson forced himself to look away from the Visions picture. He focused on the crowd.

Most of the artists looked to be both bewildered and thrilled by all of the unaccustomed attention.

Virginia was elegant and charming in a black dress with a little black jacket that effectively concealed the small bulge of the bandage that covered her wound. Her hair was in a sleek twist. You’d never know she had nearly been murdered a few days ago, Anson thought. One tough lady.

The fancy affair was an alien environment for Cabot, but he appeared to be holding his own. Virginia had taken him shopping before the event. The result was a laid-back but surprisingly sophisticated-looking Cabot in a stylish steel-gray jacket, black trousers and a black pullover. At the moment he was deep in conversation with a very earnest, very intent-looking man who was wearing heavy glasses and a rumpled jacket.

“I have no doubt but that there’s a strong bond between Virginia and Cabot,” Octavia said. “That’s not what I meant. It’s this obsession with hunting for that monster, Quinton Zane, that worries me. How can Cabot and Virginia ever be truly happy if they don’t find a way to put the past behind them?”

“What matters is how they deal with the past.”

“I suppose so,” Octavia said. “Virginia still has nightmares about what happened the night Zane burned down his compound and murdered my daughter and those other people.”

“She’s not the only one who has bad dreams. So does Cabot. Hell, so do I, for that matter.”

Octavia gave Anson a long, considering look. “You have nightmares because you couldn’t save them all, don’t you?”

He knocked back some of the effervescent wine. “Reckon so. I’m sorry, Octavia.”

“That you weren’t able to save my daughter? You made the choice I know my daughter and I’m sure the other mothers who died that night would have wanted you to make. You saved their children.”

He thought about trying to explain that he hadn’t made a conscious decision that night. He’d acted purely on instinct. He had known the kids were forced to sleep in the barn because he’d kept an eye on Zane’s compound for months. The children had been his first priority on that terrible night.

In the end he didn’t say anything. He knew that Octavia understood.

They watched the crowd in a companionable silence for a time.

“Don’t know much about the art world, but I’d say this looks like a good crowd,” Anson said after a while.

“Yes, it does,” Octavia said. She smiled, quietly pleased. “I wonder what Cabot and Hector Montgomery are talking about. They appear to be very deep in conversation.”

“I noticed. Who is Hector Montgomery?”

“One of the local dot-com tycoons. Made a fortune in the high-tech world and then retired last year.”

Anson snorted. “Doesn’t look a day over forty.”

“He isn’t. Probably more like thirty-five. He’s in the process of setting up some kind of charitable foundation. The headquarters are here in Seattle. Having him show up this evening is a coup for Virginia. Perhaps he’s decided to start collecting regional art.”

“That would be a good thing for Virginia, I take it?”

“Nothing arouses interest in the art world like finding out that a high-profile collector is attracted to the works displayed in a small, previously low-profile gallery such as this one.”

Anson grinned. “A variation on auction fever?”

Octavia chuckled. “Yes, indeed. It’s human nature, I suppose. Almost anything appears to be a lot more interesting and more valuable if someone else is willing to pay a lot of money to acquire it.”