For Every Evil Read Online Free PDF Page B

some were calling him these days, was dead. So unless people took him for an unusually animated corpse, he was an obvious impostor. Oh well. Things could be worse. He could actually
be
an animated corpse. Or an actor, forced to repeat
other
people’s words on unto eternity. Either option caused him a moment of psychic pain as he continued on down the street.
     
    At the end of the block he swung open a carved wooden door and entered the gallery. It was an old building, long and narrow, with stark white walls and tons of track lighting. Kate Chappeldine was sitting behind the reception desk in the back, talking on the phone. She waved him a greeting and then motioned for him to look around while she finished her conversation. Bram was glad to oblige. He stepped over to a series of drawings, bones and feathers tumbling together, each drawing a different moment frozen in time. He studied them closely, finding their intricacy quite amazing. He was glad Sophie had suggested he stop by and take a look.
     
    “What do you think?” asked Kate, coming up behind him a few minutes later. Her usual tailored blazer and slacks were replaced today by jeans and a sweatshirt. A smudge on her face told him she’d been working in the back.
     
    “Quite impressive.” He gave her a warm smile.
     
    Kate Chappeldine was a tall, no-nonsense young woman, with straight, extremely thin blonde hair and a pallid complexion. Viewed from the right angle, she looked a bit like an ostrich. Her personality was well suited to running a gallery. In other words, she was a born diplomat when it came to dealing with egos. Bram envied her patience.
     
    “As a matter of fact,” he added, standing back, “I think these drawings are remarkable.”
     
    “John will be so pleased.” Kate beamed her delight. “He was going to stop by this afternoon. I’d hoped you two might get a chance to meet.”
     
    As they continued to talk, the door opened and Hale Micklenberg puffed into the room surrounded by a cold gust of air. He grunted a greeting, taking off his wool coat and whipping a pair of glasses out of his vest pocket. “I need to look at this exhibit,” he announced, “if I’m going to include it in my column on Sunday.”
     
    Bram watched Kate’s good mood turn sour. He knew Hale had that effect on people. He was sort of a modern day twist on Johnny Appleseed, spreading indigestion and heartburn over the countryside.
     
    Kate signaled her apology to Bram with a small shrug and then led the portly, middle-aged man to the far wall. “Perhaps you’d like to start over here. These are some of my favorites.”
     
    Hale squinted at the first one in the long row, making no comment. Ten minutes later, after viewing everything in the gallery in total silence, he took off his glasses, and, with a weary sigh, said, “Just about what I expected. The man is an amateur. No depth. No … complexity. I suppose to be fair, one would have to admit he does have a certain technical ability. But that’s it.”
     
    Bram, who’d taken a seat in one of the front chairs, had been watching this inspection of John Jacobi’s latest crimes with great interest. “I liked them,” he said.
     
    “Did you?” Hale turned and gave him an indulgent smile. “I don’t doubt it.” He returned his gaze to Kate. “Thank you, my dear. Now, on to more important matters.”
     
    She appeared confused. “Important matters?”
     
    “Have you received any more work from Ezmer Hawks?” He rubbed his hands together, a tremor of excitement passing over his solid face.
     
    “Who?” asked Bram, noticing Hale’s unusual interest.
     
    “To my mind,” said Hale, drawing in his breath for a grand pronouncement, “he’s one of the most important artists at work today. His drawings have a rare sense of the primitive. Prairie primitive, I call them.”
     
    Bram knew Hale liked to use the word
prairie
instead of the more common term, Minnesotan. Or even Midwestern. It was an