Chapter 40: Like Holbein

The next afternoon, as was his daily custom, Bo knelt on a prie dieu in front of his mother's casket, staring at the woman he had both loved and hated.

"I know I deserved your punishments, Mama, but see, they didn't help, did they?" he whispered, his hands folded as if he was at prayer. "All the Hail Mary's you and Father Carl forced me to say, all the Acts of Contrition, all the rosaries . . . they were for nothing. Now you and the Father are wax. You can do nothing more to me."

Memories of Trudy Sinclair's white palm flying at his face rushed through Bo's mind and he grinned. "Oh Mama, you taught me what torture was when I was just a little boy, didn't you? You taught me how to create scars, how to inflict pain, how to crawl into someone's mind and torture their soul. I wonder if you can see me from Hell, Mama. Can you? Are you proud of your son now? Am I still a monster, or only the product of what you created?"

The church door opened and Bo turned, expecting to see Katrina coming to pray again. But it wasn't Katrina. It was two of the teenagers from the camp. He watched, trying not to smirk, as they mouthed their apologies and closed the door.

Katrina stood on the porch of the Sinclair house, watching as the girl and boy hurried out of the church. She smiled, wondering what Bo would do, when she noticed they had seen her. The girl tapped the boy on the shoulder and pointed. They had just started walking towards the house when Bo came out of the church. The two turned to talk to him and while they did, Katrina took the opportunity to go back inside. She watched from an upstairs window as they made their way up the street to the House of Wax. Grinning, she went to the tunnel inside the house that led to Vincent's workshop.

She could hear an opera being played on Vincent's old radio. It was a beautiful song, and Katrina began humming the tune as she walked in. Vincent was at his easel in the corner, touching up one of his oil paintings. Katrina began to dance the moment he looked up and saw her, making him smile as she twirled over to him. The pale blue maternity dress spun out around her, and she giggled like a child.

"Do you know how beautiful you are?" Vincent asked.

She collapsed into his lap. "No. But this is beautiful," she said, pointing at the picture. It was of her, the night she had stood in front of the House of Wax, staring at the moonlight in her tear.

"Silly. It's of you."

"I know. But you've perfected everything. I don't really look like that."

"Yes, you do."

"No. You artists are all alike. You're like Holbein, you know, that guy who painted the picture of Anne of Cleves for Henry the Eighth. He made her all pretty, but when she got to England she was ugly and fat, or something like that anyway."

Vincent chuckled. "Maybe that's true, but you're no fat Anne of Cleves." He kissed her softly. "You're spending too much time reading."

They heard footsteps and voices overhead.

"Oh yeah, that's why I came over," Katrina said. "Some of those people are here. A boy and a girl . . . late teens or early twenties is my guess. Just the two."

Vincent nodded, reluctantly releasing her. "I'd better go prepare, then." He patted her on the bottom. "Why don't you go take a nap?"

She smiled. "How'd you know what I was thinking?"

"Because I love you."

"I love you, too," she told him. "I'll see you later."

Katrina yawned loudly and went back to the house, where she fell straight into bed and fell asleep.

It was early evening when she was awakened by a male shouting in pain downstairs. She grinned and got up, going down to see what the commotion was all about. Katrina glanced out the living room window to see the girl from before standing outside Bo's truck, talking on a cellular phone.

"I'm about to take care of the girl," Bo said as he strode into the room with a fan belt in one hand and a green basket of car parts in the other. He took his trucker's hat from the table and pulled it onto his head. "Vincent's doin' the boy right now."

Katrina laughed. "You make it seem like he's screwing him."

Bo rolled his eyes. "Get on upstairs and lie down, Kitty Kat. I don't want you running around here until all this is taken care of."

"I'm pregnant, not an invalid," she snapped.

He shook his head. "You're carrying the next generation of Sinclair's in that fat stomach of yours, Kitten. You ain't doin' shit until that kid's out of you."

She stuck her tongue out at him. "Fine. I'm going to go lie down, yet again. But I'm doing it down in the workshop with Vincent."

Bo pulled her close and kissed her on the forehead. "Fine, yourself. Now get."

He marched out, slamming the door behind him. Katrina touched the spot he had kissed, a strange foreboding feeling welling up inside her.

She took a deep breath and went into the old study, heading for the trapdoor that led to the workshop. Grimacing as she stepped in fresh blood, Katrina plodded along down the underground corridor, stopping just before she entered Vincent's lair. She could hear his victim moaning loudly, the sound echoing through the room.

"Babe?" Katrina asked as she walked in.

Vincent turned and smiled at her. "Kitty."

She walked over to him, kissing him deeply before examining the man on the table. He looked at her with a mixture of pain, terror, and pleading. A single tear rolled down his cheek. She turned away quickly, not wanting to stare at the handsome man too long lest Vincent get jealous.

Katrina sighed and sat down on the bed, rubbing her swollen ankles idly as she watched Vincent wax the man's face. "You'll need to do my eyebrows again pretty soon," she said, finding a more comfortable position for herself.

"Um-hm," Vincent murmured, too engrossed in his work to pay attention to her.

She shook her head with a smile, knowing how much he loved his work, and decided to lie down. Tucking the blanket around herself neatly, Katrina watched as Vincent heaved the man up to put him in the wax shower. She yawned as the humming of the liquid wax raced through the pipes and began to spray the victim.

When she woke up, Vincent was gone.