See Jane Die (5 page)

Until today, she hadn't a clue what made him tick. Not really.

Weird, she thought. That they could have worked together for more than a year and still she knew so little about him. How could that be? Because he was secretive? Or because she had shown so little interest?

Monday, October 20, 2003
4:00 p.m.

J
ane stepped out into the gray, chilly day. She tipped her face to the sky and drew in a deep, invigorating breath. She loved her work, loved her studio, but after having been cooped up under the artificial lights and breathing recirculated, processed air all day, it felt fabulous to be outside—gray and cold though it was.

She'd chosen to live and work in the area of the city called Deep Ellum. An alternative neighborhood located east of downtown, deep on Elm Street, its name originated from the area's original residents' pronunciation of Elm. Known for its nightlife, it catered to the young, the misfits and freaks, artists, musicians or anyone who didn't quite fit into Dallas's image-conscious, monied culture.

Which was what Jane loved about it.

She felt at home here.

Jane began to walk, briskly, greeting those she recognized—fellow artists, shopkeepers, the wait staff of the neighborhood restaurants she frequented, musicians. They all knew one another. Deep Ellum was small, consisting of only three streets—Elm, Main and Commerce.

She lived on Commerce, the street that boasted more residential than commercial space. Elm Street was the raucous center of Deep Ellum, alive with restaurants and clubs. Main, a mix of the two, lay between.

The owner of the corner tattoo parlor lounged in his doorway, having a smoke. A walking advertisement for his work, she had never seen him wearing anything more substantial than a muscle shirt. Today was no exception.

“Hey, Snake,” she called. “How's business?”

He shrugged and blew out a long stream of smoke. It hung a moment in the cold air before dissipating. “Got a sweet little number just waiting for you, babe. Got the time now. It'd turn your old man on, big time.”

She smiled. “My old man doesn't need to be turned on. Besides, I hate needles.” Truth was, after the surgeries, the years of longing for smooth, unmarred skin, the very thought of a tattoo made her shudder.

Waving goodbye, Jane darted across Commerce Street, heading toward Main. She and Dave had arranged to meet at the Arts Café. One of Jane's favorite haunts, not only did it serve the best latte in the neighborhood, it featured art by unknown local artists. In fact, the owner had given her her first one-person show.

She reached the café, stepped inside. The current showing, a series of expressionist paintings titled
Scream
, assaulted her senses. Their disturbing images and slashes of violent color struck her as derivative, but strong nonetheless. She would bet that with a few more years of experience, the artist's name would be a familiar one within the Dallas art community.

Dave sat at the bar, sipping an espresso. Tall, blond and boy-next-door handsome, he stood when he saw her, a smile streaking across his face.

“The great Cameo, as I live and breathe.”

Jane laughed and hugged her friend. “Dave, you're such a nut.”

He released her, brought a finger to his lips. “Shh, quiet.
I'm the shrink. If my patients find out I'm the one who's nuts, I'm going to have to come and live with you.”

“And this would be a bad thing?”

“I love you, Jane, I do. But frankly, the happy couple thing you and Ian have going would cramp my lifestyle.”

“Try it, you might be surprised.”

“And give up the bachelor's life?” He linked his arm through hers and led her to a table by the window. “There's only one woman I would have done that for, and she saved me by falling in love and marrying someone else.”

“Saved you?” She laughed and squeezed his arm. During their early twenties, they'd promised to marry each other at forty if they were still unattached. Of course, at twenty-one and twenty-two respectively, forty had seemed ancient. A last gasp before senility set in.

“What'll you have? My treat, by the way.”

“A double decaf latte. And one of those fabulous oatmeal-nut muffins.”

He brought a hand to his heart. “Decaf? You?”

She hesitated, then said lightly, “It's never too soon to turn over a new leaf. You should try it.”

He studied her a moment, as if he knew she was lying, then nodded.

She watched as he crossed to the bar. She had decided to act on Ian's suggestion to speak with Dave about her psychological state. But now that she was here, she was nervous.

Not about revealing herself. About opening a can of psychological worms she wished she could leave closed.

He returned with the drinks and her muffin. She dove into both, whether with genuine hunger or as a way to avoid the reason for their visit, she wasn't sure.

Dave watched her, expression amused. “Skipped lunch?”

“I was working.”

“Anything good?”

“Really good. A woman named Anne.” She smiled. “I hope I can include her segment in the show. It'll depend on whether or not I finish the sculptural pieces.”

He pulled a copy of
Texas Monthly
magazine from his backpack. He laid it on the table between them. “Hot off the presses.”

Her image gazed up at her from the cover. She struggled with conflicting emotions, not the least of which was the urge to hide. She had always avoided her image, and now here she was for all of Texas to see.

“Where did you get it?”

“A patient who works at the magazine. Take a deep breath, they mailed the issue out Monday.”

She didn't comment. Couldn't find her voice.

“You look beautiful,” Dave said.

She would never be beautiful. But it was a good shot. Interesting. Evocative. The photographer had used strong directional lighting to highlight one side of her face and cast the other in shadow.

“The brutal, beautiful vision of Cameo,” she murmured, reading the headline under her photo. She shifted her gaze to her friend. “I'm almost afraid to look.”

“You come off as brilliant.”

“Don't tease me.”

“I wouldn't.” He motioned toward the magazine. “Go ahead, read it.”

She did. The interviewer hit on her past, the accident, how art saved her. The remainder of the article was about her work. The process, the recent national attention and critical acclaim she had received.

Although the piece focused on her art, the magazine had included a photograph of Jane and Ian and one of her at fifteen, shortly after the accident.

She stared at the grainy image, lifted from a newspaper clipping from the time, her mouth going dry.

“They had to include that,” she said bitterly. “The obligatory gross-out shot.”

“Stop it, Jane.”

“Can't show beauty without the beast.”

“You can't hide from your past. It's who you are.”

“I look like a monster. Including it was gratuitous.”

“Jane.” At his tone, she met his eyes. “Let it go.”

“I know, but—”

“Let it go.” He lowered his voice. “Your art is a reflection of who you are and what you lived through. You say so in the article. It makes sense they included it.”

She digested that, knowing he was right but hating to see herself that way. Knowing everyone was going to see her that way. “It hurts,” she admitted.

“Of course it does.”

“I want people to look at the art, not me.”

“Can't separate the two, babe,” he said. “Sorry.”

“Bastard. Prick.”

“I've been called worse.”

“By most of the women you dated.”

“I can live with that.”

He'd always had the ability to drag her out of herself. She smiled and slid the magazine across the table.

“Keep it.” He nudged it back, then looked her directly in the eye. “Time's up, Jane. Spill it.”

“Spill what?”

“What's bothering you.”

“I can't simply arrange a visit with an old friend without being accused of having ulterior motives?”

He cocked an eyebrow. “Less than two weeks before your one-person exhibit opens at the Dallas Museum of Art? In a word, no.”

“Smart-ass.”

“Just plain smart, potty mouth.”

Any other time she would have smiled. “The nightmare's back.”

He didn't have to ask which one, he knew. “Any changes?”

“One.” She laced her fingers. “The boater doubles back, to make another pass at me. To finish the job. I wake up screaming.”

“How many times—”

“Three in two weeks.”

“Anything going on in your life besides a perfect marriage and impending fame?”

She hesitated. She and Ian had agreed to keep their news to themselves, and when they did spill it, Stacy would be the first.

But Dave couldn't help her if she wasn't honest with him.

“I'm pregnant.”

His expression went momentarily slack with surprise, then lit up with pleasure. He jumped to his feet, came around the table and drew her up into a bear hug. “I'm so happy for you! This is wonderful news!”

She held him tightly, suddenly irrationally terrified.

He let her hold him a moment, then drew away. “What are you scared of, Jane?”

She thought of her session with Anne, how she had posed nearly that same question to her subject:
“Tell me what you're afraid of. When you're alone with your thoughts, who's the monster?”

The other woman had answered honestly. Could she?

“Let's sit down,” she said. He nodded and a moment later they once again faced each other across the table. “You start?” she said.

“All right.” He folded his hands in front of him. “How's everything?”

“Great.”

“Is it?”

“Yes…God, yes. I'm the luckiest person alive.”

“You really believe that?”

“I do. I've been thinking a lot about luck lately.” She paused, taking a moment to collect her thoughts. “Not just because of Ian or the baby or the show. The day of the accident, if that doctor hadn't been home, if he hadn't heard the screams and called 911
before
he came running, if the ambulance had been held up or the EMS guys hadn't been experienced, or the boat had crossed a fraction of an inch in another direction…I would have died.”

She clasped her hands in her lap; they trembled. “And
now I have everything. Love. Success in a career I adore. A baby on the way.”

“So why the nightmares?”

“You're the headshrinker. You tell me.”

“Okay.” He leaned forward slightly. “Maybe you're afraid your luck's going to run out? That you're going to lose it all?”

“But why would I—”

“What happens when all someone's dreams come true?”

“They're happy?”

He ignored her sarcasm. “Once upon a time, you took your life for granted. You had everything, a happy family, friends, popularity. And in an instant, someone took it away from you.

“You know how fast that can happen, Jane. You know how fickle fate is, how precious each moment is.

“All your dreams have come true.” He caught her hands. Squeezed them tightly. “And you're afraid of losing it all again. That your luck is going to run out.”

She pressed her trembling lips together, his words, their meaning, resounding in her.

“That's what your dream represents, Jane. Losing it all. Living with that despair. You survived the first time, you made it. So he's going to try again, in your words, to finish the job.”

Dear God, he was right. It mattered so much now. She had everything
.

It all made sense
.

A small sound of relief slipped past her lips. “You're right, Dave. Thank God. I…I was afraid I was losing it. That I was somehow slipping back into that dark place. I never want to go back there.
Never
.”

He squeezed her hands, then released them. “You want to conquer your fears? See them for what they are.”

“Silly. Overwrought. Groundless.”

“None of the above,” he scolded, tone gentle. “You lived through a severe trauma. The mind adapts, protects itself. The most extreme example of that is MPD, multiple-personality disorder.”

She smiled. “I feel as if a giant weight has just been lifted off my shoulders.”

“Dave Nash, super genius.”

“Or as Stacy and I used to say, stupor genius.”

“Speaking of your sister, how did Stacy respond to your news?”