The Incredible Artist

The Incredible Artist



It is said that art is the expression of one’s soul.

I recently discovered that this over-worn cliché is much more than a mere collection of words, more than a synopsis of philosophical blabber - it can be utterly terrifying.

I have worked as a detective for a major metropolitan area for over thirty years and I just completed the oddest case that anyone could possibly conceive of, even those oddball writers with somewhat warped or twisted imaginations.

What started as a routine missing person’s case, rapidly evolved into something I am still trying to lay to rest in the recesses of my mind.

It began several weeks ago when a respected member of the city council called to report that his young daughter, in her late teens, was missing. It had only been a few days since her alleged disappearance, so I tried to brush him off by advising him that based on her age; department policy identified a missing person as someone who had been missing for seven days or longer.

Naturally, he immediately went over my head to the Commissioner, so I was politely but firmly instructed to follow up on the case.

I met the man at his country residence several miles outside of town. It was a plush, extremely expensive home, more elegant than what a mere city councilman could possibly afford. After the initial social amenities, and a number of by-the-book questions, I asked him to show me around the well-manicured and pleasingly landscaped estate. I asked him to point out the last place he saw his daughter before her disappearance.

He took me to a small pond surrounded by weeping willows, lush vegetation, and a small outcropping of native stone. The place presented an atmosphere of pristine beauty, an idyllic spot to sit and let the worries of the world gently melt from your mind.

The father pointed at the stone outcropping. “She was last seen sitting on these rocks with her sketch-pad around dinner time two days ago. Rowan is an art major and she spends a lot of her time here making sketches and drawings. She said the spot helps her creative inspiration to flow.”

I walked around and scanned the rocks looking for anything which would have placed the young lady there and for clues the likes of which I didn’t want the father made aware of, such as bloodstains, unusual smells, scruff marks indicating a possible struggle, or torn pieces of clothing.

I again reiterated a previous question. “You stated that she has never been missing before or gone for extended periods of time without advising you of her whereabouts?”

“There have been a few times when her mother or I have looked for her and couldn’t immediately locate her,” Mr. Bailey replied. “She always turned up later in the day stating that she was taking a stroll around the estate and time got away from her, usually for no more than a few hours at most.”

I asked Mr. Bailey if he would mind if I walked around the area and spent a little time checking out the small pond and surrounding vegetation. He told me to help myself but he had urgent business to attend to and had to return to his office in the city.

I walked around for a while, looking for signs, scratching my balding head, and silently wondering if I was simply wasting my time. I am no wilderness tracker. I am city born and bred and know very little about the ways of the wild. I probably could not name even one of the plants or trees surrounding me.

I finally started back towards the house. As I exited a thick patch of undergrowth, I spotted a figure sitting on the rocks by the small pond. It was a young girl, a very attractive young lady, wearing a bright red dress. Her dark auburn hair was cut in a pageboy style.

As I approached, she turned and smiled up at me with an inquisitive but friendly look on her face. She showed no signs of fear at discovering a strange man advancing towards her. I spoke one word. “Rowan?”

“Of course,” she replied. “Who else would I be detective Logan?”

“How do you know my name?” I asked. “I don’t think we’ve ever been introduced.”

“We haven’t,” she smiled, opening the sketchpad resting in her lap. She flipped to a page with a sketch on it and handed the pad to me. “Not in this scenario.”

I took the pad and carefully scanned the character she’d been drawing in incredible detail. It was obviously me, overweight, balding, mid-fifties, with a cheap suit and beads of perspiration on my forehead. I noticed a torn spot on the trousers of the man in the drawing, and looking down; I saw a small tear near the cuff of my right ankle.

I was completely lost. There was no way I knew or had ever seen this beautiful young lady, yet, the drawing on the sketch-pad was undoubtedly me or someone who resembled me down to the torn cuff.

“That is you, Detective Robert Logan, a life-long bachelor and alone in this world.” She smiled again and took the pad back. She flipped the pages and stopped at another drawing. “This is also you.” She handed the drawing pad back to me.

The new drawing was of a much younger man, probably around her age. He was an attractive and well-built youngster with thick dark hair, a perfect smile, and looked more like a Prince Charming than the gawky teen I had once been. However, there was a nominal resemblance to my face of years long past.

“It’s you with a few minor improvements,” Rowan giggled.

“Minor!” I guffawed. “I was never close to being that pretty.”

“But you were, and you are,” Rowan insisted, a serious look on her very charming face. “Beauty is often hidden. Inside, you are the exact image of that drawing, young, kind, considerate, brave, dashing, and even cuddly.”

“I’ve been called many things,” I frowned, “but I seriously doubt cuddly is one of them.” I handed the pad back to her, mentally dismissing the weird thoughts surrounding the drawings. “Your father said that you have been missing for several days. He is very concerned. Would you care to enlighten me on where you have been, and possibly why?”

Rowan looked slightly puzzled and distant for a moment, and then her features jumped back into focus. “You mean that dad?” she questioned. “I misplaced him in one of my scenarios. I can bring him back if you like?”

Did this pretty bird escape from the funny farm? I asked myself, perplexed by her odd answer. “I’m not certain what you mean young lady, but you’re obviously not missing and we need to find your father and clarify the situation.

Rowan started rapidly drawing in her sketch-pad. A few minutes later the man I identified as her father called to us as he approached our position near the pond.

“Detective Logan,” he smiled, glancing down at Rowan with a bright warm look on his face. “I see you’ve managed to locate my daughter.”

“I didn’t exactly locate her,” I replied. “She was sitting here when I came out of the woods. She hasn’t explained her disappearance yet.”

“I was with my other family,” Rowan quickly stated, handing her sketch-pad to me. The drawing on the pad was of a princess sitting on the steps beneath what appeared to be a king and queen sitting on their thrones. They were dressed in what I assumed was medieval garb. The princess was undoubtedly Rowan as the details were exquisitely drawn.

As I returned the sketch-pad to her, I lifted an eyebrow to her father. He smiled and motioned for me to follow him back to the house.

As we were moving away, Rowan called my name again. “A reminder Detective Logan, should you want to return to your young state as Prince Robert, all you have to do is wish it so. This world is only what I make it to be. My sketch-pad can take me to any world of my choosing.”

“My daughter lives in a world of her own making,” Mr. Bailey smiled. “Sorry to have inconvenienced you about the false missing person’s report.”

As I drove back to the office, my thoughts were on the beautiful young girl. What a shame that she was mentally unbalanced. There was something about her that made my heart flutter, despite my advancing years.

Several weeks later, I still could not get Rowan out of my mind. I finally decided I would pay her a visit under the guise of seeing about her health. When I called City Hall to ask Mr. Bailey for permission, I was surprised. There was no Mr. Bailey listed as a councilman. There was no Mr. Bailey listed anywhere in our city government.

Things were getting weird. I told my Captain I was taking the rest of the day off and headed for the country. This entire affair was beginning to give me a case of the spooks. The drawing Rowan made of me without my having met her, her remarks about her other family, Mr. Bailey’s nonchalant attitude about her missing, his too quick return from business in the city, and now, Mr. Bailey did not even exist, at least on record; too weird by far.

I drove past the entrance to the beautiful estate three times before I finally decided to take a worn path that led through two dilapidated brick columns. I knew I was in the right place. As a detective, I have developed a professional set of memory skills.

The worn path looped around as the beautiful cobblestone drive had done when I was there before. The only problem being, there was no exquisitely manicured lawn, no cobblestone driveway, and no gorgeous mansion. There was nothing around me but woods.

I stopped my car and slowly walked towards where the house once stood. Nothing! There was no sign that a mansion had ever been there. As I walked back towards my car, I glanced off in the direction of the small pond.

I struggled through tall grass and small saplings to the edge of the pond. It was overgrown, dark with algae, and did not possess the initial tranquility it had before. The outcrop of rocks was still there with weeds and small trees growing between the cracks. I started to leave and noticed something wedged in one of the cracks. I pulled it out and noticed it was a rolled sheet of paper.

When I opened the paper, I realized it was a sketch from Rowan’s art pad. The drawing was the same one she had shown to me before, with the princess and king and queen in a medieval setting. The only difference was the young man was now sitting on the steps next to Rowan, holding her hand with a gentle smile on his face.

A message was written at the bottom of the drawing. “Remember Robert, all you have to do is wish it so.”

So, here I am trying to concentrate on two fresh cases just dumped on my desk and I can think of nothing but that drawing.

“Remember Robert, all you have to do is wish it so.”

“What if?!”

Word Count: 1915