Negative Space by Mike Robinson (classic literature list .txt) 📗

to her, and as long as I keep selling my art, she’ll be gettin’ me to where I wanna go.”

“Where do you go?” Max said, picking up a random scrap of newspaper. Legendary Chupacabra Strikes Texas Town? it read.

“Anywhere I haven’t been, basically. Or if I hear or read about something that piques my interest, I might check it out. But I’ve actually been in L.A. for longer than expected. Haven’t sold as much as I’ve wanted.”

“Where do you keep all your artwork?”

“Public storage, mostly. But I keep my supplies with me in here, in case I’m in The Muse’s sniper-scope and somethin’ strikes me. Never know.”

“Where’s the picture of that Feldman guy you were telling me about?”

“Oh yeah. Look over by the passenger’s seat.” Dwayne craned his neck around, shifting his body weight so Max could see. Torn-out pages and Xeroxed articles covered a portion of the window, many complemented by photos. Edging closer, he noticed one consistent phrase across the literature: Twilight Falls.

“It’s got its own section,” Dwayne said. “There’s something about that town you can’t touch. In fact, it’s the only sort of...hmm...elusive thing I have in my office here. Most of these guys, like the aliens and the Jersey devils and whatnot, can be proven. They can be documented, photographed, thrown in a cage, test tube, lab, whatever. If they’re out there. Maybe. Usually, I don’t deal with the stuff you can’t prove, like poltergeists or mind control, but that town...yeah, it’s got something about it.”

Having split his youth between Arondale and the orphanage, Max hardly considered himself geographically savvy about the area. But of course he knew of Twilight Falls, or “TwiFalls.” Everyone did. It was where that Zwieg kid had killed a bunch of classmates.

Dwayne crawled over the backseat, crinkling cut-up newspapers and loose sketchbook pages before huddling by the Twilight Falls section. His stare did the rest of the crawling and he soon happened upon the object of his search which he pulled from the armrest of the chair. An article. Thin. Somewhat clear and fresh, not mummified yellow like so many others.

He handed the page to Max. The headline read Top of his Head, Top of his Game, by a Marcus Fremont. Despite mediocre photo quality, the subject of the accompanying picture was strikingly familiar.

“That’s the guy,” Dwayne said. “Clifford Feldman. Don’t he look a little like your painting?”

“He does,” Max said, mesmerized, pulse racing.

“Think that’s your pop?”

“I...I really don’t know. Could be.”

“I heard this guy was in Twilight Falls, after living in Seattle for a while. The headline got the place wrong—it wasn’t San Fran, but they probably just wanted a recognizable locale and all. Plus, I never knew an article that didn’t get at least one fact wrong. That’s why I do my own investigations.”

You can barely take your eyes off this article.

“So what drives you, Maximo?” Dwayne asked. “What runs your brush? Besides the missing people, I mean.”

A thousand variations of one answer convened in Max’s throat, fighting and vying.

“I suppose the unknown,” Max finally answered. “Like you—kind of. The unknown, unheard, unseen.”

“That so?”

“Yeah. To me, that’s where inspiration hides. The world’s cracks. And I guess the people who fall into them.” He glanced out the window. “I know that also sounded rehearsed. I’ve said it before.”

“You give them a place to fall,” Dwayne said.

“Giving them a home,” Max said. “That’s how I look at it.” He brought out a hot sauce packet, bit it and began pumping the liquid into his mouth.

“Sure thing, sure thing,” said Dwayne, unfazed by Max’s oral fixation. “You ever have anyone recognize a face? Besides me, I mean?”

“No,” Max said curtly. He didn’t feel like spilling the recent events of his life to an hour-old acquaintance.

“Listen,” Dwayne said. “You’re welcome to hitch a ride when I go to Twilight Falls.”

“I don’t know,” Max said.

“That Feldman is having a show up there,” Dwayne said. “He’s got one at the Peters Museum, going on now, I think, if you want to scope it out.”

Max wasn’t sure what to say. Briefly, he was spared the burden of reply by a firm tapping on the driver’s side window.

Both men stopped. Through the glass stared a man, red-eyed, hands clawed, mouth ajar as if on the verge of a sneeze. Much of his torso was dirt-streaked and bare save for a ratty strip of cloth he wore like a toga.

He tapped again. “You guys got anything for me?”

Max’s heart beat fast. Dwayne crawled over to the window, rolled it down, and tinkled change into the man’s waiting palm.

“Thanks, man,” said the man. “Thanks.”

When Dwayne turned back, Max gave him a funny look.

“Pretty generous,” Max said.

“Like you said, giving them a place to fall.”

Again, Max found himself at a loss for reply.

“So what do you say?” Dwayne said.

“To what?”

“To going with me. Up north. The Feldman fellow.”

This guy was a psycho. For sure. A killer luring people into his witch’s-hut of a van and promising them their dreams and their myths and their legends and their hopes and then—and then—

Shut up.

“I’ll give you my address and phone number,” Max said, getting out a pen. “And I can let you know.”

“That’s all well and good, Max. But you should know I’m leaving pretty soon. This week, actually. If I’m not too mistaken, the show doesn’t last much longer.”

“That’s fine.” Max scribbled the info on a discarded sheet of notepaper he found by a cooler. “But there’s someone else who might be interested in joining us.”

***

V

“He’s here again.”

Karen didn’t need to be told. She’d heard his voice, caught a glimpse of him in the entryway. One big human-shaped nerve. His ego, his esteem, left in scattered breadcrumbs for re-gathering on the way back out.

Twice now, this James Cannon had come to The Schoolhouse. Wearing his crisp suit, as if to impress. The professional preceding the man, a silken layer over his soul. Karen had learned during small talk—vainly contrived to alleviate Cannon’s anxiety—that he was a defense attorney. Figured.

“He’s your six-thirty,