“Sure,” his voice came back to her. “I work. For me, myself and I.”
“Do you know anything about him?” she got out, hoping she didn’t sound like she was having a coronary event. One of the most important artists in the country was spending his free time telling her patients not to get the flu vaccine? What the hell? The shock that twisted through her gut was beyond physically uncomfortable. It was downright painful.
“Oh, my,” Karen said, her eyes going dreamy. “He’s such an...unusual man. He goes by the name Rebel. Mr. Steinman—the gallery owner—says he lives in a tent in the middle of nowhere. Mr. Steinman said he doesn’t have a phone, doesn’t own a car.” Karen’s tone of voice made it clear she thought the whole thing sounded like something out of a romance novel. No wonder the saleslady looked like she was in love with the bag. She was in love with Rebel. “He’s...amazing.”
The shock twisted again, like a scalpel cutting without anesthesia. “Oh?” What kind of amazing were they talking about here? And why did that matter? Madeline choked down the confusion that swirled in her throat as she scanned the rest of the sheet. Master of Fine Arts from the University of New Mexico. Gallery shows in Rapid City; Taos, New Mexico; New York City; and Washington, D.C. Best in Show awards. Notable Recognitions. Outstanding New Artist.
The pain in her ass was an Outstanding New Artist. He had an MFA.
His name was Jonathan. Jonathan Runs Fast.
“How do you get a hold of him if he doesn’t have a phone?” How did anyone get a hold of him? If Jonathan Rebel Runs Fast didn’t have a phone, how did he know when to show up at the clinic? The confusion was swirling right on up to cyclone territory. Fast.
“We don’t.” Karen leaned in and dropped her voice from saleslady to co-conspirator. “Mr. Steinman went looking for him once, got lost and was almost eaten by a coyote. Mr. Steinman said that Rebel rode up out of nowhere and rescued him. He said Rebel took him back to his camp, and it was nothing but a tent in the middle of nowhere. He said Rebel was some sort of medicine man, said he kept souls in his tent. Mr. Steinman said he’d never been so afraid of dying in his life.” She looked over her shoulder in fear. “Mr. Steinman doesn’t like the clients to know that, of course...”
“Of course.” She could just see it too. Rebel appearing on that one-blue-eye, one-brown-eye horse of his, chasing off wild animals and rescuing clueless white men. But that was all she could see right now. Because a medicine man? He thought he was a medicine man? Some quack with a Fine Arts degree was telling her patients what to do? Her cyclone of confusion had her heart pounding so hard she thought she was going to start popping blood vessels in her ocular cavities. Maybe she already had, because she was seeing red.
“But we don’t have to get a hold of him. He usually shows up right after we sell one of his bags.” Karen looked like she wanted to pet the bag again. “He usually makes ten or twelve a year, and they go quickly. One of a kind.”
Madeline was barely aware of clutching the bag to her chest like she was afraid to let go of it. “How much?”
The smile was barely contained victory. “Mr. Steinman has been shopping that particular work around. The pipe and the bag were designed as a set—”
Rebel had designed them as a set. “How much?”
Karen was openly beaming now. “A private collector in Okinawa expressed interest—”
Screw Japan. “How much?”
“$3,700.”
She had known he had a real name—she’d always known. A real name that was well known. A real name that meant something.
She thrust the bag out to Karen, whose face was aglow with commission expectations. Madeline would have spent that money on supplies anyway. And since Robin Hood Rebel seemed to take it upon himself to overcharge the rich and pay the medical bills of the poor, she might as well get something besides irritation out of the deal. “I’ll take it. And you don’t know how to get a hold of him?”
“No. He’s unreachable.”
We’ll just see about that.
By the time she was in the car, she was beyond pissed. He’d tricked her—no, tricking would be a good joke. He’d flat-out lied to her. He’d lied about his name, about where he got the money to pay all those medical bills, about what he did with his life. He’d jerked her around for fun, and God only knew what his sick motives were for jerking around innocent, sick people.
He was about to find out that no one jerked Madeline Mitchell around.
She snapped open her phone and gave thanks that she’d both bothered to put her staff’s numbers in it and that she was in a city where she got service. She dialed Clarence first. Clarence knew everyone. Clarence knew Rebel.