J. Ellison - The Cold Room

“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.

D aybreak 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.”

T aylor 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.