The Darkest Frost, Volume 1 of a 2-part serial (EXCERPT)

CHAPTER 5

THE FROST ESTATE

DEARBORNE, MARYLAND

Denieve

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I was in the kitchen a few days later, about to mash some potatoes for a shepherd's pie, when I caught sight of Frost carrying more flowers to his Jag. Beneath a graying sky and a light drizzle that would soon turn into a deluge, Frost walked swift as a breeze, stuffing the tulip and hyacinth crate into the back of his car.

I still couldn't get over the fact that he'd actually moved the armor for me. And this afternoon he'd completely blown me away. Guess who spoke first when I served his lunch? He did! And guess who said, "Thank you" as I turned to leave? Yep. Him again. Granted, the man was cold, remote, and unbelievably repressed, but little by little, his icy armor was falling away. If I stayed vigilant, I'd eventually get what I needed out of him.

What did I know so far? That he was a brilliant doctor with a commanding presence, a recluse who lived in a spooky old house with a security system that rivaled the Pentagon's. But was he a murderer? Well, the jury was still out on that one. At this point, I wasn't sure how long it would take to get inside his head. To be honest I'd never met anyone like him. How he managed to bury his emotions so deeply both disturbed and fascinated me.

Thunder rumbled somewhere far off and a fine layer of condensation covered the outer edges of his windshield. "Tornado Watch," a term I sometimes confused with "Tornado Warning"- - -the latter being worse, I think- - -had scrolled across the bottom of the TV screen all afternoon in red, scare-the-crap-out-of-me letters. Yet Frost didn't seem the least bit worried.

The impending storm wasn't my only concern. Some weirdo had been lurking outside the main gate for the past hour. A yellow cab idled a few feet away, waiting for its passenger to finish what he'd come to do, which so far amounted to nothing. He hadn't pushed the bell or tried the intercom. All he did was stand out there eying Dr. Frost, who seemed oblivious.

Given the death threats and overall climate of Frost hateraid, I'd be a fool not to be suspicious. I assumed our latest visitor was somehow connected to one of Frost's dead patients. Ms. Pierce warned me an occasional angry relative might show up. This, she said would probably continue even after the house was sold. Most people seemed happy to hold harmless vigils outside the gates, but a few wackjobs had taken their anger out on the property via spray paint, bricks, and bottles.

I ventured to the foyer where a closed-circuit TV panel would give me a full view of the street and a better look at the stranger. He was about seventy or eighty-something, judging from the lines mapping his craggy face and the white hair plastered to his skull. He wore a black raincoat and a deep frown. In one hand, he held a gray bubble umbrella over his head; in the other he had what appeared to be a Ziploc bag. Closer inspection revealed some kind of photograph or news clipping within it. I couldn't be sure.

By the time I refocused the camera, Frost had already started down the courtyard in his Jag. I turned the intercom on. The gate stretched open and the car slowed as the visitor approached the passenger side. The old man held up the plastic bag, waving it wildly in the air. Frost peeled away immediately.

"Please wait!" the stranger cried in a thick Polish accent. "I'm Samuel! Samuel! Do you hear? Surely you remember me!"

As the taillights disappeared, the man's shoulders slumped. When he turned back to the house his eyes spilled over with tears. Then he climbed into the cab and left.