Oil On Canvas

By T.E. Mark

A neuronthologist is tasked with extracting the memories of a 17-year-old resistance fighter who can hyper-accelerate – move through solid matter, when he’s caught inside a Pentagon general’s house stealing a top-secret war plan.
(Novelette VII) (Also included in DREAMS INC - The Novelettes of T. E. Mark - Vol II)

• Language: English
• Publisher: T.E. Mark
• Release date: May 12, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463394076

T.E. Mark

T. E. Mark is an Anglo-American Science Writer, Screenwriter and Editor. He has studied Architecture, Music and Literature in the UK and in the US and has been penning stories since childhood. His first novel, Fractured Horizons, set in the wonderful of Bath England, was written at the age of 12.Mark has written novels for young and adult readers and a selection of science articles for national and international magazines. He also writes and edits academic papers on a variety of subjects for universities, governmental and non-governmental organisations.Follow T. E. Mark at:temarkauthor.wordpress.commthomasmark.wordpress.comtemarkurbanscratch.wordpress.comContact T. E. Mark at: [e-mail].

Book preview

OIL ON CANVAS

THE ART INSTITUTE OF CHICAGO

Terry Dawson sprinted the full length of the main atrium and staircase of Chicago’s Art Institute.

It was 11 PM on a Friday, and the museum was dark with diffuse light spilling out from recessed security luminaires in each gallery, over the staircases and above the doors. He had concerns, but not about the police or museum security. He’d done his homework. Knew the galleries would be empty during the shift change. Knew he had until 11:20 when the night shift would make their first rounds.

Getting from his alley on Wabash to the porch was not problematic – through the door and the lobby past the full contingency of security guards only minimally so. Navigating the stairs while hyper-accelerated was an issue, but not insurmountable. It was unfortunate his hyper-state ceased and pulse fell unexpectedly dropping him into a sudden stasis outside the gallery doors. It wasn’t the first time. He was relieved this miscalculation was slight and glad it didn’t happen on the front porch or in the main lobby. That would have complicated things.

More than simply having to get through a conventional door – using conventional means.

With time an issue, what the handsome 17-year-old didn’t need now were complications.

What he needed was gallery 201. The Impressionists. Monet. Van Gogh, Lautrec, Pissarro, Munch… and… Renoir.

Pierre Auguste Renoir.

Young Woman Sewing. A 19th century masterpiece hung in the corner of the gallery opposite the massive painting by Gustave Caillebotte; Paris Street, Rainy Day.

A dream target for another night.

THE ART INSTITUTE, GALLERY 201

At the massive glass doors, he stopped and lit the mini LEDs on his headband. Narrow beams of blue-white light sprayed out allowing him to better scan the stairs. He closed his eyes, slowed his pulse and pulled back the doors.

What happened next wasn’t something he hadn’t considered a possibility. Certainly a conversation he’d had with the others, but… his heart rate, still accelerated, shot into the stratosphere when he landed on the floor with a young museum guard beneath him.

‘What the…?!’ She planted her hands into his chest and shoved. ‘Get off of me!’ She squinted from light of the LEDs.

‘What are you doing here?’ He pulled the headband off, tossed it and got to his knees.

‘What am I doing here? Me?!’ Angered more than afraid, she tried sitting while pushing the hair from her eyes and fixing her vest. ‘I work here. What the hell are you doing here?’

He looked left, right, back to the doors then to the girl who was now reaching for her radio.

He grabbed her arm.

‘Don’t. Please.’

She squinted up into his eyes. ‘It’s my job.’

‘This isn’t what it looks like.’ She cocked her head. Her lips pursed. ‘I mean… it is, but…’ He grabbed his neck and appeared to wince in pain. His breathing quickened, and his eyes fluttered. She could see he was in distress. ‘It’s… it’s hard to explain.’

She shook her head while straightening her glasses.

‘Did I hurt you?’ His heart was racing. He thought back to his training and tried slowing his pulse with controlled breathing.

She squinted, part smiled then shook her head. She’d often wondered what it would be like to encounter a thief or a maniac on the night shift. She just didn’t expect him to be so polite. Not to mention young, well-dressed, and cute. ‘I’ll live, but… just who are you? Were you part of the wedding?’

‘What wedding?’

‘There was a wedding tonight.’

‘No. I wasn’t at a…’

‘…Then you are a…’

‘…Sort of.’

She turned her eyes to the radio.

He scanned her name tag.

‘Listen, Sandy Liu. I…’ He cleared his throat and peered up at the Renoir. ‘…I can’t explain now. I’ve got to go, but… if you’ll give me just five minutes before calling this in, I promise you I’ll come back and…’

‘…And what?’

‘I don’t know.’ He appeared stressed and dragged his hands through his hair. ‘Do you like sushi?’

Her look was pure incredulity. ‘What?! What did you just say?’ She started laughing.

They heard sirens, tyres screech and car doors open then close on Michigan Avenue.

His eyes found the camera in the corner.

He stood and dropped her a hand.

She studied it – looked him in the eyes – hesitated then took it, pulled to her feet and faced him.

He bent and retrieved her radio – handed it to her. ‘Here. You should call it in now or you’ll get in trouble.’

She took it but made no move to call in her need for assistance. Her brow furrowed, and she peered into his face. Handsome. Rich brown hair and bright blue eyes. He was a knock out. Christ, she thought. I just got run over by Robert Pattison. I can live with that.

They turned at the sound of the main doors – slammed open by the police.

‘What about you?’

She was suddenly questioning herself on the words that had just slipped from her lips.

He gave her a smile