Cold Judgment (4 page)

CHAPTER 5

“It looks like a church in here, Greggie!”

The girl giggled and Greg smiled back. She'd be all right if she stopped giggling like a teenager. She was at least twenty. He'd known right off that she had a great body under her punk clothes and she was more than willing to go home with him after the concert. Most girls played up to songwriters. And they all wanted a special song dedicated to them.

Greg lit another candle and placed it in the ring around the bed. It did look rather like the inside of a church, with all the votive candles in a circle. The girl thought it was kinky, and that was fine with him. She had been very eager to shed her clothes and play in the firelight.

“Do you want another glass of bubbly, Greggie?”

She ran one gold-tipped nail down the inside of his leg, and Greg nodded. It was easier than trying to remember her name. Sherry, Shelly, something like that. Her little-girl act was annoying, but he hadn't brought her up here for conversation. To be entirely honest, he hadn't been after sex, either. He'd just needed companionship tonight. Greg desperately feared being alone. And she certainly kept him from moping about Doug.

“I never had anyone write a song for me before!” She kissed him lightly as she filled his glass. “Will you sing it for me again, Greggie?”

Her face was very pretty in the firelight and Greg felt himself getting hard again. He went quickly to the piano and played the tune with a flourish. It was the standard little ditty he used for all girls. When he came to the part where the name belonged, he used
baby
.

The expression on her face was rapturous, and for a moment Greg felt guilty. She had moved to the bed and her skin was golden in the glow of the candles. Points of fire were reflected in her eyes, and he forgot all about his little deceit.

“Come over and play with me, Greggie.”

Her voice was low and teasing. She gasped when he rose from the piano and then she held out her arms. She thought his excitement was for her, not the fire. It was best she think that.

Greg stepped over the flames. As he felt the heat on his legs, his passion grew. It was all he could do to contain himself as he joined her on the bed in the glowing, flickering light. The circle of light. The circle of flame. The circle of power—and he was at the center.

 

 

It was late and she was sleeping, curled up like a kitten in the center of the bed. Greg finished the rest of the champagne. He had been drinking for hours, wide awake and listening. The flames were calling him, singing to him to build them higher. Very slowly, so as not to wake her, he moved from the bed.

There was a gold box of Dunhills on the table. Greg took one and knelt down before the tallest candle. He held his breath as he pushed the end of the cigarette into the fire. His heartbeat slowed and a trancelike expression came over his features as he watched intently.

The flame licked around the edges of the cylinder, daintily tasting his offering. It split in two at the point of intrusion and then rejoined at the tip, stronger and higher than before. The Dunhill blackened and scorched. A pencil-thin column of black smoke rose toward the high ceiling.

There was a light curtain of smoke in the room when the Dunhill was finally gone. Greg could feel the flame's disappointment as it resumed its former shape. Fires were hungry things. They needed fuel to survive. Now the candle was burning low with only a thin wafer of wax to feed on.

The girl's scarf was draped over the end of the bed, brightly printed silk in a checkerboard design. He reached for it, feeling the thick, smooth material slide over his fingers.

At first he only held it close, so the flame could admire it. He saw the flicker of greedy anticipation. Closer. Closer. The tongue fluttered out to caress and scorch. Silken fibers resisted the fiery kiss, smoldering defiantly. The flame licked higher, spreading and heating the woven threads to the combustion point. The dyes turned translucent as the scarf burst into light, holding the pattern for an instant past consumption.

Greg fed the flame slowly. The scarf was long and they had plenty of time. Blackened threads dropped to the rug and turned to ash. The flame danced joyously, romping nearly to his fingers as it begged for more. The pile of ash grew at the base of the candle.

Only one hungry mouth of flame was left and Greg could not bear to kill it.

He laid it down carefully in the pile of clothing by the bed and watched as it gathered new strength. It was growing, changing before his eyes, turning into a bright, powerfully beautiful blaze.

As the smoke in the room grew thick, the girl coughed and began to wake. It was her scream that finally roused him.

She grabbed a heavy wool blanket from the bed and threw it over the flames. “Help me, Greg! Get some water! And then call the fire department!”

As he rushed to the kitchen, Greg realized she had dropped her little-girl act. They doused the blanket thoroughly and beat at it with their hands. By the time the fire department arrived, the blaze was wet and dead.

After the firemen left, the girl said she had to go home. She had an early class in the morning. She was a sophomore at the university, majoring in mathematics.

Greg gave her some money for a new outfit and called her a cab.

While they were waiting, she went to the piano and picked out her song with one finger. When she came to the spot for her name, she stopped.

“Just fill in the name of your current companion. You wrote this same song for half the girls in my dorm.”

She laughed and gave him her telephone number. Then she kissed him. There was no giggle in her voice when she said good-bye.

The apartment seemed empty without her. Greg almost wished she had stayed. They could have started over, with no pretense. He put the candles in a garbage bag and carried them out to the trash.

It was only an hour until dawn. Greg spent the time in the kitchen, drinking coffee to stay awake. He didn't smoke a single cigarette. There were no excuses for the fire. He had set it deliberately. He shuddered to think what would have happened if the girl had not been there.

CHAPTER 6

Jerry pulled out to pass a laboring snowplow and the car fishtailed slightly as he guided it back into the slow lane. Traffic was heavy tonight. Wayzata Boulevard was jammed with cars going into the downtown area. The stores in the Nicollet Mall were open late tonight for the convenience of Christmas shoppers.

A left-hand turn seemed impossible, but finally there was a break in the traffic. Jerry pulled into the parking structure and used his card to open the gate. The half-hour drive had calmed him and now he felt a little silly for bolting from the house. Betsy certainly hadn't been in any danger from him. He had panicked. It was that simple.

He changed into his jogging outfit and stuffed his office key into the Velcro pocket of his right shoe. The exercise would be good for him. It would erase all the frustrations of the day and leave him drained of all emotion. Jogging was every bit as good as psychotherapy and it was a hell of a lot cheaper.

Jerry jogged effortlessly, blue Adidas pounding against the carpeted floor of the connecting second-story bridges of the Skyway System. He had been jogging for a full twenty minutes and he felt almost restored. His body responded eagerly to the pace he set, every muscle synchronized to maintain his perfect form.

He stopped for a moment at one of the huge plate-glass windows, jogging in place, to peer out at the weather ball on the Northwestern building. It was red. That meant a sudden winter storm warning. The night had been clear when he'd driven in from Minnetonka. Now gusts of snow rattled against the window and he could barely make out the time and temperature. Six forty-five. Twelve degrees Fahrenheit.

Last winter a man in Mankato had been badly frostbitten while jogging. He had gone out in shorts and long athletic socks. When he came back in, his thighs were frozen.

Jerry grinned as he looked down at his jogging outfit, old University of Minnesota gym shorts and a T-shirt. The connecting bridges were a boon to joggers. He was perfectly comfortable in the constant sixty-eight-degree temperature while the people outside the windows were bundled up in their coats with their car heaters going full blast.

Three miles to go. Jerry turned from the window and started to jog again. If he stuck to his schedule, he'd be at the spa by seven-fifteen. He'd play a quick game of racquetball, relax in the Jacuzzi, and shower and change before he headed for home. By the time he got there, Betsy would be sleeping.

 

 

Dr. Elias put down the phone and sighed. It had taken an hour of his time, switching from one airline official to another, spending long minutes on hold listening to insipid recorded music, but he had finally gotten the confirmation he needed. Betsy had come in on the eight o'clock flight last night from California.

The pain was worse tonight, but he could not afford an injection. He had to be alert. Jerry had not called his new therapist. Time was running out. Betsy's presence would surely precipitate a crisis, and the situation was volatile.

Dr. Elias picked up his prized possession, the meerschaum that had belonged to his father, and held it carefully in his hand. He remembered when it was new and white. Now the intricately carved bowl, a likeness of Hippocrates, was a rich, deep mahogany. It was his legacy, his only link with his father.

“What would you do, sir?” Dr. Elias said aloud as he looked down intently at the meerschaum. A casual observer might think he was waiting for the pipe to speak in the words of his brilliant father, but Dr. Elias would have chuckled at such a preposterous idea. His father had been dead for years. The dead could not give advice to the living. Only in memory could Dr. Elias revive the words of experience and wisdom his father had spoken. And only in imagination could he postulate what his father would tell him today.

“My oath, sir. Is it necessary to break it?”

Long moments passed, moments of doubt and dread. Pain twisted the corners of Dr. Elias's mouth as he nodded at last, a short decisive dip of his silver-haired head. He opened the leather case and put the pipe inside, closing it reverently. He would smoke it later, as he did every night, when his duty was done.

The clock on the mantel chimed half past six as Dr. Elias rose from his desk. Jerry was a compulsive jogger, never varying his pattern. At precisely seven he would jog through the bridge connecting Dayton's department store with Dr. Elias's building.

It took only a moment to load the gun, a small twenty-five-caliber automatic. It fit neatly in his topcoat pocket. He had purchased it when the security staff had cut their hours, and it had been stored in the drawer of his desk for three years. It had never been needed before.

Dr. Elias locked the door to his suite and took the elevator down to the connecting bridge on the second floor. The building was deserted. Office personnel had gone home for the night and the cleaning crews had not yet arrived. The switch was just inside the entrance to the bridge, and he reached up to turn off the bright fluorescent lights. Then he walked slowly to the center of the corridor to wait.

The bridge spanned Nicollet Avenue. Since the mall had been opened, the street was closed to all traffic except buses and taxis. Dr. Elias leaned up against the cold windowpane and watched the street below. Snow pelted against the glass as the wind picked up outside. Most people had heeded the storm warnings and gone straight home. An occasional pedestrian hurried by, bundled up warmly against the cold, but it was impossible for anyone at street level to see inside.

All was quiet and dark inside the glass-enclosed skyway. Dr. Elias stood motionless. It was almost time. His fingers tightened around the gun in his pocket as he heard footsteps approach. Jerry was coming, right on schedule.

The lights were out. Jerry stopped suddenly at the entrance to the Nicollet bridge. He reached up to feel for the switch, but nothing marred the surface of the bare wall. It was on the other side.

His heart was racing and it was not from the exercise. Jerry shivered as he faced the dark mouth of the tunnel. It seemed filled with menacing shadows. Headlights flashed briefly as a taxi turned into the mall and sped under the bridge. The interior flickered for an instant and then plunged into darkness again.

He wanted to turn around and find an alternate route, but that would put him off schedule. Jerry chided himself for being silly. He would stiffen up if he hesitated here much longer. He had to maintain his pace.

Jerry's breathing quickened as he stepped into the darkness. He would hurry on through and catch the lights on the other end. Some janitor had probably forgotten to turn on the lights. It was certainly nothing to get spooked about.

The tunnel was very dark now. The snow had turned to sleet and it blew against the windows in staccato blasts. Traffic was stopped for a light at the corner of Sixth Street and not even the strobe of a headlight pierced the darkness.

Jerry concentrated on his form, unwilling to admit that he was scared. The snow flurries driving against the glass sounded like muted snare drums, ominous and building to some terrible rhythm.

Instinct told him to turn around and run, but Jerry fought his fear. Dotty would laugh when he told her about this. Only kids were afraid of the dark.

Left. Right. Left. Right. Jerry quickened his pace in spite of himself. He was almost halfway through. Only a few hundred feet and he would be in the light.

Traffic was moving again now. Headlights from a passing bus illuminated the shape that stepped out into his path. Jerry's mouth opened in startled recognition, but before he could blurt out a question, it was too late.