Vienna (11 page)

I'm starving.
“Okay.”

Justine was in her sweats and at the door before she looked back at Vienna. “I enjoyed last night, Vienna.”

I need to tell her that I enjoyed last night, too.
But different words came: “You can't quit because of me.” Why was that important? Vienna looked away. Justine couldn't quit because the nightmare forest was somehow real and if Justine tried to walk away, the evil hidden there would lash out and find its true target. But there was no way to say that without sounding stupid.

Justine remained silent until Vienna turned back to her. “Contrary to available evidence,” the model said, “I won't do anything reckless. Speaking of which, you better stay here. I imagine the press is still lurking around.”

“Okay.”

Justine paused as if to add something, but with a quick turn she was gone.

Alone, Vienna wandered around the perimeter of the suite, trailing her hand along the wall. When she reached Justine's closet, she pulled the double doors open. Four racks of clothes. There were the khaki capris she had been wearing at the gelato stand.
The photographer's pictures!

Vienna reached into the pocket and grabbed the camera chip. Justine's Sony had a slot for it. Pictures filed onto the screen. Justine in front of the Atomium. Justine walking in the Grand Place. Justine entering the Cosmopolitan. Justine with her flawlessly handsome boyfriend. Vienna frowned and came up with his real name, even though she had never seen it written. David Andries. So what if he had been handsome? He was likely a killer so his looks didn't mean that much. Anyway, he was dead, which was just fine with Vienna. She returned to the images. Justine eating dinner. Justine with Mr. Hargrave. Justine at an interview. Justine up close. Justine midshot. Justine against a foreshortened background, likely caused by a telephoto lens. Justine topless with blue hair. Vienna noted that Justine's left breast was a tiny fraction smaller than the right.

That made her feel better.

Justine with blond hair. With brown hair. With black hair. Justine. Justine. Justine. And two final pictures of Vienna at the gelato store, looking dull and flat-chested and scared. The final three files were hiding behind icons Vienna didn't recognize. She was still trying to open them when Justine returned, a fine sheen of sweat on her throat.

“The man's pictures,” Vienna said, rationalizing her uninvited use of Justine's computer.

“I'd forgotten them.”

“There are three files I can't read.” Vienna pointed at the icons.

“Video clips—use Cyberlink. I need a quick shower and then we'll get something to eat.”

Vienna tried to ignore the growling in her stomach.
Might as well see the videos.

The first one was of Justine striding on a catwalk. She had that walk, placing her leading leg unnaturally across the center of her stride, causing her hips to swivel with each step. Vienna was certain it wouldn't be easy in high heels, but Justine skated smoothly down the stage.

The second video was of Justine eating dinner with David Andries. A restaurant with cream walls and Art Nouveau woodwork. The third was of Justine posing next to a skipping manikin. Wet concrete below her, reflections of lighted buildings smeared across its surface. Vienna searched her memory and found the building's shape as a sketch in an architecture book. The Národní Muzeum in Prague.

The manikin was wood, old but exquisitely done. Justine had struck a pose mimicking the manikin, her hands locked behind her back, her shoulders tilted, her left leg forward, toes pointed. Both were dressed in the same short, lemon yellow skirt and cobalt blouse. Justine's stockings had a white chevron pattern with a white line down the back.

“Chianti Twor. First night of shooting in Prague.” Vienna flinched and turned.

“I didn't mean to scare you.” Justine laughed.

Vienna looked back to the computer. “It's very bright.”

“Chianti loves her colors, but she pulls it off. I love her designs.”

“You're beautiful,” Vienna added.

“I know.” Justine's voice was wrong, somehow. “Anything of interest?”

“He seems obsessed with you—the photographer.”

“First line of the job description. What were the other movies?”

“Nothing important.”

Justine started the second video before Vienna could close the window. David Andries and Justine eating. Vienna glanced back. Justine's face was frozen.
Does she still see him as her lover?

They were seated at a table, looking away. Andries held a sliver of a cell phone to his right ear. Justine was stabbing at a pineapple dessert.

“Comme Chez Soi,” Justine said.

“What?”

“The restaurant. Here in Brussels. That creep must have been sitting right beside us.”

Justine pushed a key and the sound came up. Andries talking on the phone, barely heard above other conversations. “Weather isn't bad, and the food can't be beat…” His voice sounded unnatural in the laptop's tiny speakers. “Yes, that's it … inalienable artifact…” He laughed. “… how should I know? The advantages of being wealthy.” He paused and then: “Right, we can do lunch next time.” He hung up.

Vienna glanced back at Justine and saw she was quietly crying. But the image was already far away.

Inalienable artifact.

Follow the shape of the words.

 

9

Afternoon hours bled into melancholy haze. Justine called the American embassy for her passport, but hung up the first time she was put on hold. However bad things were here, they would be worse in the States. No reason to drag her family into this. Even if they would stand by her. Even if she would be safer there. Even if she looked at Vienna every few seconds.

An e-mail from Hargrave contained documents for severing their business relationship. A lengthy attachment showed legal forms from canceled contracts. As Hargrave had foretold, Justine lost all seven of her endorsement deals. The possibility that she was involved in murder was of no concern. The possibility that she was sleeping with an Unmarketable Person of the Female Persuasion was too dodgy.
Vogue
made new plans for their summer feature. Bernoulli no longer required her for his show; Paris bleaching away like a distant dream. Friends evaporated as fast as delete keys could be pushed.

Except Igor Czasky: “My intention is to retain you for the Clay to Flesh project. Three sessions left. Everyone else can go to hell.” Justine saved the note and moved on.

On the bright side there was a slew of new offers.
Hustler. Penthouse. Vivid. Digital Playground.
The offers were impressive if she appeared with Vienna. Dear God, Vienna in a nudie shoot.
“I don't understand. Why would I put my hand there?”

Martyrdom being the order of the day, Justine went to Jordan Farquar's site. The picture of her laughing while Vienna cried was predictable, but Farquar had plenty to add.

Justine glanced at Vienna, sitting on the bed, slowly rocking back and forth. She'd spent the morning whispering to herself. Justine had caught a few minutes of dreary monologue concerning the fractional distillation of aldehydes.

“Have you seen this Vienna?”

Vienna blinked her eyes open. “Seen what?” Justine was certain Vienna would spend the rest of her life indoors if she had the chance.

“Jordan Farquar's rant.”

“No.”

“Come look.”

Vienna unfolded from her crossed-legged perch and glanced at the computer before turning back to the bed. “Why are you bothering?” she asked.

“Aren't you going to read it?”
Gotcha.

Vienna froze, her stance rigid in dawning panic. “I see,” Justine said. She turned the screen away from Vienna. “Read it to me.”

Vienna retreated to petulance. “You're making fun of me.”

“No, I'm not.”

“Don't be mean.” Her voice brittle.

Justine shook her head. “Not going to work, Vienna. Read it to me.”

Vienna's voice went hollow, her eyes scanning across empty air. “‘From where I stand, Justine Am's true colors have finally shown, and let me tell you, darlings, they are not at all in fashion this year, assuming they ever were. That she would let a troubled young lady speak for her indicates reprehensible cowardice at worse, and a complete lack of moral fiber at best. I am certain her erstwhile promoters are scrambling to disassociate themselves from this shameful—'”

A loud bang on the door cut her off. “No one's home!” Justine answered. Vienna performed her most theatrical sigh and went to the door. At least she was smart enough to look through the peephole. Not that it helped. The Furies in the guise of Lord Anson Davy.

I should have gone back to Georgia.

Davy possessed the immaculate fashion sense of truly powerful men. Justine couldn't guess the designer of his black and ash-gray ensemble, but the subtle Asian tones would part any crowd. She felt the murky pull of his sexuality.

“Vienna is returning to London,” he said. Justine wondered if alpha males could be measured by vocal tone.

Justine closed the computer. “Isn't that for her to decide?”

“Despite having reached England's age of majority, Vienna still has a guardian. She signed the requisite forms as per the judgment of an appointed family proceedings court. The documents are available at the East Finchley public records, under the heading of Grayfield. You will find she granted her foster father considerable leeway. Her flight leaves in two hours.”

Vienna started to speak, but Justine held up her hand.
Get in the wagon and find the steepest hill.
“Explain Vienna's condition.”

“What condition are you referring to?”

“Don't be a jackass. Whatever paperwork you have in England, this hotel room is under my name, not Vienna's, and you are here without my consent.”

“After yesterday's performance, I doubt you would fare well should this become a legal matter,” he said.

“Speaking of yesterday, what were you doing at the press conference? Did you know your picture was taken? How embarrassing for your Finchley client if I accuse you of stalking me.”

Lord Davy's thin lips almost turned up. “So the legendary stubbornness of American women surfaces at precisely the wrong time. Do you think your request is appropriate?” He nodded toward Vienna. “Whatever her condition, I'm assuming Vienna can hear us talking.”

“Would you rather I talk behind her back? If I'm asking questions about her, she has the right to know.”

Davy's eyes opened a fraction wider. “I seem to have misjudged the situation?”

How does he turn the tables so effortlessly?
Justine swallowed. “I'm on uncertain ground.”

“Well, that's brilliant. How did this come about?”

“I'm not certain it has. She just…” Justine turned her hands up in resignation of ever being able to finish the thought.

“I see. The pundits may have finally gotten something right.”

“What are you talking about?” Vienna asked.

This time Lord Davy did smile. “Let's start at the beginning.” He gestured for them to sit. Justine sank back into her chair while Vienna stepped over to the bed and curled her legs under her.

“Be specific,” Davy said to Justine.

Another flawless change of topic. Justine rolled with it. “Vienna saw my laptop screen for two seconds and can recite the complete image. Getting her hair done she quoted from what had to be a Brussels tourist guide, and then she had some stodgy history that sounded nineteenth century. I'm willing to bet she was quoting it word-for-word.”

“A safe wager.”

“Such feats are the domain of autistic savants.”

“Not all savants are autistic.”

“Don't be disingenuous. She spent the entire morning in a trance.”

“You weren't doing anything either,” Vienna accused.

“I was moping, silly. There's a difference.” She turned to Davy. “Surely her guardian has taken her to several doctors.”

“I go to doctors all the time,” Vienna said.

“They give you tests?”

She nodded. “Sometimes with pictures that change a little bit and sometimes asking how I make friends. Sometimes London postal codes, as if I care. But I learned them anyway so I could get them right. Stupid stuff like that, yeah?”

Justine looked at Lord Davy. “Well?”

Davy walked to the bed and sat next to Vienna, looking out of place in such an informal pose. “Our girl Vienna was left at the SOS Children's Village at Hinterbrühl—an orphanage in the Wienerwald outside of Vienna. With no name to work from, one of the nurses named her for the city. I must say it's fitting. Viennese can present a difficult exterior, but when times are bad they show great tenderness. If by the light of day they are gloomy business, in the gentler tones of night they possess rare beauty.”

Justine nodded, knowing that Vienna had not heard Davy's warning shot. He thought of her as more than a client.
This just keeps getting better.

“It was clear that Vienna was special,” Davy continued. “She had yet to speak at four years. By six—living in a country estate south of Bath—she still hadn't uttered a single word, though tests showed no physical issues. And then, on Christmas Day, she started talking in complete sentences. Though no one understood what she was saying.” Davy offered Vienna an encouraging smile. “After a number of experts had been consulted, a local war veteran came to the rescue. Vienna was speaking in mispronounced German. We discovered she was reading verbatim from the Einheitsübersetzung—the German Roman Catholic Bible. She hadn't seen a German Bible since leaving the orphanage three years previously.”

“Because I'm broken,” Vienna said.