Not Every Picture Tells a Gory

CW: Contains themes and/or references to emotional manipulation and implied violence

Two side by side emojis—one a waving hand, the other kissy lips. Garth York stared at Labonita Cruz’s cryptic reply to his text, “Where R U?”

What the hell? Cursing Labonita under his breath, York sent her back an irritated face emoji.

Where was she, anyway? His side piece was never late. Self-absorbed and temperamental, yes, but never late. York strode to the hotel window, parted the drapes, and looked out at the deserted ski runs. Now that the sun had set, skiers either patronized the bars in Vail or drove home to Denver.

What message did Labonita intend with those waving hand and kissy emojis?

Better not be “Adios.” Pouting, York plopped into the chair at the hotel room’s desk. For a moment, he fingered the pocket knife in his jeans—a Swiss Army Trekker version, which he could open with one flick of his thumb, locking the blade. He smiled as he visualized holding the knife to Labonita’s throat. Teach her not to keep me waiting.

Out of long habit, he tapped his cell phone icon and swiped to the latest of a series of photos he routinely stared at. This shot was one he’d snapped just last week of an oil painting—a self-portrait he’d made of himself at age 24 in ski gear, snowy slope in the background.

Now 44, York could still pass for 20 years younger. People marveled at his youthful appearance. But the self-portrait in the photo showed an aged man. Mottled skin, bad teeth, beer belly, and a subtly cruel expression.

Obscene, he thought. Years ago, he’d stashed the oil painting in his attic. No one but him and his girl Labonita had laid eyes on the self-portrait since it began to noticeably alter.

York slipped the phone into his shirt pocket. He couldn’t get his mind off the strange self-portrait. When alone, he often brooded about it, wondering, What does the painting look like now?

Last month, he’d climbed up into his attic and yanked off the painting’s shroud. What he saw turned his stomach. He tried to burn the canvas in his backyard. But the searing flash of pain across his skin made him feel he was burning his own body. Frantically, he’d flipped the canvas out of the metal trash barrel. Grabbing a sharp twig, York poked the canvas, which lay on the lawn—and felt a corresponding stab in his gut. Gasping, he jerked up his shirt. Beneath the patio lights, an ugly bruise appeared on his midsection.

What kind of Dorian Gray trick is this?

But he knew. As a young man, he’d brashly commanded the Dark Powers to grant his cravings for dominance, wealth, status … no matter the human cost. That night, a numinous being had materialized at the foot of his bed. York could still recall the strange vision—or waking dream, or whatever it was—in vivid detail. The humanoid had regarded York with eyes like LEDs. Clothed in a glowing robe, it sported bright, copper-colored hair that seemed blown by some unseen fan.

It spoke in a resonant voice: “Fear not, Child of Adam. I am Arakiel, Lord of Signs and Wonders.”

Struck speechless, York would later look up “Arakiel” and discover he was one of the chief fallen angels from the Book of the Watchers—ancient apocrypha written in third century BCE. But at the time, he had no clue who or what he was dealing with.

The being continued, “Thou hast commanded we grant thy wishes. So verily, this day I bestow upon thee a gift.”

York managed to sputter, “Wh-what gift?”

“Thou shalt stand among the pillars of the Earth. Perform signs and wonders. Wilt thou accept my gift?”

York thought this sounded like a pretty good deal. Who better to accomplish signs and wonders than a leader like me? Maybe it’s my ticket to power and riches.

“Sure, nice gift,” York said. “Thanks.”

“Make a likeness of thyself. Dedicate it to me.”

“Why?”

“To seal our pact.”

Arakiel then vanished, like smoke in a wind. York was left staring at an empty bedroom. It took him two weeks to paint his self-portrait, working every evening on a canvas the size of his torso. He dedicated the work aloud to Arakiel. The resulting painting was so stunningly lifelike, so masterful, that all of his friends complimented it.

Within a few years, the image changed. The effects of heavy drinking and drugs showed on the portrait’s grinning face in the form of burst capillaries, puffy skin, missing teeth. York stuffed the ugly portrait into a back closet and tried to forget about it.

Meanwhile, his career soared. He married a beauty queen from a wealthy Vail family. As CEO of Rockies Resorts, he won accolades: Fast Company’s “Most Creative People in Business.” Forbes’ “Global Game Changer.” Ernst & Young’s “Transformational Entrepreneur of the Year.”

So I stomped on some heads to make my way to the top. Who cares? Had to do it.

Now he enjoyed a beautiful, compliant wife and an even more beautiful (if not-so-compliant) mistress. He lived in a mansion in a ski resort paradise. Looked much younger than he was. Felt great. Got anything he wanted. Easily crushed the lives and careers of anyone who stood in his way.

The only reasonable explanation for his strange self-portrait was that at age 24, he had painted a repulsive old man—not himself. Memory can play tricks on you.

Was reality not subjective, created by electromagnetics in the brain? Perhaps his brain had misfired at times. Wouldn’t surprise him, given his fondness for weed, alcohol, and hard living.

To prove this idea to himself, York began snapping photos of the self-portrait at three-month intervals. The photos on his cell phone showed changes that could be attributed to simple deterioration, or so he told himself. Oil portraiture faded over time, didn’t it? Besides, his attic was full of dust, which contained acids that eroded artwork.

One evening, when his wife went to see relatives, York had brought the portrait down from the attic and showed it to his mistress.

“Disgusting.” Labonita made a face as she gazed at the painting.

“Does he look like me?”

“No.”

When he told her it was a self-portrait of what he might look like someday, she’d squealed with laughter. “Not you! You’ll never look like that.”

“But it is me.” Seeking cathartic relief, he blurted out the whole story of Arakiel and his pact with the fallen angel.

Blinking her dark eyes, rosy lips pursed, Labonita had listened—and believed him. But anyway, she was a witchy sort of woman who trusted in spells and magic. She’d grown up in Española, New Mexico, Land of Enchantment, where haunted mesas and spooks were part of everyday conversation.

At last the hotel door opened. Fingering the Swiss Army Knife in his jean pocket, York turned to scold his mistress for making him wait.

***

Detective Miguel Vigil focused on the corpse lying face up on the bed, eyes and mouth wide open. The victim’s throat had been slashed, severing both the carotid artery and the jugular vein, rendering him unable to yell for help.

Very messy. Difficult for anyone but a professional killer to do face to face. Suicidal cut throat injuries are rare, but I guess he could have done it to himself… maybe.

The murder weapon—a pocket knife—was in the victim’s hand. No indications of a scuffle, no sign that the victim had been moved. He appeared to have fallen backward. The coroner’s initial assessment marked the time of death between seven and midnight.

Oddly enough, an oil painting inside the hotel room had also been slit across its subject’s throat. The room didn’t appear to have been broken into. Drapery over the French doors was drawn open, revealing a balcony that overlooked shops and walkways, with a view of the ski runs. Unlikely anyone would enter the room from a balcony that high off the ground. No neighboring balcony, either.

Had the victim willingly opened the door to his killer? Did the killer place the knife in the victim’s hand to make it look like a suicide? Or did the guy really do himself in?

Inside the victim’s wallet was a driver’s license: Garth York, CEO of Rockies Resorts and a well-known man about town. Must be him, all right, Vigil thought, although the corpse looked a lot older and in pretty bad shape compared to the license’s image.

***

That evening, Detective Vigil went to interview Garth York’s alleged mistress. Labonita Cruz, a schoolteacher, lived in an old railroad town in a valley sandwiched between national forests, about eight miles from Vail. Vigil parked in the visitor area, strode up some stairs to Cruz’s apartment, and knocked.

A beautiful woman with long black hair, ripe red lips, and marble skin opened the door. In tight jeans and an off-the-shoulder tee-shirt, Cruz had wide-set eyes so mysterious that Vigil felt momentarily hypnotized.

“Miss Labonita Cruz?”

“Yeah?”

“Detective Sergeant Miguel Vigil.” He flashed his badge. “May I come in?”

“I don’t suppose I have a choice.”

She led him to a small living room. A cell phone lay on the coffee table. Vigil sat in an armchair, with Cruz on the couch, facing him. She clasped her hands around one knee, squeezing her legs together. Her nails were lacquered bright red.

“Where were you last night, Miss Cruz?”

“Here. At home. Why?”

“You didn’t meet with Garth York at the Darwin Manor Hotel … as usual?” Vigil observed Cruz closely.

Her dark eyes blazed. “Did Garth hire you to threaten me, or what?”

“I’m no private detective, Miss Cruz. I’m with the Vail Police Force.” He paused. “Garth York is dead.”

Her ruby lips formed an “O.” She placed both hands over her chest, gasping in a dramatic way. Vigil watched for tears, but none came. She’s acting.

“Dead?” she asked. “How?”

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”

“Was it suicide? He said he’d kill himself if I broke up with him.”

“Could be suicide. Or could be murder.”

“Murder?” She swallowed. “Garth has enemies. How did he die?”

Vigil didn’t want to reveal to her that York’s throat was slashed, so instead he said, “That hasn’t been determined.”

“I’m a suspect, aren’t I? That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

“Can anyone corroborate that you were home last night?” he asked.

“No.” She began to cry real tears. Getting up from the couch, she grabbed a tissue and dabbed at heavily made-up eyes.

“You and Garth York were having an affair, Miss Cruz. Hotel employees talk, you know. You’re also on the hotel’s surveillance videos. Suppose you tell me about it.”

The video he’d watched earlier showed Cruz going into York’s room carrying a canvas painting. She came back out in less than a minute—without the painting. No blood was visible on her hands or her clothing.

“Old story.” Cruz sat down again, tucking a bare foot underneath herself. “I fell for a man who promised to leave his wife for me. Garth lied. So I broke up with him last night.”

“You brought him a painting. Why?”

One corner of her mouth curled. “Garth’s wife hated that painting.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I called her. Told her it was in her attic.”

“Why’d you do that?”

“To prove I’d been in her house. Having an affair with her husband. She didn’t believe me, but she did go to the attic. Called me back. Said she threw the painting in their trash barrel outside. Told me never to call her again. But I went and got the painting out of her trash. Garth painted it, you know.” She sniffled and blew her nose.

“A front desk person at the hotel told me Garth York picked up two card keys at noon yesterday. We’ve recovered one of those keys, Miss Cruz. You have the other?”

She sucked a deep breath. “He left it for me in my classroom mailbox. Neither one of us knew who would arrive first, so Garth always made sure each of us had a hotel room key.”

“Where is it?”

Cruz handed over the key and sobbed for a while. Vigil figured a pissed-off Cruz had slashed the canvas—and maybe Garth York’s throat to boot. Seemed unlikely, but no one else had been recorded on hotel surveillance visiting York’s room last night.

“Did you slash the painting, Miss Cruz?”

She looked at him from beneath thick lashes. “Yes. I did it in front of Garth. Ripped through it with a palette knife from my school’s art class.” Defiantly, she lifted her chin and met Vigil’s gaze. “But I didn’t kill him, I swear! I told him we were through, and I never wanted to see him again.” She picked up her cell phone from the coffee table. “Here, look. I can prove what I’m telling you.”

Vigil’s skin crawled. What would she show him?

It was a text message. Two side by side emojis—one a waving hand, the other kissy lips.