Extract
Sherry Mitchell was pretty sure she was the only tourist on the beaches of Corpus Christi, Texas, wearing a long-sleeved shirt and jeans to try to help her relax. Especially since the late-afternoon heat was expected to spike toward one hundred degrees on this June day.
Granted, she was under a large, colorful beach umbrella that threw enough shade to protect her from a great deal of the sun’s rays and the heat. She was from Houston—a Texas girl born and bred—so was perhaps a little more adjusted to the heat than some of the tourists used to more temperate climates. But she’d still received a couple of odd glances.
She had her bathing suit—a red bikini she’d bought last week especially for this vacation—on under her clothes. Somehow she hadn’t been able to force herself to wear just the tiny scraps of cloth just yet.
Not that they were that tiny. The suit itself was pretty modest compared to some seen around here on any given day. Not to mention, it was quite attractive on her.
The problem wasn’t anything to do with a bathing suit or modesty or appearances at all. The problem was the iciness that seemed to have permeated Sherry’s very core recently.
She felt cold almost all the time. As if she would never be warm again.
Intellectually she knew that couldn’t be true. She knew this feeling—a chill even in upper-90s weather—was all a product of her mind, her psyche. Her body wasn’t really cold. She didn’t have some rare disease or unknown illness. It was all inside her head. She’d taken her temperature to make sure.
It had been completely normal.
Nothing was wrong with her physically. She’d double-checked with her doctor. Gone in for a physical. “A couple-years-late, quarter-of-a-century checkup,” she’d told him, not wanting to bring up the fact that she had the heater running at her house even though winter had long since passed.
Ironically the doctor had not only declared her completely healthy, but had congratulated her on being more grounded and wise than many people her age who tended to avoid physicals until something was wrong.
Sherry didn’t avoid physicals. But it seemed that her mind was doing its best to avoid reality.
She pulled her shirt around her more tightly. It wasn’t just the cold. She also couldn’t stand the thought of being exposed, of sitting out here with no cover. As if the clothing she wore would somehow keep her insides from fragmenting into a million pieces and flying away.
Icy and fragmented. Two words she would never have used to describe herself a year ago now fit her perfectly. She had seen too much, been close to too many people with shattered lives. Had worked for too long without a break, without giving herself a chance to recharge. To heal.
Now her mind was evidently taking over that duty for Sherry. She was getting a break from her work whether she wanted it or not.
Because if she thought the cold was bad on normal occasions, it was downright frigid every time she tried to pick up a pencil and sketch pad.
They both sat beside her under the umbrella on their own towel. She was further from picking them up than she was from stripping down to just her bathing suit and frolicking in the sun.
She missed drawing. Creating the pictures of what she saw in her head. And more recently, creating the pictures other people saw in their heads.
Unfortunately those had turned out to be hideous monsters. A shiver rushed through her and she brought her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them and rocking herself slightly back and forth.
At one time she had drawn every day, all the time. Growing up, she’d drawn or painted or colored on anything she could get her hands on: notebook paper, computer paper, the insides of book covers.
As she’d gotten older and realized there were actual art supplies she could buy, she’d rarely been without a sketch pad. Drawing was a part of her. All her friends had learned that Sherry would always be drawing—and usually drawing the people around her—no matter what else was going on. They’d accepted her; had learned that just because there was a pencil flying in her hand and her nose was in her sketchbook didn’t mean she was ignoring them.
Her passion had driven her parents—both successful business owners, neither of them with any artistic ability or inclination—a little nuts. Both of them had small companies that could be handed down to Sherry if she would just do the smart thing: go to college and get a business degree. Or even better, a double major in business and something equally useful such as marketing or finance.
Sherry had double-majored, but in what she had found interesting: art and psychology. The psychology mostly because understanding what was going on inside the human mind made for more compelling drawings.
For the four years right after college Sherry had found moderate success in the art world. She wasn’t ever going to be rich, but she at least didn’t have to wait tables.
Then two years ago she’d stumbled onto what some people in law enforcement had termed her “obvious calling.”
Forensic art.
Sherry could admit it was the perfect blend of her natural artistic gifting and what she’d learned with her psychology degree. Once the FBI had learned that she was so good at it, she’d worked consistently—really beyond full-time—for them for the past two years. But if she had known the cost would be her love and passion for drawing, she had to wonder if she would ever have gotten involved with the FBI in the first place.
That seemed like such a selfish statement. She didn’t like to think that she would give up the breakthroughs she’d made in cases, the criminals she’d had a part in helping apprehend, just because it made her not want to draw anymore.
But she hadn’t even so much as picked up drawing materials for pleasure in more than six months. For the past five months, she’d drawn what she’d needed to for cases, although it had been difficult.
Then last month, after a particularly brutal case, the cold had started. She’d barely made it through her last two cases after that. Her boss at the FBI was glad Sherry was taking a couple of weeks off. It would allow her to “recover and come back fully recharged and ready to do what she did best—listen to a victim, get the picture in her mind and draw it so law-enforcement officers could put another bad guy away.”
That was a direct quote. And pretty much the farthest from reality than Sherry had ever felt.
How could she be ready to jump back into forensic art when, even now on vacation, with the vast beauty of the Gulf in front of her fairly begging Sherry to attempt to capture its beauty on paper, she couldn’t even pick up a pencil?
All she could do was keep from shivering and flying apart.
It was the third day of her two-week vacation in Corpus Christi. She’d actually made it outside today rather than just looking at the water from her house on the beach, one
