Nominated for best pb release
He can truly love her only once her heart stops. Homicide
detective Taylor Jackson thinks she's seen it all in
Nashville—from the Southern Strangler to the Snow White
Killer. But she's never seen anything as perverse as The
Conductor. Once his victim is captured, he contains her
in
a glass coffin, slowly starving her to death. Only then
does he give in to his attraction. When he's finished, he
creatively disposes of the body by reenacting scenes from
famous paintings. And similar macabre works are being
found in Europe. Taylor teams up with her fiance, FBI
profiler Dr. John Baldwin, and New Scotland Yard
detective
James "Memphis" Highsmythe, a haunted man who has eyes
only for Taylor, to put an end to this horror. Has the
killer gone international with his craft? Or are there
two "artists," competing to create the ultimate
masterpiece?
Excerpt Gavin Adler jumped when a small chime sounded on his
computer. He looked at the clock in surprise; it was
already
6:00 p.m. During the winter months, darkness descended
and
reminded him to close up shop, but the daylight savings
time
change necessitated an alarm clock to let him know when
it
was time to leave. Otherwise, he'd get lost in his
computer
and never find his way home.
He rose from his
chair,
stretched, turned off the computer and reached for his
messenger bag. What a day. What a long and glorious
day.
He took his garbage with him; his lunch
leavings. There was no reason to have leftover banana
peels
in his trash can overnight. He shut off the lights,
locked
the door, dropped the plastic Publix bag into the
Dumpster,
and began the two-block walk to his parking spot. His
white
Prius was one of the few cars left in the lot.
Gavin
listened to his iPod on the way out of downtown. Traffic
was
testy, as always, so he waited patiently, crawling
through
West End, then took the exit for I-40 and headed, slowly,
toward Memphis. The congestion cleared right past White
Bridge, and he sailed the rest of the way.
The
drive
took twenty-two minutes, he clocked it. Not too
bad.
He left the highway at McCrory Lane and went
to
his gym. The YMCA lot was full, as always. He checked in,
changed clothes in the locker room, ran for forty-five
minutes, worked on the elliptical for twenty, did one
hundred inverted crunches and shadow boxed for ten
minutes.
Then he toweled himself off. He retrieved the messenger
bag,
left his sneakers in the locker, slipped his feet back
into
the fluorescent orange rubber Crocs he'd been wearing all
day. He left his gym clothes on—they would go straight
into
the wash.
He went across the street to Publix,
bought
a single chicken cordon bleu and a package of instant
mashed
potatoes, a tube of hearty buttermilk biscuits, fresh
bananas and cat food. He took his groceries, went to his
car, and drove away into the night. He hadn't seen a
soul.
His mind was engaged with what waited for him at
home.
Dark. Lonely. Empty.
Gavin pulled
into
the rambler-style house at 8:30 p.m. His cat, a Burmese
gray
named Art, met him at the door, loudly protesting his
empty
bowl. He spooned wet food into the cat's dish as a
special
treat before he did anything else. No reason for Art to
be
miserable. The cat ate with his tail high in the air,
purring and growling softly.
He hit play on his
stereo, and the strains of Dvorák spilled through his
living
room. He stood for a moment, letting the music wash over
him, his right arm moving in concert with the bass. The
music filled him, made him complete, and whole. Art came
and
stood beside him, winding his tail around Gavin's leg. He
smiled at the interruption, bent and scratched the cat
behind the ears. Art arched his back in
pleasure.
Evening's ritual complete, Gavin turned
on
the oven, sprinkled olive oil in a glass dish and put the
chicken in to bake. It would take forty-five minutes to
cook.
He showered, checked his work e-mail on his
iPhone, then ate. He took his time; the chicken was
especially good this evening. He sipped an icy Corona
Light
with a lime stuck in the neck.
He washed up. 10:00
p.m. now. He gave himself permission. He'd been a very
good
boy.
The padlock on the door to the basement was
shiny with promise and lubricant. He inserted the key,
twisting his wrist to keep it from jangling. He took the
lock with him, holding it gingerly so he didn't get oil
on
his clothes. Oil was nearly impossible to get out. He
made
sure Art wasn't around; he didn't like the cat to get
into
the basement. He saw him sitting on the kitchen table,
looking mournfully at the empty spot where Gavin's plate
had
rested.
Inside the door, the stairs led to
blackness.
He flipped a switch and light flooded the stairwell. He
slipped the end of the lock in the inside latch, then
clicked it home. No sense taking chances.
She was
asleep. He was quiet, so he wouldn't wake her. He just
wanted to look, anyway.
The Plexiglas cage was the
shape of a coffin with a long clear divider down the
length—creating two perfectly sized compartments—with
small
drainage holes in the bottom and air holes along the top.
It
stood on a reinforced platform he had built himself. The
concrete floor had a drain; all he needed to do was
sluice
water across the opening and presto, clean. He ran the
water
for a few minutes, clearing out the debris, then looked
back
to his love.
Her lips were cracking, the hair
shedding. She'd been without food and water for a week
now,
and she was spending more and more time asleep. Her
lethargy
was anticipated. He looked forward to the moment when her
agonies were at an end. He had no real desire to torture
her. He just needed her heart to stop. Then, he could
have
her.
He licked his lips and felt embarrassed by
his
erection.
He breathed in the scent of her,
reveling
in the musky sweetness of her dying flesh, then went to
the
desk in the corner of the basement. No spiders and dust
and
basement rot for Gavin. The place was clean.
Pristine.
The computer, a Mac Air he'd indulged in
as
a late Christmas present to himself, sprang to life. A
few
taps of the keyboard, the wireless system engaged and he
was
online. Before he had a chance to scroll through his
bookmarks, his iChat chimed. The user's screen name was
IlMorte69. He and Gavin were very good friends. Gavin
responded, his own screen name, hot4cold, popping up in
red
ten-point Arial.
My dollhouse is nearly complete,
Hot. Howz urs?
Hey, Morte. Mine's on its last legs
as
well. I'm here checking. Your trip go well?
My
friend, I can't tell you. Such a wonderful time. But it's
good to be home.
New dolls?
One. Luscious.
Easy pickings. Like taking a rat from a cellar.
Gavin
cringed. Sometimes Morte got to be a little much. But
what
could you do? It was hard for Gavin to talk to people,
the
online world was his oyster, his outlet. He had other
friends who weren't quite as crude as Morte.
Speaking
of which…he glanced at the listing of contacts and saw
Necro90 was online as well. He sent him a quick hello,
then
went back to his chat with Morte.
When do you
think
you'll be ready?
Morte came back almost
immediately.
Within two days. Did you do it like
we
discussed? You were more careful with the disposal than
with
the snatch, weren't you?
Gavin bristled a tiny
bit,
then relaxed. Morte was right to chide him. After all, he
had made a mistake. He'd quickly learned that following
Morte's every instruction was important. Very, very
important.
Yes. It was perfect. I'll send you a
photo.
He uploaded the shots, breath quickening in
remembrance. So beautiful. Within moments, Morte
responded.
My God. That is perfect. Lovely. You've
become quite an artist.
Thank you.
Gavin
blushed. Receiving compliments gracefully wasn't one of
his
strongest attributes. He glanced over his shoulder, knew
he
needed to wrap this up.
Morte, I've gotta run.
Long
day today.
I'll bet. You be good. Don't forget,
two
days and counting. I'll expect
pictures!
Bye.
A picture flooded his
screen—Morte had sent him a gift. Gavin studied the
photo;
his ears burned. Oh, Morte was amazingly good with a
camera.
So much better than he was.
Morte's doll had no
animation, no movement. Her eyes were shut. Gavin turned
his
chair around so he could stare at his own dollhouse, his
own
doll, lying in the darkness. Alone. He'd need to find her
another friend soon. If only Morte's girl was a sister.
He
didn't have a taste for white meat.
Another
chime—this time it was Necro responding. He asked how
Gavin
was doing, if there'd been any news in the community.
Gavin
replied with a negative—he'd heard nothing. Of course,
his
ear wasn't to the floor like Morte—Morte was the
architect
of their online world. Gavin had found his friends deep
in a
sleepy sex message board, and was so thrilled to have
them.
They made his life bearable.
He chatted for a few
minutes with Necro, read a rambling account of a perfect
specimen Necro had sighted on some white-sand Caribbean
beach, then logged out. He stared at the photo he'd
downloaded from Morte. He was overwhelmingly turned on,
and
no longer able to contain himself. With a last glance at
his
doll, he went up the stairs, unlocked the door, locked
the
basement behind him and returned to his life. It was time
for another shower, then bed. He had a very busy day
ahead
of him. A very busy few days. The plan was in
motion.
He was proud of himself. He only checked
the
doll's breathing three times during the night.
Taylor
Jackson was happy to spy an empty parking spot halfway up
Thirty-second Avenue. Luck was on her side tonight.
Parking
in Nashville was extremely hit-or-miss, especially in
West
End. The valet smiled hopefully as she turned in front of
Tin Angel, but she couldn't leave a state vehicle with a
kid
who didn't look old enough to have a driver's license,
not
without getting into all kinds of trouble. She drove past
him, paralleled smoothly and walked the slight hill back
down to the restaurant's entrance. She was looking
forward
to the evening, a girls' night with her best friend Sam
and
colleague Paula Simari. No homicides. No crime scenes.
Just
a low-key meal, some wine, some chicken schnitzel. A
night
off.
She was early, her friends hadn't arrived
yet.
She followed the hostess to a table for four right by the
bricked fireplace. The logs were stacked tightly and
burning
slow, putting out a pleasant low, smoky heat. Even though
the weather was warming, it was still nippy in the early
mornings and late evenings.
She ordered a bottle
of
Coppola Merlot, accepted a menu, then lost herself in
thought. The envelope she'd addressed before she left for
dinner was burning a hole in her pocket. She took it out
and
stared at the lettering, wishing she didn't recognize the
handwriting. Wishing she didn't have to address letters
to
federal penitentiaries, even if they were the chinos and
golf-shirt variety.
Winthrop Jackson, IV
FCI
MORGANTOWN
FEDERAL CORRECTIONAL
INSTITUTION
P.O. BOX 1000
MORGANTOWN, WV
26507
The edges of the envelope were getting
frayed.
She needed to decide if she was going to mail this letter
or
not.
She traced the outline of the address, her
mind
still screaming against the reality. Her father, in
prison.
And she'd been the one who put him there. Glancing to
make
sure no one was looking, she slid the single handwritten
page from its nest.
Dear Win,
I am sorry. I
know you understand I was just doing my job. I had no
choice. I would appreciate it if you would stop trying to
contact me. I find our relationship impossible to handle,
and I want to get on with my life. Mom is still in
Europe,
but she has her cell phone. She can send you the money
you
need.
For what it's worth, I do forgive you. I
know
you couldn't help yourself. You never
have.
Taylor
"Whatcha reading? You look
upset."
Taylor started. Sam took the seat across
from
her, dropped her Birkin bag on the floor under the table
and
stretched her fingers, the joints popping slightly. She
grimaced.
"Holding a scalpel all day does that to
you. What's that?"
Taylor shook the page lightly.
"A
letter to Win."
"Really? I thought you'd sworn off
dear old dad. Did you order some wine?"
"I did. It
should be here any minute. Where's Paula?"
"She
got
called to a case. Sends her apologies. She'll catch us
next
week. It's just us chickens tonight."
Sam settled
back into the chair, the firelight glinted red off her
dark
hair. Taylor still wasn't used to the blunt-cut bangs
that
swooped across Sam's forehead. She'd cropped her tresses
into a sophisticated bob, what she called her mom do.
Taylor
thought she looked less like a mom and more like Betty
Page
with that cut, but who was she to comment?
"What
are
you staring at?"
"Sorry. The hair. It's so
different.
Takes me a minute."
"You have no idea how easy it
is.
Though I do miss long hair. Simon does too."
"I
thought about cutting mine. When I mentioned it, Baldwin
had
a fit."
The wine arrived and they placed their
orders. They clinked their glasses together, and Sam
said,
"Up to it, down to it."
Taylor laughed. They'd
started that toast in eighth grade. Up to it, down to
it, damn the man who can't do it…. The rest of the
toast was a crude allusion to their future lovers' skill,
though they had no idea what it meant at the time. In
high
school Taylor had embarrassed herself at one of her
parents'
many dinner parties by leading a toast with it. When the
men
roared and the women blushed, her mother, Kitty, had
taken
her aside and explained why that wasn't an appropriate
thing
for a young lady of breeding to say. She wouldn't tell
her
why, though, and Taylor and Sam puzzled over it for days.
Now, as a woman, she understood, and always laughed at
the
memory of her disgrace.
She thought of Win then,
and
sobered.
"I'm trying to shut Win down, Sam. He
keeps
mailing, keeps calling. I don't want anything to do with
him. He's poison, and I need to get him out of my life.
What
if Baldwin and I have children one day? Can you imagine
ole
jailbird gramps telling stories at Christmas dinner?
He'll
either corrupt them or embarrass them."
"You're
thinking of having kids?"
"Focus, woman. We're
talking about my dad."
"You'd make a great
mother."
Taylor stared hard at her best friend.
"Why
do you say that?"
"Please. You're totally the
nurturing type. You just don't know it yet. You'll be
like a
bear with its cub, or a tiger. Nothing, and no one, will
harm a hair on your kid's head. Trust me, you'll take to
it
like a seal to water. When might this magnificent event
take
place, anyway?"
"You mean my immaculate
conception?"
Sam laughed. "Baldwin's still in
Quantico, I take it."
"Yes. He gets back tonight.
That's why I wanted to meet downtown. I'm going to head
to
the airport from dinner."
"You miss him when he's
gone, don't you?" Sam smiled at her, a grin of
understanding. Taylor had never needed a man to feel
complete, but when she'd gotten involved with John
Baldwin,
she suddenly felt every moment without him keenly.
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