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

by T Patrick Phelps

  “Careful,” I said, nodding towards Straus, “we don’t want to raise the dead.”

  I conscripted the examiner’s services for the balance of the night. She directed me to where I found greenish-blue hospital scrubs, gave me water to drink and even performed a bit of exploratory surgery on Straus. I needed something from him. Not a trophy, but a medium through which a message could be delivered.

  When my strength returned to a degree which allowed confidence, I instructed her—and her name was Elizabeth, by the way—to assist me in exiting the facility. She did. She led me to her car then proffered the keys to me.

  “I haven’t had the opportunity to learn how to drive, yet,” I told her. “I need you to bring me somewhere.”

  I’m not a guessing man, but if I were, I would have guessed Elizabeth believed I would have accepted the keys to her car, then driven off, leaving her to recount her horrible tale to the authorities, as well as to whatever group of friends she may have collected throughout her years. But guessing is a fool’s game.

  She lived in Queens; a condo I believed she called it, which ruled out her home as a destination. Too many people with far too prying eyes. I had Elizabeth drive north, across the busy streets of the Bronx, through Tarrytown and towards Albany. I had no intention of having her drive me to any city or area of congestion; I only needed her to take me away from Long Island, the city and from any law officer who might have heard of the events that took place the day before at Hilburn. I had read enough to know her car could be easily tracked if it was driven on any major roads, so, after having her stop at three different ATM’s for cash withdrawals, I told her to wind her way north using as many off-roads as possible.

  Elizabeth was a trooper; I will give her that. Several times she tried to strike up a conversation. She told me about her family and how her mother had died when she was only seven, leaving her and her younger sister, Ellen, alone with their father. He was a wonderful father, based on the brief amount of biased information Elizabeth shared with me. Always slow to anger, patient and kind. He never remarried, which, she and I agreed, would have been challenging on young Elizabeth and Ellen. One time, she asked about my sutures and if any blood was seeping through. I looked into her eyes—which were illuminated only by the occasional passing of an overhead street lamp and the blueish cast of the instrument panel—and reminded her of my lack of the critical organ required for one to bleed.

  “It would be more appropriate for you to ask if the remaining blood in Straus’s heart was seeping through the cotton bag you gave me with which to hold it.”

  After a bit of startled reaction, her conversation picked up again, turning then to my medical condition. She asked me how it was possible for me to be alive without a heart.

  “Surely, the doctors who examined you must have missed it. I mean, it doesn’t make any sense.”

  That’s something I enjoyed about Elizabeth; how in the face of certain terror, she was able to put aside the situation at hand and let her scientific mind roam in untethered freedom. Her face took on the countenance of one deep in thought, while I just sat beside her, smiling.

  After a long while, I put her questioning to rest. “Had I not come to awareness, you would have seen for yourself the vacancy residing within my chest. There is no single heart pumping blood anywhere inside me.” I offered a dramatic wave of my hand, starting from my head to my stomach. “I function at a level too foreign to understand and much higher than what the normal course of evolution could have created.”

  We drove on in silence for several more hours. When I began to see the beginnings of a fracture of light to our east, I instructed her to pull off onto a dirt road. We followed the dirt road for several hundred yards till we came to a small house in a terrible state of disrepair. She put the car into park, turned to me, and said, “This is where you want me to leave you?”

  “Clever,” I thought. “Just a friend doing another friend a favor. Giving a ride to someone without means of their own.” She may have been expecting me to open my door, thank her for her troubles and possibly to even promise to make it up someday, somehow. But that’s not what happened.

  I was far from fully healed. The incision Elizabeth had carved into my flesh, coupled with the vial of acid Straus tricked me into injecting into my neck, severely weakened me. I needed time to heal, to rest. I needed time to slip behind me. I wanted for all others who may have been wishing to pursue me, to succumb to the belief that I was, indeed dead. I wondered, as I buried Elizabeth in the woods that morning, what her co-workers would think had happened. They would walk in, expecting to see two bodies, and instead, they would be greeted by only one corpse. And the corpse looked far different, I imagined, from what those accustomed to the medical examiner’s normal patients looked like. They would certainly call the police. Perhaps one of the same blue squad cars which had been on the Hilburn murder scene would arrive. The officers would ask questions, take a look around, call in a detective or two, then gather back at the precinct to bounce ideas off one another.

  As the last clump of earth fell over Elizabeth’s face, I could almost imagine the line of thought the detectives would take.

  “From what I hear, that missing body was some type of a medical freak. Wouldn’t shock me at all if we find Elizabeth McConnell holed up in a lab somewhere, doing her own freelance autopsy. Still, put out an APB on her and her car and call that back-ass chief of police who was on the Hilburn scene. He may have a few ideas.”

  I stayed at what was left of that house for several weeks. No one ever came calling, but I figured someone would, eventually. Back then, I was still getting stronger, feeling better, developing new and exciting abilities, and had practiced driving Elizabeth’s car enough to feel confident behind its wheel. I left my stationary home and drove in a wide circle with the house as my centering point. I made my way back to the shack every so often. It kind of felt like home, though I may have wished to have a more aesthetically appealing place to call my own.

  I kept off the main roads and did the vast majority of my traveling during the night. I took a large risk one night and broke into a beauty supply shop. I stole enough makeup and a few wigs to last me a year or two. There was still the matter of clothing, but I assumed I would come across some soon enough.

  Gaining entry to businesses and homes became rather easy, though I never took the act lightly. There were several homes I entered, each serving a specific and somewhat innocuous purpose. Some served me in their offering of computer and printer usage while others provided me respite from my frequents to places lacking in any comfort. As for businesses, knowing that most were more strictly protected, I only accessed a few that promised specific assistance. All in all, my travels and movements went unnoticed. For that, I am grateful.

  Essentially, I disappeared. I altered the look of Elizabeth’s car and circulated through a series of stolen license plates to further cover my movements. I needed to blend in as much as possible, though I remained on the margins of society during my blending in.

  Everything that has happened to this point, the fact you are here with me, is the result of the several months I spent in planning. It is a masterful plan, I must admit. And you...you were cast in the leading role of this play.

  You might consider yourself fortunate, but, considering your current position, your struggle to see the positives in your position is certainly understandable.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Derek Cole:

  Ralph and I decided to put the possibility of Alexander having another accomplice to the side for a while and, once Ralph felt stronger, we explored the rest of the cabin. Using the camera on my iPhone, I snapped pictures of anything and everything that might be a clue, including the obvious ones. Room by room, Ralph and I scoured the place. Starting with Alexander’s bedroom and reading room, we spent two hours searching for any additional message or clue in the cabin. We weren’t sure what we were looking for so there were countless items we questioned whether t
hey had been strategically placed by Alexander or had always been in their location.

  By the time our scouring brought us back to the den, I could tell Ralph was feeling the effects of his injury.

  “Like I promised you,” he said as he fell in a thump onto the couch, “I think it’s high time I see someone about this lump on my head and the double vision I seem to have acquired.”

  “Damn Ralph. Double vision? You could have a brain bleed going on. You should have gotten to a doctor right away.”

  “No one should have done anything,” he replied. “Hell, if I did all the things I should have done in my life, I’d be covered in should.” He paused and looked me deep in my eyes. “Do me a favor, will ya?”

  “Call an ambulance?”

  “Nope. I need you to check out the one place we haven’t given a look to yet.”

  “And that would be?”

  “The first time I walked into this lodge, I noticed there had been some papers and what not burned in the fireplace. Turns out, Alexander or his daddy or his brother, tossed some notes in the fireplace and lit them up with a match. Weren’t nothing legible that day, but I’d sure like to know if Alexander left us a surprise in the fireplace.”

  By my count, there were three fireplaces in the lodge. “Which one?” I asked.

  “The one in this very room,” Ralph said. He was staring into the fireplace and the tone of his voice made me think he already knew I’d find something in it.

  I padded over, bent down and saw a dirty white bag sitting atop the log grate. The bag was stained a disturbing shade of crimson. Without hesitating, I reached in, grabbed the bag and pulled it out of the fireplace. I’d say it weighed no more than a pound.

  “I have a bad feeling about what I’m going to see inside this bag,” I said to Ralph as I carried the bag closer to him. “And I have a strange feeling you already have a strong suspicion about what it inside.”

  “Now, I can’t say for certain what’s inside that bag, but, seeing a human heart wouldn’t surprise me in the least. Wouldn’t surprise me in the least.”

  Ralph wasn’t surprised in the least when I opened the crimson stained cotton bag.

  ________________________

  “Now, I can’t say I have the ability to see the DNA strains in that heart, but, I’d be willing to bet dollars to donuts I know whose chest that heart came from.”

  I couldn’t be sure, but Ralph seemed to spark when I showed him the human heart. Almost like he was happy he was right about what the bag contained. That didn’t give me the warm and fuzzies. I don’t think people should feel good about being right when the thing they’re right about is a pretty horrible thing.

  “And whose chest would that be?” I asked.

  “If we run a DNA test on that heart, I guarantee the match would be William Straus. After all, Straus’s body was sent to the same morgue as was Alexander, and, the police reports state his body was ‘deformed’ in some manner. Going back to my beliefs about what happened that night, Alexander made the medical examiner remove Straus’s heart so he could use it as a message to you and me.”

  “More like a trophy,” I said. I was still holding the cotton bag opened and had a sudden and powerful urge to not be holding it any longer. I went to drop it onto one of the tables in the den but Ralph stopped me.

  “Don’t put it down on anything. You’ll jeopardize the crime scene.”

  I walked the bag back over to the fireplace and placed it back on the grate. “So what message is Alexander sending us with the heart?” I asked.

  “Not just any heart. That heart came from the body of Doctor William Straus. So tell me, my freelancing friend, what is Alexander saying by putting Straus’s heart in this cabin?”

  “That he’s a psychopathic lunatic?”

  “While that may hold some truth, that’s not much of a message. No, I think Alexander left that heart here to prove to us it’s him behind the other messages in this cabin. To prove it was him who emailed you and called me. That heart is him offering us proof.”

  I let that sink in for a good bit. When I couldn’t come up with a better explanation, I felt relieved. I wasn’t relieved about it really being Alexander who had emailed me, but that the heart wasn’t left behind for a more gruesome message. I walked back over and stood beside Ralph. “I think we’re overlooking something.”

  “And that would be?” Ralph asked.

  “Several things, actually. First, I found you knocked out on the floor around eight. On average, someone knocked out will stay unconscious for a little less than twenty-five minutes. If we trust the averages, Alexander or someone attacked you around seven-thirty, just about an hour ago from right now. Which means he’s either still somewhere in or around this cabin or has no more than an hour head start on us.”

  Ralph smiled and slowly shook his head. “I am almost embarrassed to admit I darn near forgot to consider what you’ve just shared. While I don’t think Alexander or anyone else could have hidden from us while we conducted our crime scene investigation, we didn’t get to checking out the surrounding grounds.”

  “And we’re not going to. At least, you’re not. I need you to get on your radio and call in your entire police force. And tell them to get an ambulance down here as well. If Alexander, or whoever the hell it was that made the deep sound right before you were knocked out is still around here, we need to make sure we have enough manpower to end any potential threat.”

  I expected Ralph to argue. I was preparing my defensive arguments against what I thought he’d come back with, when he just nodded his head. “How about you open that envelope and see what’s inside?”

  Though the envelope was in my back pocket, I had sort of forgot about it. Seeing who it was addressed to, or rather, how it was addressed, pissed me off. I’ve been involved in enough investigations to know personal emotions, like anger, cloud an investigator’s mind. I wanted to open the envelope and read whatever note or letter was inside, but I also wanted to make sure I was in control of my emotions before doing so. When I grabbed the envelope out of my pocket and read what was written on its front, I knew I was far from controlling my anger.

  Ralph seemed to sense how I was feeling. He gave out with a little laugh, shook his head a bit, then said, “That old Alexander sure must be desperate.”

  “What makes you say that?” I asked.

  “Because only a desperate man would be so obvious in his attempts to get inside your head.” He paused a few beats. “I’d say he’s already made a whole mess of mistakes, but him thinking he can mess with your head may be his ultimate downfall.”

  Sometimes, talking with Ralph is better therapy than what any professional with a whole mess of diplomas hanging on a wall can offer.

  I opened the envelope and read aloud the typed letter that was inside.

  “I am not sure how best to address you. In my mind, a private investigator is the same as your apparently preferred title of freelance detective. No matter, I suppose, but I do feel compelled to ask forgiveness for using the title I feel most comfortable using; that being the one used to address this envelope. It was crude and unfeeling. However, many believe the human heart to be the mother of all emotions, and it seems I am lacking in that area.

  My journeys since that night in Hilburn have taken me to wonderful places. Not that any of those places can be found on a tourist’s map, but my journeys have been through the amazing and incredible world of learning. My father, God rest his soul, did provide me with access to the wealth of entertainment and enlightenment by giving me an Internet connected device, but once I was free to roam about on my own, I gained access to much, much more information. I’ve learned about many things, most of which are not germane to my purpose of writing you this letter.

  I will admit to being surprised at my inability to find information concerning me. There was only one article which detailed the events of that fateful night in Hilburn nearly a year ago, but in that article, I was more of a side note: I was s
imply the deranged killer, bent on revenge and utterly lacking any human-type feelings. The fact Thomas and I were born conjoined was mentioned, but the writer made only suggestions that not all was normal with Thomas and me. Actually, he made no reference to my life’s distance from normality. I won’t say I would have felt a comforting contentment had I read I was a parasitic twin; unable to live without the assistance of Thomas. However, extraordinary events are crucial to a story’s overall validity. No bother, I suppose. Perhaps the fact I am alive is a horror too great for the mindless public to ever accept.

  Call it a hobby of mine, but much of what I focused my research towards was about you. I know all about Lucy’s murder and your anemic attempts to prevent her death. I know about the origin of the scar on your left cheek, though I am embarrassed to say I hadn’t noticed your scar when you and I were together in Ward C.

  It must have been torture for you, Mr. Cole. To have practically a front row seat to your wife’s murder. What an awful thing Leonard McClusky did that day. That was his name, wasn’t it? Leonard McClusky? The man who ultimately pulled the trigger of the gun you shoved into your mouth? Though all the police reports state poor Leonard ended his pathetic life directly after killing Lucy Cole, we both know his influence drove the barrel of your gun into your mouth. Had you never interfered with my business, I am sure I would feel terrible for you. But again, it seems I cannot feel empathy for others and, after all, you did interfere, so I am forced to use your intense grief to my advantage.

  One thing of particular insight I’ve learned is that being heartless can be two things: For me, heartless is a diagnosis. For you, it speaks to your lack of courage, strength and determination. We share one thing in common Mr. Cole. We are both heartless, are we not?