Cold As Ice: Novel (A Kristen Conner Mystery Book 3) (5 page)

He cursed when his own foot started to slip on a patch of ice. But he managed to keep on his feet after a brief stumble.

He looked northward up the path on the west side of the park and froze in place. He could see a ghostly figure running toward him. What the . . . who would be out on a morning like this? Do I stay and take care of him too? But if I can’t see what he looks like he can’t see me either. Right? Just get out of here.

Nancy Keltto hugged her arms around herself as far as they would go to fight the cold. The wind was blowing in gusts and she wasn’t dressed to go outside just wearing a bathrobe. But the garage was only fifteen steps away from the small back door stoop. Eddy was going to miss his bus if he didn’t get inside and get ready. Just make a dash for it.

She’d pop her head in the garage door, tell him to get a move on it—and he would dutifully obey—and then hustle back into the warmth of the house.

The cold hit her like a sledgehammer but she kept going, head down. Nancy tripped over the lump in front of her.
Eddy?
She knelt down and looked into his lifeless, staring eyes.

Nancy fell backward, stumbled to her feet. All she could do was stare. She was done with Eddy . . . today was the day she would tell him she was filing for divorce. She desperately wanted a new life away from him . . . but not like this. What had happened?

Nancy Keltto opened her eyes wide in horror. She screamed loud enough to awaken Mrs. DeGenares in the house next door and startle Bradley Starks, a teenager that lived with his mom in the house on the other side, into spilling his orange juice.

She ran for the backdoor to call 911, almost slipping on the ice.

6

NELSON WAS NOT dead when I arrived. His throat was slashed, opening his trachea and cutting into the jugular vein, but not all the way through. The tenuous strands of tissue were enough to keep his blood from spurting out immediately. But the gurgling fountain didn’t bode well for his survival. He was going to bleed out soon. The blade didn’t cut all the way through the interior carotid artery, so his brain was getting a little oxygen.

With the wound he received, it was a miracle the man was alive.

As I neared the crime scene, I saw a man stumble up the sloped pathway to exit Central Park—even from my distance it appeared to be someone huge. That got me excited. Seeing the incline meant I was almost done with my icy run. I still had to cut east to the other side of the park and the warmth of my hotel lobby, but the end was in sight.

The brain is pretty smart whether we’re awake or asleep. It gave an order for Nelson’s body to scream. Since his windpipe wasn’t in one piece, it did the best it could and let out a shrill kerning wail that I will never forget as long as I live.

I had already picked up speed to get my ill-advised run over with when the undulating, piercing shriek from Hell shattered the relative quiet of the park. I broke into a sprint. Nelson’s brain did the right thing to get me moving faster than I would have thought possible a few minutes earlier. I think I moved as fast as when I ran track in high school or played forward for the Northern Illinois soccer team.

I took one look at the victim and knew his ticket to eternity was punched or about to be punched. My mind raced to my EMT training.

ABC. ABC. ABC. Airway. Breathing. Circulation. ABC.

Adrenaline coursed through my body and my frozen fingers could
suddenly work. I got my phone out, punched 911 somehow, and stuck the aluminum casing in the crook between my neck and shoulder while it rang. I brought my hands to his gaping throat, got my two pointer fingers and thumbs on the separated pieces of ringed cartilage, muscle, and connective tissue that formed the four-inch tube that allowed him to breathe. I could see the top and bottom holes that needed to be joined. A moist gooey mucous dripped from each end.

God, you are going to have to help me, was all the prayer I could muster.

I pressed the two tubes together and held them as I heard an operator ask calmly, “What is your emergency?”

Be calm. Be steady. Keep the airway together. Don’t drop the phone.

“Victim has been slashed across the throat. Condition is critical. I am down the slope from the Columbus Circle entrance to Central Park. I need a medical emergency team immediately. I also need police backup.”

“Are you NYPD?”

“No.”

“I need your name and phone number.”

“I repeat. Emergency medical unit needed now.”

“My procedure is to get a name and number first.”

“Detective Kristen Conner. You have my number.”

“You said you weren’t NYPD.”

“I’ll explain anything you want later. Listen to me. A man is about to die. You need to get EMTs moving now. And blood. Bring blood.”

“What type?”

“I have no clue. Whatever you got, everything you got, bring it. Now!”

The phone slid off my shoulder, hit the ice, and slid a few feet from me. I hoped and prayed she got that. Legally she has no choice but to act. The only way I could have held onto the phone any longer was to
have let go of his severed airway. It was a miracle I held onto the phone as long as I did.

This guy was dying and I only had one set of hands. What next? Was help on the way? Was he even still alive? I took a gulp of air. It burned going into my lungs but I calmed down and got back to working on trying to save a life. It had taken too long to get to B: Breathing. How long since his last connected breath? A minute? Probably longer.

I leaned forward and began to blow softly between his blue lips. I heard a hiss of air escape out a gap in the mangled trachea I was trying to hold together. I lifted my head from his mouth. I looked down at the gory mess at his throat and pressed the two white pieces together a little tighter. But I didn’t want to squeeze the carotid artery and cut off the blood supply to his brain. I bent back down to his face and blew three more times. I could still hear air escape but it wasn’t as loud. Some air was getting through. That’s as good as I could do.

I started to shiver. Hard. Not good. The adrenaline was wearing off. I couldn’t keep doing this. I suddenly heard a glorious sound; sirens from several directions. They were heading my way. I was heartened. I knew I could keep going until they arrived.

I was overdue to check what was happening with C: Circulation. He had lost so much blood already. I couldn’t see anything coming from what was once a gurgling fountain. Had he bled out? I know a little about exsanguination from a case I worked—the serial killer. I still don’t know how anyone can get comfortable with the coppery smell of the gooey substance that keeps us alive. My fingers were going numb and getting clumsy again. I couldn’t feel a pulse. But I lowered my head and saw there was just enough trickle to assume—to pray— his heart was still pumping blood.

The gooey, freezing puddle beside us said he didn’t have much left in his body to donate at the blood drive. Just focus and stay positive, I told myself. Help is on the way. Keep working. I blew into his lips again, trying to figure out how to stop the bleeding. If I pressed too
hard on the jugular I’d cut his airflow—and I was barely keeping the trachea held together as it was.

The sirens were closer. Please hurry.

I kept my thumbs and pointer fingers on the trachea. I worked my pinky and ring fingers of both hands up and down each side of his neck. I was sure I felt a pulse this time. The exterior jugulars are on each side of the neck so I pressed in. I lowered my lips to his and continued to breathe for him. I thought, if this guy has AIDS or Ebola or another communicable disease, I’ve got it.

Some people question whether I can do one thing at a time. Apparently I can do three things at the same time.

I thought about my ruined Christmas presents and immediately felt guilty for wondering if the NYPD or some other city agency would reimburse me for my blood-soaked outdoor running gear I only got to wear one time.

Sirens were wailing closer and closer. I just had to keep going another minute or two.

What if I hadn’t run this morning? I don’t like to blame God for my stupid decisions, but is it possible, on this occasion, He sent me out to save a life?

Focus. Push the ends of the tube together. Press in where you think a pulse should be. Breathe into his lungs. Repeat. Stop thinking.

I felt the icy cold return like a sledgehammer. I told myself to breath. I was near the point of fainting when I heard the rush of footsteps and knew the cavalry had arrived.

Pasha Boyarov looked into her pleading, terrified eyes. She knew nothing but someone had to pay. He raised a fist as she sobbed and whimpered.

“Careful, Pasha,” Vladimir Zheglov, his right-hand man said. “We need her. The best way to catch a bear is with a pot of honey.”

You wanted it all, Pasha thought to himself, barely able to contain his rage and hold the punch.

Spittle flew from his mouth as he leaned forward, eye-to-eye with Ilsa.

“If I find you are holding back . . . if I find there is anything you aren’t telling us, I will kill you with my bare hands. Do you understand?”

She nodded her head yes, trying to avoid the cold black reptilian eyes that were boring into her.

“He always comes home after work. I swear. I don’t know where he is. He’s told me nothing.”

Pasha spun, grabbed a wooden chair, and smashed it against his desk. He beat the chair until only a splintered club was in his hand.

He looked at Vladimir, who looked back at him impassively. If I go down, Pasha thought, at least I know I have Vlad at my side. The only man Pasha considered more deadly than himself was his lifelong friend, Vlad.

Less than one hour earlier a door to multiplied power and wealth stood open to him, only to have a bumbling bear kick it shut. There had to be a way to kick it back open. Doors are made to be destroyed. He had been doing that most of his life.

7

I HAVE NEEDED time to shut the world out. I have needed to think about what happened, as painful as the experience itself was, and as painful as it is to relive it, which I have, every moment of every day spent here.

It could be worse. The Metropolitan Correction Center in downtown Chicago is a modern prison. The architects have thought of everything it seems, even giving me a room with a view. The window is seven feet high, but alas, only five inches wide. But even if it were wider and the glass wasn’t too thick to break, it wouldn’t offer any hope for escape. I’m on the 27th floor.

But I’ve been able to look through that slit in the wall at the possibility of freedom, even as I have been forced to face up to my mistakes. Yes, I now realize they were my mistakes. I own them. I have risen above the hubris that put me here. What happened was not bad luck or the work of others. I allowed it to happen. I was not true to my code. I fell short of the perfection that I thought I had attained—and perhaps had—but let slip away due to carelessness.

I’m not one for religion, but it’s true, pride precedes the fall.

It is only through brutal self-examination and honesty that I can begin to write the story of my life again.

Detective Conner. Dear Kristen. I confess I underestimated you. I own that, too. You were my only mistake in seven years of living life in full. I wrote and directed all of my encounters—until you.

Why you? Even if neither of us understands the bond I felt—that I discovered—the moment I first set eyes on you, just know that my response to you is the ultimate compliment you have ever been paid. Consider it grace; something you don’t deserve. You are flawed. But my eyes, my mind, still can’t turn from you. I should have recognized this; embraced this; and
pursued this reality. My mistake was to keep you at a distance. I will move quicker and directly next time. Be assured of that.

No, you wouldn’t understand our bond, for I don’t understand it myself. We only met face-to-face one time, a painful encounter for both of us, but devastating for me.

The FBI profiler continues to visit me often, praying to me for the words she longs to hear. Dr. Leslie Van Guten is one of those people who love to prove they are the smartest person in the room. But not my room. She is so easy to read. She dreams of being famous for analyzing me and writing about her discoveries. I can see her gazing at the awards on her wall and her picture on magazine covers. She is cold, arrogant, and persistent. She let something slip that I doubt she remembers. It has offered me a glimmer of hope. I must use her arrogance if I am to reengage with the world, free from constraints. She will be of use to me. I will tease her with a gift of my thoughts—just enough for one paper or article to show her masters that her time with me is not in vain.

I’ve asked for an attorney. Such worthless societal parasites. But I must stay positive. I will need him too.

But ultimately it’s you who will save me, Detective Kristen Conner. The thought of being with you as it was supposed to be keeps me going. You will die for what you’ve done, but not until you see those you love die at my hand. Only then will I grant you escape from the world—the Hell—I will create for you.

Thank you, Kristen. The thought of you is enough to keep me going.