Valentine Read online




  PRAISE FOR VALENTINE:

  “Effective . . . a truly surprising twist . . . a stylish suspense novel.”

  —Washington Post Book World

  “A well-crafted tale of madness . . . spine-chilling.”

  —Naples Daily News

  “A thriller with heart. Savage writes with fierce energy, piercing holes into the shredding fabric of our society, where no one is safe, no one is free from harm.”

  —Lorenzo Carcaterra,

  author of Sleepers

  “A pleasurably crafty yarn . . . . truly awesome.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  PRAISE FOR TOM SAVAGE AND PRECIPICE:

  “An extremely clever and gripping novel, marvelously plotted, and thoroughly spell-binding. Tom Savage is a very gifted writer who creates living, breathing characters, wonderful dialogue, and mesmerizing tension. The ending is as good and surprising as anything I’ve read in years. Do not peek at the last page.”

  —Nelson DeMille

  “A subtle, well-crafted tale of deceit and madness among the rich.”

  —Chicago Tribune

  “A stunning first novel that presages a brilliant career.”

  —Robert B. Parker

  “A rapid read and difficult to put down.”

  —Denver Post

  “It’s a pleasure to welcome Tom Savage . . . . an impressive debut.”

  —Lawrence Block

  “Likable characters . . . a seemingly simple but eventually complex plot, one that Savage has mined with unexpected twists. Readers’ expectations may be blown to bits by the clifftop denouement.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “A story on the edge . . . . A twisty quick plummet, a sunny landscape in which nothing—and no one—is what it seems. A delightful debut.”

  —Donald E. Westlake

  “The most intricately plotted thriller I have read in years!”

  —Ann Rule

  “A pulse-pounding thriller, complete with a twisting plot, characters who are not what they seem and a surprise ending . . . . Precipice is a delightful icy read through the tropics. This is a solid novel from an author with great potential.”

  —Mostly Murder

  “A stylish and accomplished novel with a terrific sense of place and a wonderfully complex plot.”

  —Jonathan Kellerman

  “A cool, smart and stylish first thriller . . . that features a major twist in nearly every one of its tightly woven chapters. . . . Surprise piles upon surprise, logically, convincingly, until all secrets are resolved in a climax that owes a debt to Greek tragedy. . . . Intellectually satisfying, a finely wrought, unusually clever literary debut—and a natural for the movies.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “Precipice has all the right ingredients—dark secrets in a bright landscape, madness and mayhem among the megabucks—whipped up and dished out at a dazzling pace and best devoured at a single sitting.”

  —Reginald Hill

  “A fast-paced and very suspenseful page-turner sure to be devoured by the throng who follow murder among the rich and beautiful people.”

  —Library Journal

  VALENTINE

  A NOVEL BY

  TOM SAVAGE

  for Suzy & Marcia

  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  Jill

  1. THURSDAY, JANUARY 29

  2. SATURDAY, JANUARY 31

  3. SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 1

  4. TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 3

  Earth, Wind, and Fire

  SIXTEEN YEARS AGO

  Jill

  5. WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 4

  6. WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 4

  Earth

  THREE YEARS AGO

  Jill

  7. THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 5

  Wind

  TWO YEARS AGO

  Jill

  8. FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 6

  9. SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 7

  Valentine

  MONDAY, FEBRUARY 9

  Water

  10. TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 10

  11. THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 12

  12. FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 13

  13. SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 14

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  FIRE

  When he was certain that she was dead, he got up and walked over to the window. He stood there, naked in the dark, gazing down at the front yard and out at the black shapes of the large evergreen trees that ringed her property. The porch light cast a dim yellow glow that winked on the thin coating of frost on the grass. It was freezing outside, but the little bedroom was warm and cozy. Warmer now, he mused, after the lovemaking.

  He chuckled softly to himself and reached out to brush his fingers against the delicate white lace of the window curtains, remembering. Lace. Lace curtains, lace tablecloths, lace doilies on the coffee table and the spinet piano in the living room at home. His mother’s lace.

  Now, all these years later, he grasped the curtains in his large hands and yanked them from the rod. He tore at them, mauling, ruining the fine floral pattern, hearing the soft, satisfying tearing sounds as he ripped them to pieces. When they were destroyed beyond repair, he dropped them to the polished wood floor and stepped on them, feeling the rough material under his bare feet, crushing it with his toes. His chuckle rose in volume as he bounced up and down on his soles, defiling the pretty, clean lace. He kicked the limp, dead curtains away from him and closed his eyes as the thrill coursed slowly through his body. Then he opened his eyes and turned around.

  A second, greater shock of pleasure suffused him as he peered through the darkness at the naked figure on the bed. She lay sprawled on top of the satin quilt, arms and legs splayed, her lovely face and dark red hair partially concealed under the pillow he had used to smother her. From this angle, it almost looked as if she had. been decapitated. But no: that was not the agenda. Her end would be very specific. He had planned it that way, long ago.

  His gaze shifted from the still form on the bed to the little clock on the bedside table. Six minutes after midnight. He smiled to himself, thinking, I could barely wait.

  At the stroke of midnight, as she lay gasping with spent pleasure beside him, he’d risen to straddle her, planting his knees firmly at either side of her waist. He’d leaned down to kiss her softly on the mouth, and his lips had traveled slowly over to her ear.

  Then he had whispered his name.

  He’d straightened up quickly, looking down with great satisfaction as the name registered and her expression changed. There was a frozen moment as she stared up at him, her green eyes widening in surprise. Just before she could will herself to move, he’d smiled down at her horrified face and crooned the last words she and all the others would ever hear.

  “Happy Valentine’s Day!”

  He’d brought the pillow swiftly down over her face. She’d struggled briefly, as the others had, her screams muffled by the crushing pressure. The thrashing and moaning had gone on for nearly a full minute, oddly simulating her own thrashing and moaning of moments before, when he had been inside her. Then she had shuddered and lain still. He grinned in the dark, thinking, how very alike they are: the act of love and the act of dying.

  He stood next to the bed, staring down at her. He remembered another time, the first time he had stood like this, naked before a woman. The music; the pink, heart-shaped candy box clutched to his chest; his long, pale, skinny arms and legs shivering in the cold room; his mind numb with longing; and the thick, rigid thing standing straight out from the curly nest between his legs. He’d waited there in the dark, desire and fear and anticipation mingling in his blood, rooting him to the spot.

  Then, in one swift, blinding moment, the lights had come on.

  He would never, ever forget that mome
nt. Because of it, he had waited several years for this moment, and for other moments like it.

  Smiling at the irony of his action, he reached over and switched on the dim, pink-shaded bedside lamp next to the candy box. The soft glow illuminated the room, the bed, the woman. Just enough light, he thought. Enough light for what I have to do now.

  He went over to the chair in the corner where he’d left his clothes. He stepped into his underwear and socks, then jeans, shirt, sweater, boots, scarf, gloves, cap, and leather coat. Then he left the bedroom and descended the carpeted stairs to the ground floor. He walked across the living room to the porch and down the front steps. His boots crunched on the frosty grass as he went over to his car. He opened the trunk, picked up the two large red plastic containers, and carried them back to the porch.

  Leaving one container on the floor just inside the front doorway, he carried the other back upstairs to the bedroom. He unscrewed the cap and stood next to the bed, looking down at her, committing the sight to permanent memory. Then he raised the plastic can above the bed and poured, soaking the sheets and the pillows and the satin spread and the still figure in the middle of it all. He sprinkled the rest of the room and made his way back down the stairs, keeping a steady stream behind him. When the container was empty, he dropped it on the floor and went to get the other one. He worked his way through the house, dousing the kitchen and the dining area and the main room, whistling under his breath. He’d made his way back out of the house and down the front steps before he stopped short, smiling, as he realized what he was whistling. It was the song he’d heard for the first time on that cold, terrible night long ago, when all the lights had come on.

  “My Funny Valentine.”

  It had been playing on the stereo that night, he remembered, as he had played it for her tonight. Sarah Vaughan . . .

  His high-pitched, elated laughter filled the chill midnight air as he emptied the container in a little pool on the bottom step. He tossed the plastic can through the open front door, into the center of the living room. Then he got in his car and started the engine. In this weather, it would take a few moments to warm up. When the car was idling smoothly, he got out and went back over to the base of the steps.

  He pulled the book of matches from his pocket and stared down at it, feeling the power. He was breathing heavily now, panting with the excitement of it, his breath forming puffs of smoke. Despite the subzero temperature, he was aware of the thin trickles of sweat under his layers of clothing. Yes, he thought. It was worth it, all the years of waiting, of dreaming, of fantasizing, for this. This moment. Now.

  He tore a match from the book, lit it, and touched it to the others. He stared, fascinated, as the chain reaction shot across the tops of the matches, erupting at last into one big, glorious flame. He closed his eyes, savoring his final, thrilling moment of expectation. Then, with a grin, he dropped the burning matchbook into the puddle on the bottom step.

  The car had reached the first clump of trees that concealed the house from the road when he stepped on the brake and turned to look behind him. The entire downstairs was already in flames. As he watched, there was a sudden burst of light in the bedroom. From this distance, he could just hear the faint shattering sounds as the heat inside the house and the freezing cold outside caused the bedroom windows to explode, and the glittering crystals of glass rained down on the lawn. Then the roof caught, and a magnificent pillar of bright fire shot up into the night sky.

  Three down, he thought. Three down, one to go.

  He drove through the wood and turned onto the country lane that would eventually lead to the highway, keeping the car at a slow, leisurely, unsuspicious pace. By the time his car melted into the traffic heading toward the city, he was singing.

  “My Funny Valentine.”

  He smiled, thinking about the last name on his list. He stopped singing to whisper the name under his breath, over and over until it rose to a murmur, and the murmur to a shout, filling the car, ringing in his ears, resounding through the frozen night. . . .

  Jill

  1

  THURSDAY, JANUARY 29

  “Jillian Talbot!”

  She glanced up sharply, lowering the steaming mug to the table in front of her, bracing herself. Here it comes, she thought as she produced the automatic smile and peered through the gloom at the enormous shapes approaching her. She’d chosen the darkest, most quiet comer of the coffeehouse to avoid just this eventuality. But there’s no hope for it, she realized. Here we go again.

  The shapes came out of the darkness and formed themselves into two rather hefty middle-aged women in fur coats. Perfectly nice women, Jill was sure, but she couldn’t help her own involuntary cringe as she watched them coming toward her. The larger of the two was waving at Jill as she barged across the room. The slightly smaller, blue-rinsed model trotted dutifully behind her, an apologetic smile on her friendly face.

  “Now, Phyllis,” this one bleated as they arrived at the table, “I’m sure Ms. Talbot is very—”

  “Nonsense, Schatzi!” the bigger one boomed. “I just want her autograph. Hello, Ms. Talbot. I’m Phyllis Beamish, and this is Charlene Miller. We saw you on the Today show yesterday morning, you know, in our hotel? We’re here on a culture tour with our women’s group. That’s what we call it, anyway: Broadway and museums and—”

  “Yes,” Jill interjected, the blank smile frozen in place. “How nice. Welcome to New York, Mrs.—uh—”

  “Beamish. I’ve read every one of your books, and I can’t wait to read the new one. So exciting, they are. I was wondering”—she fished in her purse and produced a battered, leatherbound book and a pen and thrust them at the seated woman—“could I possibly—”

  “Of course.” The two women stared down at her as she found the first blank page in the dog-eared volume and quickly scribbled her name.

  “Thank you so much,” Mrs. Beamish beamed, taking back the book and returning it to the purse. “We were just enjoying a quiet cappuccino in this authentic Greenwich Village coffeehouse before we meet the others at the Statue of Liberty, and what do you think we find? An authentic New York celebrity! And I said to Schatzi . . .”

  The smile on her face remained, but Jill Talbot’s mind went briefly elsewhere, wandering away from the table and the two women and the café. She thought of her home three blocks away, and of everything she would need to make dinner: Nate was coming over as soon as he was finished for the day at his studio. In all the months they’d been seeing each other, she’d never once made a meal for him. Not a full meal, at any rate: toast and coffee, or Chinese takeout ordered in. But tonight she would surprise him with her culinary skills, cultivated from years of watching her mother and helping her in the kitchen. Galician soup, followed by fusilli pesto and a salad of mesclun greens with lemon herb dressing . . .

  “. . . and I just loved your first book! I bought copies for all my friends—when it came out in paperback, of course. . . .”

  Wine, Jill thought. Pinot Grigio, Nate’s favorite, would be perfect with the pesto. She thought about that because it was as good a way as any to get through the Beamish speech: she had no way of knowing how long this woman would be prattling.

  “. . . so it’s almost as if I know you, if you see what I mean,” Mrs. Beamish concluded. “The way everyone who reads your books knows you. As they say, a writer belongs to the world—or is it an artist? An artist belongs to—oh, well, whatever. It was lovely meeting you, Ms. Talbot. Come along, Schatzi, we’ve taken up enough of her time. Good-bye!”

  “Good-bye,” Jill said, blinking away the odd feeling of having just returned from an out-of-body experience.

  “Very pleased, I’m sure,” Schatzi whispered, smiling, before following her friend away.

  Jill sank back in her seat and reached for her coffee mug, the vacuous grin slowly fading. This was the part she would never enjoy: signing autographs and enduring the praise of complete strangers. Oh, well, she decided, there are worse things. Like no
praise and no requests for autographs. I’m one of the lucky ones.

  She sighed, gazing down at the wirebound notebook and pen on the table next to the cappuccino. More notes: she was halfway through her fifth suspense novel, and the fourth had just this month hit the bookstores. The paperback edition of her third, Murder Me, had been the big Christmas title for its publisher last month, and it was holding its own on the New York Times bestseller list. Six weeks from now, she was scheduled to leave on a whirlwind publicity tour of several major cities around the country, and at the moment her life was a seemingly endless cavalcade of polite signings and polite cocktail parties and polite televised chats with pretty blond women on morning talk shows.

  “Well, Joan, my new book is called The Mind of Alice Lanyon. It’s about a young woman who’s clairvoyant, and she’s receiving psychic messages from a stranger, a woman who turns out to be dead. The woman was murdered, and she’s apparently trying to communicate the identity of her murderer.”

  “Gosh, that sounds exciting, Jillian! I loved your last novel—the one that’s now out in paperback—Murder Me. Tell us about that.”

  “Well, Joan, Murder Me is about a New York police-woman being used as bait by the FBI to find a serial killer. . . .”

  She smiled now, remembering. Well, Joan . . . yes, Joan . . . of course, Joan . . . A vapid conversation, and it made the books sound rather silly. But it really wasn’t so bad—well, it wouldn’t be so bad, if she could only get used to being in the public eye. But that, she knew, was the problem. She would never get used to it. For a well-known writer, Jill craved nothing so much as anonymity. Thank you, Joan. . . .

  Several couples and groups were arriving in the cavernous, oldworld café. A glance at her watch affirmed that it was five-fifteen. This place—the nineties equivalent of a singles bar—would soon be filled with people on their way home from work. She stood up quickly, put on her gray wool coat, and pulled the matching stocking cap down over her short, dark brown hair. She collected her notebook and gloves from the tiny marble-topped table, glanced at the bill lying there, and searched her bag for her wallet. She always overpaid here because George, the waiter, was an as-yet-unpublished novelist. The fact that he was at least forty-five, more than ten years older than she, embarrassed her so much that she frequently left twice the price of the coffee on the table. She did so today, reminding herself that George was probably a very talented writer, and she was very fortunate to have been published in the first place.