Cold Around the Heart

by Michael Prescott

  Later he would take a look at the call log. For now he left the phone on the bed and set to work securing the girl. With duct tape from his duffel, he lashed her wrists behind her back, then ripped open a pillow, tore off a hunk of foam rubber, and wedged it in her mouth, taping it in place.

  Lifting her in his arms, he carried her to the bathroom. On the way he nearly tripped over her absurd hat, lost in the struggle. Irritated, he kicked it under the bed.

  He deposited her fully clothed in the tub, amid the improvised vinyl lining. The shock of movement roused her briefly to blinking half consciousness, but the sedative overpowered her and she stayed under. She lay on her back, her head against the tiled wall, facing the spout. He had to bend her knees to make her fit; the tub was short. Earlier he taped down the drain-control lever so that her kicking feet would not unstop the bath. Her footwear, he noticed, had rubber soles. That was good.

  He ran the bath, dialing the temperature warm.

  In his luggage he found his stun gun, fully charged. The unit was small but powerful, delivering five milliamps. There was no automatic cutoff mechanism. He could keep the current flowing as long as the battery lasted, and it would last a long time.

  He pried his knife free of the nightstand, then used the blade to cut the power cords of the bedside lamp and the TV set, stripping the insulation on both ends. He carried the wires and the stun gun into the bathroom, where he checked on her, lifting one of her eyelids. The pupil—deep blue, he observed—was still dilated. She would be out for a little longer. The bath was more than half full.

  With duct tape he attached the wires to the vinyl lining on both sides of the tub, letting the frayed ends dangle in the water, the girl’s hips between them. He tied the other ends of the wires to the stun gun’s dual prongs, equivalent to the positive and negative posts of a battery. When the trigger was depressed, current would flow from the positive post, taking the path of least resistance—through the first wire, into the tub, then into the ground wire on the opposite side. To reach the ground wire it would pass through the water and the girl’s body. Her skin resistance would be dramatically lower when wet, making her a better conductor than the bathwater. She would take the bulk of the charge.

  The tub was full now. He turned off the water and returned to the main room. Her handbag lay on the floor. He rummaged through it.

  Her name was Bonnie Elizabeth Parker. She was a licensed private investigator with an office in Brighton Cove. She carried a Walther nine, a reliable weapon, well maintained. The serial number had been filed off. Interesting.

  What else? An unusual amount of cash in her wallet, though he did not trouble to count it. Breath mints, cigarettes, and a lighter. The mints and the cigarettes seemed to be at cross purposes, but the logic of the female mind had always eluded him.

  He examined the phone. It was possible, though unlikely, that the girl had been tailing him. If so, she might have taken photos. He found the photo gallery and frowned, feeling his first twinge of genuine curiosity.

  There was indeed a photo of him, seated in a cafe by a window, but surely this girl had not taken it. He knew the time and place, though he had had no suspicion of being photographed.

  Someone had sent it to her. She must know about New York, then. He wondered how much else she knew.

  He put her phone into the purse, and stashed the purse in the nightstand. Later he would go over the phone in more detail before disposing of it, along with her ID and other belongings. The gun, however, he would keep. An untraceable firearm was always useful. He was something of a scavenger, anyway. He had no compunctions about picking Bonnie Parker’s bones.

  He heard the slap of water on the tiles of the bathroom floor. She was awake, struggling, trying to escape.

  She wanted to live now. But by the time he finished with her, she would be more than ready to die.

  CHAPTER 14

   

  Desmond was watching the last ten minutes of Wings when an alert popped up at the bottom of his TV. Jo wanted to Skype with him.

  He froze the movie and connected with her, putting the video stream on the big-screen TV. His kid sister was sitting by a grove of palm trees in a flood of tropical sun, a floppy straw hat framing her face. A tall glass of something with alcohol rested in front of her, slightly out of focus. If she was trying to make him jealous, she’d succeeded.

  “G’day, mate,” she said.

  “Hey, Jo.” Desmond smiled into his netbook’s webcam. “How are things Down Under?”

  “Depends on who I’m down under, if you get my drift.”

  “I got it. As drift goes, it wasn’t subtle. More like continental drift.”

  “We Aussies don’t go for subtlety.” She actually seemed to be developing an Australian accent. Going native, big time. “Hey, I’m not calling too late, am I?”

  “You know me. Up till all hours. Project coming along okay?” Her company had sent her to Sydney to consult on beach erosion. She was an environmental engineer—a whiz kid, super-smart and more studious than he had ever been.

  “It’s great. I could be stuck here another few months, which is fine by me.”

  “Get in any surfing?”

  “A little. Saw a shark the other day.”

  “I’m more worried about the land sharks. The ones in the local bars. They’re harder to fight off.”

  “Who said anything about fighting?” She sipped her drink. There was a tiny parasol sticking out of it. “How about you? Getting any action?”

  “Not at the moment.”

  “You need some contact with the opposite sex, you know. If only to stimulate the right cerebral hemisphere. That’s your feminine side.”

  “I’m plenty stimulated on both sides. And I do see girls sometimes. Bonnie came by a little while ago.”

  “Ah, the woman of mystery.”

  “Is she?”

  “You’re always mysterious when you talk about her. Which you do, a lot.”

  “It’s not like I’m in love with her,” he said a little too quickly.

  “No, of course not. Love is for suckers.” She gave him a look. “You know, if you’re holding back with her on account of that chair—”

  “I’m not.”

  “Sure about that?”

  “The chair isn’t an issue. The issue is—forget it.”

  “Don’t tease me, bro. If there’s an issue, I want to know what it is.”

  “The issue is, I don’t really know her.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean? You see her all the time.”

  “Oh, sure, she’s a friend. Probably my best friend. But I don’t know her.” He sighed. “It’s complicated.”

  “Some complications can be good for you.”

  “True. But these particular complications might be a little too ... complicated.”

  “Well, there’s nothing mysterious about that.”

  He caught the edge in her voice. “You really want to know?” he said slowly. “I think she’s a killer.”

  “You mean she has a killer bod, or—”

  “No. I mean, I think she’s a hit man. Or hit woman. A paid assassin.”

  “Big brother, you’ve been hitting the bong again.”

  “She’s a private eye. There are rumors that this guy in town who got murdered back in March was a client of hers.”

  “Doesn’t mean she did it.”

  “I have reasons to think she might have. And I don’t think it was an isolated case.”

  “Killing your clients is no way to get repeat business.”

  “I’m not saying she goes after her clients ordinarily. I think she’s like a—a cleaner, you know? A fixer. Whatever.”

  “People hire her to put the kibosh on somebody?”

  “That’s what I think.”

  “Either you’re crazy, or she is.”

  “Neither of us is crazy. But she can be ... hard.”

  “Have you ever asked her about these suspicions of yours?”

&n
bsp; “It’s kind of a tough thing to work into a conversation. ‘Hey, Parker, killed anyone lately?’ I don’t know how to segue into that one.”

  “Good point.” Jo bit her lip. “Plus, if she thinks you know too much ...”

  “It’s not like that.”

  “How do you know? She could be psychotic.”

  “She’s not psychotic. Neurotic, maybe. Quirky ...”

  “Nuh-uh, bro.” She wagged her finger at the camera. “Quirky is changing your hair color every two months. Quirky is joining the My Little Pony fan club as an adult. What quirky definitely is not, is putting people on ice for fun and profit.”

  “If it’s any defense, I think she does it mostly for profit.”

  “You’re not helping her cause.”

  “Look, I don’t know that any of this is actually true. It could all be empty gossip.” Except for the gun in the air duct, he thought. “Sound and fury, signifying nothing.”

  “Don’t be Shakespearean. It doesn’t suit you.”

  “I’m just saying, maybe there’s no there there.”

  “Don’t do Gertrude Stein either. Are you really serious, or is this some kind of goof?”

  “Do I look like I’m joking?”

  Even from ten thousand miles away, she could see he wasn’t.

  “Okay, big bro. In that case I revise and extend my previous remarks. Stay away from this woman. Stay very far the fuck away.”

  “It’s not like I’m scared of her.”

  “Maybe you should be.”

  “She’s no threat to me. To other people, yeah. But probably only people who deserve it.”

  “Deserve it? What is this, a Charles Bronson movie? Your gal pal doesn’t get to decide who lives and who dies.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong, Jo. I’m pretty sure she does.”

  They talked some more before she signed off, claiming she had to get back to work. He could tell she was a little rattled.

  He hadn’t told her the whole truth, though. He was scared. Not scared of Bonnie. Scared for her.

  Whatever she was doing, it was dangerous business. Life-and-death stuff. Not the boring crap most PIs did. Not snapping photos of a husband and a hooker, or running a background check on your daughter’s boyfriend.

  She was into things a lot dicier than that. Things that could get her killed. She knew it, too, and she liked the thrill. Pushing the envelope, beating the odds.

  He knew how that was. And how it ended. He used to take risks in his car. One night he took a blind curve and flipped over, and he’d been in a wheelchair ever since.

  That was what scared him, and kept him from getting too close. He could see down the road a little farther than she could. And he saw where that road ended.

  He only hoped it wouldn’t end too soon.

  CHAPTER 15

   

  Okay, she was officially in trouble.

  Bonnie awoke in a tub of warm water, her hands taped behind her back, more tape over her mouth, and a maniac in the next room. Her knees were awkwardly bent, the soles of her sneakers resting against the vinyl shower curtain bunched up under the spout. The water rose to her breastbone, nearly as high as the lip of the tub. Her shirt stuck to her skin, and her black denim jeans were waterlogged and dripping.

  A bathtub in a cheap motel. She had trouble letting go of that thought.

  Resting on the closed lid of the toilet was the stun gun, with wires attached to the terminals. She saw where the wires ended.

  Her breathing became a little faster, and the gag in her mouth felt bigger than before.

  Oh sure, she was scared. No way around it. Her heart was running like a rabbit, and she tasted sour panic at the back of her throat.

  But more than that, she was pissed. She wasn’t a newbie at this game, but she’d let him get the jump on her. It was bad enough to die, worse when you knew it was your own damn fault.

  She didn’t have any illusions about the way this was going to play out. The freak with the gloved hands had every advantage. The only thing she couldn’t figure was why he’d bothered to fill the tub when he could have simply taped the wires to her skin.

  She had sometimes wondered how she would react in a situation like this—well, not exactly like this, not tied up in an electroshock tub by a psycho. Her imagination wasn’t that good. But facing the end, how would she handle it? She was about to find out.

  She couldn’t stop staring at the stun gun, that tiny black box filled with pain and death. The worst electric shock she’d had in her life was one she received when unscrewing the cover of a wall outlet in her duplex. Some idiot had glued the plate to the wall, and the glue conducted current to her hand, zapping her fingers. It smarted a little, and scared the panties off her, but that was all.

  This would be worse.

  Dead in the bathtub of a cheap motel ...

  She felt the pressure of tears in her eyes and hated herself for it. She wasn’t a goddamned baby. She’d known what she was getting into when she chose this life, and there was no point getting all misty about it now.

  Anyway, she wasn’t dead yet. Her wrists twisted behind her, but the tape was heavy and tough, and she wasn’t going to pull free. Still, if she could flip on her side and use an elbow for leverage, she might be able to push herself up and get her legs over the side ...

  She didn’t think she was making much noise, but even the faint slosh of water must have alerted him. She heard his approaching footsteps and sank back into the tub.

  He entered the bathroom, still wearing the jacket and the damn gloves. The guy was into leather, that was for sure. The left side of the jacket showed the subtle print of his firearm in a shoulder holster. He must have been armed when he fought her, but he hadn’t drawn his weapon. He’d wanted her alive.

  “Awake,” he said with a nod. “Good.”

  She didn’t see what was so good about it.

  He sat on the lip of the bathtub and smiled. “You look so much better without your silly hat. A cloche, I believe it is called?” He shook his head. “Hideous.”

  Hey, she would put her fashion sense up against his any day. Black leather gloves in August? Please.

  Leaning down, he reached for the tape on her mouth, then hesitated.

  “You see how it is, do you not?” he said. “If you scream for help, I will shock you.”

  She nodded. She didn’t think screaming would help anyway. The rooms nearby had looked unoccupied, and the Roach House wasn’t the sort of establishment where a cry of distress would necessarily draw much attention.

  He stripped the tape from her lips. She coughed up a wad of foam stuffing, feeling spittle slide down her chin into the water.

  “Hello, Bonnie Parker,” he said.

  It surprised her that he knew her name, until she remembered her purse in the other room.

  “Pleased to meet you,” she said, summoning all her willpower to look him in the eye.

  “I’m glad you showed the self-discipline to remain quiet. It speaks well of you.”

  “I’m not screaming now. But I can’t promise what’ll happen when you start going all Cuckoo’s Nest on me.”

  He frowned, not getting the reference. “The bathtub,” he said, “is fiberglass, a poor conductor of electricity. Still, the metal drain and plumbing pipes would have drawn off some of the current. Hence the layer of insulation.” He indicated the shower curtain. “It will contain most of the electricity within the water. It will also serve as a convenient carrying case for your remains.”

  “Terrific.”

  “The interior of your body is an excellent natural conductor, owing to the dissolved salts in your tissues and veins. Every part of you is sensitive to electric shock, but the heart most of all.”

  “So you’re saying you can sizzle my bacon pretty good?”

  “Then, of course, there is the matter of pain. As it happens, the threshold for perception of shocks is significantly lower for women than for men.”

  “Ther
e’s not gonna be a pop quiz on this later, is there? ’Cause I don’t test well.”

  He gave her a long stare. “Bonnie Parker, what do I look like to you?”

  “An insane clown who’s lost his posse?”

  “I am a serious man. A professional, like yourself. A man who will brook no insouciance. A man”—he paused for emphasis—“who will get what he wants.”

  He retreated a couple of feet and sat on the lid of the toilet with the stun gun resting on his lap. She waited, her heart hammering, while fear burned like fever on her face.

  But he didn’t get started right away. He was good. He knew just how to play her. He let her wait for the moment when he would close the circuit and fry her in the tub.

  How powerful was the damn stun gun, anyway? What would it feel like to be zapped with that much juice? And why did her mind persist in asking stupid questions she couldn’t answer?

  “Penny for your thoughts,” he said.

  “Just going over my plans for the weekend. Hot date. Though maybe not as hot as this one.”

  “According to the license in your wallet, you are a private investigator. I wish to know who hired you, how you found me, and what you have learned.”

  She tried out a flippant smile. “And if I tell you all that, you’ll let me go?”

  “If you tell me all that, I will let you die.”

  “Gotta say, you’re not giving me a lot of incentive to cooperate.”

  “You will have all the incentive you need. The incentive of making it stop.”

  “You got issues, pal. You should get help. And hair plugs. Bald and crazy is no way to go through life.”

  He leaned forward, quick as the lash of a whip, and picked up the foam wedge, jamming it back into her mouth. She uttered a surprised grunt, and then his hand flexed, touching the trigger.

  Her stomach clenched like a fist. Her midsection was on fire. The current jabbed like needles, a million miniature spearheads digging into her belly, her groin, her thighs. Rhythmic thumping echoed hollowly around her—the drumbeat of her Nikes against the wall as her legs kicked.

  Then it was over. For now. He pulled out the foam gag and waited patiently while she coughed and gasped.

  She was disappointed to find herself still alive. So the stun gun’s battery wasn’t enough to snuff her. Too bad.

  “You think you are tough bitch, Bonnie Parker, but I will break you.” He said it without boasting, as a simple factual statement.