And the hunt would begin tomorrow night.

Chapter 4

The next afternoon

I hate deadlines, Jon Rafter muttered under his breath for the thousandth time. He was no longer just a nameless painter struggling to make his work known. He now possessed a new title, a handle he found intriguing, if a bit odd: art conservator, or more commonly known as art restorer.

For years he’d been painting biblical scenes, employing techniques used by the Italian Renaissance masters, some famous and others lesser known. And now by what he could only attribute to providence, he periodically found himself restoring works by the very artists he emulated.

Seated on a stool at a large table, Rafter peered through a long reach microscope at an Armando Bertocchi painting. Bertocchi acquired minor notoriety for painting scenes from the Old Testament. Although not as famous as his peers, Rafter admired Bertocchi’s use of light and his uncanny ability to add texture to his backgrounds, giving his works a 3D effect.

The Bertocchi painting Rafter worked on belonged to a private collector, and depicted Delilah seducing Samson. Bertocchi painted the piece in 1527. Lucky for Rafter the painting had only been restored one other time. He needed only to remove one layer to get down to the original brush strokes. And after nearly two months of work, he finished the cleaning and varnishing process yesterday. Now came the fun part.

Using a small scalpel, Rafter applied specks of tinted varnish to places where original paint no longer existed, one dot after another dot in a row using a stippling technique. He couldn’t deny the process brought new meaning to the word tedium. But he couldn’t let his guard down for even one second. If he did he would ruin a masterpiece.

Rafter applied varnish dots to Delilah’s nose. The years hadn’t been kind to the Philistine woman from the Valley of Sorek. Missing paint on her face made it look like she suffered from eczema. But when he finished she would look beautiful and seductive once again.

Rafter became so focused on the restoration process he barely heard the door to his art studio open up and close shut with a bang.

“I’m glad to see you’re hard at work on the Bertocchi painting, Jon.”

Rafter lifted his head from the microscope. He looked at Cameron Ross, an art dealer and gallery owner from Boston. Rafter considered Ross a close friend. They shared the same interests in art, and could talk about it for hours. Rafter rubbed his eyes. “I’ve been working on it nonstop since you brought it to me, Cam.”

Always dressed to the nines, Cameron adjusted his bowtie. “That’s good. The owner keeps calling me and asking when it will be finished. He wants to auction it off along with some other pieces from his collection. I can’t stall him much longer.”

Rafter stood up and stretched his legs, stiff from sitting on the stool for so long. “Barring any unforeseen setbacks or emergencies I should have it done a little before the deadline.”

A deep-chested bark suddenly erupted from the back of the studio. The sound of nails click-clacking on the concrete floor followed the bark. Rosie, a Newfoundland, appeared and trotted up to Ross and began sniffing his pant legs.

“She never has liked me,” Ross said, his face turning pale as he eyed the giant dog.

Rafter smiled. “Rosie doesn’t care too much for city-slickers, especially if they’re a Yankee.”

Ross looked at him suspiciously. “I still detect a faint New York accent in your voice, Jon. You can deny it all you want, but I know its there. So don’t be calling me a Yankee.”

Rafter laughed and made his way over to a coffee machine. He poured a cup. “Would you like some coffee, Cam?”

Ross didn’t answer. He stood in front of a painting hanging on the wall. He examined it closely, his hawk-like nose inches from the canvas. “Is the donkey talking in this painting?”

Rafter sipped his coffee before answering. “Are you familiar with the story of Balaam and his talking donkey?”

Ross continued to study the painting. “Jon, you know I’m not a believer. And you know I don’t own a Bible. So how would I know anything about a talking donkey?”

Rafter grinned slyly. “Well, I thought you might know about Balaam’s talking donkey since Rembrandt painted a scene based on the story back in 1626.”

Ross turned back around and faced Rafter. “Okay, you got me there. But why did you decide to paint it?”

“A man not far from here raises donkeys. He asked me to paint it for him.” Rafter set his coffee down and walked up to stand by Ross. “This is actually the second version I’ve painted. Rosie ate the first one, so I had to paint it over.

“The story is found in the book of Numbers. Balaam is a sorcerer, and he was summoned by King Balak of the Moabites to curse the Israelites as Moses led them toward Canaan. On the way Balaam’s donkey saw an angel standing in the path and holding a sword. The donkey became frightened and turned off the path. Balaam grew angry and beat the donkey.

“The angel appeared twice more, prompting the donkey to stop and lay down. Balaam beat the donkey harshly each time with his staff. And then the Lord opened the donkey’s mouth. The donkey said, ‘What have I done to you to make you beat me these three times?’ Balaam and the donkey then began to argue with each other. Finally, Balaam’s eyes were opened and he saw the angel standing in the path.”

Ross turned and looked at Rafter. Alarm blazed in his pale blue eyes. “Your dog ate it?”

Rafter nodded. He bent down and tickled Rosie’s ears. Her tail thumped. Slobber dripped in long strands onto the floor. “Rosie still hasn’t outgrown her puppy stage. She likes to chew, and for some reason her favorite thing to chew is paint canvases.”

Ross pointed toward the Bertocchi piece on the table. “She better not chew up the Bertocchi. You can kiss your fifty-thousand dollar payday goodbye if that happens. And I won’t get my ten percent finder’s fee for getting you the work.”

“Don’t worry, Ross. I always hang it up on the wall so Rosie can’t get at it.”

Ross looked down at the Newfoundland with disdain. “Why would you keep this drooling beast if she chews up your livelihood?”

“Rosie was a gift. Annie gave her to me.”

Ross nodded. “I understand. That explains things. So how is your dear wife doing?”

Rafter sighed. “I think she’s still depressed about the miscarriage. And bitterness toward God is strangling her happiness. I have to be careful around her and treat her with kid gloves.”

“She may never get over it, Jon. What could be worse than a late-term miscarriage?” Ross ambled a few feet away and stared at a shrouded canvas hanging from the wall. “Okay, what gives with the mystery painting?”

Rafter pulled the covering off the painting, allowing Cameron to see it.

In the painting a mother held a newborn baby. The baby slept peacefully, oblivious to its mother’s adoring gaze. Ross studied it for several minutes. “It’s exquisite. The mother’s love for the baby is palpable. This may very well be the modern day equivalent of the Mona Lisa,” Ross gushed in a rapturous tone. “I can tell that the mother is Annie? You painted this for her?”

Rafter nodded. “I painted it in secret. I was going to surprise Annie with it. But then the miscarriage happened and I never showed it to her.”

Ross turned to face him. “Jon, your talent continually amazes me. I really believe you were born 500 years too late. You could’ve been considered one of the Renaissance masters, your name immortalized in history books.”

Rafter blinked at his friend’s praise. I can never be famous, he thought. Things have been put in place so that never happens.