They sat in companionable silence for a few minutes, sipping the wine, looking at everything but each other. Finally, Memphis scooted his chair closer to her. He set his hand on the table, inches from hers, leaned close. He waited until she looked him in the eye, waited for those little zings of recognition and attraction that skittered between them. She could get lost in that aching ocean of blue if she weren’t careful.
“I could wake you up inside, Taylor. Bring you to life. All you have to do is give me the chance.”
He said it so quietly that at first she didn’t think she’d heard the words aloud, only that they’d appeared in her consciousness.
“What?” she said, sharper than she intended.
He moved fractionally closer, his hand reaching out to play with a bit of hair that had come loose from her ponytail. She was mesmerized for a moment, watching the slow, stroking movement of his finger on her hair. Like a cobra, hypnotizing a mongoose.
It was inevitable, really. She was only slightly surprised when he settled his mouth on hers. The kiss was soft, and lingering. His tongue flicked at the edge of her lip, and she was shocked to feel her mouth open, the warmth of the tongues touching. One kiss. Who cared about one little kiss? It could go on, and on, if she’d let it. Instead, she got her mind back and pushed him away, flustered.
“What in the hell are you doing?” she demanded, a little unnerved at how breathless she sounded.
He looked both hurt and embarrassed. “Nothing. Never mind. I’ve misread the signals. I…I must go. I need to make a phone call. I’ll be back at the hotel if you need me.”
He stood abruptly and left without saying goodbye, just walked away into the Strozzi.
Leaving her sitting at the table wondering just exactly what had just happened. He could wake her up inside? Granted, she felt a tiny pull toward him, some base, chemical thing. The kiss—oh, she didn’t want to think about that right now.
She couldn’t help herself. She started analyzing. Wasn’t that what life was about? Aren’t we all supposed to feel those twinges toward the opposite sex, even when we’re in a stable, loving, happy relationship? That’s just biology, propagation of the species. Perfectly natural, healthy even. It’s whether you acted on them that made you a good person, or a bad person. Moments like these defined you.
Taylor was quickly grasping that Memphis Highsmythe would be perfectly happy to compromise her morals, and her body and her life. All she had to do was give him the go sign, and he’d be on her like a wolf on a lamb.
He wouldn’t be gentle. She could feel the flame inside him, the raging inferno that he kept bottled inside, hidden carefully behind the panther grace with which he moved. Just the brief moment of his lips on hers had made that clear. Something was driving his need, and she suspected it was despair over the broken pieces of his marriage, the loss of his wife and unborn child. She could understand that. She’d gotten involved with hurt men in the past, with men who needed. Need was akin to desperation, and while the sex was always fantastic, the emotional toll was too much for her to bear.
Baldwin didn’t have that edge of desperation to him. He was solid inside, not pieces of flickering fire.
She shook her head. What in the name of hell are you thinking about, Taylor?
Baldwin. She needed Baldwin. One kiss and he would ground her, grind out all the memories of Memphis and his blue eyes. Of his stupid soft lips.
She paid the check and stormed out of the café, heading into the city. Damn you, Memphis.
Bring me to life. I’d like to see you try that.
Baldwin watched the scene play out. Memphis was making his move. To Taylor’s credit, once the immediate shock of the pass was over, she pushed him away.
He’d been expecting this. He could read the desire coming off of Memphis like Morse code, knew he’d be making a play for Taylor’s affections soon enough. He couldn’t help feeling shocked, though. Blatant and utter disrespect for their relationship. Unless Taylor had been giving him the go-ahead…no, she wouldn’t. She loved him, not some pretty, moneyed playboy.
Memphis stalked off. Taylor tossed some Euros on the table and was coming right at him. He ducked back around the side of the building, then started walking like he didn’t know she was going to bump into him.
He took a breath, turned the corner. Grabbed her by the arms so she wouldn’t be knocked backward. He just needed to feel her.
“Whoa! Hey, sweetie. That was good timing. I was just going to call you. How did the meeting go?”
No trace of guilt on her face, she lit up when she saw him like she always did. Good girl.
He kissed her, and she wrapped her arms around his neck. They were in Italy; lovers embracing on a street corner wasn’t going to set off anyone’s alarms. After a few moments, he broke away and murmured, “Do you want to get something to eat?”
“Yes. I’m still hungry. I had a few bites with Memphis. That man is driving me crazy. Can we go to dinner ourselves, let him fend for himself?”
“That would be rude, wouldn’t it?”
“I don’t care. He’s…he’s…just one of those infuriatingly annoying people. I’m tired of him.”
“Then your wish is my command, milady. How about Mama Gina’s? We can see if Antonio is working.”
He took her hand, and together they made their way back to the Via Tornabuoni, across the bridge. It was a still evening, the river reflected the lights of the Ponte Vecchio. It was beautiful, and he pretended not to notice her stiffen as they halted on the bridge to look. He decided not to ask what was bothering her. Who knew what sort of trouble Memphis had been trying to get into.
After a few moments, with unspoken timing, they both started walking. At the bottom of the bridge they turned left into a little side street that housed some of the best restaurants in Florence.
As the scent of garlic and tomatoes flooded his senses, Baldwin tried to push the specter of disaster away from his mind.
Forty
Gavin and Tommaso drank espresso, shared a simple meal of spaghetti carbonara and spent the evening getting to know each other. They had thirty years’ worth of catching up to do.
Gavin was overwhelmingly happy. This was the other half of himself, the missing piece. He’d never felt so complete. Not even the dolls could give him this kind of joy.
He was still struck by their physical similarities. There were only two real discernible differences: Tommaso’s hair, and their slightly different accents. Gavin had started shaving his head several months earlier, liking the feel of the bare skin. It also left fewer identifying pieces behind. And he spoke with the soft, rounded edges of a Southern upbringing, while Tommaso had unaccented English.
After dinner, Tommaso had taken one more look at Gavin’s head and disappeared into the bathroom. He emerged with his head shaved to match. Thankfully he worked indoors; there was no real demarcation between the freshly shaved skin and his face. Now no one would be able to tell them apart.
So far he’d discovered that they were both fanatical fans of Manchester United, though for entirely different reasons. Gavin had been drawn to the team because they were named after his hometown, Tommaso because they were the favorite of his adopted father. They both stirred three spoons full of sugar into their espresso with the handle of the spoon, both flossed their teeth religiously twice a day, both had emergency hernia surgery when they were three and fainted at the sight of blood.
But it was their passionate devotion to the arts that Gavin found utterly irresistible.
“I still feel like I’m dreaming,” Gavin said. “Here I sit, across the table from one of the world’s most talented photographers, the man I’ve been a fan of for years, and you’re my own flesh and blood. I still can’t believe it. I really didn’t know you were Morte.”
“I didn’t want you to know, Gavin. I needed to find out if you were like me, and the only way to do that was to create a world in which you could flourish. I wanted the best for you, wanted you to kno
w you weren’t alone.”
They washed the dishes, then settled onto the buttery leather couch with grappa. Gavin was feeling drunk—the time change, the win and now the grappa was too much for his system.
Tommaso went to his stereo and selected a CD. The strains of Beethoven’s Piano Sonata no. 14 drifted from the speakers. Gavin had never felt so completely happy in his life.
“When did you know, Tommaso? When did you realize the first time?”
“The first time.” Tommaso got a dreamy look on his face. “My mother worked in the airbase hospital in Aviano. She used to have me dropped there from school, and I’d have to walk down this long corridor to meet her. The morgue was right there, and one day I slipped in. It was intoxicating. The smell, the chill. There was a woman on a gurney just inside the door—they must have left her there for a reason, but I never knew why. I ran my hand under the sheet covering her. She was so cold, so stiff. I realized I had an erection and masturbated. I hid my underwear in a trash can so my mother wouldn’t see the mess. After that, I couldn’t seem to help myself. I spent time there, in the afternoons. They didn’t have a guard, it was easy to get in and play. It was a beautiful time.”
“That’s so nice. My first was a friend. I’d always dreamt about being with her, but she was too animated, too loud. I preferred silence, the stillness. We had a fight one afternoon, and I hit her. She fell down so hard, was finally quiet. I didn’t know what to do. I knew she was hurt badly, knew I was going to be in so much trouble. I put her in a bathtub and filled it with water, held her down until her heart stopped. But seeing her naked…I couldn’t help myself. I took her back out. I had to feel inside her. After that, it was all I could do to contain myself.”
“I never bothered with containment. I couldn’t. The drive, the desire was too strong.”
“That’s why you started killing them quicker?”
“Yes. I couldn’t wait anymore.”
“I still like to wait. I like the anticipation. It’s like a reward for good behavior. Why do you think we like it this way, Tommaso?”
“I don’t know. I just don’t know. We work inside the ecstasy of love, you and I. There’s no good explanation.”
“Do you know who Necro is, too?”
“No, Gavin, I don’t. I found him when I was looking for you, thought you might be him for a while. He’s not as evolved as we are.”
“That’s true.”
They sat for a few minutes, then Gavin said, “Tommaso, once you knew, why didn’t you just come to me directly? Why didn’t you let me know you were my brother from the beginning? How long had you known?”
Tommaso shot back the grappa, refilled his glass. “Only a year. When my mother was dying, she took me into her confidence. I knew I was adopted, but that had never been an issue. My parents loved me as much as they would have a creature of their own flesh. But they’d never told me that I was a twin. My father passed away six years ago, so it was just my mother and me. When she went, I had no one. I think she knew how terribly lonely I would be, gave me the most important present of my life. With her death, you were born.”
“So she had my name the whole time?”
“No, she didn’t. She only knew that we were separated, that the adoption agency had split us up. She didn’t know anything else, your name, who your parents were, where you’d gone. At first I was angry, but then I searched for you. There’s a database you can apply to find your biological parents. I applied, and since they were deceased, I received the information quickly. From there, I just did my research. Our birth mother was crazy, you know. A schizophrenic. She lost it one night, stabbed our father, then stabbed herself. We were in the apartment for at least a day. The papers talked about it for weeks, the horror of the two infants alone with their dead parents. Then the foster agency gave us to Louise Wise, who separated us, and you know the rest of the story.”
“My God. Do you have the reports? I’d like to read about it myself.”
“Of course. But we have plenty of time for that.”
“It must have been nice to have good parents. Mine weren’t very pleasant.”
“I applaud you killing them. You became a man that day.”
Gavin squirmed uncomfortably. He didn’t like to remember that part of his past. Tommaso was right; he was reborn that day. Just as he’d been reborn yesterday, when Tommaso told him who he really was. He had so far to travel. Tommaso was so sophisticated, so much more of an artist than he was.
“I had no choice. It was them or me. I just couldn’t take it any longer.”
“I’m sorry you had such a hard time. Let’s talk about something more engaging then, something to make you happy. Tell me about your latest—Ophelia in the babbling brook. Do you have the photographs? I saw the Millais when I was in London, it is magnificent.”
Gavin went to his carry-on bag and took out the jump drive.
“Do you have something I can plug this into?”
“What’s that? Where is your laptop?”
“I left it at my house. I was worried that they might make me open it at security, that someone might see the pictures. So I downloaded them to this drive.”
Tommaso was staring at him with a look of abject horror on his face.
“If you had destroyed the originals like I told you, no one would have seen anything on your laptop.” He was yelling now. “You left it at your house? Did you at least destroy the drive?”
“Well, no. I password-protected it.”
Tommaso stood angrily. His face no longer looked familiar. For a brief moment, Gavin wondered if that’s what he looked like when he was furious and a tiny frisson of fear coursed through him. Tommaso’s fists were balled, his shoulders tense. Gavin instinctively ducked a bit, tried to pull away.
“Please tell me you killed the girl, Gavin. Tell me you didn’t leave behind any more evidence.”
Gavin realized he’d made a very big mistake. “I’m sorry. I gave her a massive injection of heroin. There’s no way she could have survived. She should have died in the night. And I was thinking, after I went back home…And I must go back home, Tommaso. I have to take care of Art. I only left him enough food for a week. I can’t let him starve.”
Tommaso turned white. “Holy mother of Christ. You’re worried about a fucking cat.”
Gavin was crushed. How could he say that about Art?
Tommaso went to the kitchen, picked up the phone and made a call. Within seconds, he was speaking in rapid Italian.
He came back in the living room, fury etched across his face.
“I just spoke to a friend of mine who works for the carabinieri, a friend who I have shared many intimate moments with. He told me the FBI has arrived in Florence, and they have your computer. They suspect the art world’s Tommaso of being II Macellaio. We have to get out of here. They probably already know where we are. You’ve led them right to me. You idiot!”
The screaming shattered him, broke all the recently repaired shards of his soul. Tommaso calling him an idiot hurt worse than any of the beatings he’d taken at the hands of his adoptive parents. They’d taken turns with the belt, ripped the skin from his back, his legs. Broken his fingers. None of that felt nearly as horrible as this.
He tried to fight back. “I am not an idiot. No one can break that password, it’s much too unique. There is no chance the laptop led them to you.”
“Gavin, are you totally mental? The laptop has my IP address, which in turn can be traced directly to my apartment. Here. We need to go. We need to go right now.”
Gavin stood. His mind was muddled from all the drink, from the fury emanating from what felt like himself. It was as if his personality had fractured in two, that he was suddenly seeing the voices he’d always heard in the back of his mind. His anger gave him courage. He wasn’t an idiot.
“You aren’t being fair. I deleted out all the history of the chats.”
“It doesn’t matter. My God, you work with computers. You know that nothing
is ever truly gone unless you wipe the hard drive, and even then they can find things. The FBI is here, in Italy, on my soil. They are looking for us. Don’t you understand? We could lose everything.”
“I’m sorry,” Gavin whispered.
Tommaso didn’t acknowledge the apology. He was rushing around the living room and into the bedroom, gathering clothes and bags and everything he could get his hands on. He went into the kitchen and loaded up some food.
Gavin watched, incredulous. “I didn’t mean to cause trouble. I was just so excited to meet you. I didn’t think things through.”
Tommaso came back to the couch, grabbed him roughly by the shoulders. He looked into Gavin’s soul, then pulled him to his chest. “I know. I know, Gavin. I have a place we can go. But you have to promise that from now on, you will do exactly as I say. I am the only hope you have anymore.”
Forty-One
The food had been spicy and delicious, the wine superb, and Taylor was feeling just a little tipsy as they headed back to their room. She and Baldwin stopped on the bridge again, and this time Baldwin showered her with kisses—her lips, her nose, the soft hollow at the base of her neck, the spot right below her scar that had become so exquisitely sensitive after the surgery. She knew empirically the tingling was nerve damage, but preferred the more romantic version of events.
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 Cold Room Page 29
