FicWad

"... I should say that the really weird artist has a kind of vision which makes models, or summons up what amounts to actual scenes from the spectral world he lives in."
- H.P. Lovecraft, "Pickman's Model"


"My place is just a couple of blocks from here," LaMarck said, pointing down the street outside the gallery while simultaneously waving goodbye to someone within the gallery. Pendergast nodded and started in the direction that LaMarck had indicated; a couple of seconds later the shorter man followed, nearly skipping to keep up with his long strides. After a moment, Pendergast noticed this and slowed. "So... uh, can I call you Aloysius?"

"I would prefer to be called Pendergast, thank you."

LaMarck grinned. "Don't like your first name much?" He shrugged. "Ah well. Personally, I think it's a gorgeous name, but whatever you say." They paused awkwardly at a crosswalk and waited for the light to change. "You can call me Avery, by the way."

"Very well."

On their way across the street they were separated for a moment by a small group of college students who were eager to take in SoHo's night life. Avery smiled as he watched them pass. "Looks like they're going to have fun."

"Would you prefer to be doing that?" Pendergast asked politely.

"Oh, no way." His smile relaxed and became free from irony for the first time that evening. "Painting you is going to be the highlight of my week." Pendergast raised his eyebrows, but said nothing. "So..." Avery kicked an aluminum can into the gutter as he passed. "You're a pretty cool guy, huh?"

"Am I?"

"Well, I didn't actually expect you to do this. I thought for sure you would blow me off, or get my number and never call."

"I don't normally care for modern art-"

"I thought I'd be considered more post-modern than modern?"

Pendergast made a gesture with one hand as if sweeping the distinction away. "I'm not partial to much that was created in the past century. But you and your paintings have intrigued me."

"Again with the high praise. You're going to spoil me if you keep it up."

"Well, I should point out that I am as fascinated by the strangeness of your subject matter as much as I am impressed with your skill."

Avery snorted. "You mean, why can't I just paint nice pastoral scenes or blue on blue minimalist canvases like a normal artist?"

Pendergast flashed him a pained look. "Minimalism is a blight upon the world of fine art."

"Then we agree on that, at least." Avery paused. "Maybe I should do something with a pastoral theme, though. They were mostly about sex anyway."

"Indeed." Pendergast's expression turned to faint amusement as he began to recite: "'So why don't you come with me to the wholesome country and live under humble thatch? We could hunt the stag and drive home the goats with a flexible marsh-mallow switch, learning in the copse together how to sing like Pan./"

Avery smiled at the incongruity between the words that issued from Pendergast's lips and the busy, modern New York street they were traversing. "What's that from?"

"'Ecloga II' by the poet Virgil, translated from the Latin. It is a homoerotic fantasy in a pastoral setting."

"Seriously?" Avery let out a bark of laughter. "See? I knew you were a cool guy."

Pendergast only smiled faintly in return.

*

The world was moving in slow motion for him, the false darkness seeming oppressive and strange. With the sun having set hours ago, the city had quickly ignited itself from the inside out. And yet, it would still be hours before the night life retreated indoors, leaving the streets to vagrants and misfits and criminals. Then he could begin. So he waited, patiently reviewing what he hoped to accomplish that evening.

The bodies were stowed safely in the trunk of his small, unassuming car, carefully prepared and lovingly dressed. A package of colored chalk was tucked into his back pocket and, despite the late hour and the strenuous activity he'd engaged in earlier at the museum, he still felt alert and sure of himself.

He'd realized, after he had left the museum, that he what he was doing went far beyond his own need and his own desires. Yes, his life had gone in such a direction that he could no longer help himself; however, his work was so well-planned, so well-constructed, that he could no longer deny that he was pursuing a higher purpose. He was creating the new art, an art that destroyed and created at the same time. An art that interacted directly with the culture, that prolonged its message.

He felt a surge of pride as he parked his car, stepped out, and started to walk. Police were sporadic in the area, although he was entering Central Park after legal hours. He looked around carefully and cautiously. The area was largely free of tourists, and he was too focused to care about being the victim of crime. He smiled as he scouted the area, looking for the perfect spot.

After about ten minutes of careful consideration, he knelt down at an expanse of concrete sidewalk that wasn't too far from his car, but still heavily trafficked enough during the day that his work would be easily found.

He removed the chalk from his back pocket, knelt down, and began to draw.

*

The outer door and stairwell of Avery's apartment building was not impressive, and he knew it. "You'd better watch your head," he called back over one shoulder as he strode confidently beneath a low-hanging pipe with at least an inch of clearance. Pendergast was forced to duck.

"I know it's not great," Avery said as they reached the landing and he took out his keys. "I mean, it doesn't look great. But the set-up inside is very roomy, and space and price was really what I was looking for when I moved in." His keys jangled as opened the door, all the while chattering away.

Pendergast thought, privately, that Avery LaMarck was the kind of person who talked and fidgeted when he was nervous. In fact, he was one of the most animated people Pendergast had ever met, and so he watched him carefully and with the most polite amount of fascination that he could allow himself.

"Okay, c'mon in." He pushed in the door and stepped inside without waiting for Pendergast or looking to see whether he would follow. "There's not a lot of mess for me to apologize for, I guess, but there are a bunch of ugly half-finished paintings, so I'm sorry for that."

The main room was large with a high ceiling and, indeed, there were a number of canvases propped up against the walls as well as one or two large steel shelves that held supplies and what looked like some small sculptures. "If you could just hang out for a few minutes while I throw my stuff together...?" Avery asked somewhat timidly as he shut and locked his door, almost as if he was afraid that Pendergast was thinking of running out on him. "It shouldn't take too long."

"That's fine," Pendergast nodded, but Avery was already pulling his easel away from the place where it stood close to the far wall, moving it in front of a cheap loveseat and positioning it at an angle. He then opened a closet close to where the easel had stood, and Pendergast finally turned away to examine some of the work in progress.

A stack of canvases leaned against the side of one of the shelves; the top painting was very nearly complete and, to Pendergast's eyes, the subject seemed disturbingly familiar. He moved toward it slowly, absorbing it from far away and, finally, from close up as he knelt in front of the painting and gently touched the thickly textured paint that had been applied to the canvas. It was highly colorful up close, an enthusiastic mix of cool blues, purples, and greens. However, all of the colors had been heavily tinted with black, and the overall result was of a setting-and of a creature-that was dark, hidden, and rotting. The only concessions to highlight were a few swipes of shaded yellow and some finishing accents of red in the subject's eyes.

Pendergast stood and glanced over at Avery, not wanting to concede to the slight lump in his throat. The young painter was currently dragging a card table a fold-out chair into place, awkwardly cursing them both but not stopping to move only one at a time.

A slash of white caught Pendergast's eye as he tilted his head, and he turned back to the shelf to regard what he had thought were sculptures from afar. Now, less than six inches away and at eye-level, it was clear that they were not sculptures but human bones. Pendergast picked up the closest one and felt its weight. It was light and the surface had an odd, rough texture. "Plaster," he murmured thoughtfully.

"Huh?" Avery looked up from where he had begun to arrange his painting supplies on the card table. "Oh, that thing." He said flatly, dismissing it with a wave of his hand. "Yeah, it's from when I used to work for the NYPD. I mean, I did composite drawings mostly, but when that whole business with the Wrinklers went down, they were so backed up that they let me do a couple of facial reconstructions." He watched as Pendergast picked up the rough, oddly-shaped plaster cast. "Weird, huh? That's from one of the skulls they found."

"I know." Pendergast said curtly, replacing it on the shelf. "I worked on that case."

"You did?" Avery looked up from his tubes of paint. "Wow. Talk about a near miss."

"I'm sorry?"

"Well, I mean, we must have been working in the same building. Maybe we even passed each other in the halls."

Pendergast flashed him a blank, unreadable look. "Actually, I did most of my work in the field."

"Oh." There was a short, uncomfortable pause. "Right, you being FBI and all."

Pendergast softened slightly. "Your representation of the Wrinklers," he indicated the painting he had been examining earlier, "is quite tremendously accurate."

Avery stared at Pendergast for a moment. "Yeah, well, I guess that's a good thing." He stopped as if considering something. "Don't tell me you're going to ask for that painting too?"

"I-" Pendergast hesitated, giving the painting a vague look of distaste. "That was not a pleasant case for me. So I think I'll leave it in your capable hands."

"Yeah, I know what you mean. Sometimes I don't like looking at it either." Avery straightened up from the table next to his easel and headed toward the kitchen area, his voice becoming light-hearted in order to diffuse the dark mood. "Look, do you want something to drink? Water, Coke, juice, coffee, tea... some of that cheap wine cooler that comes in a box?"

"Some tea would not be unwelcome." Pendergast slowly followed LaMarck into the small, slightly dingy kitchen nook, which was lit by a dim hanging lamp.

The younger man was putting an old teapot on the rickety-looking stove. He'd set two mugs out on the counter, each with a teabag already inside. He flipped on the front burner and turned to Pendergast. "Listen, I need to get changed out of this before I destroy it. I'll be right back." He strode past Pendergast, already tugging off his sportcoat. "Make yourself at home!" He called back over his shoulder.

The kitchen wasn't large enough to accommodate a table or even a chair, so Pendergast wandered back into the larger, airy studio space, idly examining the space and absorbing every detail. Poverty was the most obvious and pervasive characteristic of Avery's home; his studio was mostly furnished by his supplies in various stages of use. In addition to the easel, card table, and loveseat there was an angled graphing table and a stool set up beside the window, positioned to take advantage of the natural light. Clipped to the table's surface was a sheaf of sketches of what appeared to be illustrations for a commercial brochure. Pendergast flipped through them, before turning his attention to the corner of the work-table where someone had placed a trio of glittery insect stickers: a butterfly, a grasshopper, and an ant. He rubbed his thumb over them, smiling slightly; the glitter had faded over the years to a dull shine.

"Sorry, sorry." Avery reappeared through a low doorway at the far end of the studio, tugging a worn black t-shirt over his head. He'd also changed into a pair of paint-stained blue jeans and white athletic socks. "You just saw what are pretty much my only nice clothes, though, and I'd prefer to keep them that way." He pushed his hair back from his forehead as he noticed where Pendergast was standing. "Oh. Yeah. You don't want to look at that; it's just boring shit that lets me pay rent and buy food sometimes."

"I see." Pendergast said, his soft voice barely audible in the large room.

The teapot whistled shrilly. "Right. The tea." Avery started toward the kitchen and stopped. "Hey, why don't you go ahead and get comfortable on the couch? I'll bring out your drink." He disappeared around the corner before Pendergast could respond.

The sofa was slightly lopsided and covered with a burgundy-colored sheet. Pendergast sat down cautiously, wincing slightly as springs creaked beneath him. After a moment, Avery emerged from the kitchen carrying the two mugs with their spoons and tea-bags; he set one down on the card table beside his easel and handed the other to Pendergast. Their fingertips brushed, and Avery pulled away hastily. "Here you go. I hope raspberry tea is okay. It's all I have."

"It will do," Pendergast said, stirring the teabag gently in the water. He realized almost immediately that Avery had taken his abrupt words the wrong way. "Green tea is my favorite," he continued, almost conversationally. "I prefer to brew it traditionally, without bags. Perhaps someday I'll have to have you over so you can try some."

"Yeah, maybe," Avery replied noncommittally with a shrug of his shoulders. He sat down in front of his easel and adjusted the pad of canvas paper in front of him. "Hm." He leaned back in the folding chair and stared at Pendergast as he sipped his tea politely. "Okay. I guess we'll see how this goes."

He stood again and began to fiddle with a bank of dimmer-switches on the wall, changing the overhead lighting substantially. Pendergast looked up and saw a row of lights, strategically arranged around the couch; some of them were fitted with color filters.

Avery smiled when he saw Pendergast with his head tilted far back. "I don't want to light you too harshly right now, so I think I'll go for something a little more diffuse." Once he found a set-up he liked, he sat back in front of his easel. "Uh, you don't want any music or anything on, do you?"

Pendergast shook his head. "I would prefer not."

"Oh good," Avery sighed with relief as he began to squeeze acrylic paint onto his palette. "I don't usually like to have music playing when I'm working, but you know... sometimes models get bored." He ran a hand through his hair before picking up a pencil and beginning a series of rough sketches, every few seconds looking up at Pendergast.

And Pendergast looked right back, watching with unashamed interest as Avery drew. By the time he finally picked up a paintbrush, however, Pendergast realized that Avery's fierce expression was not one of concentration, but of vague frustration. He spent nearly a half an hour painting, and Pendergast found himself watching to see how violently Avery mixed his paints or cleaned his brushes in order to judge the man's mood, since his expression had fixed into one of annoyance early in the session.

Finally Avery jammed his brushes into his cup of water and growled. "Okay, this really isn't working." He wiped his hand across his forehead and shot Pendergast an apologetic look. "Sorry, I was sort of wondering whether this would be a problem. You see, it's just that..." He flexed his hand, opening and closing his fist as if he was grappling with the air. "I mean, I'm trying to get a handle on how your skin tone reacts to this kind of lighting, and you aren't showing me a lot of skin."

"Ah," Pendergast said quietly, leaning forward to set his mug on the floor. "Yes, that is a problem."

"But I really don't want to pressure you into anything you don't want to do," Avery said hurriedly. "I get some kids in here, you know, who just can't wait to get their clothes off." There was a brief pause. "I really didn't think you'd be quite the same, though."

"No. No, I'm not." Pendergast stared intently at a point on the floor as he leaned back, crossed one leg over the other, and laced his fingers together. In his black suit, he looked like an exceptionally gentlemanly undertaker.

Avery licked his lips and then sighed. "You know, it's getting kind of late, and you've at least given me something I can work with. And you'll probably want to get home anyway." He turned to his materials to begin packing them away, but looked up when he heard the rustle of cloth and squeal of springs inside the loveseat.

Pendergast had stood, removed his jacket and draped it over one arm, and had already begun to unbutton his cuffs. Avery gaped at him. "Oh. Great," he said weakly.

"I'm willing to make this small sacrifice," Pendergast replied, a slight twinkle in his eye, "for the sake of art, of course."

"Of course," Avery echoed as he stood. "But, geez, let me get you a bathrobe. Just wait here." He darted into the back rooms and returned a moment later holding a plush, black bathrobe. "There. This should fit you, since my sister's always forgetting how damn short I am." He handed the robe to Pendergast. "You can go get changed in the bathroom while I, um, get things ready," he finished lamely, pointing in the direction he'd just come from. "It's the first room, you can't miss it."

Pendergast nodded and, with a last meaningful glance over his shoulder that Avery couldn't begin to interpret, he disappeared into the small hallway. Avery rocked back and forth on his heels excitedly, waiting to hear the bathroom door shut. When it did, he rushed around the small space, straightening the cover over the couch and pulling out several stands with adjustable lights attached and placing them strategically around his scene. After a moment's thought, he went back to the closet at the far wall and pulled out a small space heater, which he set up alongside the couch.

Avery looked up when Pendergast came out of this bathroom carrying his carefully folded clothes. "Here, let me," Avery said, holding his hands out to take the small bundle.

Pendergast hesitated slightly, but surrendered his suit with little fuss once he was sure that Avery didn't have any paint on his hands. "Ooh, fancy," Avery muttered as he examined the labels. "I'll just put them, um..." he glanced around, looking for a safe place. "I'll put them in my bedroom room, just to make sure nothing happens. You can get comfortable, if you want?" He dashed off again before Pendergast could respond.