The Cold Room (30 page)

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.

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.

“Smetta di muoversi!”
Folarni was yelling. Stop moving.

The man, Taylor didn't know if it was Gavin or Tommaso, turned slowly, miming putting his hands up. He still held the skillet. Taylor could see it was glowing red-hot, a formidable weapon should they try to get close without disabling him. With Folarni and the other cops shouting at him, he slowly turned from the fire, bent at the waist, then put the skillet facedown on the rough tile floor.

He looked at her then, right into her eyes, and kept eye contact as he slammed both his hands down onto the burning flat of the skillet. He screamed, bloodcurdling, but never looked away. She could tell he was going to faint, there was no way anyone could withstand that kind of pain. His face red and sweating, his eyes rolled back in his head and he collapsed. The skillet still smoked with burning flesh; when he landed he was very close to it and his shirt caught on fire.

“Aqua, aqua,”
Folarni was yelling, but Memphis had already grabbed an open bottle of wine and dumped it on the man's shirt. It splashed out the fire, spread across the white fabric like a bloodstain, growing until it dribbled off the edges.

“What in the hell are they doing?” Memphis asked.

Baldwin holstered his weapon, leaned back against the cracked plaster wall.

“Christ. They were burning off their fingerprints so we won't be able to tell them apart.”

Forlarni was cursing, rummaging through the bundle of rags that held the dead girl. He opened the wrapping, whispered a prayer over her body and crossed himself.

The brothers had collapsed against the far wall, unconscious, though one of them was beginning to stir. Taylor resisted the urge to kick him in the groin. The smell in the room was terrible, the sour reek of fear coupled with urine and burnt meat, the underlying note of decomposition. The girl had been dead for some time, one of Folarni's men estimated that she was at least a few days gone. They were doing their best to find out who she was.

The brother who was stirring opened his eyes. It was the one who was already burned and unconscious when they arrived. He took in the scene, looking at them under hooded eyes.

His hands were mangled. Skin dangled from the edges like leaves falling from a winter dead tree. He was white-faced, obviously in great pain. He looked at Taylor, swiveled his head to the right and saw his brother passed out next to him, his shirt red from the wine.

He turned back to Taylor and stared at her.

Then he started to laugh.

 

The scene was starting to wrap up, the Italians efficient and capable. They'd transported the brothers, dealt with the dead body, and were conducting a thorough forensics search throughout the house and the surrounding grounds. Tommaso's car had been located; a veritable treasure trove of evidence. Taylor watched the carabinieri officers, wishing there was more that she could do to help, then contented herself with making some notes for her report. She couldn't help but smile to herself; they'd just scored a massive coup. Two serial killers, two continents, four jurisdictions, countless lives affected. If this didn't put her back into the good graces of her administration, she didn't know what would.

Memphis and Baldwin were off in a corner, talking
about something. Memphis glanced over at her. His blue eyes were dark and dangerous, and she felt that crazy pull in her gut. She wondered what they were talking about, but dismissed it. There were more important things to worry about, like getting this investigation closed. Capturing their suspects was going to be just the beginning.

Baldwin and Memphis finished their discussion. Baldwin shot a glance her way then went outside. Memphis casually walked over to her. She nodded at him, not wanting to encourage him too much. For once, Memphis had something else on his mind.

“Good job, Miss Jackson,” he said softly. “We wouldn't have caught them without your insights.”

She accepted the compliment gracefully. “It was a team effort. We all played a part.”

“Well said. Unfortunately, it looks like our time here is drawing to a close. I've been called back to London. I'm supposed to leave late tonight, but I'm stalling for more time.”

“Oh. Well, we can handle the rest of this, no problem. The investigation is just starting, really. There's so much to do, especially with the extradition. We're going to be up to our ears for a while.”

“I am well aware of that,” he said, eyes flashing in anger.

“Hey, don't get pissed at me. It's not my fault.”

“I'm not
pissed
at you. I have several open cases that need attention. The powers that be want briefings.” He touched her arm briefly, made her meet his eyes. “And I think it might be a good idea to go home.”

She understood exactly what he was talking about.

“Yes. I think so, too.” She cleared her throat. “We can funnel information to you as it comes. Don't worry.”

“Thank you. I believe I'm in need of some fresh air,”
Memphis said. He left the cottage; the void was palpable and left her wondering what she really felt toward him.

She needed to get Memphis out of her head. She needed to focus on this case, on getting back home, getting her career back on track, on getting married. And the best way she knew to do that, was work.