There Are No Saints: Chapter 1

I saw the headlines that a girl had been murdered on Ocean Beach, her body left floating in the ruins of the old Sutro Baths. I knew it was Shaw, as surely as if he’d signed his name to his work. I didn’t need to see his smug smirk at the showcase to confirm it. He delights in losing himself in the frenzy of beating and mutilation. His subjects can rarely be identified by teeth or even fingerprints.

I already saw the piece he’s showing tonight. Mine is better.

Everything is excess with him. All the color, all the bold strokes, all the symbolism hitting you over the head.

Still, I’m sure he’ll sell a thousand prints, whether he wins tonight’s prize or not. Alastor is nothing if not industrious. His genius for self-promotion far exceeds his genius for art.

He catches my eye as he swaggers into the gallery, giving me the merest suggestion of a smile, a tug of the lips that shows the glint of bleached teeth. I give him nothing in return.

He looks tanned, despite the viscous fog covering the city all week. Several women flock toward him, including Betsy Voss, who organized this event. She smiles up at Shaw, resting her hand lightly on his forearm as she laughs at some joke he’s made.

Alastor grins back at her, his face boyishly animated.

He reminds me of a pitcher plant, exuding sticky sweetness to lure in flies.

I know most of the people milling around, drinking complimentary glasses of merlot, examining the work on display, arguing its merit with increasing abandon as the wine takes hold.

It’s all the same people, the same ass-kissing conversation.

I’m so fucking bored.

The San Francisco art scene is incestuous. Everyone knows everyone else, in both the common and biblical senses. Betsy and Alastor have fucked before, though she doesn’t have to worry about ending up in the Sutro Baths—she’s much too useful as a broker for Shaw’s art.

In fact, the only person within my view I don’t recognize is the skinny girl shoving cheese in her mouth over at Betsy’s excellent buffet spread. Betsy never skimps—she’s provided a generous selection of fresh fruit, sandwiches, and macarons. The girl is demolishing the smoked gouda like she hasn’t eaten in a week, which she probably hasn’t. Another starving artist scavenging on the outskirts.

The girl has tried to dress up for the occasion: she’s wearing a loose white shift dress, crisp and bright enough that she must have acquired it recently. Her boots tell another story—the battered Docs look older than she is. A botanical tattoo runs down one bird-like collarbone.

I’m about to turn my gaze to a more interesting subject when the girl collides with Jack Brisk, curator of contemporary art at SFMOMA. The fault is his—he was gesturing aggressively with his chubby hands—but it’s the girl who pays the price. Merlot splashes from Brisk’s glass down the front of her dress, the wine soaking into the white cotton as if it were blotting paper.

“So sorry,” Brisk says carelessly, barely glancing at the girl, who is clearly a nobody, before turning back to his conversation.

I watch the girl’s face to see if she’ll cry or rage or fall over herself apologizing to Brisk in return.

She does none of the above. She examines the stains, a crease forming between her eyebrows. Then she picks up her own glass of wine and strides off toward the bathrooms.

I begin making the rounds of the pieces I haven’t yet seen. It’s obvious which will be in the running for the prize. Art may be subjective, but quality shines like brass next to gold.

I’m guessing Rose Clark, Alastor Shaw, and I will be the top contenders.

My piece is superior. That should be obvious simply from the crowd of people around it, who linger longer and whisper more intently than they do for anyone else’s work.

The complicating factor is the panel of judges, which includes Carl Danvers, a bitter misanthrope who has never forgiven me for making a joke at his expense at a gala eight years ago. I intended for him to overhear, but I underestimated his capacity for spite. He’s taken every opportunity for revenge since, even at the cost of his own credibility.

Alastor sidles up behind me.

I hear him coming from a mile away. He has the subtlety of a bison.

“Hello, Cole,” he says.

“Hello, Shaw,” I reply.

He uses my given name to annoy me.

I use his surname for the same reason.

He thinks because he knows certain things about me, that there’s an intimacy between us.

There is no intimacy. The emotion is all from one side.

“How’s your weekend going?” he asks, barely able to contain his grin.

He desperately wants me to acknowledge what he’s done. I prefer to deny him that pleasure. But it’s probably better to get this over with so he’ll fuck off and leave me alone.

“Uneventful,” I reply. “I don’t think you can say the same.”

Now he allows himself to grin, showing those perfect capped teeth, those boyish dimples, the gleam in those warm brown eyes that make women go weak with the impulse to smile back at him, to run their fingers through his sun-streaked hair.

“I love a college co-ed,” he says, his voice low and guttural.

He wets his lips, his features dissolving into lust at the memory of what he did.

I take a slow breath to dispel my distaste.

Alastor’s need disgusts me.

He’s such a cliché of himself. College co-eds, for fuck’s sake.

“You and Bundy,” I murmur, my lips barely moving.

Shaw’s eyes narrow.

“Oh, you’re above that, are you?” he sneers. “You don’t feel a certain urge when you see something like that?”

He jerks his head toward a stunning blonde bent over to examine the details of a floor-level installation, her tight red dress clinging to the curves of her ass.

“Or what about that?” Shaw says, inclining his head in the direction of a slim Asian girl, whose nipples are clearly visible through the gauzy material of her top.

I don’t kill women, typically.

This is not out of any petty moral constraint.

It’s just too fucking easy.

I could overpower either of those women like they were small children. Where’s the challenge? The sense of accomplishment?

“I’m not a hedonist,” I say to Alastor, coldly.

His face darkens and he opens his mouth to retort, but at that moment, the girl comes striding back into the gallery, chin upraised, dark hair streaming behind her.

I had thought she was going to the bathroom to attempt the impossible task of washing those stains out of her dress.

Quite the opposite: she’s tie-dyed the entire thing.

She’s used merlot to make a textile of deep burgundy, magenta, and mulberry in delicate watercolor layers. I’m staring at the dress because it surprises me—not only in the concept but in the execution. It’s really quite beautiful. Nothing I would have expected to emerge from a bathroom after eight minutes’ work.

Alastor follows my gaze. He sees my interest while completely missing the reason behind it.

“Her?” he says softly. “You surprise me, Cole. I’ve never seen you take a stroll in the gutter before.”

I turn away from the girl, irritation swelling inside of me.

“You think I’d be attracted to some filthy little scrabbler with bitten fingernails and raggedy shoelaces?” I sneer.

Everything about that girl repulses me, from her unwashed hair to the dark circles under her eyes. She radiates neglect.

But Shaw is certain he’s made a discovery. He thinks he caught me in some unguarded moment.

“Maybe I’ll go talk to her,” he says, testing me.

“I wish you would,” I reply. “Anything to end this conversation.”

With that, I stride off toward the open bar.

The hours pass slowly from eight o’clock to ten.

I slip in and out of conversations, soaking in the ready praise for my piece.

“You never cease to amaze me,” Betsy says, her pale blue eyes peering up at me through the rims of her expensive designer glasses. “How on earth did you think of using spider silk? And how did you acquire it?”

She’s giving me the same look of dazzled admiration she gave to Shaw, but she doesn’t dare rest her hand on my forearm like she did to him.

Everyone says the prize is as good as mine—or at least, everyone with taste.

I can see Alastor sulking over by the canapés. He’s received a hefty helping of accolades, but he’s noted the difference in tenor as well as I have. Compliments for him, raves for me.

I want the prize because I deserve it.

I couldn’t give a shit about the money—ten thousand dollars means nothing to me. I’ll make ten times that amount when I sell the sculpture.

Still, a cold foreboding steals over me when Betsy calls the crowd to order, saying, “Thank you all for coming tonight! I’m sure you’re anxious to hear what our judges have decided.”

I already know what she’s about to say even before she casts me a guilty look.

“After much debate, we’ve decided to award tonight’s prize to Alastor Shaw!”

The applause that breaks out has a nervy tension. Alastor is popular, but half the crowd is casting glances in my direction to see how I’ll react.

I keep my face as smooth as still water and my hands tucked in my pockets. I don’t applaud along with them because I don’t care about looking gracious.

“So the rivalry continues!” Brisk says to me, his face florid with drink.

“The Lakers and the Clippers aren’t rivals just because they both play basketball,” I say, loud enough for Shaw to hear.

The sports metaphor is for Alastor’s benefit, digging under his skin like a barb.

While Brisk chortles, a flush rises up Shaw’s neck. His thick fingers clench around the delicate stem of his champagne flute until I can almost hear the glass cracking.

“Congratulations,” I say to Shaw, not bothering to hide my disdain. “It doesn’t surprise me that Danvers was impressed by your work—he struggles when the message is open to interpretation.”

“Not every piece of art has to be a riddle,” Alastor snarls.

“Cole!” Betsy says, pushing her way toward me. “I hope you’re not too disappointed—I liked your piece better.”

“So does Shaw,” I reply. “He just won’t admit it.”

Betsy wheels around, noticing Shaw directly behind her. She gulps, her face turning pink.

“Your painting was wonderful, too, of course, Alastor!”

Without bothering to reply, he stalks away from us.

“Put my foot in my mouth, didn’t I?” Betsy says. “Well, it’s what everyone’s saying. These prizes are so political.”

“Or personal,” I say.

Sure enough, Danvers isn’t finished venting his spleen. The following morning he publishes his review of the showcase, with several poorly-veiled barbs thrown in my direction:

While Blackwell’s work continues to exhibit his usual level of precision, there’s a cold technicality to his technique that fails to inspire the same level of energy stirred up by Alastor Shaw’s frenetic, colorful constructions. There’s a wild abandon to Shaw’s work that Blackwell would do well to emulate.

I can just imagine Alastor smirking over his morning coffee, scrolling through the article on his phone.

Danvers’s opinion on my art means less to me than the twittering of the birds outside my window.

However, I do feel a deep sense of rage that he dares to attack me so publicly.

Just as Shaw’s belief that we’re rivals offends me, so do Danvers’s pretensions that he can judge me.

I finish my breakfast, the same meal I eat every morning: an espresso, two slices of bacon, half an avocado, and a perfectly poached egg set atop a slice of grilled sourdough.

Then I wash and dry the dishes, setting them back in their places in the cabinet.

I’m already showered and dressed for the day.

I walk to my studio, which is close to my house on the sea cliffs north of the city. The vast, sunlit space once housed a chocolate factory. Now the bare steel, glass, brick, and concrete form an open cage in which I do my work.

I don’t commission my pieces, though I could certainly afford to do so. Every step of the process is completed by me, even on my most complicated or technical sculptures. I’ve built my own custom equipment for welding, gilding, cutting, and soldering. Winches and scaffolding. Even pneumatic lifts for the largest pieces.

I keep no assistants, working entirely alone.

I start at ten o’clock in the morning and labor until dinner. The kitchen is stocked with drinks and snacks, but I rarely take breaks for either.

Today I’m beginning a new piece in the same series.

I know how I want it to look—organic and yet deconstructed. I want the elements of the sculpture to appear to hang in space.

But when I look over the materials at hand, nothing seems right.

The iron is too heavy. The steel lacks luster.

I picture the precise curved shape that I want—like the hull of a ship, or the rib of a whale.

Then I smile as inspiration surges through me.

I wait outside the Siren offices on Cabrillo Street.

It’s a dingy, low-slung building with a tin roof on which a light rain patters.

Rain is incredibly useful. It obscures the view, forces people to keep their heads down, urges them to run from place to place without lingering, without looking around.

Umbrellas are even better.

I stand in the alleyway, watching Danvers through the greasy little window of his office.

You learn everything about a person when they think they’re alone.

I watch Danvers take a tin of nuts out of his drawer, open them, and eat a few handfuls, wiping his salty palm on the leg of his jeans. He pushes the nuts away as if he’s not going to eat anymore. But a few minutes later, he takes another handful. Then, in a burst of motivation, he puts the lid back on the tin and encloses the tin within the drawer. That lasts even less time before he opens the drawer and takes another handful.

After a while, Danvers’s receptionist comes into his office. She’s already wearing her coat and carrying her purse, eager to leave before the weather worsens.

Danvers steps between her and the doorway, blocking her path with his soft-shouldered body, ignoring several hesitant steps in his direction as she hints at him to release her.

His chatting stretches out agonizingly slow. I see the girl touch the phone in her pocket several times, probably feeling the vibration of text messages from friends who might be waiting for her at some nearby cafe or restaurant.

Finally, he lets her go. I expect him to follow her out—the receptionist was the last person left in the office besides Danvers himself.

Instead, he stands there awkwardly, before sinking into his chair once more.

Frustrated by whatever attention he failed to drain from the receptionist, he pours the remaining nuts directly into his mouth and flings the tin at the wastepaper basket in the corner, missing it by two feet. I see him mouth the word fuck, though he doesn’t bother to pick up the tin.

He scrolls through Facebook for a while. Though he’s facing the window with his computer screen turned away from me, I can see its reflection on his glasses. He opens a word doc, types a few sentences, then closes the document again. Apparently he exhausted all his creative energy slandering me this morning.

At long last, Danvers shuts off his computer, retrieving his coat from a hook on the wall. I’m pleased to see he neglected to bring his umbrella.

Danvers shuts off the last of the office lights, locking the door behind him.

I step out of the alleyway, avoiding the camera perched on the northwest corner of the squat brick building.

Once my umbrella is open, I’m nothing but a tall, dark stalk beneath its black canopy.

I pretend to hustle along the sidewalk, head down, lost in thought, until Danvers and I brush shoulders.

“Carl,” I say in mock surprise. “Didn’t see you there.”

“Cole,” Danvers replies, a little nervous. He’s wondering if I read his article—if I’m here to harangue him.

“Is that the Siren office?” I say, as if I didn’t know.

“That’s right,” he says, stiff and wary.

“My studio’s right over there.” I gesture in the direction of Fulton, where as Danvers well knows, the rent is triple what the Siren probably pays.

“Is it?” Danvers says vaguely, looking the other way toward Balboa where he takes the streetcar back to his condo.

The rain is falling harder now, plastering his thinning hair against his skull, bringing out the rat-like quality of his protuberant nose and underbite.

“Share my umbrella,” I say as if I only just noticed him getting soaked.

I reorient the canopy so it covers us both.

“Thanks,” Danvers says grudgingly.

And then, because it’s human nature to seek conciliation, to give a favor for a favor, Danvers says, “No hard feelings about the showcase I hope. It was stiff competition.”

“I’m not one for grudges,” I reply.

He squints at me through his foggy glasses. I’m sure he’s wondering if I saw the review. Perhaps even wishing that he hadn’t written it, because at the end of the day, Carl Danvers has a desperate need to be liked. It was my public mockery that first spurred his rage against me. At any time, I could have disarmed him with a compliment. If I could bring myself to lie.

There’s nothing I admire in Danvers.

In fact, I’ve never admired anyone.

“I think you’ll find my current project much more absorbing,” I tell Danvers. And then, as if I just thought of it, “Would you like to see it? It’s still in progress, but it would get us out of the rain. I’ve got tea as well.”

Danvers is suspicious at this sudden offering of an olive branch. He studies my face, which I’ve carefully arranged to appear casual and almost distracted—as if I’m pulled back to my studio, inviting him along as an afterthought.

I see the greedy gleam in his eye. His distrust of me—sensible and warranted—battles with this undreamt-of offer: a view of my work in progress, which I never share with anyone. Just to see inside my studio, to be able to gossip about it and maybe describe it in an article, is a temptation Danvers can’t resist.

“I could come for a minute,” he says gruffly.

“This way, then.” I turn sharply to cross the road.

The rain thunders down, sluicing through the gutters, carrying trash and fallen leaves. I hardly have to watch for passing cars. The sidewalks are empty.

I cut through the route I’ve walked several times. The route with no ATMs or traffic cameras. Devoid of sidewalk restaurants or nosy homeless camped in tents.

If we were to encounter anyone along our way, I would cut this excursion short on the spot.

But no one intervenes. That sense of rightness settles over me—the one and only time I feel a connection to anything like fate or destiny. The moment when everything aligns in favor of the kill.

I let Danvers in through the back door. The lights are low. Our footsteps echo in the cavernous space. Danvers cranes his neck, trying to peer through the gloom, not noticing as he begins to traverse an expanse of thin plastic tarp.

I take the garrote from my pocket. Silently, I unspool the wire.

“I’d like to see your machinery,” he says, with ill-concealed eagerness. “Is it true you do all the manufacturing yourself?”

He’d love to catch me lying.

I’m closing the space between us, descending on Danvers like a hawk from the sky. He doesn’t hear my footsteps. He doesn’t feel my breath on his shoulder. He doesn’t notice my shadow engulfing his.

I wrap the wire around his neck and pull it taut, cutting off his breath like I snipped it short with a pair of shears.

His panic is instant.

He scrabbles at his throat, trying to grip the wire, but the razor-fine metal has already sunk into the soft flesh of his neck. He begins to thrash and buck. I take him down to the ground, pressing my knee into his back, pulling crossways on the wire in a rowing motion.

Danvers’s glasses have fallen off his face. They lay a few feet to the side, like a pair of blank eyes staring up at me.

Danvers himself is facedown, so I can’t see his expression.

It wouldn’t bother me to look into his face. I’ve done it before. I’ve watched the fear, the anguish, the suffering, all eventually sinking into dull resignation and then the utter blankness of death. Life over, snuffed out by the endless emptiness of the universe. Back from whence it came into nothingness, like a spark from a campfire disappearing into the night.

I could taunt him while I kill him.

I don’t do it. What would be the point? In a moment he’ll be gone forever. This is for me, not for him.

His struggles grow weaker, the bursts of effort further apart, like a flopping, dying fish.

My pressure on his throat is as relentless as ever.

I feel no sympathy. No guilt. Those are emotions I’ve never experienced.

I’m aware, academically, of the full range of human emotions. I’ve studied them intently so I can mimic their effects. But they have no power over me.

What I do feel, I feel intensely: rage, revulsion, and pleasure.

These are elemental forces inside of me, like wind, ocean, and molten rock.

I have to keep tight control upon them, or I’ll be no better than Shaw, a slave to my impulses.

I’m not killing Danvers because I have to.

I’m killing him because I want to.

He was an irritation, an inconvenience. A worthless, sniveling, envious shit stain. He deserves nothing more than this. In fact, he should be honored, because I will make more of him than he ever could have made of himself. I will immortalize him so his spark burns bright at least for a moment in time.

I hear the crack of his hyoid bone fracturing.

His body goes limp. Three minutes later, I release him.

Then the butchering begins.

While I’m working, I feel a sense of purpose. I’m stimulated, interested, flushed with satisfaction.

This is the feeling I always get when I’m creating art.

The sculpture is exquisite. My best work yet.

I show it at Oasis, where I know Shaw will likewise display his latest work.

None of the bones are recognizable as a rib, a mandible, a femur. I filed them down, dipped them in gold, and mounted them in an entirely new arrangement. Still, their linear, organic shape remains. The sculpture lives, in a way it never would’ve had it been constructed of gilded metal or stone.

The response is immediate and ecstatic.

“My god, Cole, you’ve outdone yourself,” Betsy breathes, staring at the sculpture like it’s an idol. “What are you calling it?”

“Fragile Ego,” I reply.

Betsy laughs. “How uncharacteristically self-deprecating,” she says.

I say nothing in return, because as usual, Betsy has completely missed the point.

I’m not referencing my own ego, which is indestructible.

Before the night is out, my sculpture has sold for $750,000 to some newly minted tech billionaire.

“Are they planning to melt it down for the gold?” Alastor says sourly.

He’s never sold a piece for half that much.

“I don’t think anyone’s bought a piece of my art just to destroy it,” I say, reminding Shaw that a fundamentalist church bought one of his paintings just to set it on fire. That was in his early days when he was a provocateur, not a salesman.

He’s in no mood for mockery tonight. His face looks puffy above the too-tight collar of his dress shirt, his broad chest rising and falling a little too rapidly.

He stares at the sculpture with unconcealed envy.

Shaw has talent, I can admit that.

But I have more.

Then, in the midst of his irritation and resentment, his entire expression changes. Understanding dawns.

“No . . .” he says softly. “You didn’t . . .”

I don’t have to confirm it, and I don’t bother to deny it. The truth is plain for anyone who has eyes to see.

Alastor lets out a sensual sigh.

“The balls on you . . .” he says. “To put it up for display . . .”

Briefly, he sets aside his jealousy. I set aside my loathing.

We gaze at the sculpture, sharing a moment of deep satisfaction.

Then his impulses take over and he can’t help sneering, “It took the small words of a small man to motivate you to make great art.”

Anger bubbles up inside of me, thick and hot.

Unlike Shaw, I don’t allow my emotions to shape my words. I carefully consider what will enrage him most.

Looking Alastor right in the eyes, I say, “No one will ever talk about your work the way they talk about mine. It must eat you up inside every day, waking up to your own mediocrity. You will never be great. Do you want to know why?”

He’s fixed in place, the sneer frozen on his lips.

“It’s because you lack discipline,” I tell him.

Now his fury washes over him, his fists clenched and trembling at his sides, his thick shoulders shaking.

“You’re no different than me,” he hisses. “You’re no better.”

“I am better,” I say. “Because whatever I do, I’m always in control.”

I walk away from him then, so those words can echo and echo in the emptiness of his head.