Night Howls on the Hudson

Chapter 5: Goya on his Mind

Peter hadn't been to Neal's studio in weeks. He was looking forward to the visit. Neal was working on a series of river paintings for his master's exhibition. The one Peter was most interested in was the confluence of the East and Hudson rivers as seen from the top of the FBI building.

But when they entered the studio, that wasn't the painting on the easel. "Witches?" Peter turned to face him, not attempting to conceal his dismay. "Was this really necessary?"

Neal winced. "I forgot it was there. Don't get upset. It's not what you think."

"What am I supposed to think? It looks damned similar to one of Goya's witch paintings."

"Exactly!"

"You don't have to act so pleased about it."

"Hear me out," Neal said with a huff. "You know I have to present a series of workshops on techniques used by the old masters. I figured as long as I'm dreaming about Goya, I might as well take advantage of it. He'll be the subject of my next workshop. This is one of the examples I'll use."

Neal's answer didn't ease the knot in Peter's gut. His claim that the painting would be left unfinished and he'd use it only for demonstration purposes was not reassuring. Didn't he realize that this was pulling him even more into Astrena's nightmare? "You're supposed to be working on the Renoir forgery."

"And I am," he insisted. The defensive note to his voice indicated he understood how bad it looked. "But I need to paint that at home. The workshop is scheduled for next week. Goya's easier than anyone else I could pick."

"You could have chosen Renoir."

Neal waved off the suggestion with a frustrated gesture. "I also could have picked Coolidge and painted dogs playing poker."

Maybe he thought that would end the argument but Peter would much rather see dogs grinning at him than the leers of a bunch of malicious hags.

A knock on the door interrupted Peter's retort. He strode over to open the door and cool down. As expected, it was Dean and Mozzie.

When Dean spotted Neal's painting of a man in nightclothes cowering on the ground with five disfigured crones looming over him while demonic bats and owls hovered overhead, his eyebrows ascended into his hair. "Is that what you're seeing at night?"

"No, fortunately. The Marquesa is beautiful, even if she is deadly. I'm painting this for a workshop."

"What did Goya call it?" Peter asked.

Neal's lips tightened before he replied. "The Spell."

Dean snorted. "You're not satisfied with Astrena torturing you? Why couldn't you paint dogs playing poker?"

Neal groaned. "Don't you have any appreciation for the technique?"

"I do!" Mozzie piped up. "I keep telling him we could make a mint"—he skidded to a stop and stared at Peter like a spooked rabbit—"Never mind."

Neal raked a hand through his hair. "Aren't we supposed to be discussing the photos?"

Peter took pity on him and spread them out on the worktable. It hadn't escaped his notice that Dean scrutinized Neal when he entered the room. Aside from his weight loss, it was hard to tell anything was wrong.

Neal had already seen the photos and stood back. Peter had no desire to look at them either. The victim's neck was disfigured by a two-inch round wound bordered by depressions looking like teeth marks. But what kind of mouth leaves a perfectly round impression? The flesh inside the wound was blackened as if it had rotted away.