Shadow Season
Authors: Tom Piccirilli
Tom Piccirilli
“Truly dazzling.”
—K
EN
B
RUEN
, 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 V
ICTOR
G
ISCHLER
“If you like action-packed suspense with serious bite, Tom Piccirilli is your man.”
—J
ASON
S
TARR,
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.”
—M
EGAN
A
BBOTT,
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. P
AUL
W
ILSON
, bestselling author of the Repairman Jack series
“Tom Piccirilli is a powerful, hard-hitting, fiercely original writer of suspense. I highly recommend him.”
—D
AVID
M
ORRELL
, 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.”
—D
UANE
S
WIERCZYNSKI
, 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.”
—J
OE
R. L
ANSDALE
, 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
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 effort 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.