The Memory Painter

Now as he watched her head back to the T, he stood up, feeling rejuvenated. His decision to move back to his hometown was taking on a whole new dimension, and for the first time in ages he couldn’t wait for tomorrow.

Whistling a silly tune, he strolled for hours with no destination in mind, the cool breeze of Boston’s autumn enjoyment in itself. The wind danced and caught him, making him walk farther than he had planned, until he found himself standing across the street from the gallery that was hosting his show. He waited for the crosswalk to turn green. I’ll go to the opening this evening, he thought, just for a few minutes. It’ll be fine.

He glanced at his watch and grimaced. The show was still a few hours away. Maybe he would grab a coffee and go browse the bookstore down the street. Then he could head to the gallery just as the doors were opening at five-thirty. He would pay the owners dutiful compliments about how wonderful the showroom looked, say hello to whoever happened to stop by early, and then be on his way. He assured himself the plan was sound. He could handle conversing with a handful of art lovers. People usually didn’t start turning up at these things until eight or nine.

As he prepared to step into the street, he felt a searing pain behind his temple.

He hissed in shock and gripped his forehead. The woman waiting to cross next to him asked if he was all right.

Bryan closed his eyes, fighting the onset of a vision. Usually they came while he slept and days apart from one another, so to have two within twenty-four hours—and with no trigger in sight—stunned him. He needed to get home before he lost consciousness.

Muttering, “just a headache,” he raced off, knowing he only had minutes before his mind took him somewhere else.



FIVE

THE BLACK RIVER, SAINT PETERSBURG, RUSSIA