Cold Around the Heart

by Michael Prescott

  “Good-bye, my dearest,” Pascal whispered.

  A sound escaped her, an animal wail.

  “Take off my glove,” he said, every word an audible strain. “Flesh on flesh.”

  Obediently she peeled off the black leather glove and cast it aside, then entwined her fingers with his.

  “It is good,” Pascal said, “to feel your touch.”

  Now it was not only his hands that were cold, but his whole body. His blood was a river of ice, his skin a carpet of snow. The gray light of winter was settling over his vision, leaving him in a frigid twilight. Even the breath in his lungs was cold, breath that choked him until he coughed it up in a red mist.

  He shivered. His teeth clacked. That was not good. It might be mistaken for fear. He looked at Mariana, trying to tell her that he was not afraid, but she was not there.

  Nothing was there.

  ***

  Bonnie watched, unimpressed, as Mariana knelt by Pascal, lying limp and pale in the aisle, his chest shuddering. She hugged him, rocking his body in her slim, shaking arms. Bonnie waited until she was sure that the movement was purely the woman’s and that Pascal had stopped moving for good.

  Then she leaned in and plucked his wallet from his back pocket. Silently she began counting out $2500 in large bills.

  Mariana stared up at her with the purest hatred she had ever seen. “What are you doing?”

  “Getting paid.”

  When she had tallied up two grand with plenty more to go, she decided to stop counting and just take it all. Screw it, a job like this had to have some perks.

  She stuffed the bills into her pocket and tossed the wallet aside, then crouched by Pascal and ran her hands over his body, checking the damage. She found no exit wounds. The two .22 rounds had tumbled inside him, tearing up his vital organs. That was good on two counts. One, it had made him die faster, and like a scorpion who could sting with its last twitch, he was harmless only when he was dead. Two, it meant there was no damage to the plane. The crate could still fly, once the pilot woke up. And she wanted the plane out of here. If it stayed, there would be questions that neither she nor Alan Kirby wanted to answer.

  Mariana was still on her knees, weeping over her lover.

  “Cry me a river,” Bonnie muttered. She grabbed the woman by her shoulder, not gently. “Out. We’re leaving now.”

  Mariana shook her head, not in refusal but in sorrow and disbelief. “You knew? You knew?”

  “Like I keep telling people, I have a way of figuring things out. Sometimes it takes me a little longer than it ought to. But the note you left—it told the story.”

  “The note said nothing about my past.”

  “No, but the handwriting matched the poem your lover-boy had been carrying around as a keepsake.”

  Mariana looked down at Pascal’s lifeless body. “You kept my poem?” she whispered fondly. “Kept it all these years?”

  “Yeah, he was the last of the great romantics. Anyway, that’s when I knew he wasn’t on a paid assignment. He never wanted to hurt you. He just wanted you back.”

  “If you knew all that, why come here? Why not let me go with him?”

  “Because he didn’t deserve happiness. And neither do you.” She gave Mariana’s shoulder another tug. “Get up.”

  Listlessly she obeyed. Bonnie pushed her ahead and followed, toting the carbine, with Pascal’s Beretta wedged in her waistband.

  Outside, the pilot was beginning to stir. She disarmed him, just on general principles, and kept walking.

  The rain still hadn’t let up. It mixed with the tears streaking Mariana’s face.

  “Cut it out,” Bonnie said, irritated. “Pull yourself together.”

  Mariana looked away. Bonnie jerked her around and slapped her.

  “Fucking quit it,” she snapped.

  “I can’t even cry for him?”

  “That’s right, sister. No tears for killer.”

  “You’re a killer. Maybe there’ll be no tears for you when you die.”

  “I’m not expecting any.”

  The SUV was unlocked. Bonnie took a moment to check the interior. Castoffs from Pascal’s surgical supplies littered the passenger seat. On the backseat was her handbag, with her wallet inside. She wondered whether Pascal had left it for her to find, or as a gift for the police, a way to make her life more complicated.

  She retrieved the purse but took care to touch nothing else in the Lexus. She couldn’t leave any fingerprints here. The cops would be all over this scene like stink on a monkey.

  Actually, she was pretty much counting on that.

  “I do have cancer, you know,” Mariana said as they left the runway, heading for the Jeep. “It’s in remission, but it will return.”

  “Yeah, so I figured.”

  “We would not have had more than a year or two together. Perhaps much less. And you couldn’t allow us even that?”

  “Sorry, sweetie. Guess I’m not that sentimental. Besides, there’s the little matter of your husband. Remember him? Dweeby guy, kind of a loser, but he means well?”

  “What about him? I never loved him. I married him only out of gratitude. Or pity.”

  “Or pragmatism, seeing as how you were deathly ill, and you needed someone to lean on.”

  “It’s not that I don’t appreciate what he did.”

  “Sure, you appreciated the hell out of it, but that wouldn’t stop you from leaving him high and dry as soon as your old flame made a reappearance. When I told you the hit man was named Pascal, your little heart must’ve gone pittypat, huh?”

  “I didn’t need to hear his name. As soon as you said he was from Chile—I knew.”

  “Well, like you said, the heart has its reasons, no matter how fucked up they might be.”

  “You’re an evil, unfeeling bitch.”

  “Yeah, I get that a lot.”

  They reached the Jeep. Mariana slid in on the passenger side, Bonnie got behind the wheel, donning her beret for the first time in hours.

  She started the engine and pulled away, using her headlights this time.

  “You don’t understand,” Mariana said, her tone a curious mixture of petulance and grief. “You think he was a monster. He wasn’t. He was a sensitive man with an artistic soul. A connoisseur and a gentleman.”

  “Yeah, he was a peach. And you were his lady love—the one who liked pain.”

  “He told you about that?”

  “It came up in conversation.”

  “I felt shame. And fear. Fear of what I was, or what I might become. That’s why I left him. I returned to Colombia and organized the farmers. Not out of idealism. I wanted … redemption.”

  “I’m betting you didn’t find it.”

  “I didn’t need it. I only needed to accept the truth about myself. Now I have. And so have you, I think. You’re cruel, aren’t you? Like me. Like him."

  Bonnie didn’t answer.

  “You’re cruel,” Mariana said again. “You could have let me go with him to Chile. He has a home in the mountains. We would have lived in isolation, bothering nobody.”

  “Yeah, it would’ve been a fairy-tale love story, all right. Lancelot and Guinevere in their magic castle. Except for the part about Herb and Amy being dead. And Alan and the kid—what were Prince Charming’s plans for them?”

  “When I reached him on the phone, I insisted he must not hurt them.”

  “Sure, you never wanted to hurt anybody. And your boyfriend’s not evil, just misunderstood.”

  “Why do you even care? You did all this for my husband? Do you even like him?”

  “Not really.”

  “Then ... why?”

  “Because he tried to do something decent. He put it all on the line for you. It was stupid as hell, and it backfired big-time, but he still thinks it was worth it, because he’s married to a fucking saint. He doesn’t see what a stone cold bitch you are. Love is blind that way. So you’re gonna go back to him and make him happy. You’re gonna be a faith
ful, loving wife, and never breathe a word about Pascal.”

  “You want me to live a lie?”

  “Why not? You’ve had plenty of practice.”

  “You should have let us go,” Mariana said in a voice so low it was almost a moan.

  “Save it, princess.” Bonnie lit a cigarette. “This fairy tale has a different ending.”

  CHAPTER 37

   

  The rain had slowed to a steady drizzle and the eastern horizon was brightening with dawn when Bonnie’s Jeep pulled up to Des’s house. She checked the time on Sammy’s broken screen. It was exactly six AM.

  Just about twelve hours ago she’d been eating scallops at the Main Street Diner. She thought about that as Alan came running out of the house. He paused on the porch just long enough to spot Mariana in the passenger seat, then bounded down the wheelchair ramp.

  “Get in character, honey,” Bonnie said with a nudge in Mariana’s ribs. “And remember—you’re happy to be here.”

  She wasn’t too worried about the woman’s performance. With Pascal dead, Alan was the only man she had left. She’d married him because she needed him. Well, she needed him again.

  Then Alan was at the door of the Jeep, tugging it open, pulling his wife into his arms, clutching her tight. The two of them stood in the rain, locked in a tight embrace.

  “I thought I’d lost you,” he was saying. “I thought I’d never see you again.”

  On the porch, Desmond rolled into view, observing the scene without visible reaction. She had a good idea how he was feeling. He’d recognized the handwriting too.

  “Did he hurt you?” Alan asked.

  “No.”

  “And he’s …?”

  Mariana hesitated. “Dead,” she whispered. She was crying again, but that was all right. To Alan they would be tears of relief.

  Bonnie found the whole spectacle more than a little sickening. She was afraid those scallops might make a return appearance if she watched any more of it. She climbed out of the Jeep and joined Desmond on the porch.

  “There they are,” he said, “the happy couple.”

  “Yeah. Ain’t love grand?”

  “I’m still surprised you went after her, knowing what you knew.”

  “Sometimes I surprise myself.”

  “I take it hubby still doesn’t suspect.”

  “Nope. And he never will.” She shrugged. “I almost admire stupidity like that.”

  “How does Mrs. Kirby feel about things?”

  “Let’s put it this way. Those aren’t tears of joy on her face.”

  “You could have let Pascal get away, I suppose.”

  “No, I couldn’t. Some men just need killing. He was one of them.”

  “Simple as that?”

  “Yeah, Des. For me, it’s as simple as that.”

  Alan and Mariana approached, arm in arm. Alan wore a bemused, almost beatific smile. Mariana’s face was slack, her eyes vacant.

  “How long do we have, you think?” Alan asked as he climbed the ramp.

  Bonnie didn’t get it. “Come again?”

  “Until they send another one after us. The Colombians.”

  “Oh, I don’t think you’ll have to worry about that. Turns out Pascal was working freelance. The Colombians didn’t hire him. Nobody did. So there shouldn’t be any other bad guys in your future.”

  “You mean—we don’t have to keep running? We can stay here?”

  “You can stay. Pascal wouldn’t have given his info to anybody else. And since Herb and Amy were the only ones who knew about you, the trail is cold.”

  Alan bowed his head, a humble, almost boyish reaction. “You’ve given us everything.”

  “Yes,” Mariana echoed coldly. “Everything.”

  Bonnie smiled at her. “Just seeing you two together is my reward. Well, that plus my balloon payment. You’ll be getting a bill. A damn big one.” She caught Mariana’s glare and added cheerfully, “What can I say? I’m just a working girl.”

  Alan led his wife inside. Bonnie looked at Desmond.

  “You get any sleep tonight?” she asked.

  “No more than you. I suggest we both take a good long snooze.”

  She turned away, staring into the rainy dawn. “Nice thought. But I got something else I gotta do.”

  “Can’t it wait?”

  “No. I don’t think it can.”

  It was true, what she’d told him. Some men just needed killing.

  And there was still one left.

  CHAPTER 38

   

  First things first. She needed the .38 in her safe.

  She drove home, parking at the curb because she didn’t expect to be inside long. The sun was rising through the drizzle, making another glorious Jersey morning. Mrs. Biggs was probably up already. Her day seemed to start around the time the birds woke up.

  Bonnie entered the house and went immediately to her bedroom, where she retrieved the murder gun, snug in its Ziploc bag. The bag went into her fanny pack under her poncho, along with a pair of gloves and a folded-up garbage bag.

  Time to go. She retraced her steps through the house, opened the door, and frowned.

  “Crap.”

  Two of Brighton Cove’s finest stood in the doorway. Apparently they’d been just about to knock.

  A black-and-white Dodge Charger bearing roof lights and the seal of the Brighton Cove PD was double-parked alongside her Jeep. No doubt the prowl car had been hiding in the alley across the street while the cops awaited her return.

  She recognized them as Hendrys and Jepson, whom she thought of as Heckel and Jeckel. Both of them were tall, broad-shouldered, crew-cut, and dull. Taking their cue from Maguire, they’d never been friendly toward her, which was probably why they’d been put on stakeout duty near her house.

  “Yo, guys,” she said.

  “Ms. Parker,” Heckel said in that unsmiling, judgmental way cops had, “the chief would like to talk with you.”

  “Didn’t realize he was so lonely. You should tell him to get a pen pal or something.”

  “We need you to come with us,” Jeckel said.

  “Is refusal an option?”

  “It wouldn’t be advisable,” Heckel said.

  She wasn’t entirely surprised. Dan had made it pretty clear he suspected her of involvement in whatever had gone down in the motel. And in his haste to depart, Pascal could easily have left something of hers behind. She only hoped it was something she could explain away.

  She also hoped the cops didn’t think of searching the Jeep. Pascal’s Beretta and the pilot’s sidearm were both hidden under a blanket in the backseat. For that matter, if they gave her a patdown, they’d find the fanny pack under her poncho, bearing the gun that killed Jacob Hart.

  All in all, the timing could have been better.

  “Fair enough,” she said. “Thing is, I don’t like sitting in the backseat of a patrol car. Makes me feel like a felon. Mind if I follow you there?” They exchanged glances. “I won’t skip out on you. Scout’s honor.”

  Jeckel shrugged. “You can drive yourself. But no funny business.”

  No funny business? Was the department recruiting cops from the 1940s now?

  She got behind the wheel and followed the Dodge, while surreptitiously undoing the fanny pack. When it was free, she shoved it under the seat. Now if they patted her down, they wouldn’t find anything but baby fat.

  The police station was an ugly-ass brick building off Main, situated next to the firehouse, where a sign in the shape of a giant thermometer charted fundraising progress toward the purchase of a new engine. Her two uniformed buddies escorted her to a small conference room that doubled as an interrogation room on those rare occasions when there was anybody worth interrogating. Like now, for instance.

  She sat in the straight-back chair, leaving her poncho on and letting it drip on the floor. With any luck, it would mildew the carpet. Then again, judging by the smell in here, the damage was already done.

&nbs
p; “He’ll be with you in a minute,” Jeckel said.

  “Just sit tight,” Heckel said.

  “And don’t try anything,” Jeckel said.

  “I was hoping to try parasailing this weekend. Are you saying that’s out?”

  Heckel and Jekyll seemed confused by the inquiry. They didn’t answer, merely left the room, shutting the door. Hard.

  The thud of the door in the frame reminded her of what Lizbeth had told her about Dan Maguire—how much he’d enjoyed slamming the door on his long-suffering dog.

  Bonnie had no doubt he’d take even greater pleasure in slamming a cell door on her.

  ***

  Dan Maguire had a good feeling about this. He was pretty damn sure that itch of his was about to get scratched.

  The hat was the key. Evie Papadopoulos, roused from slumber, had reluctantly identified it as an item she’d sold Bonnie Parker a couple of months ago. A sales slip in her files confirmed it. Evie was a bear about recordkeeping.

  Dan had given a lot of thought to how he would play the interview with Parker. He needed to catch her in a lie, just once. Then he would have the leverage to extract some admissions. He would get her to say she’d been in room thirty-two of the Coach House last night. Once he’d placed her at the scene, he would grill her until she told him everything that had gone down, or until she lawyered up.

  He let her stew in the interrogation room for a good ten minutes. Too bad the room didn’t come equipped with a two-way mirror or a hidden camera. He would have liked to watch that bitch sweat.

  She had to be feeling the heat now. He’d been after her for months, and finally he was closing in.

  When he couldn’t wait any longer, he picked up a large paper bag that he’d kept in his office and marched down the hall to the interrogation room. He opened the door and found her with her feet up on the table and a cigarette in her hand, blowing smoke rings at the ceiling.

  “There’s no smoking in this building,” he said.

  “Could’ve fooled me. I’ve been smoking like a chimney for the past five minutes.”

  “Put it out, Parker.”

  She stubbed out the cigarette on the table, leaving a circular burn mark.

  “And put your goddamned feet on the floor.” He glared at her. “Your father may have raised you to be an outlaw, but I’m setting the rules now.”

  “You mean you want to be my daddy?”

  “Parker—”