The Cold Room (29 page)

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.

G
avin 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 know 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, “Tom
maso, 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.”

T
he 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 Pretender. What in the name of hell was this guy up to?

She was feeling reckless. After everything that had happened today, she felt like she had nothing more to lose. Her temper flared.

“You want me? Well, come and get me, you son of a bitch.” She slammed the phone closed. Every nerve was on fire; she felt more alive than she had in years. She refused to let this creep slink around in the back of her mind anymore. She'd opened the door. With any luck, she would push him through.

Baldwin knew immediately what had happened; she could read the anger on his face.

“Taylor, was that the wisest—”

She slapped her hand on the concrete, painfully scraping her palm. She jerked her hand back, inspected the cut. She sucked a tiny drop of blood off her wrist and got quiet.

“Baldwin, I can't stand it. He's out there, and he wants me for something. So let's push his buttons and see how he feels for a while. It's ridiculous that I have to look over my shoulder, waiting to see where and who he's going to kill next. No, damn it. I'm sick of being manipulated, of being on my guard against everything and everyone. I want this done. I'm going to let him have a taste of what it means to tangle with me.”

“Do you think he's nearby?”

“No. He's not ready. I doubt he'll be giving me a heads-up.”

She started to walk away. He caught her hand, turned her to face him roughly. “I won't lose you, Taylor.”

She stood tall, looked him deep in his green eyes. “Trust me, Baldwin, you won't. But if I live my life a minute longer waiting to see what he's going to do, I'll
drive myself mad. I'm not happy sitting back, waiting and seeing. That's not me. If I could be more proactive, actually hunt his ass down, trust me, I would do that. I'll do whatever it takes. You're just going to have to trust me.”

“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.