Still Heartless: The Thrilling Conclusion to Heartless (Derek Cole Suspense Thrillers Book 5) Page 3

  “I don’t think it will,” I said. “I’ve told you why I can’t work for any police force that puts protocols over results. When I’m on my own, the only protocols I’ll have to follow are those that make sense in whatever situation I may find myself in.”

  “You didn’t have a problem with protocols before Lucy was killed. You spent eight years in the Army and four with the police department. Surely you followed protocols in the past without issue?”

  “Following protocols before didn’t get my wife murdered.”

  “So, it’s not protocols and having to follow them driving your desire to quit your job and start your own freelance detective agency, it’s just one of those protocols. Which one is it, Derek? Which protocol do you blame for Lucy’s death?”

  I was never able to answer that question. I danced around it a bunch of times, saying things like “The protocol that puts process before action,” or “the protocol that gives only certain people with certain ranks have the ability to do certain things.” I never really got an answer that felt right. I remember telling the therapist I thought her question was like one of those damn “selfie sticks:” Meant for people who liked to look at themselves and not at all concerned about looking like a self obsessed moron, holding their phones in the stick, then smiling at the camera as if smiling for the imaginary person taking the photo. I told the therapist her question was really meant for her. She wanted me to start looking deep inside myself for an answer which didn’t exist and when I came up with something more profound than my usual, “I dunno,” she’d be able to snap the camera button, and capture the look on her face the precise moment she confirmed just how brilliant she was with her ability to ask probing, introspective questions.

  I only saw the therapist a few times after I dropped the whole “your questions suck” comment on her. In the end, I was satisfied with the results of the mandated therapy. I was able to get my pistol permit back—which didn’t happen until two days before I received the email from Alexander—and, in all honesty, I did feel a bit better about my suicide attempt. The hardest thing I had to accept was that I really did try to kill myself. That was hard for a guy like me to admit. I was the type who felt only weak people attempted suicide. People who didn’t have the intestinal fortitude, AKA “the balls,” to tough out a rough patch. I always felt, and probably still feel, that people who kill themselves are selfish sons of bitches, who get so wrapped up in themselves that they totally disregard the effects their actions will have on others. What I came to believe is sometimes there aren’t balls big enough to get you through a rough patch. Some patches never seem to have an end. It’s pretty damn hard to look towards the horizon when the furthest view lying in front of you sucks as much as where you’re currently standing.

  So, I guess while I do love solving crimes, unraveling mysteries and helping out clients, some of the reasons driving me to get back to work revolved around me not wanting to feel selfish. To not wanting to be the type of person who sticks a .40 caliber in his mouth.

  I had just about finished reading all the emails and had highlighted two that seemed promising when my phone rang. I was pretty locked into my inbox so the shrill of the phone startled me a whole hell of lot more than it should have. It’s strange how when you have something important cooking in the back of your mind, that simple things, like a phone ringing or a knock on your door, sets you off. I grabbed the phone, checked the caller ID and saw it was Ralph.

  “An interesting development just was brought to my attention,” Ralph started in. “A development I believe you will find rather peculiar.”

  “If it’s about Alexander, I’m sure I will find it peculiar. Tell me about it?”

  “It is not something words will do justice to, I am afraid to tell you. At least, no words I know will do it justice. Highly educated man like yourself may come up with the right combination of adjectives or adverbs that are suiting, but not this old Texas boy. This is something you need to see with your own two eyes.”

  “You’re telling me I have to make a road trip?” I asked. I said it like doing so would be an inconvenience. Truth is, I was already packing my bags in my mind. I wanted to be doing something about Alexander and knew scanning emails and trying to set up a new client would have been as effective as a Band-Aid would be in covering a six-inch stab wound.

  “Piseco Lake,” Ralph said, his tone was flat and a bit too serious for comfort. “Dr. Straus’s cabin. I’m sure you remember the place and the events that took place at the aforementioned cabin?”

  “I sure do,” I said. “Can you give me at least a hint of what I’m going all the way up there to see?”

  “Well, it seems my instincts may have been a bit off kilter.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “I told you I received a call from Alexander, did I not?”

  “You did.”

  “Now I’m gonna tell you where that call was made from.”

  “Straus’s cabin? Are you sure?”

  “Hell no,” Ralph said. “But one of my officers here sure is. He’s the tech nerd of the department. I told him I received a call from a wanted criminal, and he took it upon himself to trace where that call came from. Traced it right back to Straus’s cabin. As it turned out, we had a squad car no more than two miles from the place. Sent an officer up to take a look, see if he spotted anyone walking around the place.”

  “And?”

  “He was there, no doubt about that. But he wasn’t there when my boy made entry. He did leave a message for you and me, though. It’s that message you need to see for yourself.”

  “Who owns the cabin now?” I asked.

  “Listed owner is the former wife of Dr. William Straus,” Ralph answered. “May I ask why you’re interested in the status of ownership of the cabin?”

  “Just wondering why the phone would still be turned on.”

  “That question proves to me you and I remain on the same wave length of thought, my freelancing friend. Seems the former doctor’s wife, once acquiring the property, decided to keep things exactly as they were and was planning to use the cabin as a summer vacation place. Far as I can find out, she hadn’t been up to the cabin at all, but the phone, satellite television and all utilities are still active.”

  “The cabin has been empty since the murders?” I asked.

  “I wouldn’t go that far,” Ralph said. “And when you decide to grace me with your presence at the aforementioned cabin, you’ll see what I mean.”

  I was packed, in my car and driving east ten minutes after the call with Ralph.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  As much as I enjoy flying, sometimes getting behind the wheel is much easier. Driving involves movement, action, directed purpose. Outside of sitting in traffic or waiting at a traffic light, when you’re driving, you’re always moving towards your objective. This is not the case when you fly. Sure, once you’re up in the air, above the clouds, you’re racing towards your destination. But getting up in the air involves a whole lot of not advancing time.

  To fly from Columbus, Ohio to either Syracuse or Albany, New York, just isn’t as easy as I’d wish it were. There are no direct flights, meaning I’d have to fly to Philadelphia, Washington, New York City, Boston or Chicago first, then suffer through a lay over before flying the final leg to either destination. Then, I would have to exit the plane, weave my way around and through people with a far less sense of urgency, as I made my way through the terminal, out to either baggage claim or to the rental car area. Finally, I’d have to drive from Syracuse to Piseco Lake (two hours) or from Albany (two hours) before I’d finally get to Straus’s cabin.

  I ran some mental numbers in my head as soon as my butt hit my driver’s seat. A typical drive from Columbus to Piseco Lake should take eight and half hours under normal conditions. I don’t drive normally. So, I figured, driving at my normal speed, stopping twice for breaks, I could get from my front door to Straus’ front door in under eight hours. If I flew, it would take me, in th
e best scenario, six hours.

  I called American Airlines, checked on their flight times and cost, ran some more numbers in my head, then settled in for an eight hour drive.

  It was a little before nine in the morning when I started driving, meaning I’d be in Piseco Lake around five in the evening. I called Ralph back, gave him my ETA, and asked if he would give me a bit more information about what I was driving into.

  “What I see in Straus’ cabin and what you will see, will mean different things to you and me. I can’t tell you what you’re driving into because I don’t have the ability to see life through your eyes.”

  Sometimes, Ralph really pissed me off.

  ________________________

  As the miles rolled passed, my anxiety slowly crept up. What began as interest with a hint of urgency, had blossomed into a nearly crushing sense of dread as I spotted a sign reading “Piseco Lake 10 Miles.” Me being back there made it impossible to deny everything that had happened with Alexander Black. Seeing the road sign forced my thoughts back in time. Again, I felt the anger I had felt when I realized Ken O’Connell was lying to me about the reasons I was hired. I wasn’t hired to protect his family but to locate the doctors he wanted to blackmail. He needed me to keep Mix, Straus, Zudak and Lucietta safe and alive so he could threaten them.

  By the time I figured everything out and knew not only Ken O’Connell was involved in helping Alexander, but so too was Thomas O’Connell, my objectives were driven more out of anger, embarrassment and curiosity than from the sense of duty, of obligation.

  When I burst into Ward C—certainly one of my more brainless ideas—I did so to both protect my client, Thomas, but also, I needed to see Alexander face to face. To that point, all I had known about him is what I had read in the doctor’s notes. The only image I had of him was based off a few photographs Ralph found in Straus’s cabin. If I had to guess, I’d say I was only twenty-five percent convinced Alexander was real, and that he was truly without a heart. I was seventy-five percent confident that when I walked into Ward C, I would run smack dab into Ken O’Connell and Thomas; and no one else. I figured Ken had not only lied to me about why I was hired, but had also been behind the murders and was about to set up his son, Thomas. When I saw Thomas running into the back entrance of Hilburn, I figured he sorted everything out in his mind and was about to confront his dad.

  I was as wrong as I could have been that day. Alexander was real, and he was standing inside that room, staring at me behind his horribly lifeless eyes.

  ________________________

  It took much longer to arrive in Piseco Lake than I had calculated. Traffic wasn’t especially heavy but I ran into two accidents on I90 in New York that found me in a dead stop for well over an hour each. It was close to eight in the evening before I saw the “Piseco Lake 6 Miles Ahead” sign.

  Despite the obvious neglect and “run-down” appearance I would expect of any structure left unattended for going on a year, Straus’ cabin looked the same. The driveway was still crushed stone, the curtains in the windows still drawn closed and the dormitory looking structured attached to the back of the cabin still jutted out at an awkward angle. What was different was the strange aura the cabin exuded. As I parked my car and walked across the crushed stone towards the front door, I felt the cabin’s memories glaring at me. As if the windows were eyes staring into my soul, watching me, recording my steps. Straight out of a typical low-budget horror movie, a gust of wind collected and directed its strength as I knocked on the front door.

  As I stood waiting for Ralph to open the door, I looked to my left, saw the tree where Roger Fay had been murdered and beyond, Piseco Lake’s water danced in the fading sunlight. The water had taken on the rustic orange glow of the sunset and the breeze was dancing across the lake’s surface, fracturing the water and creating unrepeated and fleeting works of abstract art on the watery canvass.

  A disturbing feeling of being too exposed outside, charged through me. I knocked again. Louder and with intended urgency. Still, the door held shut and I heard nothing coming from the other side of the solid wooden door.

  A hundred thoughts raced through my mind as I stood at the front door of Straus’ cabin. The thought which kept repeating and insisted on being noticed, concerned Ralph. I stepped back from the door and reached to my hip. I felt the coolness of my Glock 27 in its holster, and while I didn’t draw the .40 caliber, my hand gripped it tight. Ralph had told me to meet him at the cabin, of that I was certain. But as flood of thoughts filtered down, I began to question my convictions of what I had told Ralph.

  “Did I tell him I’d meet him tomorrow?” I asked myself. “Did he say anything to me after I told him I was on my way?”

  Doubting yourself, your memories, is a powerfully disruptive and crippling thing. All at once, the actions you had intended to execute are brought into question. Your confidence is shaken and the stealing fears which your certainty held at bay are loosed.

  I took another step away from the door and backpedaled, my eyes fixed on the cabin’s front door, all the way to my car. I tore my sight away from the door and scanned the area, looking for anything or anyone. I was alone, though I could hear the faint whispers of laughter creeping through the forest, assumedly coming from the neighbor’s cabin. I pulled out my iPhone from my front pocket and fingered Ralph’s cell number. I continued scanning the area around me, making a point of returning my gaze to the front door every few seconds as I listened to my call connect. I heard the ringing and counted off each conclusion. When the fifth ring completed, the cellular service provider’s automated answering service kicked in, and Ralph’s prerecorded message was played. But it wasn’t Ralph’s voice rattling off the message. It was Alexander’s whisper thin voice I listened to.

  “I am sorry Ralph is unavailable to receive your call. His duties have detained him.”

  A sharp, frigid chill raced up my spine, causing the hairs on my neck, arms and legs to stand at attention. I twirled around as I pulled my .40 out of the holster, scanned the area again and brought the Glock up to my line of sight. There was something beckoning me inside; the pull was palpable. I walked swiftly back up the crushed stone driveway, cursing the crunching sounds my footfalls made and reached the cabin’s front door. My pistol still held up to my sight line, I reached for the handle, and turned it.

  The door swung freely on its hinges. The hinges sounded a short squeal of defiance as the heavy door came to rest. I thought at first my imagination was running rampant, manufacturing odors of death, decay. But when my eyes fully adjusted to the dimness of the cabin’s interior, I dispensed blaming my fearful imagination and began processing the scene.

  The message, certainly intended for my eyes, was unmistakably clear; impossible to misunderstand yet still infused with questions, mysteries and an offered challenge. The message was in three parts, at least, that’s what my eyes registered. The first part of the message was the path of dropped rose petals on the floor, leading from the entry hall, through the foyer then down the hallway, leading to the dormitory where Alexander had spent several years as the dorm’s captive-resident. Had the rose petal trail marker been the only part of the message, I would have followed the slowly decaying petals to where they were inviting me to follow. But there were two other parts of the message which demanded my immediate attention.

  The second part of the message was scrawled into the oak panelling which lined the walls of the front room. The words carved into the walls looked to have been made by a strong hand wielding a broad knife. The letters were cut deep into the paneling and each stood eight inches tall. The writer of the message spent time to ensure the words would be easily noticed, easily read.

  “A Broken Heart is a Sign of Life. It is a Longing.”

  Beneath the message, tied to a stiff-backed wooden chair, naked and unconscious, sat Ralph Fox: The third part of the message.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Getting to Ralph was my priority, but so too was ensuring I was
alone in the cabin. After clearing the corners of the front room, I walked sideways to Ralph’s side, my sight and my pistol aligned. I reached my hand towards Ralph, felt his neck for a pulse and breathed a heavy sigh of relief after feeling his heart’s steady report. I called his name a few times while shaking his shoulder. He stirred, grumbled but failed to return to consciousness.

  I needed to see if anyone else, specifically anyone named Alexander, was in the cabin. I moved through the cabin, room by room, always returning to the front room to check on Ralph after clearing a room. The last area to clear was the dormitory.

  I padded across the entry way, careful to not step on any of the dropped rose petals, and entered the dormitory. I remembered the first door I would come to would be the suite Alexander had spent several years of his life. The trail of rose petals led directly to the suite’s door then snaked its way inside. I stood still, held my breath and listened to the growing silence. Besides the sound of the gathering winds outside, I heard nothing.

  Silence, at times, is unsettling.

  I inched forward, closer to the door. Each step carefully calculated and each more tentative than the previous.

  As I reached the doorway, I was certain I would see Alexander standing or sitting in the room. I could see his face; his gray, lifeless pallor, his baby-blue eyes set deep into dark sockets and swimming in a horrible sea of yellow. He would be smiling his toothless, gaping grin. And he would, despite the care I took at making my approach a silent one, be expecting me.

  But the room was empty.

  The rose petals ended into the center of what was Alexander’s reading room, where they formed a large heart-shaped pattern on the floor. I glanced quickly into the bedroom off to my left then made my way into the room, clearing it and was relived to have found no additional messages carved into the walls or left strapped to the bed. Satisfied the suite of rooms was empty, I walked back into the hallway, partially closed the heavy steel door to Alexander’s suite behind me, then made my way down the hall.