HEART AND SOUL - JUDY COLELLA (classic novels to read .TXT) 📗

Why do you want to shake my hand? Did I do something wonderful? “Sure.” Deciding rudeness was childish, Xavion gave the other man’s hand a firm shake and sat.

“Well.” Faragon sat also and took a sip from his coffee mug. “We seem to have a situation. Someone is going around murdering homeless men by cutting out their hearts.”

Silence.

“He’s left no evidence whatsoever, or at least none that we’ve been able to find,” Faragon went on quickly. “There’s nothing at the scene we can work with. Hell, there isn’t even a whole lot of blood. Ever see anything like this before?”

Yeah, because it’s such a common occurrence. “Have you?”

“W-no. I mean, of course not. That’s why we’re stumped.”

“Where would you suggest I start?”

Faragon took a folder from a drawer on the left side of his desk and handed it over. “The photo on top is our most recent victim.”

Xavion opened the folder, stared for a few seconds, nodded. “Bricks. Wonder why.” He frowned. The street-dweller had wandered into the factory on an exceptionally cold night a few years before and had been frightened nearly out of whatever wits he had by the owner. It had taken a lot of calm talking, but eventually, Xavion had convinced the man he was in no danger, had given him a blanket and pillow, and instructions never to come back after that night.

Bricks had kept his promise, but it was obvious he’d probably die of exposure at some point, so Xavion had sought him out on the streets a few nights later and provided him with a heavy coat, hat, gloves and a scarf. Not that any of that could protect a human being from whatever implement had been used to surgically remove the man’s most vital organ.

And it had, in fact, been surgical. Even in the murky photo, Xavion could see that. “You say there was very little blood – where? In the wound or around the body?”

“Both.”

“Great. Your murderer is a surgeon, probably a cardiologist.” He closed the folder and stood. “I’ll call you when I have something worth discussing.”

Faragon nodded, also rising. “I’m curious. You – a gargoyle is this ugly, relatively small, misshapen thing, but hell, you’re what – six-five? Six-six or so? And God knows you’re anything but ugly. Your physique is practically perfect. Why the name?”

“Seriously? Do you know anything about me at all?”

“Only that you’re a freaking Sherlock Holmes when it comes to solving really tough cases.”

“He was fiction. His methods as described by Doyle wouldn’t all work the way the story claims they did. Nothing I do is based on fiction. And my real last name is G’Argyle.” He spelled it. “Figure it out.” He gave a short laugh. “I’m surprised you didn’t know that.”

“Why? You aren’t exactly Mr. Small-Talk. How old are you, anyway?”

“Old enough.”

Faragon narrowed his gaze. “That’s not what I asked.”

“That’s exactly what you asked.” He shrugged, raised the folder in salute, and left the office.

After tucking the folder into the leather saddlebag on the back of his bike, Xavion put the helmet on again, mounted his bike, kicked it to life, and took off. Why the hell would anyone murder Bricks? He shook his head, feeling sad for the derelict. Needed the guy’s heart, I’d say, but for what?

A splatter of rain began its tattoo against the helmet, and he picked up speed. Riding through the rain on a summer night was glorious. Winter days not so much. By the time he reached the factory, he was chilled blue. Cold weather didn’t bother him that much, but coupled with the damp, the low temperature seeped deep inside his being. An unpleasant feeling, indeed.

After wiping down the bike and securing it behind the crates, he went upstairs. The jacket had been water-proofed, but couldn’t hold warmth that well. He put it on a hanger, which he hung on the outside of the closet door near the top of the stairs. A thick, pullover cable-knit sweater took its place over his t-shirt, and he started a fire in the brick hearth at one end of the loft. For some reason, this bit of architecture had been part of the original space, although he had thus far been too lazy to establish its purpose. His best guess was that one of the employees – maybe a maintenance person required to be on-site twenty-four/seven – had live up here. Not worth investigating, really.

He made a pot of coffee, then settled in front of the fire with a cup and opened the file. Fifteen minutes or so later, a slow smile it his eyes. He got up, grabbed his jacket, and went out again.

Perspective was everything. With the wrong perspective, nothing worked right. Conclusions were invalid. From the top of a twelve-story building, the perspective was unique, covering a greater space, and thus affording an accurate view not possible from the ground.

The factory was located more or less in the center of the City. Compared to many of the surrounding structures, it wasn’t very tall, but still taller than the majority of the ones closest. And what the roof lacked in altitude, the chimneys made up for to a degree. Perched on top of the tallest of these, Xavion stared around at the darkening urban landscape. He’d spent most of the day looking at maps in the City Clerk’s office, seeking confirmation of a suspicion the folder’s contents had sparked. Now he needed to see if it worked in reality. Over the years, a number of streets had been blocked off or changed from two-way to one. The maps were supposed to be up-to-date, but he knew some of the most recent changes might not be reflected, especially the ones near the hospital.

The first conundrum on which he’d concentrated was the lack of blood. Common sense told him it had to be because the victims had been murdered elsewhere. Why the police hadn’t thought of that was anybody’s guess. But it would also explain why no witnesses had been found. After all, carving out a person’s heart took a bit of time, and surely someone would have passed nearby while it was happening, even if that someone couldn’t tell what was being done.

That meant the murderer had to be strong or clever enough to knock out his victim, and have a vehicle in which to transport the poor guy to wherever it was he was removing the heart. The most logical location, based on the obvious fact that this killer knew how to remove a human heart with such great precision, was the hospital. Xavion had heard about the latest advances in laser surgery, and it made sense.

Slowly, he rose to his full height and turned to consider the set of streets on the other side of his factory. These didn’t lead to the hospital, but might provide a low-traffic route. The width of the chimney’s top was only about a foot and a half square, but this didn’t faze him at all. His balance was so perfect, only a hard shove could have caused him to fall.

Pulling from a back pocket the copy he’d made of one of the maps, he unfolded it, holding it up to the dying light of the day. He glanced over the top of it a few times to compare its lines with the streets below, finally shaking his head and folding it up again. “Nothing.” He shoved it back into his pocket and hopped lightly down, landing in an easy crouch on the rooftop. Not too many people could have accomplished this without injury – the chimney was well over fifteen feet high. But in fact, Xavion could jump from the roof of a two-story building and land safely with the same ease. Something about his genetics…

He straightened, decided he was hungry, and went inside. Halfway to the refrigerator, he remembered there wasn’t much in it, that he’d been planning to do some shopping when he woke up. Only, he’d been awakened way too early, had gotten his mind tangled up in this latest mystery, and had remained awake. So now his schedule was in disarray, and he’d never gotten to the store.

The nearest supermarket was five blocks away. He didn’t think it necessary to drag out his bike for such a short distance, so trotted there, enjoying the feeling of movement.

No one looked at him when he entered, even though most of the patrons had seen him many times over the past few years. He’d found this amusing at one time, but now he didn’t think about it. Didn’t care.

What do I want? Steak? Hmm. Need some bread…veggies…As he pushed his cart up and down the aisles, he grabbed things from the shelves, forcing himself to concentrate on his shopping instead of the serial killings.

“Excuse me, could you move your cart for a second?”

He looked away from the assortment of soup at which he’d been staring. A young lady stood there, eyebrows raised, and nodded at the shelf. He raised one of his own. “Sure – you need something from here?”

“Yeah – just a can of chowder?”

He pulled his cart back and waited for her to remove the can.

She dropped it in her cart, smiling. “Thanks. Sorry about that.”

“Why?” And why did people always apologize for such things?

She shrugged. “Don’t know. Seemed like the right thing to say.” Another smile, and she continued on her way.

Pretty. Probably married. He went back to studying the soup.

When he was satisfied with his choices, he headed for the check-out, getting in line behind four other people. He realized most of the customers had gotten off work not long before, explaining why every cashier was busy. The line he was on was the shortest; even the Express lane snaked out farther than he was used to seeing.

The cashier didn’t look up as she scanned his purchases, staring at the screen while she asked him if he wanted to donate a dollar to some children’s fund. He agreed and she thanked him, but still didn’t try to make eye contact. Her nametag said “Rae” so he you’re-welcomed her, using it.

That got her attention, perhaps because she thought he might be someone she knew, but when her gaze finished making its way to the top of his six-foot-seven height, she only seemed surprised for a second, then looked away again. “One hundred twenty-two and sixty-seven cents,” she told him, focused once more on the screen.

He handed her a hundred-dollar bill and a fifty. Credit cards were not, in his opinion, a smart thing to have. “You can use the change for the charity.”

This time when she looked up, she frowned but didn’t move her eyes away. “Sir, that’s more than twenty dollars. Are you sure?”

He nodded. “Twenty-seven, thirty-three. And yes, I’m sure.” Now he smiled and started transferring the plastic bags with his groceries to the cart. The woman had been packing them as she went, instead of making him do it the way many of the younger clerks did. “Have a good evening,” he said, finished.

“Thank you! You, too, sir.” She smiled, but her eyes had been drawn back to the screen.

When he got to the doors, he scooped up the bags by their