by John Inman
Table of Contents
Blurb
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
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Copyright
Words
By John Inman
The world of writers, readers, and reviewers is a close-knit family of friends, fans, and fiction fanatics. That’s the world Milo Cook and Logan Hunter reside in—thriving on the give and take of creativity, the sharing of stories and ideas, and forever glorying in their boundless love of books and the words that make them breathe.
But sometimes words can cut too deep. And when they do, there is inevitably a price to pay.
What begins for Milo and Logan as a time of new love and gentle romantic discoveries, becomes before it’s over a race for their lives and for the lives of everyone they know.
Who would ever suspect that an entity as beautiful as the written word could become a catalyst for revenge? And ultimately—murder?
Prologue
ET OSTENDE incipit… and the show begins
Washington Square Park lay knee-deep in snow on this dawning Sunday morning. Located in Lower Manhattan, the park was a favorite gathering place for Greenwich Villagers. A tall marble arch stood at one end, celebrating George Washington’s inauguration as president of the United States in 1789, and the park’s ten acres of grassland and trees were a rare and well-loved commodity for New Yorkers in any season.
Modeled after the Arc de Triomphe in Paris, the 74-foot tall Washington Square Arch stood grand and imposing at the foot of Fifth Avenue. Behind the arch sprawled the park’s fountain, the pool of which, at the moment, was frozen as stiff as marble itself.
The air was cold enough to kill a homeless person in six hours flat and discourage even the staunchest of joggers from venturing out. For opposing ends of the social spectrum, home treadmills and homeless shelters were the rule of the day. The truly elite sat safely insulated high in surrounding high-rises, sipping Kenyan coffee from bone china and peering down at the frozen city through frosted windows fifty floors up, as untouchable as gods.
New Yorkers are a brave, sturdy lot, but this weather had most of them stymied, which explains perhaps why the lone figure standing at the northwest corner of Washington Square Park on this freezing January dawn was there at all. That person was not a New Yorker.
It might also be true that people with murder on their minds do not feel the cold as the rest of us do. But we shall leave that for the experts to decide.
The figure in the shadows was tall and lean. If one could have seen beneath the scarf wrapped tightly about the face, the figure might also have been handsome. Or maybe not. Warm woolen gloves protected the hands, and the body was shielded from the cold by a long, heavy coat that reached all the way to the ankles, a pretentious piece of clothing in any weather except the one in which the figure now stood. The hair might have been blond or dark, ginger or gray, short or long, since at the moment it was hidden beneath a woolen watch cap pulled low over the head. And the ears were tucked snug and warm beneath the watch cap as well. In truth, the cold only touched the figure’s eyes, and those were as blue as ice themselves, so perhaps immune to the winter’s chill.
The wind whipped past as the shadowy figure stood beneath one of the park’s grandest trees, studying the hotel across the street.
The towering tree was an English elm and it was more than 300 years old, its far-reaching limbs bare of foliage at the moment due to the season. In summer, the tree spread its leafy boughs wide, welcoming passersby to partake of its cooling shade. In historical circles the tree was known as the Hangman’s Elm. It acquired that name not by any flight of whimsical New York fancy, but because of a legend that stated traitors were hung by the neck from its branches during the American Revolution.
Being an executioner of sorts, perhaps it was not inappropriate that our lean figure should be standing beneath the naked boughs of the Hangman’s Elm on this January morning, fingering a two-foot length of clothesline tucked in a coat pocket. A garrote, it is called, and the person we are watching knew its uses better than most. At the moment, in fact, it was a most beloved possession.
Sliding the velvety length of narrow cord through slim fingers, the figure wound it caressingly about a gloved hand. The cord’s hidden strength comforted, even while it both fed and soothed the figure’s anger. A shudder that was almost sexual passed through the body as the eyes above the scarf narrowed in either desire or fury. Or perhaps both.
Those steely, cold eyes focused outward again when a cab pulled up to the front of the Washington Square Hotel, situated on the adjacent corner. A man and woman exited the taxi’s back doors. The cabbie popped the latch on the trunk. Looking miserable and put-upon, he thrust open the driver’s door and jumped out to extract the couple’s luggage. He didn’t wait around for a thank-you but merely dropped the cases at the couple’s feet and leaped back into the warmth of the cab. As he pulled away, turtling off at a median speed of five miles an hour, his snow chains crunched on the asphalt, leaving two jagged scars in the pristine snow.
The couple grabbed their luggage, their breaths clouding about their heads, and hurried through the hotel’s front doors to escape the cold.
The figure beneath the tree smiled, for patience is always rewarded.
Noting the security camera above the hotel entrance, the lone figure pulled the watch cap lower and drew the scarf more securely about nose and mouth, again leaving only the eyes exposed.
Moving for the first time in thirty minutes, the figure dusted snow off long sleeves and stepped out from under the Hangman’s Elm to cross the street, clomping awkwardly through the snow. Somewhere off in the distance, the sound of snowplows rose on the frigid air. They were beginning the monumental task of clearing the city streets. Soon they would reach this end of Greenwich Village, and when they did, all footprints would be obliterated. Beneath the scarf, the figure smiled again, knowing it was one less thing to worry about.
To dislodge the powder from soles and trouser cuffs, the lean figure stomped on the hotel’s front steps, then dusted the latest coating of snow off the long coat and stepped boldly through the front door.
The clerk behind the counter barely looked up at the figure wrapped so thoroughly against the cold, clearly assuming it was one of the registered guests who simply didn’t want to die of frostbite on this horrid winter’s morning. The bellhop, waiting idly by the check-ins’ luggage so he could manhandle the bags upstairs and hopefully wangle a tip for his efforts, didn’t look toward the arriving figure either. He merely shivered at the sudden infusion of cold air whipping through the lobby when the front doors opened. He tapped a foot impatiently as the desk clerk checked the couple’s reservations and handed over the obligatory touristy brochures, as if anyone in their right mind would be sightseeing in the middle of a blizzard.
The visitor strode boldly across the lobby. Ducking into the teeny elevator with its brass and mirror interior—the only elevator in the building available to guests—the figure pressed a gloved finger to the button reading 3 on the panel. After an interminable period of time, the antique elevator finally jerked itself awake and began to climb. As the elevator rose, the rider stood casually, humming a
gentle tune from beneath the scarf in a remarkably sweet voice. One hand still fingered the length of clothesline hidden in the pocket of the snowy coat.
On the third floor, after waiting another interminable amount of time for the elevator doors to open, the figure stepped out into the hall, all the while listening carefully to the sounds of the sleeping hotel. The elevator doors remained open, and in this way the visitor knew the new arrivals had not yet been shunted off to their rooms, which might very well be on 3 as well. So there was little need to hurry.
The hallway was narrow and veered off in odd directions. Gleaning the lay of the land quickly enough, the snowy figure set off in search of room 311. It was at the very end of the hall, just past the stairs leading down—not only to the lobby, but also to a back exit from the hotel that opened onto MacDougal Street. One could not enter the hotel from this door, but one could easily leave it, slipping away onto the city streets like a whisper of air leaking through a subway grate.
The visitor checked the door leading into the stairwell to assure it was unlocked. That done, a shadowed pair of eyes scanned the hallway ceiling, seeking security cameras, of which there were—believe it or not—none. The figure smiled broadly and without further hesitation, strode directly to room 311.
From behind the door, no sounds could be heard, just as there were no sounds coming from any of the rooms surrounding it. Nor was there any noise from the elevator down the hall. The elevator merely hung there, doors open like a gaping maw, waiting to be fed.
Aside from that gentle tune still issuing from behind the figure’s scarf, there was nothing to be heard at all. The Washington Square Hotel was as still as death.
Pulling the garrote from the coat pocket and gripping it securely, the visitor gently tapped at the door to room 311. No answer. And only silence came from inside when the figure stepped closer and pressed an ear to the cool wood. The visitor tapped again.
This time a mumbling could be heard, then a muted thud, as if the person inside had fumbled for a lamp switch on a night table.
“Yes?” a groggy female voice called out. “Who is it?”
For the first time, the lean figure slid the scarf down out of the way so a lowered voice would carry. “Hotel staff, ma’am. There’s been a bit of an emergency, I’m afraid. I’m sorry to disturb your sleep.”
That should do it, the visitor thought. Just distressing enough to pull the sleeper awake without scaring her to death or encouraging her to call the desk to find out what the hell was going on.
“Just a minute,” the woman called out, her voice followed by a swish of bedclothes, then the rustle of footsteps dragging over carpet. The doorknob jiggled from the inside, and a moment later the door eased open a crack. Through the opening, a sleepy eye appeared. Again, the voice said, “Yes?”
One solid thump with a driving shoulder snapped the chain lock on the hotel room door, and the door flew inward, striking the woman in the face. She cried out in pain, then sudden terror. Before she could find a scream inside her fear, the intruder barged through the doorway and quickly pushed it closed again, sealing them inside. The lean figure roughly caught the woman as she turned to flee, a gloved hand covering her mouth to silence her from behind. She cast her eyes, no longer sleepy but filled with panic now, over her shoulder, gaping in fear. The woman was clearly unable to speak, unable to understand quite yet what was happening. But she would know soon enough.
Clad only in a nightgown, her pasty body smelled sleep-warm and yeasty, which disgusted the attacker. The woman’s breath was sour with terror. She mumbled something and tried to bite the hand that held her, for which she earned a vicious yank of her hair from her captor’s free hand.
Her knees almost buckled, and the intruder fought to hold her upright. Seeing an easier way to get things done, the attacker forced her forward and pushed her bulk down onto the bed, landing on top of her as she fell.
Even with a hand across her mouth, the woman wrenched her head to the side and tried to scream. A quick punch in the face silenced her.
Using body weight to hold her in place, the attacker looped the clothesline around the woman’s throat and drew it tight, cutting off her air.
Her eyes grew round with horror, and her tears spilled onto the bed.
The garrote tightened. The smell of the woman’s fear grew rancid. A sudden reek of urine filled the room, which disgusted the intruder even more.
As the victim’s reddening face ballooned and her tongue slipped from between her lips, blackening already from lack of oxygen, the shadowy figure pressed lips to her ear and offered her the last human voice she would ever hear.
“Your pen is poison,” her attacker whispered. “Your words are filth.”
The woman tried to twist around, tried to see the person who was killing her, struggled to understand what the words meant, why the person was doing this, what she had ever done to warrant such hatred, such fury.
“No,” she almost managed to garble. “Please.” But the figure hovering over her simply tightened the garrote and smiled down with icy eyes as cold as the winter dawn outside.
Yet again, the intruder leaned in to whisper in her ear. Lips brushed over tender skin like a lover’s kiss even as the garrote clawed across her gullet, tore into her larynx, and snapped the hyoid bone, squeezing her life away.
“Your pen is poison,” the muffled figure said again, and before the words were fully uttered, life had vacated the woman’s eyes. Those eyes stared emptily now at the snowflakes brushing across the hotel window, at the sky lightening to the east with the promise of a dawn they would never see.
Her attacker kept the garrote wrapped tightly about her throat for a further thirty seconds before rising from the bed to stare down at the woman. Her nightgown was stained where she had wet herself in her last moments. Her stillness, her killer thought, was a vast improvement over the sounds she made when living.
The figure paused in the doorway before slipping away. The room was now soundless, the terror inside waning, cooling like a forgotten cup of coffee. But still the killer could sense the fear that had lived there only moments before. And in that sensing, felt content.
“Disgusting bitch,” the intruder muttered. Five seconds later, soundless footfalls trod the back stairs, heading quickly down two flights through the old building like a wisp of smoke before wafting at long last through the exit onto MacDougal Street.
Ducking beneath the awnings where the snow was shallower, the lean figure headed uptown on foot, the only pedestrian on the street. Two blocks from the hotel, the garrote went down a sewer grate. Knowing how enthralled the police could be with trace evidence—fiber, lint, hair—the gloves, coat, and watch cap found their way into a trash can on the corner of Fifth Avenue and Twelfth Street, where they would likely never be found. As for the scarf still wrapped snugly about the killer’s face, that would remain. After all, it was a favorite.
Shivering now, the figure hurried along the frozen street, lungs and eyes burning with the cold.
Blocks later, when the dawn finally broke and the day began to lighten, it did so with the clarity of clean, cold glass. Our escaping killer hustled along the empty street, slipping through the icy wind. Teeth chattering, the lone figure hurried on as crisp snowflakes speckled the scarf wrapped tightly below watering, jubilant eyes.
The world was purer now. Less stained. One notch closer to being kind.
Hunkered against the cold, the figure stole through the shadows, smiling into the bitter wind.
Only a few more notches to go.
Chapter One
MILO COOK sat behind a long wooden table inside the doors of the Andiron Bookstore in Coronado, California, hoping to snag each and every book shopper as they strolled in off the street. The problem was, there was no one strolling in.
Granted, Coronado, California, was a Navy town, but it was also a touristy resort mecca, known for its pristine beaches. Situated across the bay from San Diego with its back to the ocea
n, Coronado sat upon a tied island, connected to the mainland by a tombolo known as the Silver Strand. Despite its beauty, however, Milo was beginning to believe the city was populated by illiterates. Didn’t anybody read in this town? Didn’t anybody like a good story to wrest them away from their humdrum lives? They were gobbling up tons of gelato from the shop down the block. Didn’t any of them crave something a little more cerebral and a little less fattening? Like fiction, for Christ’s sake?
That was Milo’s stock in trade. Stories. Fiction. And if nobody wanted to read such things, Milo might end up living in a cardboard box behind a dumpster somewhere in pretty short order. Not a pleasing prospect by anyone’s definition. Milo enjoyed his comforts. Like, say, a roof over his head and food on the table, not to mention an occasional bag of Dog Chow for his mongrel, Spanky, who was undoubtedly sitting back in Milo’s San Diego home right this minute, twiddling his thumbs (well, assuming he had any), waiting for his lonely, miserable day to end just as much as Milo was.
The scarred oak table Milo sat behind (on a chair so hard it felt like it was made of granite and squeaked rather alarmingly every time he moved) held unsold copies of Milo’s latest novel. Alongside the books stood a placard with Milo’s picture and name and a few scattered excerpts from complimentary reviews his newest book had gleaned. For writers, there was no such thing as modesty when it came to foisting one’s books onto an unsuspecting public, thereby ratchetting up their sales. It had occurred to Milo in a moment of morbid whimsy that authors work on the same principal as serial killers. The higher the body count, the more famous they become. After all, there are only so many readers scattered around the planet, while there are writers everywhere, dangling copies of their latest masterpieces in front of each and every reader they run across.
A woman stepped in off the street, and Milo immediately molded his lips into his patented author’s smile—welcoming, humble, wise. The woman’s gaze skipped over him like he was merely another parking meter, or fire hydrant, or any of a thousand other inanimate objects, and peered off into the store’s interior. A discerning reader? Looking for the latest Grisham, Brown, or, please God, Cook? But his silent question was instantly answered when the woman barked, “Aha!” and bustled off toward the bathroom in the back of the store.