Cold Around the Heart

by Michael Prescott

  She fought for breath. She couldn’t have screamed now if she wanted to. “I don’t suppose ... you could fetch me ... a cigarette from my purse?”

  He smiled. “I like you, Miss Parker. It is Miss, is it not? I see no wedding band.”

  “Tough bitches don’t get married.”

  “Pity.”

  He said it as if he saw every lonely night, every empty hour spent staring into the dark. She could almost believe he felt sorry for her. That made it worse somehow. Cruelty she had steeled herself for. Against compassion she had no defense.

  “You gonna interrogate me or what?” she snapped.

  He ignored the question. “I am intrigued. A woman like you could surely find romance if she sought it. Which leads me to conclude that you do not seek it. Why not?”

  “For all you know, I got three studs on speed dial.”

  “I do not think so. You have a lonely look about you. The look of a solitary predator.”

  “If this is gonna be a therapy session, I should probably be on the couch.”

  “I think it is because you have acquired the habit of solitude. But that habit can become a prison. There is something to be said for sharing your life with another.”

  “You playing matchmaker, or just coming on to me?”

  “Merely offering an observation.”

  “Glass houses, buddy. I doubt a guy in your line of work has too many soul mates.”

  “I have, in fact, none—at present. That is how I know the truth of what I say. You are throwing your life away.”

  “Under the circumstances, isn’t that kind of a moot point?”

  “It is true. Any advice I offer now would seem to have come too late.” He shifted his weight on the toilet lid, assuming a more adversarial posture. “Who hired you?”

  “Fuck off.”

  “At the very least you could offer up some clever repartee.”

  “Eat shit. How’s that for repartee?”

  “Your intransigence is futile. You can see that, surely?”

  “I see it. And don’t call me Shirley.”

  “You will make this unnecessarily hard on yourself. Nothing can save you. You are never getting out of that tub alive. I will wrap you in the shower curtain and drive you to the beach, where you will go into the ocean, to be swept out with the tide. Your body will feed the hungry things of the sea.”

  “Circle of life, huh?”

  “Yes, the natural order. We are all born to die.”

  “I was hoping to buck the trend. So it’s gonna look like a moonlight swim?”

  “Your remains will be found once they have washed up on shore. The obvious conclusion will be that you swam out to deep water and suffered cardiac arrest. Given the deteriorating weather conditions, the authorities will not think you swam for recreation. They will rule it an act of suicide on the part of a lonely young woman.”

  “The autopsy—”

  “Will show simply that your heart stopped. The only telltale signs of electrocution would be burn marks. You will have none.”

  So that was why he hadn’t attached the wires to her skin. “I can still get burn marks from the juice in the water.”

  “Not at this voltage.”

  “I won’t have seawater in my lungs.”

  “A sudden, massive coronary arrest would give you no time to aspirate a significant quantity of water.”

  “Yeah, but even with that gag in my mouth, I might still swallow some bathwater. It’s a giveaway. They’ll know I drowned in a tub.”

  “An electric shock produces an exhale reflex, so there will be no bathwater. Any further objections?”

  “Nope.” She let her head fall back against the tiles. “I guess you’re pretty good at this.”

  “It is what they pay me for.”

  “Who pays you?”

  He placed a finger to his lips. “Hush, Bonnie Parker.”

  “You’re a pro, that’s obvious.”

  “Hush, I said. I ask the questions. Who hired you?”

  “I could make up a name. Fred Flintstone, maybe?”

  “Who hired you?”

  “Elmer Fudd.”

  “Who hired you?”

  “Would you believe Big Bird?”

  He picked up the gag, holding it daintily between two gloved fingers.

  Oh hell, she was no hero, and he was going to get it out of her eventually. But there was a chance he didn’t know her client’s new name. She could protect him that much, at least.

  “Jeffrey Walker,” she said. “That’s his name.”

  “Very good.” He didn’t seem the least bit surprised. “How did he get in touch with you?”

  “Called my phone. My landline,” she added, though she didn’t have a landline. She was hoping he might not check the call log on her cell.

  “And what was your assignment?”

  “Just do some snooping, find out why you’re in town.”

  “That is a lie.”

  “I’m telling the truth.”

  “Not yet. But you will. You merely require additional encouragement.”

  He reached over her and repositioned the wire leads higher in the tub, aligning them with the lower edge of her rib cage.

  “This placement will allow the current to pass a little nearer to your heart. I do not expect the shock to bring on a fatal arrhythmia, but I cannot entirely rule it out.”

  Then let it happen, she thought.

  “The pain, however, will be more intense than before. The worst pain you have ever known, very nearly the worst pain a human being can endure. And yet, when properly employed, this particular method leaves no marks. If the grand inquisitors had possessed such technology, think what confessions they could have extracted.”

  “Sounds like you missed your calling.”

  “No, I could never abide being a priest. I lack the necessary zeal. And like you, I prefer to be self-employed.”

  “We should swap notes on tax deductions.”

  He stepped back. “Once again, what were you hired to do?”

  “I’m a PI, like you said. I spy on people. I find out things—”

  He reached toward her again. Too late, she realized the gag was coming. He shoved it between her teeth and pressed the trigger.

  A whump of impact, her belly heaving as fireworks exploded in her gut. She gritted her teeth so hard she thought they would break off in her mouth. Colored lights flashed across her field of vision, and a high hum filled her ears.

  Then—silence.

  She spat out the foam wedge. It floated on the water like a bath toy.

  It hurts. The words repeated themselves pointlessly at the back of her mind, plaintive words in a child’s voice. It hurts, it hurts ...

  “Do you enjoy pain, Bonnie Parker?” he asked gently.

  “Hey, who doesn’t?” She almost laughed, found she couldn’t. Her chest shuddered, her lungs straining for air. Her voice was hoarse and throaty, as if she’d been shouting.

  “There are those who do. I once knew a woman who was a connoisseur of physical pain.”

  “You must’ve made a cute couple.” She coughed, tasting vomit. “You know, I’m at sort of a conversational disadvantage.”

  “I’d say you are at a disadvantage in more ways than that.”

  “I mean, you know my name, and I don’t know yours.”

  “You do not need to know it.”

  “How do you expect us to be friends if you won’t share?”

  “Friendship is not on my agenda. What were you hired to do?”

  She gave up. “Aw, fuck it. I was supposed to snuff you.”

  “To kill me, you mean?”

  “Yeah. Ironic, huh?”

  “I guessed as much from the firearm in your handbag. An untraceable weapon.”

  “Yup.”

  “Did you remember to wear gloves when loading the gun?”

  “Always do.”

  “Good for you. No prints on the shell casings.”

  “I�
�m a licensed PI. My prints are on file with the cops. So I take precautions.”

  “You have done this kind of work before?”

  “A few times. You?”

  “More than a few. How much do you know?”

  “About what?”

  “About me. What did Mr. Walker tell you, and what have you learned on your own?”

  “He told me a bunch of bullshit. What I learned myself—zilch.”

  “And still you lie to me. Disappointing.”

  She was sure he was going to shock her again. She squeezed her eyes shut, waiting for the gag and the pain.

  There were many things she could have thought about—memories, regrets—but none of that mattered. The rest of her life was a daydream. Only the tub and the wires and the man holding the stun gun were real. This moment, nothing else. This interval between bouts of agony.

  “Pascal,” he said.

  Her eyes opened. “What?”

  “My name is Pascal. There, you see. I have shared.”

  “Mr. Pascal or Pascal somebody?”

  “You need call me only Pascal.”

  “Great. A one-name wonder. You’re not from around here, right?”

  “My father moved to Chile from France. I grew up in Santiago, hearing both French and Spanish in the house. My parents were wealthy. They disowned me. But on my own I have become wealthier still. I have a luxury apartment in Santiago and a villa in the foothills of the Andes.”

  “San Alfonso?”

  “Indeed.”

  “I saw the pics on your iPad. Looks nice. I’ll have to go there someday.”

  “You should.”

  “Maybe I’ll look you up. We can chat about old times. Like, remember the night you tortured me in a bathtub?”

  “You have spirit, Bonnie Parker. It is refreshing. But my time is limited. I must insist that you tell me what you know.”

  “You’ve been pretty insistent already.”

  “I can be much more so.”

  “Okay, okay. What Walker told me is that a drug cartel sicced you on him.”

  “A cartel?” He found this humorous.

  “That was the story.”

  “Perhaps it was. But he must have told you more than that, or you would not know his true identity. The name Jeffrey Walker is not the name he uses now.”

  “It’s the only name I know.”

  “I do not believe you.”

  “So kill me then. Just fucking kill me.”

  “Your death is not the point. Even your suffering is not the point. Only your cooperation is the point.”

  “I am cooperating. Think I’d hold out, after this?”

  “You might, if you were very stubborn—or very stupid. Or if you happen to have an unusually high tolerance for pain.”

  “I don’t.”

  “How unfortunate.” He reached for the foam wedge, drifting near her.

  “Wait. Wait! Don’t zap me again. Just give me a second to think, okay?”

  She hated the pleading hysteria in her voice. She wasn’t playing this as calmly as she might have hoped. Hell, he’d only shocked her twice so far, and already he was breaking her. How long could she manage to stall? One more shock? Two? Three? She would talk eventually. She would tell him everything. So what was the point in dragging it out? Tell him, and die. Just die.

  She stared into the water, the ripples glinting in the fluorescent light, and saw a sharper glint.

  On the floor of the tub, amid the pleats of the shower curtain—a gleam of metal. Her key ring.

  She’d stuck it in the side pocket of her jeans. He must not have checked her pockets. In the violence of the shock treatment the keys had been shaken free.

  He hadn’t seen them. They were blocked from his view by her body.

  The keys had serrated edges. They could saw through the tape binding her wrists.

  She slumped to one side, reaching for the keys without being obvious about it. He was watching her, but from his perspective she was only twisting her sore body in the tub.

  Her fingers touched metal.

  “Will you say his name for me?” Pascal asked. “Think about it, Miss Parker. Think about how much pain you are willing to endure, when you do not have to.”

  She needed to keep him from immobilizing her, at least long enough for her to get the keys into her hand. “You already know, don’t you? You know the name he’s using now?”

  “I do.”

  She snagged the key ring with her index finger. “Then why do you need me to say it?”

  “Only to prove that you hold nothing back.”

  Slowly she drew the keys toward her. “You expect me to buy that?”

  “I am not selling. And you are not in a position to negotiate.”

  The keys were up against her body now.

  “He called himself Jeffrey Walker,” she said firmly.

  Pascal sighed. “I will give you one more chance. Your client’s name?”

  She eased the keys behind her back, thinking hard. He must know the answer. Had to know. Otherwise why would he even be in town? Besides, Alan’s stalker had been following him, he said. Which meant Pascal had already located his quarry. Already knew where he worked and where he lived and who he was.

  That made sense, right? There was no hole in her logic. Right?

  “I grow weary, Miss Parker. Talk.”

  It had to be right because she needed more time. She took a breath. “Alan Kirby.”

  She saw the narrowing of his eyes, and cold doubt clamped down. She had a feeling that she’d miscalculated. That her tormentor really hadn’t known that crucial piece of information until this moment.

  “I appreciate your honesty,” he said. “What more did he tell you?”

  She maneuvered the keys into position, pressing the serrated edges against the tape on her wrists. “You’ve been stalking him.”

  “Have I?”

  “He snapped your picture in the Surfside Café.”

  “I have never been to such a place. And I have not been stalking Mr. Kirby.”

  “Bullshit. I saw the photo.”

  “As did I. I found it on your phone. But I arrived here only this evening. And that photograph was not taken by your client.”

  Crap.

  If Alan had lied to her about the stalking, then Pascal really hadn’t known his quarry’s new identity. It might have taken him days to discover it on his own. She’d handed it to him in minutes.

  Great going. Real slick. Way to get a family killed.

  But she couldn’t have known. Her goddamn client had lied to her.

  Carefully she began to rub them against the tape, up and down, in a steady sawing motion, trying not to move her shoulders too much. “If he didn’t take the pic, who did?”

  “Again I remind you,” he said with a smile, “that you do not ask the questions.”

  Damn, she wanted to knock that smile off his face. She sawed faster.

  “What more did he tell you?” he asked again.

  “Nothing.”

  “He knows about New York. That much is clear. But how much does he know?”

  “I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

  “Perhaps you have merely forgotten. Let me refresh your memory.”

  He forced the gag on her again. She clamped her jaws, unwilling to let him use it. He pried at her mouth. She shook her head back and forth, fighting him.

  Not this time, bastard. Not this time—

  With a smile, he slapped her across the cheek, a sudden stinging slap that startled her into opening her mouth. Then he was pushing the gag inside, forcing it deeper, until it clogged her mouth like a thick, sopping sponge. The sour taste of her own acid reflux clung to the wet foam.

  Her world lit up again. Her head snapped back, striking the tiles. Another storm blew through her body, a lightning storm that fried the nerve endings of her midsection, delivering wave after wave of crippling pain like a hernia.

  And it didn’t stop
. Didn’t ... stop. He was maintaining the contact longer, testing how much punishment she could take.

  Hate you, she thought. Hate you, hate you, hate you.

  Finally it ended. She opened her mouth and the gag fell out in two pieces. She’d bitten clean through it.

  She lay motionless, nearly submerged. Her legs were sprawled over the side of the tub, her body slumped lower, water cupping her chin. She thought she should lift her head out of the water, but the will to do it had gotten lost somewhere between her brain and the muscles of her body.

  Weightlessly she sank underwater, eyes closed, her body a sightless knot of pain. And she remembered the keys.

  Not in her hand anymore. She’d dropped them, lost them.

  She pressed her palms to the tub’s vinyl lining and groped blindly.

  A gloved fist clutched her hair and pulled her head out of the water. Her eyes opened. She saw her tormentor backlit by fluorescent glare.

  “Tell me what you know about New York.”

  “Jeez. Let a girl catch her breath, will you?”

  Her palm touched metal. The keys—she’d found them. She lifted the key ring into position, praying he didn’t notice the contortions of her wrists behind her back.

  “Tell me,” he said.

  “About New York? It’s the city that never sleeps. If you can make it there, you’ll make it anywhere.”

  She started cutting the tape again. It was fraying. She was sure it was.

  “No more witticisms. They grow tiresome.”

  She could free herself, given time. But Pascal wasn’t going to sit still for more delaying tactics. And if he shocked her again, she might lose the keys for good.

  “Okay,” she said. “I give. I’ll tell you everything I know. But it may not be enough.”

  “Allow me to be the judge of that.”

  “I met Kirby for the first time tonight. An hour ago. He told me a story about a local street gang and a drug cartel and a Colombian hit man. He wanted me to look into it and, if necessary, use extreme measures. It’s something I’m known to do on occasion. He paid me cash up front. It’s in my purse, twenty-five hundred bucks. Check and see. You think I usually carry that much dough around?”

  Keep talking. Keep doing anything as long as it kept his finger away from the stun gun’s trigger and gave her more time to split the tape.

  “And how did you know where to find me?” he asked, sounding interested for the first time.

  “He told me you were staying here.”

  “How did he know?”

  “He didn’t say.” She didn’t want to get the motel manager killed.

  “And you did not ask, of course.”

  “I assumed he tailed you. It’s what I would’ve done.”