By Absinthe Disclaimer: The characters of Melinda Pappas, Janice Covington, Xena, Sheriff Lucas Buck, Gail Emory, Caleb, and "Dr. Matt" belong to Universal and Renaisance and all those great people. My apologies for borrowing them. The rest of this goop, however, belongs to me, Absinthe. This is an Alternative story, meaning we've got some lesbian romo going on, if this bothers you, TURN BACK NOW. Thanks. Soundtrack: Sheriff Buck's theme song is undoubtedly "Sympathy for the Devil" by the Rolling Stones, "Precious Things" by Tori Amos belongs to Maia, and "Tiger" by Paula Cole goes to Gillian. Chapter 7: I Wanna Be More than a Pretty Girl With her toes pulled back to a right angle with the bones of her foot, Maia took out her anger on a brick wall. The impacts jarred her body painfully, but her own agony wasn't enough. Abandoning the implacable building, she moved deeper into the city. Even if Gillian went to the authorities with what she knew, there was nothing substantial to connect Maia to her work, she was careful, of course. However, such a betrayal would be intolerable. A soft voice somewhere deep in Maia's mind reminded her naggingly that Gillian was not the one that had committed the transgression. I'm the bad girl here. She nearly giggled hysterically at the thought. Maia stopped at the bottom of an antiquated fire escape. She crouched, then sprang easily up to grab the middle rung of the folded ladder and clamber up onto the platform above. She made her way up onto the roof of the old apartment building. Steam rose off of its tarred surface. Out of the corner of her eye Maia could have sworn that she caught a glimpse of a man dressed in ragged clothes surrounded by pigeons. When she turned for a closer look, she found herself alone. A chill ran through her body. Shaking it off, she jogged to the far edge of the roof, and as she approached it she picked up speed, finally making the jump across the gap between this building and its nearest neighbor. From her new vantage point, she had a clear view of one of the more disreputable streets in New York. Sitting on the very edge, her booted feet dangling over, Maia watched all the little featureless people go about their pointless little lives far below. Why are you even worried? She's a liability. A weakness. Just go. The cool, professional part of her psyche demanded. The sound of gunfire reminded her that this little introspective was something that she could ill afford. She had business to attend to. Sighing, she pushed all thoughts of a certain gorgeous brunette out of her mind, and was startled to realize that she didn't want to. What's gotten into you? she chided herself, That little bumpkin has got you wrapped up so tight you can't even turn around in your own head. She smiled when she remembered something her father had told her once. Love is just a trick nature plays on us to get us to reproduce. Maia's grin broadened, That hardly applies anymore, does it? I'll give her a few days. If she comes around, she does. If not, it's no big loss. There are other people out there to fuck. She tilted her head to catch a draft of chill air. The last heat of the dying summer was spent that day, and the weather began the spiral into autumn. Maia drew herself up, took a deep breath and straightened her hair. She went through the roof-service door and down three flights of stairs. The narrow hallway smelled faintly of old oranges and mildew and anxiety. Maia stopped in front of a door and pulled a key out of one of her pockets. She opened the door and went inside with the ease of familiarity. Incense burned on a stand in the corner, banishing the unpleasant odor of the rest of the building. Maia quietly inhaled the scent of patchouli and let her eyes roam the ornate Persian rug that covered the floor. She had fond memories of that rug. "Maia?" A wary voice issued from another room in the apartment. "Hello Abby." Maia replied. "Where in Hell have you been?" The voice was closer then. "Workin' on my tan." Abby soon followed her words into her den. Almost as tall as Maia was, the well dressed blonde grasped her guest in a welcoming embrace. Maia didn't have to lean far to kiss her. They consumed one another in almost desperate possessiveness. For Maia it was a simple act of rebellion against the love she felt for Gillian, an unfamiliar sensation, and an unwanted one. Abby responded to her occasional lover's touch with utter abandon. Maia was like a drug to her, one for which she could find no substitute. Gillian returned quietly to the hotel room. She stared warily at the still tousled bed. We made love there just last night-and she's a murderer.She sank to the floor, lost in her bitingly clear memories of the previous night. Everything was fine when you didn't know, wasn't it? There's so much more to her than ... than that. Gillian closed her eyes, and tried to stop thinking. Artless intimidation was one of Maia's specialties. It wasn't particularly original, but it worked. The money from the Dillon hit was sufficient to support a comfortable retirement, something that Maia would not even consider. She enjoyed what she did; more than enjoyed it, loved it. While Mrs. Dillon would quite possibly never leave the house without proper protection again, Maia felt energized. She tugged her laptop out of its case and plugged into a pay phone. The ten million dollars that the late Ashwin Dillon's bereaved wife had transferred into a bank account in Zurich was indeed safely tucked away right where it belonged, in Maia's electronic pockets. Maia sent the money on to several other final destinations. She shut down, reassured that things had gone smoothly once Mrs. Dillon had been persuaded to "see the light." Maia hailed a taxi. She silently cursed herself for having left the Bonneville at the hotel when she discovered a wad of chewed gum on the floor mat of the dingy conveyance. She ordered the driver to drive out to Manhattan, but after only fifteen minutes changed her mind. It had been three days, and it was about time that she made herself go back. "Driver, take me to the Omni." "Sure lady?" His eyes met her fiery glare in the rearview mirror, and he grunted assent to the course change. When he finally parallel parked in front of the hotel, Maia tossed him his money and stalked through the revolving doors without returning the doorman's greeting. She charged rather foolishly back into room 223. It was empty. Maia couldn't decide whether to be relieved or disappointed. Gillian's duffel bag lay unzipped on the floor, its disorderly contents reassuring Maia that her lover had not run home to Trinity. It was a good sign. The sight of what sat laid out on the bed made her grin. A black halter top, smaller than not, and a pair of bootleg black leather pants. She picked up the top warily. Looks like she wants you to look the part. Maia thought. She smirked, fingering the soft leather of a pants leg. Tossing the clothes aside, Maia unbuttoned her dirty shirt as she went for her first shower in several days. Gillian wasn't listening to the tour guide. She gazed up at the torch the statue held and smiled winsomely. She wanted to go inside, but the statue was off limits nowadays. Sighing, she turned away from the copper behemoth and looked out over the sea. Her father had been a sailor of sorts, he worked for an imports company and captained a cargo vessel. It went back a long way, and ended with Gillian. She loved the ocean, but not that much. The tour guide at last ended her memorized speech and invited everyone to look around for the next few minutes before they returned to the mainland. The clot of people surrounding her broke up and drifted around the island. Gillian pushed a few loose curls behind her ears and faced the wind coming off the harbor. The warm iron railing that surrounded the island bit into her hands and stomach as she leaned far over it. For a moment she hated being tied to the earth by this heavy, mundane body of flesh. Oh to let go. To be completely free. When it was time to leave, she followed placidly with the rest of the tourists, feeling suspiciously like a milk cow. Shrugging the sensation off, Gillian made her way back to their hotel, every step weighed down by anticipation. Every time she returned, her heart hammered in her chest and she speculated wildly about what she would find when she opened the door to the room. She slid her key into the lock, and the door swung inward once again. Over the thundering of her own blood pounding through her ears, she heard the shower running. Maia stood under the flow of scalding water. She drank in the heat, just as she seemed to absorb the very radiations of the sun, and the humid, human warmth of passion. At last, emerging from the steamy bath, Maia dripped her way to stand in front of her lover. Gillian sat slumped in a mauve armchair, her head tipped, cockily, back and to the side. She stood up slowly. She leaned her head forward, and let the side of her face rest against the damp skin just above Maia's breasts. Gillian listened to the powerful thrumming of this enigmatic heart, a heart capable of the extremes of both deep, profound love and calculating hatred. "I want to go home," the artist whispered, "Get me out of this city. Please." Maia closed her eyes at the sensation of Gillian's breath on her body. She wrapped her bare arms around her lover. "We'll leave in the morning." Chapter 8: The Hardest to Learn was the Least Complicated "Maia?" "Yeah?" "Why are you really going to see the Sheriff again?" Maia slid her left foot into the comfortably worn leather of her favorite pair of boots, "Well," she pulled the other boot on and said, "I'm working for him in an unofficial capacity." As much as Maia despised working for anyone but herself, there were things she wanted to learn from Buck before she moved on. She wasn't quite ready to leave Gillian yet. She kept telling herself that it was merely a temporary attachment. "I wish you wouldn't. He's not exactly normal. He has a way of twisting things," the artist called as Maia left the room. "He's my friend," Maia replied just before she slammed the front door. Gillian flopped heavily onto the expansive bed. This was not right. Nothing here matched up with what she knew to expect of Buck. She suddenly felt very alone. Maia met the sheriff in the county park as agreed. The morning sun was not yet hot, and the park was nearly empty save a few other early risers. "So how was your little interlude in the big city?" Lucas drawled. "Productive," Maia smiled. She was momentarily relieved that he was standing behind her and that he was keeping his distance for once. "She knows now doesn't she," once again, it was not a question. Maia caught herself just as she was about to demand to know how he knew that. "What if she does?" "She's still letting you live with her and she knows just what you are," Lucas circled around her, and leaned towards her conspiratorially, "What do you think she's really doing?" "She says that-" Maia began. "Of course she says," Buck frowned, "But how can you honestly think that she'd stay with a practiced, cold blooded killer? An innocent girl like that? You better believe that she's not going to let it go, that she's just hanging around, biding her time until she can turn you in." For a moment they stood close enough together to share breath. Maia sneered and whirled, even as she wondered just how much of the truth lay in his words. The sheriff was playing with her. No one was immune to his manipulations, but Maia couldn't see that. The seeds of doubt he flung outwards fell onto fertile soil. The idea that Gillian was traitorous had indeed preoccupied her for a while, but she had pushed the thoughts aside. Maia protected herself when it came to her work. She knew what she was doing, but that didn't mean that someday she might not slip up somewhere. "What exactly are you suggesting I do?" Maia demanded, her back still to him. She watched a man in bright orange jogging shorts run by. "I'm merely pointing out that she's dangerous to you now," Buck replied, he'd tested the edge, and was ready to back off for now. "Mhhmm," Maia turned around, her arms hanging loose at her sides, her relaxed appearance at odds with the turmoil she felt. A sudden movement in the parking lot caught her attention. Two run down local police cars had parked on either side of the Trans-Am. "What the Hell is this?" Maia demanded, drawing herself up. She was shocked. "Why don't we find out?" Buck asked, the picture of southern implacability. "Ben!" He shouted as they approached the officers. "What're y'all doin to this lady's car?" "Just what you told us Lucas," the deputy shouted back, "You were right." He held aloft, over his balding head, a gleaming Sig Sauer, the only weapon Maia had ever allowed herself to hang onto. Ben lowered the gun and checked the ammunition. "Two rounds missing," he announced, handing it over to one of the other men to bag. "Sonofabitch," Maia snarled, her eyes filled with icy hatred. Before he even managed to get a retort out, she had him by the throat. She had the strength to snap his neck. He seemed to be laughing at her despite the fact that she lifted him up onto his toes. "Lucas!?" Ben yelled from the parking lot. "Who did you kill with those bullets, huh?" Maia demanded, jerking the sheriff back and forth a little with each vicious word. Lucas got a good grip on her forearm, squeezing so hard that she could feel the bones grind together. "Let him go Miss Pappas," Ben cautiously approached, the three other men fanning out around him. Buck managed to gasp out, "She's armed." Maia spun them both to the left, placing Buck between herself and the deputy's leveled revolver. In doing so however, she gave one of the flanking officers a clear shot. The sheriff fell backwards when Maia's grip slackened. Maia groaned, pressing her forehead into the grass. When the initial surprise wore off, she heaved herself upright and balanced precariously on one leg. She found herself painfully wrenched back to the ground, and someone's knee pressed into the small of her back. She felt the cold metal of a pair of handcuffs snap around her wrists. Through a black haze she heard Ben haltingly read her Miranda Rights, and another voice, more distant, saying that he hadn't never shot no woman before. A red frog walked across the ceiling leaving red footprints on the plastic florescent lighting panel. Maia shook her head roughly to banish the hallucination. The walls were green; nasty, anti-septic green. Maia tried to sit up but was stopped short by a set of standard issue hospital bed restraints. She struggled against them in a moment of cold panic which was almost immediately replaced by hot rage. She forced herself to relax and try to determine what had been done to her. She didn't know how much time passed before the door opened. Dr. Matt Crower waltzed into the room. Maia followed his progress with the eyes of an angry cat. "Miss Pappas." he smiled tentatively, "How are you feeling?" "Shitty, how do you think?" Maia snarled. "You almost crushed Lucas's trachea." "He set me up. You know what he does better than most." "He has evidence against you. In a murder." Maia laughed. It was ironic to be framed when she was guilty of so many crimes. "That's not what I'm here to talk to you about. The bullet struck your lower thigh, and split the bone in several directions," Matt set a heat deformed slug on the bedside table. "I've done what I can, but one of the fractures extended down into your knee, and I can't guarantee that you'll ever be able to walk without a limp if you don't have the joint replaced." The doctor pushed the sheets aside to examine the sutures. "There'll be a nurse in in a few minutes to give you whatever you need," Matt turned stiffly and disappeared. Maia got herself as upright as she could and peered down at the double line of stitches running down her thigh. A padded brace held her entire leg immobile. She grimaced and flopped back onto the noisy, plastic covered mattress. Maia closed her eyes against the sight of the industrial ceiling and tried to ignore the dull throbbing of her leg as the pain killers wore off. She put her mind elsewhere, somewhere green and humid, with olive trees growing wild everywhere. She wanted to scream, but didn't want to give the guard left outside the door the satisfaction of hearing her. The panic was returning. Maia opened her eyes again, to the sight of Sheriff Lucas Buck's lean, ursine face. "You can't stand it can you?" He mocked, "Captivity definitely doesn't suit you." Maia collected herself as best she could. "So who died so you could put me here?" Maia forced her tensed muscles to relax one by one. "Nobody you'd know. Just a local man, been a thorn in my side for years." "Aren't you concerned about the FBI coming out here?" "They don't have much interest in my little town." Lucas twirled a lock of Maia's black hair between his index finger and thumb. Maia briefly considered biting him. It would be an ineffectual, if satisfying move. At least it would make her feel better. "I haven't had the gun dusted yet," he produced the sig, dangling it by a corner of its baggie. "You can walk away from this...well, you know what I mean," he laughed. "Just wiping the handle clean isn't enough to get me out of this," Maia retorted. "Of course not. We'd just have to make sure somebody else's prints showed up on it, now wouldn't we?" Maia snorted, "And who else would have access to my gun but my partner in sin." "Excuse me sir," A nurse bustled in, pushing a supply cart, "I have to ask you to leave the room." The sheriff tipped an imaginary hat at both women as he pulled the door shut behind him. The nurse performed her tasks quietly and warily, giving Maia some water through a straw. Maia could almost smell her apprehension. When the nurse too, finally left, Maia lay alone with her fears. Getting caught had never been an option, but here she was, helpless, humiliated and crippled. There was an easy way out of this. Six months ago you would have done it in a heartbeat. Maia pushed those thoughts away and instead invited the anger to return until the tranquilizer the nurse had given her drowned her in sleep. Chapter 9: It Makes Me Feel So Fine The blonde stood in front of the painting, gnawing contemplatively on a pen. "These are all really cliched." She sighed. "They're selling in the smaller galleries." A tall, tanned man replied. "Money is all these people are after isn't it?" "Well Sarah, artists have to eat too." He smiled, unbuttoning his grey suit jacket. Sarah shot him a look over her shoulder. "And so do we," he added. "David, you're such a pragmatist," Sarah brushed past him to survey the rest of the new works stacked in various states of unpacking around the room. "I don't want any of those silly landscapes in my gallery. Have them sent to Cosmic Cactus or something, but this building is supposed to exemplify the company." The yuppie shrugged submissively. Sarah's high heels tapped softly across the oak floor. That was one of the things she liked about Ishtar Galleries's building; all the floors, even in the storage rooms were real wood. Pushing aside protective tarps and sheets of cardboard, she flipped through the canvases, making approving noises. "This bunch is interesting." She said, picking up a painting of a lake. "Thought you weren't in the landscape mood today?" David teased her. "You're missing the focal point," she turned and held the painting in front of her so that her assistant could get a better look at it. "AH, the solitary figure on the dock. Intriguing," he examined the brooding image more closely. Sarah thrust the painting into his hands and went back to looking over the rest. "Where are these from? I'd like to get in touch with the artist," Sarah called over her shoulder. "I'll check," David set the picture down gingerly. He returned a few minutes later with a printout. "I'm not sure how we wound up with them. Apparently Bev picked them up at a county auction," he shrugged. "Look at this," Sarah breathed. She slid a large canvas out of its box. It was a life size portrait of a nude woman painted in deep shadow. A pair of stunning blue eyes glittered predatorily from a tan, sculpted face. "Hmm," David replied dubiously, "Doesn't look like someone I'd care to meet." "No, but there's more to it than that. Her eyes are hungry, but her face is.... loving, almost calm." "Like the painter went back and changed something after they were finished with it." "Yeah," Sarah absently sniffled, entranced by the painting. For the briefest of moments she felt a glint of recognition. Leaning it against a wall, Sarah stepped back from the picture. The messy signature at the bottom corner might have said Sirila, but Sarah doubted that was actually anybody's name. The date was 1992. That made the painting almost 7 years old. "I can't believe these were just lying around somewhere for 7 years." Sarah clucked her tongue absently. "Do you have the name of the town?" "Um...Trinity? Yeah, Trinity, its in South Carolina," David frowned, "It's really imposing hun, I don't think it'll sell." "Who said anything about selling it?" the art dealer smiled, "I'll have whatever Bev paid for it taken out of my salary." "Whatever floats yer boat I guess," he shrugged again. Forcing herself to turn away from the haunting woman, Sarah picked a few of the other paintings to have hung out on the floor. On her lunch break, Sarah signed up for vacation time in the most immediate available slot. She wasn't usually so spontaneous; the woman in the painting sparked something long buried within her. Sarah didn't understand it, but she wanted to know this woman. Her long skirt, decorated with Chinese coins, jingled as she walked into the office. The woodsy interior was distinctly dated, and the patrol cars outside had definitely seen better days. "Excuse me," she trilled, leaning on the scarred counter between herself and the actual office space. "Yes Ma'am? Can I help you?" a bald deputy asked in a heavy southern accent. "I want to talk to someone about some items that were recently sold at auction here," Sarah smiled, trying to hide her amazement at the stereotypicality of this place. "Well Ma'am, can you tell me what it is that you're looking for exactly?" "I'm not looking for anything, I have a painting, I'm looking for the person who painted it." "A painting?" the deputy raised his eyebrows, "Just a minute Ma'am, I think you want to talk to the sheriff." Sarah watched him amble off in search of his superior. She drummed her fingers idly on the counter. "Ben tells me you're looking for an artist?" a deeper, throaty drawl issued from behind her. Sarah whirled around in a swish of brass coins and blue fabric. "Yes." "The name's Lucas Buck, with a B," he smiled carnivorously and extended a large, calloused hand. Sarah gripped it with her own narrow, small hands and said, "Pleased to meet you. I'm Sarah Covington, I'm with Ishtar Galleries," she led him outside to her big Oldsmobile. In the back seat rested a carefully wrapped package. She slid the large canvas out gently, and revealed the painting to the Sheriff. "Oh yes. That would be Maia Pappas," his smile turned sour. "The artist?" mention of the name Pappas made Sarah sit up straighter. Her great grandmother, Janice Covington, had once worked with a member of the Pappas family, back when the Covingtons still had a history of "working," in "archeology." "Nope, the model. Why don't we go inside?" he pressed Sarah gently out of the heat and back into the air conditioned police station. "So you know who painted this?" "Yeah. Her name was Gillian..." he seemed to fish for a last name for a moment, "Gillian Muray. They were both bad news..." "Were?" "Yes, well, Gillian was convicted of murder, she died in a prison riot three years back," Buck drawled lazily. Sarah bit her lip, "What about the model...Maia?" "Haven't heard anything about her in...oh...7 years," Lucas replied, "What's your interest in all this anyway?" "I just want to know the story behind those paintings. We have a few dozen by Gillian, they're beautiful, not exactly modern, they're too academic, but they are beautiful," Sarah smiled. "You have no idea how I might find the model?" "Sorry," he narrowed his eyes at her. Blonde hair, green eyes. Lucas never forgot a face, especially where Maia was concerned. "I wouldn't try to contact her if I were you. She's vicious, probably worse than her lover. It was only out of the kindness of my heart that I decided not to press charges." "Her lover?" "Miss Muray," Buck smiled archly, then said, "Well Ma'am, if that'll be all, I have work to do." "I'm sorry for keeping you. Thank you," Sarah stood up, gripping the painting by its frame, "Can you tell me one more thing? Where did she live?" "They had an apartment, but the house burned down last year." Sarah wound up in the county park. She immediately recognized it as the setting of the painting of the dock. There was a dim atmosphere to the town, in spite of its comic typicalness. Sarah could almost taste the darkness of the air. It was pretty, but her mood was rapidly going downhill. This park especially depressed her. As she wandered back to the parking lot, Sarah shivered in the intense heat. There was a wrongness here. Sarah spent the night in a big yellow boarding house. They served dinner to all the boarders at one long table. The decorations were quaint, and the food was overcooked in typical southern fashion. The boarders were pleasant, barraging the new guest with questions. A boy, probably about 15 years old, sitting directly across from Sarah remained obtrusively silent for most of the meal. "Actually, I came here to find a painter. One of our purchasing agents picked up 13 paintings at a county auction here." "Paintings?" Miss Hale, the owner of the boarding house asked. "Yes, they're very beautiful, I came to find the artist, but the Sheriff told me that she died in a prison riot..." Sarah sighed over a forkful of string beans. "Oh. Gillian was such a darling girl. I don't believe she did what they said. Now that other woman, Maia? There was always something a little...off about her," the blonde woman shook her head ruefully, "I just don't know. And Mr. Davis was such a nice old man, he kept to himself, but he was pleasant to me whenever I saw him." "You met them?" Sarah demanded enthusiastically. "Well, yes dahlin, Maia stayed with us for a week, until she," Miss Hale lowered her voice to a loud whisper, "Moved in with Gillian. I try not to judge," she said loftily. "Ah. Did she tell you anything about herself? About where she came from?" "Oh Honey, that was 7 years ago. I don't really remember." "She tried to kill Buck," the boy announced. "What?" Sarah asked, startled by his rough voice. "Miss Pappas, she tried to kill him," only it sounded like "Miass Peappas, shey traed to keel ‘im." "Really?" "Caleb," Miss Hale scolded, "Don't talk about that at the table." "Why did she do that?" Sarah asked, horrified. "I dunno," Caleb shrugged. Later, once the dinner crowd had dispersed, Sarah found the boy sitting outside on the voluminous front porch. "Hey Caleb," she sat down next to him on the wooden steps. "Hey." "So you were here when Miss Pappas was staying here?" she prodded. "Yes ma'am." "Can you tell me anything about her?" "I don't really remember much, it was a long time ago. ‘Cept that she tried to kill Buck," the boy shrugged his bony shoulders. "Did you meet her?" "Yeah. She was nice..." Caleb's face lit up when a lanky, long haired girl rode up into the yard on a 12-speed bicycle. "Good night Caleb," Sarah called as he stood up. "G'night Ma'am," he waved. Sarah watched him walk down the road with the girl, the two of them chattering in their matched accents. What am I doing here? This is absurd. It's just another painting. Sarah thought. But the next morning, the blonde found herself in the dusty archives of the county library, reading a faded copy of a newspaper from September, 1992. Sarah found only two other articles on the subject, one detailing the testimony of Gillian herself. The woman had nearly confessed on the stand. The second article was about the verdict, and Maia's disappearance. Sarah left with Xeroxes of the articles, her unknown questions still unanswered. Back to the Beginning |