The Cold Room

Monday
Forty-Two

Daybreak 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.”