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 masters' 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.

For once, Mozzie resisted making any wild speculations about extraterrestrials having invaded the campus. Instead, everyone waited on their monster expert.

"Beats the hell outta me," Dean admitted. "I've never seen anything like it. I'd like to keep the photos. Is that a problem?"

"No, I trust you not to spread them around. The police are stumped. They've even consulted with a zoologist."

"Do they think the attack could be related to the howls?" Neal asked.

Peter shrugged. "When you have nothing to go on, you grasp at straws. That's why Hughes sent the photos to me. I brought along a recording." He pulled out his laptop and played it for them.

"It doesn't sound like a werewolf or hellhound," Dean said.

"Werewolves exist?" Peter asked, rattled.

"Oh yeah, and lots of other creatures you'd rather not know about." Dean studied the photos once more. "No werewolf made that bite mark." He flicked a glance at Peter. "I don't imagine the heart was missing? That's filet mignon to a werewolf."

Peter had a new appreciation for Dean's line of work where asking about someone's organs being ripped out was seemingly a routine occurrence. But in this case, the body hadn't been mangled. The wound was severe but death had been caused by cardiac arrest.

"How about vampires?" Neal asked. "Are they ever known to howl?"

"Not like that," Dean said. "And we haven't had any recent reports of nests in the area. Bobby's been checking with hunters and fang activity is way down. Not just here, but throughout the Northeast."

Dean had previously mentioned the reports from England that pure-bloods were culling herds. Whatever the cause, having fewer vampires around was a good thing.

Mozzie continued to study the photos. "The attack could be connected to the zombie sightings."

Neal snorted. "Werewolves aren't enough? We have to bring in zombies too?"

"Didn't you hear the reports?"

Neal shook his head, looking at him warily.

"A coed saw a zombie near Low Library last night. Billy Feng over at the Aloha Emporium told me about it. Several students were discussing it this morning when they picked up malasadas."

"Speak English, will ya?" Dean complained.

"Malasadas are Hawaiian donuts," Neal explained. "You'd like them."

Frustrated, Peter barked, "Forget the donuts! Are there really zombies?"

Dean gave a half-smile. "Those other creatures I mentioned you don't want to know about? You can add zombies to the list. But that doesn't mean zombies have invaded Columbia. This sounds more and more like someone's pranking the university. First howls, now zombies. The only thing that doesn't feel right is that it's not Halloween."

"Classes have only been in session for a couple of weeks," Neal said. "Some frat kid probably thought it'd be a great idea to start early. With the popularity of campus hacks . . ." He shrugged and gave Peter a mischievous smile. "Witches' broomsticks could be next."

Peter gave a low rumble at the reference to his brother's juvenile stunt but didn't comment. Thinking about pranks might provide an escape for Neal from darker thoughts. "That could explain the zombie sighting but not the corpse . . . unless there's a very sick fraternity brother in our midst."

"It could be someone taking advantage of the pranks," Dean said. "The killer fabricated a weapon that leaves mysterious marks to throw you off."

"Perhaps something like a cattle prod gone wrong?" Mozzie suggested. "It could be equipped with a special tip to look like a suckermouth."

"Suckermouth?" Peter repeated, searching for what Mozzie's fertile mind had come up with now.

Dean was doing the same. "Is that some sort of weird fish?"

Mozzie nodded. "An eel, a lamprey, anything that sucks blood."

"Such as a leech?" Neal asked.

"That's also a suckermouth. There are several other parasitic organisms. Some of them have teeth which they use to clamp onto their host." Mozzie rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Studying remoras could be instructive. They're also known as suckerfish."

Peter knew Mozzie was a walking encyclopedia. He'd have to add ichthyology to the list of specialties, but at the moment he was more intrigued with his hypothesis. "So we could have a mentally deranged fraternity brother who's studying zoology. He decides to take advantage of a hazing ritual to go on a crime spree."

"That sounds too far-fetched," Neal objected.

Dean shrugged. "Not to me. Lots of sickos out there. You could be onto something. In the meantime, I'll ask Bobby if he's heard of anything that matches the description."

"Allow me to be the voice of reason," Neal protested. "That's not generally my role, but someone has to step up to the plate. Couldn't the murder be something much more mundane? The victim was a maintenance worker. Perhaps the key factor is where he worked. The guy might have inadvertently stumbled on a crime. The killer planned the weird bite mark to obscure his motive."

"The police are researching that as well," Peter said calmly. "But so far there's nothing to indicate what it would be."

"Where was he found?" Dean asked. "I didn't see that mentioned in the news report."

"In the central heating plant." Peter paused. "Neal, I saw that look. Does the location mean something to you?"

Neal hedged for a moment. "It may be nothing, but the heating plant is underneath Low Library, not far from the location of Mozzie's zombie."

"It's not my zombie," Mozzie protested. "I don't have bragging rights since I didn't see it, but I'm keeping a close watch to find my first one. This could surpass my discovery of the Kirtland's Warbler in Central Park last spring. Did I mention I started a checklist of creature sightings? He turned to Neal. "It's truly unfortunate you and Sam killed that swamp spirit in New Jersey before I was able to witness it."

"You were a dork at the time, remember?" Neal huffed. "While Sam and I did the heavy lifting, you were singing 'Happy Trails' with Dean and Peter in the bar."

Dean glared at him. "Hey, there's no need to rake that up again."

Peter counted to ten. "Neal, why do you know about the heating plant?"

"Because an entrance to the tunnel network is in the heating plant. I'm told it's been used to gain access to restricted areas of the grid." His innocent look didn't fool Peter for an instant. Neal must have used that entrance many times.

"Yes!" Mozzie exclaimed, snapping his fingers. "A colony of zombies must be residing within the tunnels!"

"Hold on, Zombie Hunter," Dean growled. "Just what tunnels are you talking about?"

"There's an extensive network underneath Columbia," Neal explained. "Some are public, but most of the grid is restricted. There are also some older disused tunnels. The system dates back to the 1800s."

Mozzie shoved his stool closer to Dean. "Rumors of lost tunnels are part of the university's lore. A few adventurous spelunkers have already identified several of them." Mozzie was being coy. Peter knew for a fact that several of those rumored tunnels had been found by him and Neal. Was he now trying to get Dean to enlist?

"Is this where you got your obsession with slime?" Dean asked skeptically.

"Obsession has much too pejorative a connotation, but yes, I've made some fascinating discoveries. My focus has been on slime's connection to aliens. Travis senses the potential. He's sanctioned a special subgroup of the SETI committee to research my theory. I hadn't considered they could be zombie drool. Have you ever heard of alien zombies?"

Neal glanced at Peter, his eyes full of merriment. Frustrated as Peter was at trying to conduct a halfway serious discussion of a very real murder when there were reports of howls and zombies muddying the investigation path, Mozzie's brand of medicine was acting as a tonic restorative for Neal. Travis had allowed Mozzie to form that subgroup so the main committee didn't have to deal with his more radical theories. Peter couldn't wait to tell Travis that Mozzie had found a new subject to research.

He could also report to Hughes that he'd carried out the request. Dean would check with Bobby about the unusual wound. When Mozzie offered to take Dean on a tour of the tunnels, Peter restrained himself from ordering them to stick to the legal ones. If Dean and Mozzie wanted to scour the underground grid for zombies, the less he knew about it the better.

Peter hadn't seen Bianka when he and Neal arrived at his studio. After the two zombie hunters left to collect gear, Peter asked him about her.

"She has classes in the afternoon. I expect to see her this evening."

"Is she difficult to manage?"

Neal raised an eyebrow, a smile forming. "Whatever do you mean?'

Peter groaned. "You know what I mean. She's just down the hall. She can drop in at any time." His words trailed off. Surely Neal wouldn't insist on him drawing a picture.

Neal glanced around his studio. "You have a point. Seldom have I seen such seductive surroundings." He chuckled. "Relax. Richard and Aidan have made it their mission to provide distractions. When Richard's not wandering in to chat about art, he asks me to jam with him. And Aidan's only too willing to schedule fencing practice at a moment's notice."

The Three Musketeers. Peter breathed easier. Neal's friends had banded together to thwart a scheme last autumn, calling themselves by the acronym of AFO for "All For One." They were stepping up to the plate once more. And as fellow students, Aidan and Richard wouldn't provoke Bianka's suspicion. "I noticed your guitar in the corner."

"And Richard's keeping his here, too. Letting them know about the con we're running was a smart move. My next date with Bianka isn't till Friday night." Neal's smile broadened into a grin. "Think hopeful thoughts. Maybe a zombie invasion will force us to cancel."

#

When Wednesday rolled around, Neal slipped into character. For the entire day, he'd be Neal Caffrey: grad student and Bianka Kaldy's would-be lover.

She'd managed to register in two of the seminars he was taking—one on the Italian Baroque and the other a double period on Impressionism. They had lunch together. They studied together in the library. To anyone who wasn't privy to the con, they'd believe he was bewitched by her. In addition to Richard and Aidan, Neal's cousin Angela and her boyfriend Michael also knew the truth. Michael was a year ahead of Neal in the art history doctoral program. They attended many of the same classes. It wouldn't do for him and Angela to get the wrong idea. It also meant that they were available to provide excuses.

Klaus considered Neal to be a hopeless romantic who wore his heart on his sleeve. He must have pointed out the weakness to Bianka. Neal played to his reputation and embellished it with a chivalrous twist. He never made the first move. He allowed Bianka to call the shots and when necessary stepped back to not take advantage of her. It was a seemingly endless loop of tease and retreat.

Currently he was in tease mode. He'd invited her to come along with him to the Avery Fine Arts Library during a break in the afternoon grind of classes. His purpose was twofold. Yes, they could exchange long, soulful glances . . . and occasionally more. During a previous library visit, he'd discovered that Bianka could manipulate her foot with remarkable flexibility under a study table. But today he was looking for a different kind of dexterity

He intended to use the time at the library to bone up on Goya while avoiding her giving him a boner in the process. Bianka wasn't faking her artistic ability or knowledge of art. She favored classical realism in her paintings. It had crossed his mind that she chose the style to hint that she was also a gifted forger. He and Peter had both speculated that she was Klaus's newest protégé.

Neal was confident he'd be able to emulate Goya's style for the coming workshop, but he also had to be prepared for a barrage of questions. He planned to keep Bianka so busy helping him research the artist that she'd have no time for anything extracurricular.

His advisor, Ivan Sherkov, had suggested Neal conduct the master classes in lieu of teaching assistant duties. He gladly agreed since he could call on his forgery expertise to explain the various techniques. His first workshop on Degas had been standing room only. He expected Goya would be as well. The problem didn't lie with his fellow grad students but with the professors. They'd been brutal with their questions. He suspected they awarded themselves points for tripping him up. With Degas, they'd managed to score a few hits. Neal was determined that this time he and Goya would emerge victorious.

It was a short walk from their classes in Schermerhorn Hall to the library. Although Avery Hall was a modern structure, its warm red brick walls blended harmoniously with the other buildings in the quad.

A year ago Neal had barely started classes. He remembered how he'd resolved to keep his student life partitioned from work and particularly from his former life as a thief. It hadn't lasted long. Within a month of classes starting, he was meeting Peter on campus while working undercover for Klaus Mansfeld. Now Ydrus had planted a spy as a fellow art student.

Bianka could be a model although she usually dressed down in jeans and tunic tops. She'd first played the part of a shy Hungarian exchange student. Now he wondered if she even was Hungarian. Neal didn't speak the language and couldn't evaluate. But Bianka worked for Ydrus so he was skeptical of everything she told him.

"Why did you pick Goya for your October workshop?" she asked. "He's not one of the artists you're studying this term."

"Are you familiar with the series he painted of witches?"

Her face flashed understanding. "You're preparing for Halloween! In Hungary, we celebrate All Souls' Day. I've never gone trick or treating."

"We'll have to make up for that grave omission."

She hooked his jacket with her hand and drew him close to her. "If you ring my doorbell, I'll have the treat ready for you."

He took her face in his hands and leaned down for the kiss. This wasn't Bianka. This was Sara. He was entwining her copper tresses in his fingers, not Bianka's blond strands. It was Sara's lips he felt. He deepened the kiss.

When he pulled back, Bianka was breathless, her skin flushed. Mission accomplished. He gave her a mischievous smile. "What costume will you be wearing?"

"I think you already know. It's the same one I'll have on Friday night. I assume you're still free."

"I am, and ready to take advantage of you being healthy." They resumed their walk.

"What you must think of me! I've never had such a run of bad luck. You probably won't believe me, but I was never sick till I moved to New York."

"You haven't built up resistance to Yankee germs yet, but it will come."

"My bathroom looks like a pharmacy," she said despondently.

"What does your doctor say?"

"He wants me to come in for more blood work, but I'm resisting. I feel fine now. I'm beginning to believe I'm simply allergic to doctors."

He could easily relate to her aversion to doctors, but now he was forced to have Christie on speed dial.

When they arrived at the library, he headed straight for the section on Goya. Bianka helped him gather books which they stacked on one of the study tables. They both cast aside flirting as they discussed in low tones the Spanish master's works.

"Have you heard of his black paintings?" Neal asked.

"Are they part of his witch series?"

"No, but many of the themes are similar. Satan is depicted as a goat, and witches abound. The black paintings are a series of murals Goya painted on the walls of his house. He was about seventy-five years old—frail, deaf, and in ill health. He feared he was growing mad." Neal lapsed into silence. Goya had become a kindred spirit. If he were living like Goya—alone and sick—what would he be like? He realized that it wasn't healthy to dwell on the similarities between his situation and that of the Spanish artist. Perhaps that was the real reason he welcomed Bianka's help in the library. Her presence always gave him something else to think about.

He explained how the black paintings had been damaged when they were transferred onto canvas supports. Subsequent restoration efforts hadn't always been kind to them. It was difficult to find good images of the works, but the library had a book in Spanish that contained the best illustrations he'd seen.

Bianka could also read Spanish, making her assistance even more valuable. For a while, they could cast off the roles both of them were playing and be colleagues. That was the Bianka he liked.

"Neal, what do you think of this?" She showed him an image of a man lying in bed. The sheets were in disarray. His face was distorted into an expression of terror. A small demon was leering at him from behind the curtains of the bedstead.

Neal swallowed. It was eerily similar to the impressions he'd had at night.

"This reminds me of drawings I've seen of Scarbo," she said. "Are you familiar with him?"

Had Scarbo been in the loft with him? Why hadn't he thought of him earlier? After everything that had happened, was he still in denial?

"Neal?"

"The demon who torments artists and writers? Yeah, I've heard of him." Choking back the personal discomfort, Neal attempted to study the image with objective eyes.

"The subject of the print is clearly an artist," she said. "You can see easels and stacked canvases in the background. The earliest mention of Scarbo I've ever come across is in Bertrand's series of poems Gaspard de la Nuit. That was written about twenty years later than when these paintings were made. Could Bertrand have gotten his inspiration from Goya?"

It was a provocative theory but would be difficult to prove. While Bianka researched Bertrand's background on her laptop, he continued to study the print. He wasn't the only one who felt a connection with Goya. Hagen had admitted to similar feelings shortly before he was turned into a demon. The evidence suggested Goya was one of Astrena's victims. Was Bertrand as well? And was the lurking shadow Neal had spotted in the loft really Scarbo or a hallucination created by Astrena?

Notes: In an earlier story, Raphael's Dragon, Neal was troubled by Curtis Hagen's interest in the witch paintings of Francisco Goya. The artist next popped up in the Crossed Lines story Witches' Sabbath. Now it's Neal's turn to fall under the paintings' spell. That can't be a good sign. I speculated about the significance in my latest blog post, "Goya, a Lasting Influence."

The print described by Bianka is fictitious but it resembles an actual print by Goya, "The Sleep of Reason Produces Monsters." Goya also painted what appears to be the likeness of Scarbo in his black paintings. The visuals are on the story's Pinterest board.