Cold Around the Heart

by Michael Prescott

  His face had not been so unnatural in early childhood, but by adolescence it had acquired its peculiar cast. The saturnine cheekbones, the razor-thin nose and prominent nostrils, the hollows of his eyes under black brows.

  El Diablo.

  Mephistopheles.

  Lucifer.

  Satan.

  This diabolic quality had been accentuated by age. His receding hairline had progressively emphasized the high, smooth cliff of his forehead, until finally he had shaved off his remaining hair. His gums had receded also, giving his teeth an elongated, vampiric appearance when he smiled. And as he shed his last vestiges of youthful subcutaneous fat, his face became thinner, his chin more pointed, his bone structure more pronounced.

  He had frightened a priest once. This was in Buenos Aires. He had taken refuge in a desolate slum church to escape the relentless sun. Inside, he was alone except for the priest, who saw him standing near the altar. The priest was about to say something when Pascal turned to him, and the man—a young man, younger than Pascal himself had been—gave a little gasp and shrank back. He did not make the sign of the cross or whisper a prayer or do any of the things a priest in a movie would do. There was only that sharp inhalation, that shuffling backward step.

  Pascal wondered what the priest said of the encounter later. Did he speak about it to his friends, his fellow clerics, his congregation? Did he tell them he had met the devil?

  Children, too, were afraid of him, except for the youngest, who stared with undisguised curiosity and sometimes even smiled. He liked children. He liked dogs, tolerated cats, enjoyed the company of horses. He read books of good quality—Cervantes, Dante, Shakespeare. He gave handouts to the poor. He was never rude, he was considerate of the elderly and the infirm, and he tipped generously. He was not the devil. He was only a man with a peculiar face and a profession that required the spilling of blood.

  His employers—the ones who called him El Diablo and other such names—were hypocrites. He was their instrument. He acted on their behalf. They hired him, gave him his instructions, and then tried to shirk the blame. He, at least, was unafraid to confront the fact of what he did and who he was.

  In his forty-six years he had learned many things. Hate and fear he knew. Love—yes, he knew love also. Knew it not quite so familiarly, not on the basis of such long and close acquaintance. Yet he did know. That was a secret he kept from his employers, from anyone who knew him.

  The devil knew love. What a story that would be. Why had no one written it? The devil in love ...

  He smiled in the dark, remembering.

  They had been like children in some ways. They had pet names for each other. He was her Lancelot, she his Guinevere. He bought her jewelry and other trinkets. She wrote him poetry. In the darkness, close against his body, she whispered hungrily of obscene delights. She made him appreciate the pure pleasure of carnality for the first and only time in his life. She saw in him the soul of an artist, a soul uniquely made for her. She promised they would always be together, not only in this life, but in all their lives to come.

  And then she left him. She gave no explanation. One morning she was simply gone, leaving behind a few handwritten verses as a parting gift.

  He thought he knew the reason. She loved him, but she feared what he was and what they did together. She had been by his side as he practiced his dark trade. She had watched his victim die, and she had felt what he felt—the same forbidden joy. Taking a life could be a thing of beauty and sensual arousal. It frightened her. She ran from him to escape the shadow side of herself.

  Perhaps she too had come to think of him as the devil. But the devil she feared was only the unadmitted desire of her own heart. The heart was not made only for love. It could conjure cruelties worthy of any imps of hell. He knew those cruelties. He had inflicted them himself, had taken pleasure in them.

  Now there was no pleasure, only the dullness of an automated routine. He thought of the woman in Manhattan. At one time he would have received a thrill of uncomplicated sexual gratification from the successful completion of that act. Yesterday it had aroused him not at all.

  He was tired. Tired of this life. A life well spent or misspent, he could not say. A life spent. That was all. A job done, or a long series of jobs, and now the last.

  And then a new beginning.

  He was not normally an optimist—in fact, he despised optimism as a weakness—but on this occasion he permitted himself a rare indulgence in hope.

  He could be made new. He could be reborn.

  CHAPTER 9

   

  Bonnie was behind the wheel of the Wrangler again, heading away from the boardwalk in the general direction of the highway, and thinking about her client’s story. She wondered what was really going on.

  She didn’t like being played, and she was pretty sure Alan was playing her. But she couldn’t see how or why. It intrigued her. The mystery was one reason she’d taken the case. The other was the $2500 folded into her wallet. Okay, that was the main reason, but the mystery didn’t hurt.

  A tinny rendition of “A Hard Day’s Night” played in her handbag. Sammy was ringing. She fished out the phone, figuring Alan was calling with more info. Nope. The display read Unknown Caller. Which was weird, because her Caller ID app was pretty tough to defeat. Somebody must really want to be anonymous.

  In New Jersey it was illegal to talk on a cell while driving. She answered anyway. It wasn’t the first law she’d broken. “Parker,” she said.

  The voice that came back at her was a furious whisper. “You’re dead, you little bitch. You’re fucking dead.”

  She leaned back in the driver’s seat, smiling. “Nice Freddy Krueger impression. Now do Bela Lugosi.”

  “Fuck you. You’re a dirty whore, and I’m going to put you down.”

  “Is this the part where you ask me if I like scary movies?”

  “God damn you to hell.”

  “Okay. Not a member of my fan club. So I’m guessing you’re my telephone stalker?”

  “Put you down like a dog in the street—”

  Bonnie chuckled. “You talked to Mrs. B. again, didn’t you? And you didn’t take it so good when she told you to fuck off.”

  “Go to hell.”

  “At least now we get a chance to chat.” She cut her speed and eased over to the curb to hear him better. “So ... what’s your sign?”

  “Shut up.”

  “Mine’s Gemini. The twins.” She pressed the handset close to her ear, listening hard. The voice was familiar. It stirred a memory, one she couldn’t quite grab hold of. “Which is funny, ’cause I’m an only child. It suits me, though. Geminis can be either very good or very bad. We’re remote and distant, and some of us lead a double life—”

  “Shut your goddamn mouth. Didn’t you hear what I said?”

  “Put me down, dog in the street, yadda yadda. Jeepers, who raised you, the Manson family?”

  “Make all the jokes you want. You’re still going to die.”

  “What’d I ever do to you?”

  “It doesn’t matter now.”

  The hoarse, crazed whisper was maddening. She almost recognized it. Almost. “Clue me in anyway. Just so I know what I’m getting killed for.”

  “You’ll never know, Bonnie. And you’ll never see it coming. I can get you any time. You could be taking a sip of coffee or reading the newspaper. Then—lights out.”

  “You’re a freak with too much time on your hands. Move out of your mom’s basement and get a life.”

  “I know you killed Jacob Hart. I even know why. You wanted to protect the girl. But you can’t protect her. You can’t even protect yourself.”

  “I’m hanging up now.”

  “Sienna Wright,” he said.

  A chill moved through her. He really did know. He knew everything.

  “Who’s that?” she asked as casually as possible.

  “Sienna Wright of 44 Atlantic Avenue. She goes to Holy Cross High School in Miramar. Has a
summer job at the Donut Shack on Route 71. Six thirty AM to one PM, Monday through Friday. She rides her bike to work.”

  “Are you stalking her, you asshole?”

  “She’s not the one I’m after. You are. And I know a hell of a lot more about your daily routine than I know about hers.”

  “Swell. At least you’re thorough.”

  “It’s not so much fun, is it? When you’re the one being hunted?”

  Being hunted ...

  Then she had it.

  The drifts of snow, the pale sky, the frozen pines.

  He had whispered then too, his voice a wheezy rasp.

  “Kurt,” she said, “is that you?”

  She heard a sharp intake of breath.

  “Never mind. You just answered my question.”

  Kurt Land, Jacob Hart’s blackmailer. A man who should be dead. Had to be dead. But wasn’t.

  “I’m going to kill you, Bonnie,” he said after a long moment. A body speaking from the grave.

  “Yeah, I got that.”

  “You took everything away from me.”

  She remembered the fallen man in the snow, his useless crossbow discarded nearby. The fear in his face, and the blood soaking through his trouser leg and his coat. “Not quite everything, I guess.”

  “You mean because I’m still breathing? That’s nothing. I’m alive only because I have to kill you. That’s my mission on earth. That’s what keeps me going.”

  “Everybody needs a hobby,” she said distantly.

  “You think this is a joke?”

  She shook off her shock and rallied. “No, buddy boy. I think you’re a joke. Making threats over the phone—big whoop. Hell, until tonight you wouldn’t even talk to me directly. I guess scaring grandma’s more your speed.”

  “Fuck you, bitch. You’re not getting it. You’re a corpse.”

  “Funny, I thought that was you.” People sure were in a hurry to put her in a cemetery plot lately. It was enough to make a girl feel unpopular.

  “You didn’t kill me as dead as you thought.”

  “Good to know.”

  “And now I get to take you out.”

  “Uh-huh. Tell you what, bub. When you grow the plums to look me in the face, we’ll talk. Till then, I got places to go, and I really don’t have time for this crap.”

  She ended the call and slipped Sammy back into her purse. Her hand, she noticed, was shaking just a little. Not from fear. It took more than a phantom phone call to put a scare in her. But knowing she’d left a loose end that big—it unnerved her. She was supposed to be better than that.

  Well, live and learn. So it turned out Gillian Hart hadn’t been altogether wrong. Kurt Land was alive. Bonnie didn’t know how he’d managed it. She intended to ask him when they got together.

  And they would.

  Soon.

  CHAPTER 10

   

  The Roach House was still her final destination, but after the phone call she had a stop to make first. She detoured down a side street on Brighton Cove’s less fashionable south end, flicking her high beams on. The town was curiously low on street lights, and the few that worked seemed about as powerful as her keychain flashlight.

  She parked outside a one-story bungalow. The house looked like all the others on the block, except for the ramp that had replaced the front steps.

  Bonnie climbed the ramp and rang the doorbell, not worried about waking the occupant. He was a night owl. One of those up-till-two and sleep-till-noon types.

  “Who is it?” Desmond called from inside.

  “Parker.”

  “It’s open.”

  Nice. No snooty housekeeper to contend with here.

  She stepped into the living room. Moments later he appeared from the side hallway, moving fast, his hands spinning the chair’s wheels. She had once asked him why he didn’t treat himself to a motorized chair. He said he liked the exercise. Rolling himself by hand kept his upper body in shape.

  It was no joke. From the waist down Desmond Harris might be a blighted and atrophied version of the man he had been, but above the waist he was a block of marbled muscle. “The Belvedere Torso,” he called himself—an artistic reference that had meant nothing to her until she Googled it.

  He was an artist, had been for years, and the car wreck that cut his spine hadn’t changed that. Hadn’t changed much of anything about him, actually. He still drove, using a handicap van. He had family money and ran a gallery in town, selling his own artworks and other people’s. He had lots of friends, but Bonnie didn’t know them. She liked keeping him to herself. They didn’t go out. Their relationship wasn’t exactly a secret; they weren’t hiding it; but it was private. An emotional relationship, not sexual. She wasn’t even sure it could be sexual, what with his injury. Maybe that was why she felt comfortable around him.

  “Yo.” Bonnie sketched a wave.

  “Yo yourself. Restless legs again?”

  “Say what?”

  “When your feet start to itch, you come here.”

  “It’s the only way I can see you. You never come to my place.”

  “That’s because my feet don’t itch.” He shrugged. “Crip humor. So what’s got you feeling antsy tonight?”

  “Bunch of stuff. I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Fair enough. Hey, I just found Wings on streaming video. Want to watch?”

  She looked at him blankly.

  “You know, Wings? Clara Bow, William Wellman, World War One?”

  “I’ve heard of World War One. The rest is just noise.”

  “It’s a classic. From the silent era.”

  “A silent movie? Snooze.”

  “I’ll take that as a no. How about some cocoa?”

  “Cocoa would be good. I can make it.”

  “No one messes around my kitchen except me. Besides, I’ve tasted your cooking.”

  She nodded. “Fair point. Just let me freshen up. I’ll be with you in a jif.”

  He headed for the kitchen, and she detoured down the hall. But she wasn’t looking for the bathroom. Halfway along the corridor there was a ventilation duct in the ceiling, covered by a grill. She took a stool from the guest room, stood on it, and undid the screws holding the grill in place.

  “What exactly are you doing?”

  She glanced down and saw that he’d snuck up on her, the hum of his wheels inaudible. Damn. She was kind of hoping she wouldn’t get caught.

  “Only take a second,” she said.

  “That’s not what I asked.”

  The grill popped free, flapping down on its hinges. She groped in the duct until her fingers closed over a Ziploc bag. She pulled it out and held the bag in her teeth while she pushed the grill back into place and replaced the screws.

  “Is that a gun?”

  She assumed the question was rhetorical, since the plastic bag was transparent, its contents clearly visible. She climbed down and returned the stool to the guest quarters.

  “Parker,” Des said again, “is that a gun?”

  “It ain’t a blow dryer.”

  She checked the bag without opening it. Inside was a matte black Smith & Wesson Bodyguard .38, five-round capacity. Four +P hollow-point rounds were still loaded in the cylinder. She had needed only one shot to kill Jacob Hart.

  The bag was dirty, but the gun sealed in it looked no worse than it had in March, when she’d stowed it here during one of Des’s bathroom breaks.

  “You hid a gun in my house?” he said, outrage competing with disbelief. “Without even telling me?”

  She bypassed his chair and retraced her route down the hall. “If I’d told you, you would’ve been an accessory after the fact.”

  “Accessory to what?”

  “Let’s just drop it, okay?”

  “It’s the Hart case, isn’t it?”

  Sometimes she forgot how small this town was, how much everybody knew. She’d never told Des about her extracurricular activities. How much he’d guessed, she couldn’t say.


  She turned. “I said, drop it.”

  “Why the hell would you stash it here?”

  “Duh. Because nobody would look here.”

  She started walking again. When the hallway ended, she veered into the kitchen and poured herself a glass of water, stooping because all the sinks and counters had been lowered to wheelchair height. She didn’t think he’d be fixing cocoa for her, after all.

  “And if they did?” he asked, pulling into the kitchen behind her. “Wouldn’t I be in a world of trouble if someone found it on the premises?”

  “They didn’t find it. No harm, no foul.” She gulped the water, then felt his stare. “What?”

  “You never thought about the consequences to me, did you? And you’re not even sorry.”

  “What’s there to be sorry about?”

  He looked at her for a long moment, his face pale in the fluorescent glow. Slowly he shook his head. “You’re a good person, Parker. I mean that. But damn, you can be cold around the heart.”

  She set down the glass. “Can I?”

  He rolled forward, still watching her. He was no longer angry. He looked puzzled, pensive. “I think about you sometimes, you know. You’re an interesting puzzle. An enigma wrapped in a mystery, locked away inside a hard shell.”

  “A shell, huh? You make me sound like a turtle.” She considered it. “Or a bullet.”

  “I like turtles. Bullets, not so much.”

  “You should have better things to do than think about me.”

  “I have better things to do, but I think about you while I’m doing them. I multitask.”

  “And where has all this deep thinking gotten you?”

  “You’re angry.”

  “No, I’m just asking.”

  He shook his head. “That’s my answer to your question. My thinking has led me to the conclusion that you’re angry.”

  “At what?”

  “I don’t know. Some injustice, maybe. Or ... something you lost.”

  “Everybody loses things.”

  “What you lost mattered.”

  “Care to take a stab at what it was?”

  “I have a working hypothesis.”

  “Let’s hear it.”

  “Your folks died when you were young, didn’t they?”

  She was surprised. “Did I tell you that?”

  “You let it slip once. A rare moment of self-disclosure.”

  “So you think I’m pissed off at the world for taking my mommy and daddy away?” She laughed. “Yeah, Des, I’m all torn up inside.”