She reached for the bedside phone, but as she did a sickening certainty shot through her. The painting. She was beginning to notice a trend: the more work she did, the colder she was when the reaction hit her. This was the coldest she had been.
During the night, she had put a face on the victim.
Urgency drove her to her feet. She stumbled to the studio, her coordination slow and clumsy. She had to know, she had to know now. Every second could count. Richard thought she did the work after the fact, but deep inside she wasn’t certain, and that uncertainty kept her feet moving, even though they felt as if they didn’t belong to her and didn’t go quite where she wanted to place them. She wobbled across the room, wincing at the effort it took to move, at the deep internal aches that were beginning to make themselves felt.
Then she reached the painting, and wished she hadn’t. She hung in front of it, blood roaring in her ears, shaking so hard she clenched her teeth to keep from breaking them.
Candra.
She stared at the canvas until her eyes hurt, hoping the features would suddenly rearrange themselves into someone else’s. She was mistaken. She was seeing only a superficial likeness, and because Candra was so prominent in her life these days, naturally she jumped to that conclusion.
But the face was eerily accurate, with the photographic quality of a Gerhard Richter painting. And Sweeney knew she was very, very good at portraits.
Candra.
Oh God, oh God.
She didn’t know Candra’s number. It would be unlisted, because Candra had once said she never allowed her number to be published. The gallery. She should be at the gallery, and Sweeney knew that number.
She made it to the living room and the cordless phone. But the phone rang and rang, and finally an answering machine picked up. Frustrated, Sweeney disconnected. Her hands shook so violently she dropped the phone, and when she bent to pick it up, her strength seemed to give out and she just kept going, down to the floor.
She landed on the phone, a hard plastic corner digging into her ribs. Groaning, she managed to sit up and cradled the phone in her lap while she punched in Richard’s number.
One of his assistants answered, her voice strangely muted.
“This is S-Sweeney. Is Richard in?”
“I’m sorry, Ms. Sweeney, but he won’t be in today.” She hesitated, then said, “Mrs. Worth—Candra—has been killed.”
“No,” Sweeney moaned, almost weeping.
“The housekeeper found the . . . the body when she arrived this morning. Mr. Worth is with the police right now.”
She was crying after all, Sweeney discovered. She gulped, and in a thick voice said, “Tell Richard I c-called.”
“I will, Ms. Sweeney, as soon as possible.”
So Richard had been right; she couldn’t help, couldn’t stop anything. Sobbing, Sweeney rested her head on her drawn-up knees. What good was any of this, then, if she couldn’t do anything about the horrors she painted? Why suffer this savage chill, when there was no opportunity to keep bad things from happening? There should be a payback, something to make this pain worthwhile.
Her leg muscles suddenly protested their prolonged tension and knotted into cramps so vicious she cried out. Panting, crying, she dug the heels of her hands into her thighs and stroked toward her knees, trying to knead the muscles into relaxing. Over and over she did it, but her muscles seemed to knot again just behind the stroking motion.
Once she had seen a trainer rub a cramp out of the calf of a football player. He had used both hands in a back-and-forth motion. She held her breath to steady herself and placed both hands on one thigh. She could feel the knotted muscle between her palms. A half-cry of pain burst from her throat as she began that brisk washing motion, but within seconds the pain began to ebb, at least in that thigh.
With that leg finally relaxed, she did the same thing to her right thigh. That cramp was more stubborn, returning as soon as she stopped the massage. She kept at it for five minutes and finally her thigh relaxed. Her entire body felt like a balloon with a leak; she toppled over, going boneless, without the strength to sit up any longer.
Heat. She had to have heat. Richard wouldn’t be coming. He was still legally Candra’s husband; he would be giving information to the police, filling out reports, probably identifying Candra’s body, making arrangements. Sweeney had his cell phone number, but calling him was out of the question. She had to take care of this herself.
The electric blanket wouldn’t help. Hot coffee would help a little, but not enough. Body heat was moist heat, because the body was mostly water. That was what she needed: moist heat. The shower wouldn’t be enough. She needed to immerse herself in hot water.
She crawled into the bathroom, dragging herself like a wounded animal. Her arms and legs barely functioned, and she could feel her thoughts slowing.
She never took a tub bath; she always showered. She stared at the lever that closed the drain for several long moments before she figured out how to work it, though of course she knew. The cold was making her stupid.
She turned the hot water on full blast and watched steam begin to fill the air. A remnant of common sense kicked in, and she turned on the cold water, too. If she got the water too hot, she would scald herself, and even if it wasn’t hot enough to scald, it could still kill; a lot of people had died in hot tubs when prolonged immersion caused heart failure. She had to be careful.
She put her hand under the faucet, and blessed heat poured over her fingers. It felt so good she put the other hand under the faucet, too, lying with her body draped over the edge of the tub because she didn’t have the strength to sit up.