Heartless: a Derek Cole Mystery Suspense Thriller (Derek Cole Suspense Thriller Book 1)

by T Patrick Phelps

  There was silence at both ends of the phone line while the doctors at Saint Stevens avoided looking into another’s eyes. No one knew what to ask, yet all had thousands of questions. Mark Rinaldo broke the silence after the silence entered its second full minute.

  “Super-charged cells? This includes all cells?”

  “It appears so,” Straus answered.

  Mark fell silent again. As each word came out of the small, black speaker sitting on the desk of his office, Mark fell deeper into the realization that his sleep would be affected for a long time to come. “Even Alexander,” he thought wryly, “will be getting more sleep than me.”

  Besides the conference call and the questions it raised, Mark was also thoughtful and worried about Henry Zudak, who hadn’t been back to work since Alexander was born. Stanley told Mark that Henry was suffering from severe headaches and night terrors. Mark was worried because of the intense concern he saw in Peter’s eyes.

  “How bad are the dreams?” Mark asked Stanley a few days after Henry informed Mark that he needed some time off.

  “I guess that they are pretty bad. Very realistic. They’re really doing a number on him. He looks like he hasn’t slept in weeks. I gave him some Valium hoping that the drug would help calm him down. He keeps saying that ‘eyes’ are coming after him.”

  Mark wasn’t seeing any “eyes” in his dreams, only memories, which were bad enough. And as Mark sat in the conference room listening to Straus rattle off his findings on Alexander, he began to wonder if he would ever see Henry Zudak deliver another child again.

  “There are a few other findings,” Straus called out from the black speaker, interrupting Mark’s thoughts and the silence of the conference room. “I did some muscular tests and found that the patient’s strength is quite exceptional for an six-day-old infant. His reflexes are quick and responsive, and his cartilage has already begun transforming to bone. As with all his other cells, both his muscular and skeletal cells are ‘super-charged.’ No decay, self-replenishing, and with the potential to grow in strength as the patient matures.”

  The long pause that followed had all the doctors at Saint Stevens staring at the speakerphone. The hundred plus years of education in the room couldn’t ask one single question. They wondered what they could ask about something that they were not yet convinced was real. A quick crackle sounded through the speaker, sending a bolt of excited and startled energy through Mark and his team.

  “The last thing I want to say, believe it or not, is perhaps the most difficult fact to understand and to accept. He can talk. Not words, mind you, not yet anyway. But he can use his vocal chords. We have no idea how he can do this without his lung performing while he is awake, but he can. He’s done this on several occasions. The first time almost scared us to death. In order for Alex to speak, he must become perfectly still. I have some theories that may explain this ability, but I won’t share them until I run some more tests.”

  “Doctor Straus? Peter Adams here. I have a quick question. You said that his cells have a life expectancy of around thirty years. Are you saying that he will live for thirty years? I guess I didn’t quite understand what you were saying.”

  “Not for certain. The tests do indicate that the cells will lose their ability to transfer energy after thirty years, but we can’t say for sure. We tested his cells after each of his sleep episodes and found that they lose some transfer ability. An incredibly small amount of loss, but loss nonetheless. Remember, he has only fallen asleep twice so we don’t have enough data to really be accurate. Also, we don’t think he can produce new cells, so whatever we take out, we have to put back. Not sure if the cells we put back continue to function. We certainly don’t want to cause permanent damage by removing too many cells. Could be a very delicate balance. Again, his cells do show indications of an ability to adapt and evolve as needed. I simply cannot say for sure how long Alex will live.”

  “Excuse me, Doctor Stanley Mix here. You said that the child could be dangerous when he grows up. What did you mean by that?”

  “If he has a negative disposition, his retained knowledge and exceptional strength could be dangerous to anyone who tried to outsmart him or overpower him. Just speculation on my part, Doctor.”

  “Are you going to be able to keep him in a safe area, just in case?” Stanley asked as his mind relived a retained image of Michelle’s face.

  “I can assure you that my facility will retain the child until it becomes impossible to do so. If that day comes, I have a private lodge up North to which I could make some renovations and keep the child up there. I’m looking at this as a full-term endeavor. I’m not going to give up on this child until I find out everything there is to find out, or, God forbid, he passes on.”

  “Some of us may want to visit Alexander from time to time. Can that be arranged?” Mark asked while staring directly at Stanley, asking with his eyes if he thought Henry would benefit from a visit with Alexander.

  “I was going to invite you all up myself,” the pride filled voice of William Straus answered back. “Come anytime. By the time you come, I’m sure that we will have more information for you. Then, we can discuss Alexander face to face, doctors to doctors. There is truly nothing I would enjoy more than to have all of you visit my Center. Come anytime.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  2014

  Derek stared blankly into his client’s eyes. Searching to see a hint of something that would let Derek know that either the story he had just heard was the ramblings of an insane person, a joke organized by some members of a police force somewhere in the country or was actually a very bizarre and nearly impossible to understand truth.

  “You’re telling me that your twin brother and you were born joined together and that the only heart you two were using is inside of your chest right now?”

  “Yes, I swear that’s the truth,” Thomas said.

  “And you’re also expecting me to believe that your twin brother, the one that got the short end of the surgery stick, is not only still alive after twenty-two years, but that he killed three people and can’t be located by the local police?”

  “Look,” Thomas said, his impatience growing. “I know this sounds like I am making it all up or that I’m crazy, but as God as my witness, it’s all true. Doesn’t the fact that I paid you over three grand already prove anything?”

  “Only that you may have some spare money lying around.”

  “If I am agreeing to pay you your full fee, which I am, does it really matter to you if you are chasing a figment of my imagination or not? I mean, all I ask is that you help me find my brother and keep my parents and me safe. If you discover that I am making this whole story up, then you just walk away with my money and no damage done. Hell, I’ll even advance you another ten grand if you need more proof that I’m serious.”

  Derek kept staring deeply into Thomas’s eyes. He sensed something that told him that the story was true, but he also sensed he wasn’t getting the whole story.

  “Where are your parents now?”

  “Probably still in the air. They are flying to the Bahamas.”

  “So unless your brother is on that plane, sounds to me like they are nice and safe right where they are.”

  “For now, yes. But not if we don’t stop my brother. Eventually, he will find them.”

  “Curious about one thing. Actually, I’m curious about a whole lot of things, but one in particular. Why aren’t you not looking over your shoulder every three seconds?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You told me that you felt you needed me to provide protection for you and for your parents, but here you are, sitting in a public park and the only thing you seem concerned about is getting me to believe your story. Curious.”

  Thomas shook his head and readjusted his body on the park bench. “I hired you for your protection. If I don’t feel safe when I am two feet from you, then I may have made a poor hiring decision.”

  “Okay. Good answer. I’ll acce
pt that,” Derek said, his response mixed with embarrassment and lingering doubt.

  “Well?” Thomas asked. “Will you help me or not? Just say the word and I’ll arrange the money to be transferred today.”

  “Where was the murder scene? I guess I should start there.”

  “Piseco Lake, up in the Adirondack Mountains of New York.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Police Chief Ralph Fox arrived at the crime scene a full seven hours after the bodies were discovered. Officer Wayne White called him from the scene and told him that he had better cut his vacation short and get back to Piseco Lake. Ralph was in the middle of a lobster dinner that he had bought fresh from the Maine Seafood Market when the telephone in his rented beach house sounded. He had been in Ogunquit for only two of his seven-day vacation and let Ken White know about it.

  “You better be calling me for something damn right important, officer,” he barked in his displaced Texas drawl. “I ain’t had no vacation in five years, and I ain’t ready to call this one off, yet. So, what you got to say better be damn important.”

  “Chief, we got a murder. Actually, three. Single crime scene.”

  The stress in Wayne White’s voice was abundantly obvious. Ralph had only been the Chief of Police for the town of Arietta New York for six months and didn’t know his officers all that well yet. But the stress and fear, mixed with some dark excitement, was clearly coming through Wayne’s voice.

  “Murder?” Ralph questioned, forcing a butter-soaked piece of lobster tail down to his stomach. “Are you breaking my balls?”

  “Three bodies, laying right here in the same room I’m talking to you from.”

  “Y’all got the killer in the next room, or do we have to go chasing him through those damn woods?”

  “We don’t have anyone. Hate to ask, I know you needed this vacation, but...”

  “I’m on my way.”

  Ralph dropped his fork, packed his bags and left the beach house and a half-eaten Maine pounder behind. He figured six hours of “police chief allowed speed driving” if the traffic wasn’t too bad would get him back to Piseco Lake. Seven hours if other vacationers were also leaving abruptly.

  When he walked into the log cabin style lodge, several people were barking out what they had found, their suspicions of who the killer was, and apologies for him losing his vacation.

  Ralph Fox was a lawman who had seen too much during his twenty-plus years in the business. As a Detective in Dallas, Texas, Ralph had seen what he thought to be everything there was to see. The stress of his Texas job caused him a heart attack at age forty-four, as well as two divorces, three weeks on probation for excessive force, an ability to drink massive quantities of beer, a bulging stomach, and a need to get out of Texas. While he was visiting a high school friend who lived in Staten Island, Ralph learned that there was an opening for police chief for the small, upstate town. Without hesitation, he quit his job in Texas, submitted his resume for the position and moved to Speculator, New York, a small town nine miles north of Piseco Lake.

  Ralph was offered the position of Chief of Police and took office two weeks later. He made no drastic changes with the office or to his staff, which consisted of four part-time officers, one full-time sergeant, an office manager and an eighty-four-year-old custodian. He immediately enjoyed the slowed-down pace of his new law position and never imagined that he would walk into a big city style murder.

  As he walked behind Officer Wayne White through the lodge and into the dorm-like structure attached to the rear of the lodge, Ralph’s keen eyes searched the scene for anything that could be considered a clue. When he passed the fireplace and saw that there were ashes in it, he stopped walking.

  “Anyone have the sense to go through that fireplace?” he gently said to Wayne White, who hadn’t realized that the chief had stopped following him and was still talking about how he felt when he first walked into the room with the bodies.

  “Yes sir. Looks like someone burned papers in there,” Wayne said.

  “Anything left in that pile of ashes?” Ralph asked, in a slow, patient voice.

  “All looks pretty burned up to me.”

  “Do you carry a comb or a brush on yourself, officer?” he asked with his eyes fixed on the fireplace.

  “Huh?” the officer answered, still unsure of Ralph’s question.

  “What do you carry, comb or brush?”

  “Neither. I got a crew cut.”

  “Well then go and find a bathroom and see if you can’t find yourself a comb in there.”

  “Is my hair out of place?” Wayne asked, bewildered by the chief’s order.

  “Nope. Not at all. I just want you to go get a comb, bring it back here, and go through this fireplace with it. I don’t like to assume that there ain’t no clues left anywhere’s. Make sure the comb is a fine-toothed one. I’ll find my way to the bodies. You come and get me when you either find something or are damn sure there ain’t nothing to find. You hear?”

  “Yes, sir,” Wayne answered. “Uh, sir? I don’t really have to go find a comb, do I?”

  “Get on your knees and start digging through that pile of ashes,” Ralph ordered, overemphasizing his Texas drawl.

  Ralph needed to steel himself before walking into the room with the victims. He had seen gruesome murder scenes before but realized that he was not fully ready to see another. As he entered the room, filled with four officers, the county coroner, a photographer, and three lifeless bodies, Ralph felt his heart skip an important beat. His back found a wall to lean against as he calmed himself by whispering to himself a song he wrote when he was sixteen.

  “Texas women are all the same

  Ain’t got no need to have a name.

  Just give me one to call my own

  And my broken heart will finally be sewn.”

  As he finished his song, Ralph found his legs again. He walked around the bodies as the deputies started with their questions.

  “What do you think, chief?” an officer asked.

  “We ain’t never seen anything like this before up here,” another one added.

  “I guess that you have seen stuff like this before, huh, chief?”

  “Yes boys, I have seen this before,” Ralph replied, thankful that his voice was operational. “And this is what I need everyone to do. Everyone leave the room and wait outside until I call you in here. Everyone but the coroner, whose name I cannot remember.”

  “Germane Tamorssi. Nice to meet you again, chief. I only wish we could be meeting at a fund raiser instead of here.”

  “Me, too. Okay, everyone else out and don’t go out of hearing range.”

  As the room emptied, Ralph was alone with Germane Tamorssi and the three dead bodies. He turned to the coroner while staring at each body individually. He learned from his days in Texas that emotions have no place in an investigation. He stared at the bodies as if they were clues and nothing more.

  “Okay, tell me about this one,” Ralph said as he pointed to the hat donor.

  “His name is Roger Fay. He’s a yearly.”

  “What’s that? A yearly?” Ralph asked, puzzled by both the term and the coroners Northern accent.

  “That’s what we call people who live up here year round. We got the summersets and the yearly’s. His name is Roger Fay. Lives over in a trailer near Higgins Bay.”

  “Y’all have some strange terms up here,” Ralph said.

  The rumors that Ralph was crazy were well known in the town of Arietta. Someone heard that he had snapped while down in Texas and probably brought his insanity up north with him. Despite that possibility, the folks in the town were glad to have Ralph on their side. So after Ralph’s comment, Germane Tamorssi took a small step back and peered at him quizzically.

  “They’re only strange if you’re not a local. Anyway, cause of death is obviously a knife wound to the neck. He was killed outside against a tree and then carried in here. His neighbors said that Roger used to walk down this street every day. He w
as probably just walking past the center when the killer was doing his deeds. Wrong place, wrong time.”

  “Where are his shoes?” Ralph asked, noticing that Roger Fay was dead in blood-soaked socks.

  “Neighbors tell us that they saw him wearing a black cowboy hat and cowboy boots. Both are missing.”

  “Sounds like we have a description of what the killer is wearing, huh?”

  “Probably. This one,” Germane said, pointing to the body of Doctor Jacob Curtis, “had his heart ripped out. Chest and everything just ripped through. The heart is over there in that bag,” he said, motioning with his head to a bloodied, clear plastic bag. “His name is Doctor Jacob Curtis. Lives in Manhattan. From what his associates down in the city say, he came up here almost every weekend to work with the owner of this lodge.”