"Are you okay?" Bertram asked with concern.

"I'm fine," Wilson answered unenthusiastically.

"You don't seem fine. Are you upset that Jager has... I don't know, retired?"

"No, I can understand his motivation, it's just a whole bunch of other stuff."

Bertram patted the couch next to him and Wilson moved there, leaning up against him like cat. He laid his head on Bertram's shoulder. "I'm sorry Bertie, I'm just feeling out of sorts."

"It's understandable, a lot has happened. Your artist has flown the coup, half of our patrons have disappeared to god knows where, and poor Devon is just now getting better."

"Have you seen him? How is he?" Wilson asked anxiously.

"For someone who was comatose for over a week with a fractured skull, he's pretty good. The recovery was slow, but the doctors say that except for some memory loss, he should be fine."

"I'm so glad to hear that. I really like the old oddball."

"He really likes you too, Willy. You should visit him. Elaine has been to the hospital a few times, she even had some custom hospital gowns made for him, chartreuse and hot pink. He loves them."

Wilson smiled weakly, "I'll go, I just feel so bad that he was coming to my loft when it happened, it's hard for me to face him."

Bertram wrapped his arm around the young artist, "Don't be silly, it wasn't your fault," he suddenly sounded sad and wistful, "I don't know what I would have done if I lost him. I don't have that many friends. We're a dying breed, he and I. Art critics today just aren't the same. Devon and I... we're like sommeliers of Art... we don't make the wine, we just taste it and let everybody know if it's any good," Bertram lowered his voice, "don't you dare let him know I'm saying this, but he has ever so slightly better taste than I do."

Wilson chuckled, " It'll be our secret."

Bertram looked the young man in the eye, "I'm very happy you're making Art again. The change in your style is noticeable."

"It is?"

"Absolutely, more mature, a little darker... I really like it and I'm not just saying that because I love you. It seems somehow more honest, a little sad maybe, but definitely good work. I think the time with Jager did you some real good... and I'm not just talking financially, it's evolved you artistically. He was a good influence."

Wilson remained silent for a while before answering, "I'm glad you think so. He had a pretty strong effect on me."

"Feeling better?"

"I am, thanks. I'm curious, you mentioned the patrons... have you heard anything new about the Fisk party? Do they have any idea what happened?"

"A lot of conspiracy theories. From what I heard from one of my clients, an official in the police department, it's a pretty grim tale. They found cyanide residue all over the residence, so whatever happened was probably horrible. The investigators think it had something to do with drugs and believe it was a crew of thugs sent to make an example. There was a ton of drugs in the apartment. They think they tried to cut out the local supplier and buy directly from one of Fisk's contacts in Cartagena and pissed him off. Who knows?"

"Makes sense. Look, I need to go to my loft for a bit. I promise I'm alright."

"You can go, but only if you'll have dinner with me tonight somewhere we have to dress up for."

"Sounds great," Wilson gave Bertram an affectionate kiss and got up. Before he left the apartment he turned back toward the critic, "I love you too."

Wilson arrived at his loft emotionally drained. It was difficult trying to appear cheerful and upbeat for Bertram and his other friends. He had been wracked by guilt and shame since Jager left. Hiding everything from Bertram made it all the more arduous. Returning to his art was all that held him together. He tried not to think about what had happened, not to think about George or Devon.

Poor Devon, how could Wilson ever face him? How had he let greed drive him to do the things he'd done? A good man dead at his hand and another nearly so. And then there was Siggy, he did not even begin to know how he could process the Artist, this Angel of Death, except to remember that his motivation was somehow more innocent than his.

On the floor of his loft, rolled up like a carpet was a delivery from Siggy. The last piece he created. It had been in the loft unopened for nearly two months. Wilson had not had the nerve to open it. He considered destroying the piece without looking at it, but knew he could never do that. It was art. It was creation, despite its gruesome origin.  He needed to see it.

Wilson untied it and unrolled it. The work was large, twelve feet by eighteen feet. It was a quilt, a leather quilt, comprised of twenty four segments, each carefully and masterfully illustrated. A piece of paper rolled up with the artwork revealed its title, Revolution and Retribution. Wrapped within the paper was a thumb drive. Wilson took it to his laptop and plugged it in. The drive held an assortment of audio files. He pressed play. 

What keeps mankind alive?
What keeps mankind alive?
The fact that millions are daily tortured
Stifled, punished, silenced and oppressed.

Mankind can keep alive
thanks to its brilliance
In keeping its humanity repressed
And for once you must try
not to shrink from the facts
Mankind is kept alive by bestial acts...

Wilson returned his attention to the piece of art spread across the floor. Each of the twenty-four sections illustrated a historical revolution or rebellion. There was the slave rebellion of Spartacus, where the former gladiator and his followers slaughtered his Roman masters and their households. There was the French Revolution where the poor took their revenge upon the aristocracy that had sucked them dry, taking pleasure in the heads rolling upon the Place du Carrousel.

The Russian panel showed the execution of the Romanovs, from Czar to youngest child, by the red angels of the revolution. There were no tears in the soldier's eyes. The panel showing the Haitian Revolution was stunning in its brutality as the previously abused slaves took bloody vengeance on every French white former master, even displaying the heads of their children on spikes, sightless in the Caribbean sun.

The African panel highlighted the justified anger and merciless retribution of the victims of colonial Europe in the Mau Mau Uprising in Kenya and the resulting civil war while Britain doubled down on its own cruelty and greed.

There were several panels dedicated to the Slave rebellions of the American South where two hundred years of persecution boiled over into the blood soaked soil by Nate Turner, Charles Deslondes, John Brown and the like, taking vengeance, but suffering defeat.

Each panel highlighted man's mistreatment of man and the consequences and counter-consequences... the cycles of blood and hate... the satisfaction and futility of revenge... the pointlessness of hatred... the absolute villainy of racism and xenophobia... the ultimate stupidity of humanity.

What keeps mankind alive?
What keeps mankind alive?
The fact that millions are daily tortured
Stifled, punished, silenced and oppressed.

Mankind can keep alive
thanks to its brilliance
In keeping its humanity repressed
And for once you must try
not to shrink from the facts
Mankind is kept alive by bestial acts...

Wilson sat down on the floor for what seemed an eternity, staring at the artwork. It seemed to be speaking to him. Remorse and shame overwhelmed him. He knew he would never be free of guilt. He thought about George and Devon, about Siggy's victims and the victims of his victims. Everyone was guilty.

The innocent seemed powerless, they were unicorns, doomed to stare frozen into the headlights of civilization. Cruelty was rampant and somehow the only pinpoint of hope was provided by a killer who understood that guilt was important, that of all the creatures of the earth only humanity experienced it. It was the reaction of our souls, pulling our hands from the fire. It was the pain that could save us from damnation. Everyone was guilty. Everyone was guilty. Everyone.

Wilson began to cry uncontrollably. He cried till his tears ran out, till shaking sobs wracked his body, till his pain echoed off heaven's arches and bounced around the crumbling walls of his shattered ego. He was empty at last, thankful of the small joys he had long forgotten and thankful for that small pinpoint of hope he could sense at the edge of his soul.