The Kill Artist

head around to see what was the matter. It was then that he saw the stranger, standing in the center of the lane, arms crossed in front of his chest, head cocked slightly to one side.
    "What do you want?" snapped Derek.
    "I heard noises. I thought there might be a problem."
    Peel realized this was the first time he had ever heard the stranger speak. His English was perfect, but there was a trace of an accent to it. His diction was like his body: hard, compact, concise, no fat.
    "No problem," Derek said. "Just a boy who's someplace he shouldn't be."
    "Maybe you should treat him like a boy and not a dog."
    "And maybe you should mind your own fucking business."
    Derek released Peel and stared hard at the smaller man. For a moment Peel feared Derek was going to try to hit the stranger. He remembered the man's taut, hard muscles, the impression that he was a man who knew how to fight. Derek seemed to sense it too, for he simply took Peel by the elbow and led him back toward the cottage. Along the way Peel glanced over his shoulder and caught sight of the stranger still standing in the lane, arms crossed like a silent sentinel. But by the time Peel returned to his room and peered out his window, the stranger was gone. Only the light remained, clean and searing white.
    By the late autumn Peel was frustrated. He had not learned even the most basic facts about the stranger. He still had no name-oh, he had heard a couple of possible names whispered around the village, both vaguely Latin-nor had he discovered the nature of his nocturnal work. He decided a crash operation was in order.
    The following morning, when the stranger climbed into his MG and sped toward the center of the village, Peel hurried along the quay and slipped into the cottage through an open garden window.
    The first thing he noticed was that the stranger was using the drawing room as a bedroom.
    He quickly climbed the stairs. A chill ran over him.
    Most of the walls had been knocked down to create a spacious open room. In the center was a large white table. Mounted on the side was a microscope with a long retractable arm. On another table were clear flasks of chemicals, which Peel reckoned were the source of the strange odor, and two strange visors with powerful magnifying glasses built into them. Atop a tall, adjustable stand was a bank of fluorescent lights, the source of the cottage's peculiar glow.
    There were other instruments Peel could not identify, but these things were not the source of his alarm. Mounted on a pair of heavy wooden easels were two paintings. One was large, very old looking, a religious scene of some sort. Parts had flaked away. On the second easel was a painting of an old man, a young woman, and a child. Peel examined the signature in the bottom right-hand corner: Rembrandt.
    He turned to leave and found himself face-to-face with the stranger.
    "What are you doing?"
    "I'm's-s-sorry," Peel stammered. "I thought you were here."
    "No you didn't. You knew I was away, because you were watching me from your bedroom window when I left. In fact, you've been watching me since the summer."
    "I thought you might be a smuggler."
    "Whatever gave you that idea?"
    "The boat," Peel lied.
    The stranger smiled briefly. "Now you know the truth."
    "Not really," said Peel.
    "I'm an art restorer. Paintings are old objects. Sometimes they need a little fixing up, like a cottage, for example."
    "Or a boat," said Peel.
    "Exactly. Some paintings, like these, are very valuable."
    "More than a sailboat?"
    "Much more. But now that you know what's in here, we have a problem."
    "I won't tell anyone," Peel pleaded. "Honest."
    The stranger ran a hand over his short, brittle hair. "I could use a helper," he said softly. "Someone to keep an eye on the place while I'm away. Would you like a job like that?"
    "Yes."
    "I'm going sailing. Would you like to join me?"
    "Yes."
    "Do you need to ask your parents?"
    "He's not my father, and my mum won't care."
    "You sure about that?"
    "Positive."
    "What's your name?"
    "I'm Peel. What's yours?"
    But the stranger just looked around the room to make certain Peel hadn't disturbed any of his things.
    TWO
    Paris
    The stranger's restless Cornish quarantine might have gone undisturbed if Emily Parker had not met a man called René at a drunken dinner party, which was thrown by a Jordanian student named Leila Khalifa on a wet night in late October. Like the stranger, Emily Parker was living in self-imposed exile: she had moved to Paris