Page 108 of Frozen Heart
The faux-wood paneled walls might have been white once, but now range in shades from beige to dark brown, covered in stains of unknown origins. The cracked linoleum floor shares a similar fate, coated in dirt and grime after years of neglect and exposure to the elements. Other than the chair I’m sitting on, there’s no other furniture.
“I truly am sorry that I had to drag you into this.” Bartholomew’s cheery voice seems to echo through the space while he fumbles inside the bag. “You must understand, I wouldnever have resorted to inconveniencing you in this manner if there was any other way.”
I keep silent, not that I have much choice with the gag shoved into my mouth. My eyes are trained on him, waiting for the jolly old man to produce a gun or something worse from the bowels of that duffel. He is obviously crazy; a tidbit I should have realized sooner, like when he seemed thrilled to share the details of that human experiment of his. But he acted so…nice. So…harmless.
Christ. If I weren’t scared to death right now, I’d laugh. I obviously haven’t learned my lesson on appearances since the last time.
“Here.” He stands up so abruptly that it makes me jump in my seat. “I hope chamomile is okay. Sugar?”
I gawk at the white bone china teacup and saucer, gold-rimmed and decorated with intricate roses, in his hands. Another relic from the sixties, complete with a delicate golden teaspoon.
“Now, I’ll remove the gag so you can drink. But please don’t do anything stupid, like scream. There’s no one around for miles, so all you’d be doing is straining yourself for no reason. Alright?”
I eye the silly teacup suspiciously. What’s the right course of action when you’re tied to a chair, and your kidnapper offers you a beverage? Definitely not drink it! But the thrillers and crime novels I love have taught me that to survive a kidnapping, I need to establish rapport. Compliance is probably the safest strategy.
I nod.
As Bartholomew pulls down the gag lodged in my mouth, I briefly consider biting him, but that would achieve nothing.
“What did you inject me with?” I rasp as soon as the gag is out.
“Just a common tranquilizer.”
I bite the inside of my cheek. Everything in me revolts against sharing intimate information with this madman, but I’m no longer worried about just me. “I’m pregnant. I need to know what you gave me.”
“Oh, congratulations! What wonderful news. How far along are you?” A beaming smile flashes across Bartholomew’s face. It’s so sincere. So kind. So fatherly.
A chill runs down my spine.
“I’m not sure. I did the test just before I ran into you. Will whatever you gave me harm my baby?”
“There’s no need to worry, my dearest Iris. The sedative won’t cause any harmful side effects.” He brings the cup to my lips. There’s a hint of warm spice in the chamomile tea. Cinnamon.
I pull back after a single swallow. “Why are you doing this?”
Bartholomew’s face falls, and he exhales a long-suffering sigh. He sets the tea aside on an overturned bucket and shoves his hands into the pockets of his plaid pants. With his back hunched and shoulders curved forward, he stares at his feet. As strange as it may seem, he actually looks apologetic.
“This was my last resort, you know. I kept hoping he’d come to his senses. Years and years of trying to get him to understand. But, some people are stubborn to their core. Throughout the decades of my career, I’ve never met another person as capable of such powerful denial as he. It’s practically an art form. Your husband is truly one of a kind.”
My eyes round in shock. This is about Adriano?
“You see, learned patterns are always hardest to break.” He kicks a twig across the grungy floor with the tip of his shoe. “Along with self-imposed beliefs. Left to fester long enough under specific conditions, the ideology solidifies so fully that it becomes an impenetrable doctrine. Without ever being aware of it, the individual succumbs to a narrow, rigid, categorical structure, you could say. Unable to see that there is so much more to life than only power, influence, or money. Unless it could be measured, quantified, other facets in their sphere are immaterial to them, worthless. Compassion, warmth, affection… Hell, even anger and jealousy—all emotions, really—they can simply shed them like a tree losing its dry leaves for the winter. Discard, eliminate, expel…until nothing but a hollow, frozen trunk remains. That’s how they survive. But they do not live.” Bartholomew looks at me then, his eyes brimming with a mix of sadness and determination. “I’ve been trying to save Adriano from that fate for a very long time.”
“So, how does kidnapping me fit into your…crusade?”
“As I said—last resort. When all else fails, a man must face an impossible choice.” Out of nowhere, he produces a silver pen and starts clicking it frantically while wearing out a circle around me on the old, dirty floor. “I’ll be honest, I thought messing with his business would have shaken him up, at least a bit. I would have taken even a small emotional response as a win. But other than irritability because of the constant demand on his time, he showed me nothing else.”
Like a metronome hidden somewhere in the room, rhythmic clicks of the pen fill the space as he makes tracks around my chair. I wince whenever I lose sight of him.
“So, I kept upping my game. Gradually. But there was no effect, and I was rapidly running out of people I could use. I mean, there are only so many places ex-cons could get to andonly so much they could do when it comes to a behemoth like Ruffo Enterprises. The kid who set fire to that oil rig was dumber than hell, and just as scared. Instead of completing the small act of arson I tasked him with, he nearly got himself and everyone else blown up. He almost ruined everything. I’ve gone to great lengths to make sure no one ever got hurt by my machinations. But, unfortunately, I can’t prevent human idiocy.”
He stops right in front of me, his gaze boring into mine like he’s pleading with me to understand. But understand what? How do I fit into this…this insane plan of his?
“At that point, I was already losing my faith, convinced that everything I’ve done was in vain. But then, you showed up.”Click… Click. Click.“Yet he kept fighting it, of course. Denying the truth. So I changed my tactics. And then, just watched him lose it, bit by bit. It was a beautiful sight to witness.”
“Lose what? Witness what?”
A maniacal smile unfurls on Bartholomew’s face. He resumes walking, rounding my chair in haste, faster and faster. The clicking of his pen gains tempo.
