Burns! Box Set Two (Mysteries 5-6) by Erin O'Quinn

Author:Erin O'Quinn
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Erin O'Quinn
Published: 2016-09-15T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Two

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The Portrait

This was not quite a first for him, standing uncertainly in the large aisle of an all-night bargain mart, hoping for a floor clerk and deciding he could find it by himself.

That portrait of Robert Burns…painted by a modern artist, reproduced in the thousands…that’s the one he wanted. The poet’s more popular face, dreamy and precious, reflected in dozens of different romantic poses—that was not the kind of picture he wanted to hang in his flat. Fuck the sentimental, far-away look and the fanciful old-fashioned designs. He wanted the real Burns. The one he knew. Or thought he knew.

He remembered being here before, finding that singular picture, one he obviously did not own. It was all very confusing. But one fact was clear, even in his post-concussive state. That portrait was to be his personal guidepost to the rest of his life.

Thomas had not taken the time to lie in his own bed and think about what had happened to him over the past several hours—or several months, if he opened his mind to all crazy possibilities. His head hurt like hell. He thought he knew what it felt like to lose an arm and still find his fingers moving. Some burr in his britches was goading him to be right here, right now. The need was so acute he felt a frantic scratching inside, from his chest to his throat. Something captive, trying to escape.

And then he saw Burns.

The gray eyes with their subtle ebony warning, a coming storm. The shoulder-length dark hair, a cloud around his strong face. A mouth barely concealing both humor and wisdom. The books stacked inside his mind, inviting an observer to read and learn. The clutter around him—a virtual battlefield of symbols he did not understand, except for one red, red rose.

His Bobbie Burns.

Thomas was a fairly hard-nosed cop, one who discarded all evidence except for whatever was logical and consistent. He’d become a Detective Constable at the Dundee CID, an undercover cop, by virtue of his unrelenting pursuit of the truth. So standing in front of a sodding portrait of a poet, barely holding back the tears, he choked back an ironic laugh.

Yes, it was all very bloody fucking funny. But it was real, and it was a beginning.

Before he left the mart that morning, he’d purchased an armful of cleaning supplies, a few colorful scatter rugs, Spackle and putty knife, paint and brushes—everything he’d need to welcome Burns to a new home.

He hoped that the imagined changes were not for a handsome portrait. Somewhere inside his head were a million images of a past that had not happened, with a man who did not exist—but he wasn’t crazy. On a rational level, he understood any new direction he made in his life from this moment on needed to be for himself alone. For Thomas Fitzgerald.

And yet…and yet… Driving back to his cramped gray flat on Strathmartine Road, he found himself smiling, thinking back on a brief conversation just after midnight this morning.

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