J.T. Ellison

by The Cold Room (v5) (epub)

  When they came up for air, she realized her cell phone was vibrating in her pocket.

  “Whoops. I better get this,” she said. Still insinuated between Baldwin’s legs, she fumbled the phone and nearly dropped it. She didn’t recognize the number.

  She answered it with a brisk, “Taylor Jackson.”

  There was no sound, just a deep emptiness. Dread immediately paraded into her system. There was only one person who was making calls to her without saying anything.

  She started to hang the phone up, heard whispering. She put the phone back to her ear.

  “Did you hear me? I’m coming for you, Taylor.”

  The Pretender. What in the name of hell was this guy up to?

  She was feeling reckless. After everything that had happened today, she felt like she had nothing more to lose. Her temper flared.

  “You want me? Well, come and get me, you son of a bitch.” She slammed the phone closed. Every nerve was on fire; she felt more alive than she had in years. She refused to let this creep slink around in the back of her mind anymore. She’d opened the door. With any luck, she would push him through.

  Baldwin knew immediately what had happened; she could read the anger on his face.

  “Taylor, was that the wisest—”

  She slapped her hand on the concrete, painfully scraping her palm. She jerked her hand back, inspected the cut. She sucked a tiny drop of blood off her wrist and got quiet.

  “Baldwin, I can’t stand it. He’s out there, and he wants me for something. So let’s push his buttons and see how he feels for a while. It’s ridiculous that I have to look over my shoulder, waiting to see where and who he’s going to kill next. No, damn it. I’m sick of being manipulated, of being on my guard against everything and everyone. I want this done. I’m going to let him have a taste of what it means to tangle with me.”

  “Do you think he’s nearby?”

  “No. He’s not ready. I doubt he’ll be giving me a heads-up.”

  She started to walk away. He caught her hand, turned her to face him roughly. “I won’t lose you, Taylor.”

  She stood tall, looked him deep in his green eyes. “Trust me, Baldwin, you won’t. But if I live my life a minute longer waiting to see what he’s going to do, I’ll drive myself mad. I’m not happy sitting back, waiting and seeing. That’s not me. If I could be more proactive, actually hunt his ass down, trust me, I would do that. I’ll do whatever it takes. You’re just going to have to trust me.”

  “I’ve been a little short on trust lately. I know. I’m sorry.”

  “Are you talking about Memphis? Don’t be a fool. He’s nothing to me.”

  “But you’re not nothing to him, Taylor. He’s head over heels in love with you. In lust with you—my God, I can practically hear his hormones shift into overdrive when your name comes up.”

  She fingered her ring, stifling a smile. She loved it when he acted jealous.

  “Oh, John. You are the one and only man for me. Don’t you know that?”

  She swore she saw something move in the depths of his eyes. His kiss took her breath away. When he broke free, his voice was hoarse.

  “You’ve never called me John before.”

  She didn’t say anything, just kissed him again. When they came up for air, she tangled her fingers in his hair.

  “How’s this for irony. I guess you have Memphis to thank for that. He asked me why I don’t call you John. I didn’t have a good answer for him. So I thought I’d try it out.”

  “Let’s keep it for special occasions, then. I don’t think I could ever get tired of hearing you say it.” He was quiet for a moment. “As a matter of fact, I’ll make you a deal. The next time you call me John, it will be in front of a priest.”

  She looked at him and he smiled.

  “We need to talk about when we’re going to get married.”

  She kissed him lightly on the lips. “Now’s not the time. But soon. Soon, honey. I promise. We have more pressing matters at hand. Let’s go catch the twins.”

  They left the bridge. The hotel was only a hundred yards up the street; they were inside in less than five minutes. They took the elevator to the third floor, collected their key. Their room was two floors up but they took the stairs.

  She didn’t want to admit that her skin crawled the entire time.

  Monday

  Forty-Two

  Daybreak came much too early for Gavin. He and Tommaso has been on the run for three hours, first driving out of Florence under cover of darkness, then winding their way into the Florentine hills to a little stone cottage with no electricity or running water. Tommaso’s discovery of Gavin’s mistakes in Nashville had spurred their desperation—the desire to get as far away as possible was stymied by the fact that Tommaso knew that by now, they might have photographs of the brothers. They couldn’t travel right away, but he said he had a room in London that they could escape to if they could find a way past the border. He didn’t think it had been compromised.

  Spewing invectives, Tommaso had driven his tiny ten-year-old Renault up the hill to the cottage. They dropped all their gear—food, blankets, candles—in the rustic hideout, then Tommaso and Gavin drove the car five miles away and dumped it down an embankment, covered it with broken branches and tall grass. Then they hiked back to the cottage, trying to obscure their footprints on the dusty road. They saw no one outside of a cow, and Tommaso assured Gavin they would be safe.

  This was his safe house, his laboratory, his world. It had served him well for all the years he’d been killing, and would serve to shelter them now.

  Gavin’s exhaustion was dragging him under. Tommaso took pity on him, allowed him to curl next to the cold, damp fireplace—a fire wouldn’t do, someone might notice the smoke rising—and let him sleep.

  He woke when Tommaso shook his shoulder, knew he couldn’t have been asleep for more than an hour or two. Little bits of sunlight streamed in onto the tiled floor. It was morning.

  “I have a present for you,” Tommaso said. His smile was luminous, the transgressions of the night before seemed to be forgiven.

  Gavin stretched and yawned, covering his mouth. He tasted wrong, somehow, though it wasn’t an external cause. He knew he needed to brush his teeth and eradicate the sense of failure he’d been exhaling for the past hours. He followed Tommaso out of the tiny bedroom and stopped, all worry forgotten.

  She was lying on the rough-hewn slab of wood that passed for a kitchen table. Her body was small, almost birdlike, her fine bones fragile, the skin so pale that Gavin could see the tracing of her veins. Next to her, Tommaso glowed with an almost effervescent beauty, standing so still he looked like a marble Adonis of barely human proportions.

  “Do you want her?” Tommaso asked.

  “It’s your doll. You sent me her picture. Oh, Tommaso, she’s so beautiful.”

  “She’s our doll now.”

  Gavin’s need overwhelmed him. He’d never had one so clear, so pure. His usual type was dark-skinned; he’d never loved a white girl before. The girl’s tiny buds of breasts were unmoving and shone pink against her alabaster skin. Her pubis was covered in a downy blondness, like the fuzz of a baby chick. Her emaciated frame seemed to cry for his embrace. The deep purple bruises on her neck were a necklace of need and love, of remorse and forgiveness. Tommaso had done this for him.

  He touched his brother on the shoulder, then stood with him, side by side. They were both shivering. “I brought her for you, Gavin. I wanted to give you the best of me. I’ve always dreamt of us together, as one, sharing. I’m so sorry for the way I acted last night.”

  “What is her name?” Gavin gasped. He ran his fingers along the inside of the girl’s arm, tracing where the blood no longer flowed.

  “I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. She is yours. She is ours.”

  Forty-Three

  Taylor and Baldwin walked into the carabinieri station to meet with Luigi Folarni at 8:00 a.m. local time. Memphis was with them, sulky and
quiet. They’d shared breakfast at the hotel—salami and ham and crusty bread, cheeses and croissants with fresh jam, cappuccinos. Memphis had come to breakfast wearing his sunglasses; Taylor could smell the raw reek of day-old alcohol on his breath. She couldn’t judge, she’d used drink to get herself to sleep before. As they left the hotel for the carabinieri station she surreptitiously handed him a stick of gum. He accepted it with a weak smile.

  Folarni greeted them like old friends, had more cappuccino brought.

  “I have very good news,” he said, beaming. “We have made progress from last evening. We have an address to look at. The photographer’s residenza matches the billing address for the computer’s IP address. The photographs were on the news this morning. We had many, many phone calls about this case. The people of Florence want to help catch II Macellaio! There was a tassista, ah, how do you say?” He looked at Baldwin.

  “Taxi driver,” Baldwin answered, leaning forward in his chair.

  “Si. A taxi driver who recalls driving a man yesterday who fits the description of II Macellaio. And the computer address your people in Quantico sent to my experts is close to where the tassista dropped the man. We will go to the address, see if we can find them.”

  “The photos have been circulating on television?” Memphis asked.

  “And in the newspaper. We are very serious about catching these men, especially now that we know there is a second killer. We must keep the Florentine people safe.”

  “They’ve probably made a run for it then. Bolted. If I saw my picture on the telly, that’s what I’d do.”

  Luigi gave a thoroughly Italian shrug. “Perhaps. But it will do us no good to hide from these things. So, come. We will go to the address and see what we can see.”

  The Via Montebello was crawling with police. Folarni wasn’t being subtle, he had broken out the carabinieri’s showiest pieces to ensure the Italian news saw that they, not the Florence Polizia, were responsible for capturing Il Macellaio and his twin brother.

  Stern-faced shop owners stood in the street, smoking, arms crossed, watching the show. Sirens spun and echoed down the narrow cobblestone alleys behind them to ensure no escape.

  With weapons drawn, the plainclothes carabinieri rushed the front door, splintering the thick wood with several well-placed kicks. It was quickly apparent that no one was inside the house.

  But they had been close.

  They talked to as many neighbors as they could find.

  A woman across the via with a hooked nose and unkempt gray hair told Folarni that she saw the man who lived in the house leave in the middle of the night. But she was convinced it was a ghost, because there were two of them.

  Upset to no end, Folarni sat heavily on the hood of his Alfa Romeo and lit a cigarette. Marlboro Red. It made Taylor wish she could join him.

  The three of them conferred quietly, just out of Folarni’s earshot.

  “Do you think this is the right place?” Taylor asked.

  “It matches the address from the IP on the computer. So yes, I think so. Neighbors have confirmed that a man who looks like this lives here. Memphis was right, they were tipped off somehow.”

  “Or Tommaso figured out that Gavin left too much evidence behind and was being proactive.”

  Baldwin nodded at Taylor. “Or that. Gavin was certainly still learning, still evolving. It’s not that uncommon for new serial killers to make mistakes. Regardless, now we have to start from scratch. All the border crossings have been notified, and the airports and train stations. They won’t be able to get out of Italy.”

  “Is this where II Macellaio has been doing his killing?” Memphis asked.

  “Let’s go in and see.”

  Folarni was happy to let them go upstairs with his forensic team. A quick search revealed good fingerprints, hairs, everything they would need to make a match to their previous items. But there was nothing to indicate this was the charnel house. It looked like a regular guy lived there, someone who had a passion for art. His walls were a testament to that—photographs, paintings, lithographs hung in every available space. There were no quiet little tuckaways, and the neighbors were obviously vigilant. But anything was possible. He’d had enough time to set things right in anticipation of their arrival.

  It was nearly 10:00 a.m., and the brothers had several hours’ head start.

  They reconvened in the kitchen. “So, what’s next?” Taylor asked.

  Baldwin ran his fingers through his hair. “We need to get into the property records. If he’s not killing here, he’s killing somewhere more private. He needs someplace where he wouldn’t be interrupted, where he can keep the girls. We need to find his hole.”

  “Agreed,” Memphis said.

  They approached Folarni with their request. He decided without hesitation, got on his phone. In Italian so rapid Taylor couldn’t follow, he made several requests. Baldwin translated for them.

  “He’s asking for the property rolls. They are looking for anything under the name Tommaso.”

  “Tell them to widen the search. Have them try the name Thomas Fielding,” Taylor suggested.

  Baldwin winked at her, spoke to Folarni. “Okay. They’ve plugged that name in, too.”

  Fifteen minutes later, they still had nothing. The only address listed to Thomas Fielding was the one they were standing in front of.

  “Might want to try one more name,” Memphis said.

  “What?” Baldwin asked.

  “Gary Fielding.”

  “Tommaso’s father. Of course!”

  And that insight was the key. Within five minutes they had an address in the hills of Florence, and were on their way.

  Forty-Four

  Tommaso had never been quite so happy. Sated. Watching Gavin with the girl, seeing all his little tricks, was overwhelmingly special.

  They were lying together, the three of them, on the bundle of blankets, sharing sips of wine and talking. Sifting through all those crazy moments of common ground, pinpointing the formation of their desires. It was fascinating, everything Tommaso could have hoped for. He was the stronger twin, he knew that. He’d always known that. His studies about twinning talked about imprinting, a phenomenon where identical twins find a way to separate themselves into an alpha and beta, an aggressive and a passive. Tommaso was the firstborn; he was the alpha twin. He was their leader, Gavin was the follower. They’d only been together for twenty-four hours, but it felt like forever.

  Tommaso knew he had to bring up an unpleasant subject. He ran his fingers lightly down the girl’s back, preparing.

  “Gavin. We need to talk,” he said softly.

  Gavin merely nodded. It seemed he knew where Tommaso was heading with his words before they left his mouth.

  “If we’re caught,” Gavin said simply.

  “That’s right. This has been a safe place for me for many years. But after today, it might be on their radar. We need to move on. We can steal a car, get to the border. Pass across on foot in an area no one will be able to see. Or better yet, we can go to Lago Guarda, and pass on a boat into Switzerland. There’s only one thing that is stopping us. The only thing that separates us now.”

  Gavin was looking at his hand. “Our fingerprints.”

  “Yes. We must eradicate them. It is imperative. If we are ever caught, this is the only thing that will tell us apart. We can modulate our voices to match one another, easily manipulate the police into an inability to tell one of us from the other.”

  “How are we going to do it?”

  “We burn them off.”

  Gavin sat up, his face pale. “Won’t that hurt?”

  “Yes,” Tommaso said. “But only for a moment. It’s the only way. I’ve been thinking about this for weeks. I knew there would come a time when we were together. We have to, Gavin. It can save us. Now that I’ve found you, I don’t ever want to be parted from you.”

  Gavin lay back down, staring at the timber roof. “When?” he asked.

  “Now.”

>   Taylor felt the anticipation build. They were scouting the cottage registered to Tommaso’s father, a barely kept, crumbling stone house that on a normal afternoon hike would look deserted. But a thin smudge of smoke rose from the decrepit chimney, indicating that someone was home.

  “The fire started about an hour ago,” Folarni whispered to her. “The man who owns the land next door has positively identified the photograph of Tommaso as someone he’s seen around the area. It is not much to go on, but it may be enough.”

  “Folarni, if we’re right, I’m going to kiss you. I will be in your debt.”

  The little man blushed happily. “My wife may not like that, Detective.”

  She laughed softly with him. Baldwin crept up to their position, high-powered binoculars in hand.

  “There’s been little movement, though I thought I saw a shadow earlier. It might have been an animal, but I could have sworn I heard a muffled scream.”

  Folarni’s radio crackled quietly against his leg. He picked it up, listened to the hushed report. He locked the radio back onto his hip and nodded.

  “We are ready when you are, Baldwin. DI Highsmythe is behind the house with two of my men. He says he sees definite movement. It is time, I think.”

  “I agree. We’ll go on three.”

  Baldwin counted down, then started toward the cottage. They kept low to the ground in case someone were to look out the window. Taylor watched the cordon tighten, their guns drawn, the hillside prickly with summer vetch and cops. Entry was entry no matter what language you spoke.