The Memory Painter

“So what do you think?” Penelope had joined her.

Linz had trouble speaking as she tried to grasp what she was seeing. The horrific image looked as real as any photograph. It was a painting of a woman tied to a stake while a sea of prisoners and Roman soldiers watched her burn.

“He brought this one in two days ago,” Penelope said. “It’s magnificent.”

Linz was still struggling to find her voice. “P, I know this sounds weird, but did you tell this guy about my dream?”

Penelope frowned. “What dream?”

“The dream. The one I always had. Remember, I was going to that therapist?”

“You mean in high school? That dream?”

Linz turned to her, trying hard not to sound as hysterical as she felt. “It’s the same as this painting. Exactly the same.”

“Why would I tell someone about a recurring dream you had in high school? That’s crazy.”

The dream had haunted her not just in high school but her whole life. More like a nightmare, it had started when she was five and plagued her for years—always the same vision of being burned alive. It was so real that she would wake up screaming.

Her father had taken her to therapist after therapist. They had tried hypnosis, sleep studies, medication, but nothing had helped. Then one day, it just stopped, right around the time she had left home and gone to college. Over time, she had filed it away as a strange childhood phobia and tried to forget it.

But now the nightmare had manifested itself in unbelievable detail on a canvas at her best friends’ art gallery. Her gaze darted over the painting again. She could already count twelve details that no one but her could know. One—the black crow that had come to land on the wood at the woman’s feet, wings spread as if to shield her from the flames. Two—a child and a young woman watching from the tower; they had shared a cell with the woman at the stake and were to die the next day. Three—the priest reaching out to stop the flames as guards held him back, swords at his neck. He had been the woman’s friend and teacher. Linz even remembered his name. Her eyes went to the signature on the canvas and she gasped. Origenes Adamantius—the Roman priest’s name. There was no way he could know it.

Unable to comprehend the coincidences in play, she stepped back from the painting. “I need to talk to this artist.”



SEVEN

Fingering the new turquoise ring on his hand, Bryan walked on automatic pilot as his mind tried to force his new memories to settle. When he finally did look up, he saw he had headed down Atlantic to a restaurant near the wharf, Doc’s Waterfront Bar & Grill.

Bryan hesitated at the door, wondering if he felt up to seeing anyone tonight. Just as he was about to turn around and go home, the door opened for him.