The man's breathing has perceptibly stopped now.
There is no sign of Chelsea's uncle.
Chelsea does what she can, with her knowledge of medicine, to safely revive the man.
Unfortunately, try as she can, her knowledge of medicine suggests there is little help she can give: his wounds are too severe, and he has lost too much blood.
Wisteria balances having to go back and get Lucretia's picture for her, versus having to stay and help this other woman. Doing The Right Thing is not being simple, and she looks very worried about it.
The ambulance draws up, followed by a police car. There is a rush of orange-jacketed paramedics with a stretcher and arcane medical terminology, followed at a short distance by a couple of cops -- one male, one female.
The paramedics move into action in a trained fashion, checking over the prone man. One of them straightens and turns to Chelsea. "What can you tell us?" he asks, as his companion takes pulses grimly.
Wisteria fidgets as she sees the cops. Here comes a Time Sink, she just knows it.
Chelsea gives the paramedic the information she's learned since arriving there, briefly, after explaining her credentials.
The cops hold back from questioning the two women, examining the area while the paramedics see to the patient.
Wisteria keeps quiet while Chelsea talks. Maybe she can escape back to the... well, back to somewhere to wash her hands and _then_ back to purchase the painting.
Chelsea keeps her uncle out of her discussion, sticking to what she found, and what she saw.
Meanwhile, the cat is very definitely dead.
Chelsea is unsurprised when the paramedics move the 'patient' to the ambulance, but without rushing. It can only mean that he was DOA. They exchange glances with each other.
Wisteria bites her lip and starts edging away. Maybe they will talk to the doctor lady and forget about her entirely. Maybe she can get back in time.
The female cop glances at her partner, then turns to the two women. "Perhaps if we could have your names, and if you could tell us what was going on here?"
Chelsea gives her name, and explains, "I was passing by, when I heard a scream in the alley."
Wisteria halts, guiltily. She mumbles her name and says, "Same here."
The female cop makes notes in her official-looking notebook. "What sort of scream?"
Wisteria says "Loud."
The male cop turns on a flashlight and trains it around the alley, glancing at the signs of where the fight had been going on.
The female cop says, "You two were together at the time?"
Wisteria shakes her head a little.
Chelsea shakes her head also.
The female cop says, "So what happened then?"
Wisteria hangs back a bit, sure that Chelsea will be more articulate about it than she.
The male cop mutters into his walkie talkie, before turning back to his partner and the two women. He rubs at his moustache and comments. "There was a fight of some sort here. Did you see who was involved?"
Wisteria points mutely at the (probably receding) ambulance.
Chelsea shakes her head. "It was all over when we got here."
The female cop says, "Did the victim manage to say anything to you?"
Wisteria replies, "He babbled, mostly. He seemed to think we were people he knew, sort of."
The female cop says, "And did you know him?"
Wisteria shakes her head. "Never saw him before."
The female cop turns to Chelsea. "And you, ma'am?"
Chelsea says "Never, ma'am."
The male cop trains his flashlight on some gouges in a trash can by the side of the alley, that still have liquid (acid?) dripping down them.
The female cop nods, and scribbles something else down. "I'm afraid I must have your addresses, and I will have to ask you not to leave the area until further notice, as this is a murder inquiry."
He mutters something about 'weird shit'
Wisteria sighs and gives her hotel room address.
Chelsea sighs. "I am not a resident; I was just here on a conference, ma'am."
The female cop gives a reassuring smile. "It shouldn't take more than a day or two. I hope that won't inconvenience either of you unduly?"
Chelsea says "Only my patients."
Wisteria shrugs. "I guess I'm okay. Unless my friend gets really upset with me for not doing her the favor she asked."
The female cop says, "Do you work at the local hospital, or do you specialise?"
Chelsea says "I am a plastic surgeon; I live in California."
The female cop nods thoughtfully and takes more notes. She gives the two another smile. "Well, I think we have all the information we want, don't you, Mike?" She looks to her partner.
Wisteria looks hopeful.
The male cop itemises the two witnesses for a long moment. "I guess so," he says, "For now. Now are you two ladies going to be alright or can we give you a lift someplace more welcoming where you can clean up a little?"
Wisteria looks around, trying to remember how far she came, drawn to the fight. It shouldn't be _that_ long a trip back, and there ought to be a bathroom around to wash her hands at.
Chelsea says "My hotel is just around the corner."
The female cop is about to say something, when her walkie-talkie crackles. She pauses, and lifts it to her ear, then frowns.
The female cop says, "There's a disturbance near the art gallery. How about if we drop you both there? Then you can clean up in the washrooms, and it's only a short walk from there," she nods to Chelsea, "to your hotel."
Wisteria urks. "Yes! Please!"
Chelsea says "I will walk to my hotel, thank you."
The female cop shrugs. "Okay." She turns to Wisteria, and nods towards the car. "Hop in, kid."
The male cop nods, standing aside. HE talks briefly into his walkie talkie as he also climbs into the car.
Wisteria clambers in, trying to keep her bloodied hands from getting anything messy.
Chelsea walks towards her hotel.
The female cop gets behind the wheel, and the car drives off towards the art gallery.
Wisteria asks, "Do you have any tissues?"
As she walks back to her hotel, the night is quiet around Chelsea. There are no more mysterious screams, no more crashes, no more of that _sound_ -- for the moment, at least.
The male cop rummages around fruitlessly in the glove compartment, "Uh, no. Sorry."
Wisteria sighs. "I'll just try not to touch anything, then. Thanks." She bites her lip, and bursts out with, "What's wrong at the art gallery? I was going to buy one of my friend's pieces..."
The female cop says, over her shoulder, "Some sort of punch-up. Nothing serious, kid."
Wisteria looks relieved. "Thank you."
The police car speeds smoothly through the dark streets. It is a calm protective shell of normality. Finally Wisteria recognises where she is, only a few moments before the car pulls in to the kerb. "OK," says the female cop cheerily. "First stop: art gallery. Looks busy tonight, too. Want one of us to walk you in?"
Wisteria says, working to get the barest minimum of blood smeared on the car handle, "I'm fine, I think." She adds, "Thanks," out of polite habit.
Wisteria then hastens for the door to the art gallery, trying to remember where they put the bathrooms there.
Behind her, Wisteria hears the police car growl into life like an empty stomach and then roll off into the night. The art gallery does look busy, with well dressed people wandering in and out. She attracts not a few looks as she walks up to the door, either because the cut of her jacket doesn't precisely match what the Well-Dressed are wearing this season, or because of the gore and bloodstains.
Wisteria sighs. And after she'd managed to sneak in okay before. She heads for the bathroom as soon as possible, to wash her hands off thoroughly, thence to find the painting with no name and purchase it upon the spot!
As usual, there is a queue outside the ladies', but people stand aside to let Wisteria through. Inside the ladies' are sinks, soap and towels. Adequate for purpose.
Wisteria washes her hands quickly, thanking people for letting her through, and hastens out into the crowds to find Lucretia's section.
Wisteria peers around, hoping to spot someone who might actually know where her friend's material is, as well as checking the artist-tags that are (hopefully) next to the works.
Wisteria is also trying to move briskly through the gallery, politely dodging clumps of people.
The gallery is made up of four large interconnected rooms, which are currently quite full of people, milling around in tight-knit groups. Waitresses are wandering around with trays of (small) wineglasses. There are paintings lining each of the walls, each of which having a title/artist tag next to it, apart from one room that has been turned over to scultures and decorative arts. There are also security guards at the doorways. The current room is full of very abstract modern pieces.
There is also a door marked 'sales office', and a woman selling catalogues.
Wisteria marches herself over to the woman and asks, "Excuse me? I'm interested in some works by... Lucretia, I believe she signs her work as. Could you help me find her section?"
The woman, a stick-thin skinhead in a black turtleneck with black-rimmed glasses, yawns and flips open the catalogue for you. "If you want to see the unknown lady, best to hurry. It was one of the first to be under offer. " And she turns the page round so that you can see the pictures, pointing one of them out. In fact, it would have stood out anyway ...
Wisteria looks.
The picture in question is a 2 by 4 feet framed panel. It isn't precisely classical, but the lines of the subject's face are drawn with astonishing delicacy and style -- quite remarkably so. The picture shows a young woman, apparently waking in some gloomy forest locale. The woman's clothes -- white leather jacket and skirt, and shocking pink top -- are perhaps deliberately anachronistic, and her blonde hair hangs in a bell around her upturned face. The woman's expression is an intricately drawn blend of fury and dawning horror, turned towards the light so that every bone in her face seems carved from ivory.
Wisteria fumbles with her purse. "That's the one." She looks for a price.
There is a red dot marked on the picture's label. A quick consult of the catalogue shows that this means it is already under offer.
Wisteria asks, "How do I offer for it as well?"
The languid black-clad one stifles another yawn. "You'll need to talk to the sales office," she offers. "we're taking bids until we close tonight, so you won't have long to wait."
Wisteria nods. "Thanks." She marches herself over to the sales office and knocks.
A soft male voice calls," Come in."
Wisteria opens the door and does so.
The office is small and messy. An effeminate man in his 40s, wearing black jeans and a brightly coloured shirt is perching against one corner of the desk, with a pad in his hand. He has a long grey ponytail and a charismatic smile.
Wisteria smiles back, and cuts to the chase with, "The 'unknown lady' piece -- how do I bid on it?"
"You'd like to make an offer? Splendid," he says. "Delightful. Marvellous. Now let me check the books to see what the state of play is with that picture." And he flips through the pad ... " Ah, yes. We've had two offers on the picture already and the price currently stands at $800. The next price point is $850, and if you want to place a bid, we will ask for a $100 deposit which will be returned to you if the painting goes to someone else."
"I must say," he adds, " You have splendid taste."
Wisteria says, "It's totally striking. I'm not surprised it's been bid on already." She digs in her purse, counting out the money that Lucretia gave her.
Wisteria takes a breath and says, "I'd like to bid nine hundred even, then." She hands over a hundred dollars with all the aplomb she can muster.
The man grins at you sideways, and makes some notes in his book. "$900? My word. Certainly I can take the bid for you -- and it really is a quite remarkable piece, very unlike anything else I've seen from that artist. I'd go so far as to say it was quite unique. Now, I'm going to need to take your details. Can you give me your name and contact details?"
Wisteria gives her name and the hotel address and room-number. She adds, "If it's already up to eight hundred, then there are people who want it -- I'm not going to scare them off by raising a mere fifty, right?"
He winks at you. "Now really," he says, "I should try to persuade you to bid much higher ... but really the auction will close tonight when the gallery does, in about an hour's time. And neither of the current bidders have left me their phone numbers, so unless they turn up in person it will be difficult for them to adjust their bids. They were both being all unnecessary about secrecy, you know what bores some people can be like, my love?"
Wisteria chuckles. "Their loss, then! Shall I check back here just before the gallery closes, then, and make sure they haven't shown up with extra funds?"
"Good idea," the man agrees cheerfully. "If you were planning to stay around until then, I could hold off closing on this item until I've seen you?"
Wisteria beams at him. "Oh, that'd be wonderful! I'm definitely planning to stick around. Thank you!"
"My pleasure," he says, and smiles briefly at you as he takes the deposit and places it in a safety deposit box.
Wisteria grins, and heads for the door. "Time for me to go check on it, and see if there's anything else that's as striking, I guess. Thanks again!"
He smiles again and says, "Enjoy the show."
Wisteria waves and goes to do just that. With the pressure off, she goes hunting through the show at a more relaxed pace. Admire this piece, puzzle at that one, pretend she's not trying to stifle an outburst of laughter at another...
Some of the paintings are more abstract than others, some more natural, some more realistic . . . but before long she finds the picture for which she has just bid nine hundred dollars. It has an odd, arresting quality to it -- the posture and expression are photographic in their depiction, even though the whole work is in paint.
Wisteria admires it, pausing to examine it closely.
As she watches, the painting seems to move, as though the woman shifted her position to look out towards the viewer in dreadful slowness.
Wisteria catches her breath and tells herself that Lucretia is clearly a talented painter, and it's just an optical illusion, and there are paintings that have eyes that seem to follow, and she's been under some stress recently, and, and, and... she watches in horrified, hypnotised fascination.
Slow tears of fire trickle down the woman's face, glowing living flames. In a motion that speaks of desperation, she raises her eyes towards Wisteria's own, and her mouth opens. Surely it is only imagination that hears a faint female whisper of, "Save me..."
Wisteria shivers, sure that she's in some kind of seizure, or maybe something's wrong with her medication dosage, or, or, or... She tries to close her eyes tight and open them again, to see if the changes in the picture are still there.
For a moment, the picture portrays the woman standing, hands beating against the canvas as though it were a glass pane, white shadows ruffling out behind her like ghostly impossible wings; and then it is merely a painting of a kneeling woman, despair and fury in her face.
Wisteria whimpers a tiny little bit, stopping herself when she realizes what she's doing. Then she pauses. Peers at the painting again intently.
The painting is ... just a painting. A wonderfully delicate piece of work. But nothing more.
Wisteria takes a big breath and resolves to look at the image in a catalog to see if it does the same thing. Or if it's... at all different from the current image. She moves a little closer, and whispers confidentally to it, "I always did wonder if pictures made faces behind my back."
The temperature almost seems to rise by a degree or two.
Wisteria giggles nervously and hovers around in the area, keeping an eye out for Lucretia -- or to see if anyone else is struck by the image in a similar way.
Nobody else seems to be paying particular attention to the painting -- except for a small group of elderly women in expensive polyester and flashing rhinestones, who criticise it as not being half as nice as the several works painted on velvet down the corridor.
Wisteria murmurs to the painting, after they go, that some people only have taste in their mouths, and she thinks it's a very fine painting. She also wishes that she had her cat to talk to. Cats talk back, after all, and paintings generally don't.
There is a sudden pulse of heat, again, and a feeling of urgency.
Wisteria wonders if there's a cat trapped somewhere around. Maybe that's the problem. She thinks, "Kitty, kitty?" in her mind, trying to reach out for cat-sense.
A voice whispers, in her mind, "Get me out of here. Get me out. Get me out. Get me out. They trapped me. For the love of God, get me out of here . . ."
It is a young female voice, brisk and authoritative.
Wisteria feels for a wall or something to lean against. She whispers, "W-where are you? Are you a cat?"
There is a brief mental image of surprise and annoyance, like the brush of an intense flame, as though the "other" had come across something other than she expected -- and then the entire sensation is gone.
Wisteria flinches and closes her eyes. Talking to cats -- that's normal. Talking to things that aren't there and aren't cats is weird.
Wisteria looks around hopefully for a place to sit down where she can still keep an eye on the painting.
There is a convenient chair nearby, and there is also one of the helpful attendants with a trayful of glasses of wine. It is also almost nearly the time mentioned by the helpful man in the office. She will not have long to wait.
Wisteria smiles at the attendant, and asks if there is any water, or juice available. "Doctor's orders," she explains.
The attendant smiles. "Certainly." She promptly fetches a glass of tomato juice.
With almost imperceptible slowness, the clock finally strikes the hour. The time has come.
Wisteria says, "_Thank_ you!" and sips it. She makes it last until the clock chimes (virtually if not literally), and then all but zips over to the sales office to (fingers crossed) finalize the sale.
The man smiles cheerfully. "Congratulations. Here you go." He has one of the attendants wrap and package the painting, and place it in a bag, as the money is handed over.
Wisteria pays with the seven hundred that Lucretia gave her, and charges the rest on plastic.
The act is easily accomplished. How convenient and easy it is to sign away so much money! The painting is put into her hands.
As she is doing so, a tall, well-dressed man comes striding through the door of the office. He has an annoyed look to him.
Oddly enough, he looks vaguely familiar, though Wisteria isn't quite sure where she's seen him before.
The strange man says, with a snap to his voice, "Am I to understand that painting 217 has been sold to someone _else_?"
Wisteria hies her way out to a telephone, to get a cab.
She can hear the owner of the office making conciliatory noises as she escapes, the painting thankfully anonymous in her arms. Conveniently, there is even a cab available.
Wisteria bounces into the cab and requests her hotel.
There might, perhaps, be some sort of disturbance going on behind her on the gallery steps as the cab heads off. Or maybe not. It's difficult to say.
The cab transports her safely to her hotel. Not unsurprisingly, after the evening she's had, she feels tired.
Wisteria pays the cabbie, gives as much of a decent tip as she can afford, and heads into the hotel. She asks the person manning (or womanning) the counter to please not tell anyone which room she's in, unless they're female and dressed all in black.
The desk clerk, a acne-marked youth, guarantees not to do so. He is clearly a sympathetic type.
In her room, her cat greets her with enthusiasm.
Wisteria thanks him effusively and goes to her room, there to pet the cat and tell it about all that happened, and unwrap the painting for its opinion.
---