The Cold Room (32 page)

“Hmm,” she said. “Do that again.”

He complied, then they started strolling again.

“Memphis won't be going to Quantico anytime soon,” he said.

“What?”

“I requested to have him sent back to London.”

She stopped, pulled him to face her. “You didn't.”

“I most certainly did.”

“That's not fair, Baldwin. He's a good cop. He's helped us break this case.”

Defending Memphis was the wrong tact to take. She saw the fire start to burn in Baldwin's eyes. His voice grew tight.

“A good cop who was making a play for you. I figured you'd appreciate having him off your back.”

“I can take care of myself, Baldwin.”

“I know that, damn it. That's what I'm worried about.” He ran his hands through his hair and took a deep breath, mastering his temper. She rarely saw him lose it, was surprised at the intensity of this particular conversation.

“I don't want to fight with you,” she said.

“I don't want to fight with you either. We just need to watch our steps. Everything is changing. I can feel it coming. I'm not sure exactly how, but between this, the threats of the Pretender, Memphis, something bad is about to go down. I want to keep an eye on you. Maybe it's time to think about coming home for good.”

She pulled away from him. “Don't do that. Deep down, that's not what you want. I know you. You don't want to be tied to a house, to a staid life in one city. You'd miss the chase, miss the chance to make a difference.”

He looked at her queerly. “Do you actually believe that being with you full-time isn't my priority?”

She looked away, discomfited. “In your heart, yes. But in your head? No, honey. You need the BAU, just like I need Metro. It's a part of you.”

“You're a part of me. The BAU is just a job.”

“It's more than that. It's your whole life.”

“No, Taylor. You're my whole life.” He kissed her again, more deeply this time. “And don't you forget it. Come on now. Let's go back to the hotel and get some sleep. We have a long day tomorrow.”

She let herself be towed away, knowing full well the conversation was far from over.

O
nce in their room, she took advantage of the small distance between them and stole away to the bathroom, took a shower, taking her time. Too much had happened in the past few days. Too many emotions stirred up. Baldwin couldn't leave the BAU, especially for her. It wasn't right.

She toweled off, brushed her wet hair out. Now that it was over, she finally allowed herself to think about the horror of the brothers' actions. What the victims had gone through at their hands. How they'd slowly wasted away, their organs shutting down, the pain dulling with the blur of unconsciousness.

She brushed her teeth, spit, then opened her mouth wide, looking at the molars, the incisors, the way each tooth aligned perfectly with its neighbor. Precision. Teeth were as unique as fingerprints. What would it look like if all the flesh were gone? If she'd been locked in a Plexiglas cage, had slowly, inexorably starved to death, then rotted away? She tried to imagine her skull as an anthropologist from an archeological dig might. Would he look at the teeth, the brow ridge, the nasal cavity, and think
wow, this woman must have been beautiful when she was alive? The teeth must have flashed bright and ready in happiness when this skull breathed. Many men must have found her attractive.

She wished she'd slapped Memphis when he kissed her. The bastard was right. She had kissed him back. And she would have to live with that knowledge. Baldwin could never know.

She pushed all thoughts of Memphis away. She needed to focus on the good here, the fact that she'd caught her killers, solved the case. She'd made all the right moves. She'd proven herself, and that would be nothing but good for her career. There would be plenty of time later to worry about where things would go from here. Baldwin moving back to Nashville full-time would be lovely, but he wouldn't be happy, even if he didn't know that now. She had her own demons to wrestle with, her own issues to resolve. It was all bad timing.

With a sigh, she snapped off the bathroom light and went into the bedroom. She'd find a way to fix things; she always did.

Baldwin was already in the bed, reading through the news clippings on the Macellaio case. A special evening edition of the
La Nazione
had been printed. The front-desk clerk, knowing they were working the case, had kindly held the paper for them, handed it over with a silent smile when they retrieved their key. The headline screamed
II Macellaio Interferito—
The Butcher Caught. He had dark smudges under his eyes and she felt an unbearable fondness wash over her. They needed a break, someplace with no killers, no specters.

Baldwin rustled the print, the covers tossed carelessly across his legs. At least, he was pretending to read. He was watching her. She could feel his eyes on her, felt the
warmth and love in them. She crawled onto the bed, put her head on his chest.

“We need to sleep. At least for a little bit. Put those away.”

“Does this mean I'm forgiven?” he said.

She gave him an embarrassed smile. “There's nothing to forgive. I didn't mean to be a brat. And I'm, well, that's neither here nor there.”

“Still thinking about Memphis?”

She looked at him in surprise. How he read her mind sometimes was unnerving.

“Taylor, it's blatantly apparent to anyone within a fifty-mile radius. I've never seen a man fall so hard. He's going to keep pursuing you.”

“Oh, don't be silly. He's just…just…a player. I would be a notch in his belt, that's all.”

“Well, I'd certainly prefer you not becoming a notch in his belt.”

She rolled her eyes. “You know what I mean. He holds no interest for me. I can handle him.”

“I doubt he's going to limit his pursuit. I did some more digging into his background. He didn't have an easy time of it. Being a peer and working for the Met isn't a match made in heaven. He took a lot of heat at the beginning, didn't fit in. Then he lost his wife, you know, and a child. She was eight months pregnant when she was killed in a car accident. Her name was Evan, and she looked an awful lot like you. After Evan died, he threw himself into the Met, rose through the ranks. He's a damn good investigator, but he's haunted. You're bringing it all back to the forefront for him, and he's ready to snap.”

“He's told me all about it.”

“He's a fragile man, despite what he may have told
you. He's been in treatment, and is grasping at anything that might get him back on track.”

“So you think I'm just a reminder of his dead wife? Thanks for that.” Her temper flashed briefly; she tamped it down. “I'm just ready to get back to Nashville. At least there I have a handle on my enemies.”

“Are you running from him, Taylor?” There was a strange tone in his voice, a lingering vulnerability that made her narrow her eyes.

“Baldwin, what is the deal? Are you honestly that jealous?”

He tossed his book to the side. He was angry; she could feel the control he was measuring out. “Damn straight I am. What, you think I'm going to sit back and watch some guy sweep you off your feet?”

She realized that he knew exactly what had been going through her head. All the little what-ifs that had been creeping around the edges of her mind. No wonder he was thinking about moving back to Nashville, where he could keep an eye on her. It was time to put those thoughts away, for good. She took his chin in her hand, made him look her straight in the eye.

“Yes, honey, Memphis is attractive. Yes, he's funny and urbane.”

“And the son of a peer. Don't forget that part,” Baldwin said.

“And the son of a peer. But sweetheart, you have to know that the thought never crossed my mind. Not the way you think it did.”

“So you're admitting you thought about it?”

“Baldwin. Stop. I'm not thinking about anything. No one in the world matters more to me than you. Memphis is just a silly little boy. You're a man, and the only one I
love. You're the only man for me. Don't ever think otherwise. You hear me?”

“I saw him kiss you,” he said.

So that's what all this was about. She'd wondered, that night in the piazza when she turned the corner and he was there. It felt contrived, and she assumed Baldwin had witnessed the whole scenario.

She tipped his face toward hers. “That was unconscionable of him, and I've told him so. I have made it very, very clear that I am not interested. I was hoping with this case partially wrapped he'd go back to London and be gone. Now it looks like he's going to be around, at least around you. I will talk to him again, warn him off. If that doesn't work, you have my permission to beat him up.”

She smiled, snuggled up next to him, rested her head on his shoulder. He put his arms around her and she was struck by how tightly he held her. As if he thought she might actually slip away. Surely he couldn't seriously think that she wanted out, wanted to go with the British playboy.

Of course he thought that, Taylor. He saw how Memphis was looking at you. He saw him kiss you, for Christ's sake. He must have seen you respond, even if it was brief. He's not an idiot. He's just human, a man like any other. In some ways.

“Baby.” She kissed him on the neck, softly. “I'm sorry.”

He accepted the invitation. He rolled over on her, grabbed her hair roughly in his right hand.

“You're mine, Taylor. Don't forget it.” His lips crushed hers, and took her breath away with the intensity. He kept a hold of her hair, had his other hand between her legs, was kissing her as if it was the last kiss they'd ever share, and she had no idea how much time had passed, just knew that she was almost there, almost, when she heard the phone jangling two feet from her ear.

“Ignore it,” she said, breathless, urging him on with her hips.

“It's yours.” He stopped, inches from entering her, breath ragged with the effort.

Groaning, she wiggled out from under his hips far enough to grab her cell.

There was static, then emptiness. A void surrounded her.

That tinny, childlike voice, the one from her answering machine, from the earlier call, spoke. “I'll see you soon, Taylor.”

The line went dead, and she started to shiver. It wasn't over. It would never be over.

T
aylor had spent the overnight flight home from Italy thinking. Her life, her world with Baldwin, her father and the letter she'd been towing around for days. She'd made some decisions, small steps toward taking her life back. They landed right after the dawn, the warm sunlight of Nashville enveloping her in calm. She felt safest when she was home.

The house was still standing when the cab dropped them off, tired and a little giddy from lack of sleep. Sam had taken care of stopping their mail, arranging to have it held until they returned. Delivery would begin again today. The first thing Taylor did when they pulled in the drive was march to the mailbox with the letter to her father in hand. It was time for her to say goodbye.

She pulled open the door to the mailbox. It wasn't empty. Sitting quietly on a white note card was a bullet. Chills crept across her body, and she backed away like it was a poisonous snake.

“Baldwin?” she called.

He came to her immediately, sensing the strain in her voice.

“What is it? What's wrong?”

She pointed. “In the mailbox.”

He wheeled around and looked, cursing under his breath when he saw the bullet.

“Camera and gloves,” he said, voice low and controlled with fury.

She fumbled in her briefcase, pulled out a single latex glove and her camera. Baldwin took them from her grimly, started taking pictures.

“It's him, isn't it?” she asked. “He was here.”

Baldwin didn't answer, just reached in the box and pulled out the bullet. A .40 caliber Winchester jacketed hollow point, the standard issue for her service weapon.

Holding it gingerly, he read the handwritten note, then extended it to her. She didn't touch it, just read the words, feeling the pressure start to build in her chest.

When I began the voyage of writing this novel, I was captivated by the thought of two men, separated soon after birth, brought up in two vastly different households, yet both developing sociopathic tendencies, finding themselves compelled to kill. The trick, of course, was to have identical crimes on two continents, with the dates staggered so it appeared that the same person was committing the crimes. Evidence and forensics would also point to a single perpetrator.

The basic premise of the book is so fantastical, so horrific, that I was immediately forced to reconsider. Identical-twin serial killers, killing wholly independent of one another, with practically identical crime scenes? Couldn't happen.

Yet the further I delved into the research, the more I realized that not only
could
it happen, in this particular scenario, it could happen just as I've portrayed. Extensive nature-versus-nurture studies have been done on identical twins. Those studied show over and over again that twins raised separately show an incredible propensity to have very, very parallel lives. IQ tests administered
show results that would mimic the same person taking the test twice. Career paths and job choices are eerily similar, as there seems to be an epigenetic predisposition toward skills and interests.

For instance, take the bizarre case of the “Jim Twins.” Jim Lewis and Jim Springer had been separated at birth and raised in different families. They didn't meet until 1979, thirty-nine years after they were separated. Jim Lewis had been searching for his brother for many years, and when the two first met, Lewis described it as “like looking into a mirror.” They were more than just identical in appearance; they had an astounding array of coincidental behaviors and life actions, what any novelist would be lambasted for using in a story.

They'd both had dogs growing up named Toy. They both married a woman named Linda, then divorced and married a woman named Betty. They named their firstborn sons James Allen and James Alan. They both bit their nails, suffered from insomnia and migraines. They vacationed at the same Florida beach, drove the same kind of car, drank the same beer, smoked the same brand of cigarettes, followed NASCAR but hated baseball, left love notes for their wives, made doll furniture in their basements. And in a coincidence too great to be anything but reality, they both died on the same day, of the same illness.

They had differences as well, in their speech patterns, how they wore their hair. But the major components of their lives were more than just similar; they were exactly the same.

This seems unreal, but it's true, documented and impossible to refute. There are many more examples in the Minnesota Twin Studies of identicals raised apart who have eerily parallel lives. The earlier the children are separated, the more alike they turn out to be.

The moment I read about the Jim Twins, I knew Gavin and Tommaso had come to life.

But the story turned darker when I realized their preferred method of killing.

Necrophilia is a taboo subject, one of the darkest, basest actions a man, or woman, can engage in. It disturbed me to no end, gave me nightmares and writer's block, and I often thought of abandoning the topic and staying with something less…disturbing.

But when I stumbled across a Web site that discussed the use of narcotics in rape and the subsequent diagnosis of necrophilia, I knew I needed to explore that territory. It was difficult, but with fascinating aspects. Anytime you have a killer who goes off the beaten path, who gets intimate with their victim either through sex or with a specific hand weapon, like a knife, the cases are going to be a bit more bizarre.

The extensive research led me to a few conclusions. Yes, it would be possible, perhaps even likely to have identical-twin serial killers, especially if those men were separated soon after birth. Yes, their pathological growth would parallel one another. In this case, I felt it too horrific to have two killers working independently of each other and chose to have the alpha twin guiding the beta. It's one of the things that allowed me to sleep at night.

Many of the Louise Wise Services' twin separation psychological studies won't be released to the public until 2066. There is something in those reports. Something that the myriad psychiatrists, psychologists, counselors and other doctors involved in the studies didn't want their subjects to know. Were they hiding their own guilt at separating children who should have been together? Did the testing go awry? Did they find the key to our evolution, or that nature trumps nurture? Vice versa? The questions abound.

Whether they prove or disprove nature versus nurture, for the purposes of this work of fiction, I've chosen to think like a mystery writer and assume they are hiding a bombshell in the reports, a secret so inflammatory that they don't want anyone to know.

Perhaps there is a real-life Tommaso and Gavin among their study subjects. Perhaps genetics are unreliable, and our environment plays the largest role in determining our outcomes. Or maybe, just maybe, there is a predisposition to kill. A killer gene.

With that in mind, I've done my best not to strain credulity too much. I hope you'll forgive a writer her overactive imagination.