Shadow Season Read online

  Praise for the Novels of

  Tom Piccirilli

  “Truly dazzling.”

  —KEN BRUEN, Barry and Shamus award—winning author of The Guards

  “Tons of emotion and suspense are packed into this fast-paced crime thriller…. The reader makes off with the ‘goods’ in this read because it’s a gem.”

  —FreshFiction

  “Piccirilli (The Midnight Road, etc.) tells the gritty, violent and dark tale in an appealingly noirish narrative style, highly economical yet bracingly intimate.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Before racing to its conclusion, the book has been a savage novel of crime and violence, a surprisingly tender love story, and an insightful examination of what family means. Whichever aspect appeals to you the most, The Cold Spot is a hell of a ride.”

  —Mysterious Galaxy

  “Truly a great ride for crime fans.”

  —Bookgasm

  “Great characters, cool dialogue, and all-around excellent storytelling. Every crime fan needs to add the name Tom Piccirilli to his must-read list.”

  —Edgar-and Anthony-nominated author VICTOR GISCHLER

  “If you like action-packed suspense with serious bite, Tom Piccirilli is your man.”

  —JASON STARR, author of The Follower

  “Tugged in by a stark, masterful setup, you’ll stick around eagerly for the knifelike prose, sharply drawn characters, and driving plotline. Lean, brutal and completely arresting.”

  —MEGAN ABBOTT, author of Queenpin and The Song Is You

  “[Piccirilli] tells energetic, action-packed stories that cut deeper and probe questions about what it is to be human, to love, to change, and how the things that happen to us in our lives shape the person we ultimately become.”

  —Crimespree

  “The Cold Spot is a gripping and powerful novel from an author who makes fans out of almost everyone who reads his work…. And really, there’s no better recommendation than simply: read this book. But be warned: once you hit that last page, you’ll be dying to read 2009’s The Coldest Mile.”

  —Crime Scene (Scotland)

  “The gritty narration, graphic violence and pulp gravitas should make fans of Jim Thompson and Charlie Huston feel right at home.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “This gripping thriller will keep readers on the edge of their seats. Piccirilli has a knack for creating believable characters in interesting and provocative situations, and his uses of narrative and flashback are top-notch.”

  —Romantic Times

  “If you want to write a good thriller, master the art of the shock twist…. Piccirilli is one of those rare writers who knows his craft and is approaching the top of his game.”

  —Bookgasm

  “Tom Piccirilli’s fiction is visceral and unflinching, yet deeply insightful.”

  —F. PAUL WILSON, bestselling author of the Repairman Jack series

  “Tom Piccirilli is a powerful, hard-hitting, fiercely original writer of suspense. I highly recommend him.”

  —DAVID MORRELL, bestselling author of Creepers and Scavenger

  “Piccirilli is the master of that strange, thrilling turf where horror, suspense, and crime share shadowy borders. Wherever he’s headed, count me in.”

  —DUANE SWIERCZYNSKI, author of The Wheelman and The Blonde

  “Tom Piccirilli’s work is full of wit and inventiveness—sharp as a sword, tart as apple vinegar.”

  —JOE R. LANSDALE, Edgar Award—winning author of The Bottoms

  “Piccirilli is a master of the hook…. Agripping read any suspense/thriller/mystery fan will adore.”

  —New Mystery Reader

  Also by Tom Piccirilli

  A CHOIR OF ILL CHILDREN

  NOVEMBER MOURNS

  HEADSTONE CITY

  THE DEAD LETTERS

  THE MIDNIGHT ROAD

  THE COLD SPOT

  THE COLDEST MILE

  For Michelle

  who leads me from the dark

  Many thanks to the folks who’ve helped in both large and small ways to shape this novel: Norm Partridge, Eddie Muller, James Rollins, Allan Guthrie, James Langolf, and my agent, David Hale Smith.

  And uber-gratitude goes out to my editor, Caitlin Alexander, who helped to deepen and burnish these shadows.

  Between the desire

  And the spasm

  Between the potency

  And the existence

  Between the essence

  And the descent

  Falls the Shadow

  —T. S. ELIOT, “THE HOLLOW MEN”

  One fine day in the middle of the night,

  Two dead boys got up to fight.

  Back to back they faced each other,

  Drew their swords and shot each other.

  One was blind and the other couldn’t see,

  So they chose a dummy for a referee.

  A blind man went to see fair play,

  A dumb man went to shout “hooray!”

  A paralyzed donkey passing by

  Kicked the blind man in the eye,

  Knocked him through a nine inch wall

  Into a dry ditch and drowned them all.

  A deaf policeman heard the noise

  And came to arrest the two dead boys.

  If you don’t believe this story’s true,

  Ask the blind man, he saw it too.

  —ANONYMOUS, “THE TWO DEAD BOYS” (FOLK RHYME)

  THERE’S THE SCENT OF BLOOD. FINN raises the back of his hand to block his nostrils, but it’s already too late. The smell twines through him almost lovingly, caressing at first and then spiking deep. His head burns a slick, wet red. He says, “Ah…” The next word should be “shit,” but he can’t quite get it out. Memories surge forward into the center of his skull. A nimbus of rising color and movement tightens, clarifies, and takes form.

  It’s his wife Danielle on the morning of their twelfth anniversary, naked at the stove, glancing back over her freckled shoulder. She asks, “Pancakes or French toast?” Still moist from his shower he leans in, nuzzling her throat, nipping at the throbbing blue pulse, reaching around her waist to feel the taut smooth belly, and then draws her down to the kitchen floor. He likes the feeling of the cold Italian tile under his back.

  The aroma runs down his throat. He coughs and there’s another sound there, maybe a chuckle. The experience is strangely pleasant, almost familiar, but it still makes him a little panicky. The surgeons say it’s impossible. His psychiatrist says it’s unlikely, trying to give the benefit of the doubt as she worries a tissue between her hands. She’s getting one-fifty an hour—from his perspective she owes him a fucking doubt or two, even if he does only visit her once every six or eight weeks.

  They all admit that the olfactory sense is closely linked to memory, but they tell him that fresh blood has no scent because it hasn’t had a chance to oxidize yet. And Finn is always talking about such small amounts. Sometimes only a couple of drops.

  He knows it’s true. He’s been around blood. He’s aware of the many ways it’s likely to flow, spatter, splash. The way it drifts into cracks, the way it tastes, his own or someone else’s. He’s been covered in it, he’s lost plenty.

  Jesse Ellison has cut herself on a rough corner of the metal windowsill and she grunts demurely while trying to snap the lock shut. She’s sixteen and clumsy, gangly by the sound of her awkward gait. She drags her feet in the halls, often late for class and bursting through the door a minute or two after Finn’s begun his lesson plan.

  Despite her lankiness she’s got heft, muscle, a kind of earthiness. When she brushes against him—usually by accident but occasionally by confused teenage intention—he senses an innate strength. She plucks at his sleeve in an effor
t to help him along in the hallways, always trying to mother him.

  Finn imagines she has large hands with long, dull fingers. The other girls laugh at her and call out with derision. She seems to handle their jibes with a maturity beyond most of her classmates.

  When he pictures her, he sees the daughter of a domestic-dispute vic, one of the last cases he ever worked. Husband and wife radiologists, penthouse on Park Ave. Husband finds out the wife is bopping the doorman and the window cleaner, and does her with a drain cleaner cocktail.

  While Finn asked routine questions, the teenage daughter wandered around a living room lined with black-and-white murals of her parents striking seminude provocative poses, her elbows knocking photos off the piano. The girl had an open face, empty caramel-colored eyes, and slack lips, and that’s what Finn sees when he sees Jesse.

  Icy air seeps in the window and wafts across his face. It’s going to snow like a bitch tonight.

  The sound of students and their families packing up SUVs, wishing each other Merry Christmas, and saying their good-byes floats up to the second floor. He recognizes several of the fathers’ voices from various parent-teacher conferences. There’s a certain flat annoyance in each of them.

  They’re working men trying to give their daughters a leg up on the world by sending them to a private institution. Putting in twenty or thirty hours overtime and weekends to afford the tuition, now forced to take a day off to pick up their kids and take them home again for Christmas vacation.

  Their colorless speech proves they’re part of the same brotherhood of pain and uncertain values, Saturday night bowlers who want their daughters to marry better men than themselves. They shout and honk to one another as they pull away.

  Jesse finally manages to clamp down the lock. She hisses at the sight of her own wound. He hears her fidgeting, turning left and right, unsure of what to do next, how to stop the bleeding. A small maiden sound works up her throat.

  Finn reaches out to touch the blackboard and steady himself. The rage strikes quickly with the scent, as it always does, threatening to overpower him. He makes a fist with his left hand and tightens it against the head of his cane. He’s cracked a lot of them this way. His hands still retain power.

  The dark comes to life again, replaying what the investigators called “the incident.” He’s trapped in the splinters of his own fracturing skull and feels the echoing stab of agony. It takes a second to get ahold of himself and remember where he is now, who he is now.

  I am stone in the night, Finn thinks. I will not break.

  “Have Nurse Martell look at that, Jesse,” he tells her, his smile natural and easy, hiding nothing and hiding everything. He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his handkerchief. “Use this. She’s still in her office, isn’t she?”

  He knows she is. He hasn’t heard her car drive off yet. Roz’s car is a flatulent ’58 Comet on its third turn of the odometer. There have been grease fires in the engine block, and it blows enough smoke that he can feel the oily residue on the breeze settling against his skin like a mist. When she stomps the pedal it backfires like a twelve-gauge, often making the younger girls giggle. Back in the city, it made the gangbangers dive to the curb.

  Jesse says, “I think so.” She plucks his handkerchief from him with a short, fierce action. “How did you know I hurt myself?” she asks with a quiver of a grin in her voice.

  Like most people, she’s moderately impressed by this sort of carnival trick. It’s one of the reasons she has a crush on him. It’s the kind of thing that raises him to just above pitiful and makes him almost cute. Sometimes the girls want to hug him, the way people like to coo at babies or pick up midgets.

  He swings the cane up to tap at the stack of novels resting on the corner of his desk. “Don’t forget to take the Kerouac, Robbins, and Vonnegut.”

  “Thanks for lending them to me, Mr. Finn.”

  “Sure.”

  “I’ll be careful.”

  “I know.”

  “You always take such good care of your books. No cracks in the spine, not a single dog-ear anywhere. Some of the girls, during study hall, they’re so nasty they spit between the pages. It’s uber-disgusting. But your copies look brand-new.”

  Despite the fact that it’s true, Jesse doesn’t realize how ludicrous her own comment is. He’s grateful for that. She shouldn’t always have to worry about making a mistake around him, to be terrified of talking. There are some people who can’t even start a sentence with I around him because they think they’ll hurt his feelings.

  Still, the rage bucks against his sternum, trying to get out, wanting to scream at the kid, I fucking can’t see, what do I give a shit about books anymore?

  A blind man taking good care of his library. If the comment is silly, the fact is absurd. He used to be a bibliophile. He used to be concerned with the look of words and the structure of sentences. When he was a rookie he’d write up his daily logs with a kind of lyrical zeal until his lieut came down on him for it. He used to frequent secondhand shops in the city and spook the neighborhood when his radio squealed. He used to be a lot of things.

  Finn’s left plenty behind but there’s more he doesn’t have the courage to give up. There’s no reason to thumb through his favorite hardbacks anymore, even though the urge is still there. They sit on the shelf wasted. They are paper and he is stone.

  Jesse’s been borrowing novels from him all semester, one of the few students who actually does outside reading. Or even curriculum reading, for that matter. She’s hitting that phase where novels that caused a stir in the fifties and sixties hold a great interest for her. “I can’t stand how repressive the school library is,” she says now. “You know someone erased the word ‘fuck’ from Catcher in the Rye? And they crossed out all the ‘god’s in ‘god damn.’ Isn’t that illegal?”

  “It is if it’s the librarian doing it.”

  “I don’t know who’s doing it. My mother would throw a fit if she knew I was reading Slaughterhouse-Five and Even Cowgirls Get the Blues and On the Road.”

  She’s right, Mrs. Ellison would, and without even knowing why. Simply because there are others who’ve told her that certain fiction shouldn’t be read, especially by young girls in private schools. But Finn believes that parents who would send their daughters to the St. Valarian’s Academy for Girls are already guilty of living by outdated notions of gentility. This school gives a lot but is ultimately for suckers.

  He thinks, Why aren’t you reading Judy Blume, kid? Or Jackie Collins? Why aren’t you cyber-stalking some jock from across the river? Why do you give a damn about Billy Pilgrim and Sal Paradise and Sissy Hankshaw?

  Let the parents throw their fits. He doesn’t care. He’s learned he can get away with a lot. People feel too ashamed to give him much grief.

  “You don’t narc on me and I won’t on you,” he tells her. “Deal, Jesse?”

  “Deal, Mr. Finn.”

  “Solid.”

  She makes a grab for the novels and nearly drops them. She moves in close, her breath a mixture of fruity gum, mint toothpaste, and Duchess’s breakfast of waffles and eggs Benedict. The syrup reeks. “It’s going to snow tonight. Your coat, that one you wear when you go for your walks, I don’t think it’s going to be warm enough for you. I can run back to your cottage and get you something heavier, if you like.”

  “Thanks anyway, Jesse.”

  “I really think I should.” Her voice is a little sharp, like a mom who’s fed up.

  “I’m okay.”

  “I mean, it’s no problem. I don’t mind. It’ll only take me a few minutes, and I think I should—”

  “That won’t be necessary,” he says, appreciative but annoyed by her careful attention. It would be so easy to allow himself to go with it, to become weak, the way he nearly was with Vi, the way the world wants him to be, so it can decimate him. “I’ll be fine.”

  “You need a hat. You never wear a hat. Maybe Santa will bring you one.”

  She
leaves the room, hesitating in the doorway, watching him for a moment longer before she turns and ambles off down the corridor. She won’t visit the nurse. She’ll knot his monogrammed handkerchief around her cut flesh and stare at his initials. Maybe she’ll buy him a hat. She’ll replay their puerile conversation over and again until it takes on a much greater meaning. He was once sixteen too, a bony boy with a bumbling step.

  She understands they’re two of a kind, in some way. Lonely outsiders, a pair among the handful left behind during winter vacation for lack of families or other reasons. Finn does a quick count. There are ten students and faculty members left on campus. Eleven if Vi has stayed, and he suspects she has.

  Of course she has.

  Roz’s car starts up in the lot out front. It grumbles, falters, and gurgles. She’s off with Duchess to pick up extra supplies for Christmas dinner before the snow starts.

  The scent of the girl’s blood lingers, keeping his head red and sticky.

  He reaches into his desk for the bottle of cologne he keeps there. He dabs some on his index finger, covers his top lip, and breathes, and breathes. It doesn’t drive away the vision of his dead wife Dani, naked and glaring, sticking the S&W .38 in his face and pulling the trigger.

  ST. VALARIAN’S ACADEMY FOR GIRLS IS a small but prestigious school with a relatively meager staff. Four satellite cottages surround three buildings built a century and a half ago, protected by the historical society because a minor Civil War battle occurred on its front steps and Rutherford B. Hayes once slept here back when the school was a hotel. Whenever you told anybody that, you also had to explain that Hayes was the nineteenth president of the United States. They’d ask, Ah yeah, what did he do? And you had to explain, He got the last federal troops out of the South after Reconstruction, he ordered the Panama Canal built, and he reformed a corrupt and bankrupt Civil Service.