The Last Coyote

the rent-a-car map. He went east on Swann into Hyde Park and then down South Boulevard to her place. He could see the bay shimmering in the sun at the end of the street.
    At the top of the stairs the door was open but the screen door was closed. Bosch knocked.
    “Come in. It’s open.”
    It was her. Bosch pushed through the screen into the living room. She wasn’t there but the first thing he noticed was a painting on the wall where before there had been only the nail. It was a portrait of a man in shadows. He was sitting at a table alone. The figure’s elbow was on the table and the hand was up against his cheek, obscuring the face and making the deep set of the eyes the focal point of the painting. Bosch stared at it a moment until she called again.
    “Hello? I’m in here.”
    He saw the door to her studio was open a half foot. He stepped over and pushed it open. She was there, standing in front of the easel, dark earth-tone oils on the palette in her hand. There was a single errant slash of ocher on her right cheek. She immediately smiled.
    “Harry.”
    “Hello, Jasmine.”
    He moved in closer to her and stepped around the side of the easel. The portrait had only just been started. But she had begun with the eyes. The same eyes in the portrait that hung on the wall in the other room. The same eyes he saw in the mirror.
    She hesitantly came closer to him. There was not a glimmer of embarrassment or unease in her face.
    “I thought that if I painted you, you would come back.”
    She dropped her brush into an old coffee can bolted to the easel and came even closer. She embraced him and they kissed silently. At first it was a gentle reunion, then he put his hand against her back and pulled her tightly against his chest as if she were a bandage that could stop his bleeding. After a while she pulled back, brought her arms up and held his face in her hands.
    “Let me see if I got the eyes right.”
    She reached up and took off his sunglasses. He smiled. He knew the purple below his eyes was almost gone but they were still red-rimmed and shot with swollen capillaries.
    “Jesus, you took the red-eye.”
    “It’s a long story. I’ll tell you later.”
    “God, put these back on.”
    She hooked the glasses back on and laughed.
    “It’s not that funny. It hurt.”
    “Not that. I got paint on your face.”
    “Well, then I’m not alone.”
    He traced the slash on her face. They embraced again. Bosch knew they could talk later. For now he just held her and smelled her and looked over her shoulder to the brilliant blue of the bay. He thought of something the old man in the bed had told him. When you find the one that you think fits, then grab on for dear life. Bosch didn’t know if she was the one, but for the moment he held on with everything he had left.

Michael Connelly

    ***

Hieronymus Bosch

    ***

FB2 document info
    Document ID: fbd-4b041e-5fc3-a149-6288-7e10-0a87-914c80
    Document version: 2
    Document creation date: 11.12.2009
    Created using: Fiction Book Designer software
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