J. Ellison - The Cold Room

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.

T ommaso 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.

Forlarni took the honor of kicking down the front door, and they flooded into the little room.

“Arresto, arresto! Non si muova, Polizia!”

There was instant chaos. Taylor followed Folarni and Baldwin through the front. She caught a glimpse of the scene in front of her. There was a man down, on the ground-she didn’t know if he’d been shot, she didn’t remember hearing any shots fired. She smelled the searing scent of burned flesh, couldn’t put a place to it. There was a bundle of rags by the hearth; Taylor could see one small pale foot sticking out. And there was a man, standing in front of the fire. Il Macellaio. Baldheaded, emanating fury. He was holding something in the flames. It looked like a skillet.