A Taste of Ice Read Online Free PDF Page B

Christmases like you saw in his films, but in the past two years Lea had become his own goddamn Santa: unpredictable, generous, and
magical
.
    He stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, right in front of a boutique that had rolled out racks of sale sweaters and jeans under its awning. A woman walking behind him skittered on the slanted concrete trying to get around him. He didn’t apologize.
    Ten minutes to curtain on Bridger’s film. His rental house up in the mountains a fifteen-minute drive away. He needed to be two places at once.
    No problem.
    He stalked down to the end of the block and hung a tight right. Shit, the narrow, one-way street was full of people posing for pictures against the backdrop of the main square and its horrid statue. He kept going and came out on Groundcherry Street, which bordered the backs of all the buildings along Waterleaf. An overflowing parking lot sat across the street. No celebrities, no gapers.
    He ducked behind the boutique, into a little alcove where new snow was trying to make the old sludge look pretty again. A tower of empty Christmas decoration boxes tilted against the old brick wall and he wedged himself behind it, shielding himself from view, should anyone come along. Good thing he’d inhaled a giant breakfast. He needed the energy.
    Pressing his back against the brick, he drew a deep breath and held it. He closed his eyes and dove into the black of hismind. There, straight down the center of his subconscious, ran a thick, pulsing seam of glowing red. He pushed his awareness into that seam, filling it until the crack widened and widened. He slipped ghostly fingers into the seam, taking hold of each side, and ripped his own mind apart.
    He
split
.
    The second it happened, Michael went weightless. His body felt like it shot upward from the ground, bobbing like a balloon. The next second, someone yanked on that balloon’s string and he was jerked back downward. His stomach sloshed and lead lined his veins. He inhaled. Exhaled. The world evened out. Then he opened his eyes.
    Michael Ebrecht stood in front of him. The same coat, the same posture, the same face.
    It was not a twin, with a similar face and separate thoughts. It was not a mirror image or doppelgänger. It was him, Michael. Divided.
    The double raised a gloved hand and smoothed down his silvering hair. Always, at the first look after a
split
, Michael was painfully aware of how he’d aged. How narrow his face had gotten, how all his years spent in L.A. and Miami had weathered his skin. If only he’d figured out how to use the
splitting
to his advantage at a much earlier age. If only Raymond had actually explained it to him. Or talked to him even. Ah, youth. Wasted on the youth. And Michael’s was most definitely a waste.
    He and his double didn’t need to speak. The other automatically knew what he needed to do and by when. He nodded to Michael, stepped out from behind the boxes and headed back toward Waterleaf. They didn’t share a consciousness, but instead melded together their separate conversations and emotions and occurrences upon reabsorption. He never worried the other would rebel; they had the same goals, the same mind. Within three hours, because that’s how long the energy could last, the two would rejoin, and Michael would learn how the “surprise” meeting with Bridger went.
    Michael stayed huddled behind the boxes until his watch said the screening had started. Then he turned out onto Groundcherry and headed back uphill. He waved down the first cab he saw, only realizing he’d stolen it from someone else whenthe jilted, irate couple stood on the curb and windmilled their arms. The rusting white minivan with the faded taxi decals pulled away. He couldn’t have called back the limo driver who had toted him into town earlier that day because technically Michael was supposed to be in the screening. The first trick to being two people was to never get caught. The second trick was to use it for every