Twisted

by Steve Cavanagh

  Contents

  Title Page

  Author’s Note

  The Beginning of the End

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Chapter Sixty

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  Chapter Sixty-Six

  Chapter Sixty-Seven

  Chapter Sixty-Eight

  Chapter Sixty-Nine

  Chapter Seventy

  Chapter Seventy-One

  Acknowledgments

  Also by Steve Cavanagh

  Copyright

  TWISTED

  by

  J. T. LeBeau

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  This will be my last book. I won’t write another. The reasons should be clear by the time you come to the end of this story. That’s an interesting word – story. Is this a true story? Is it a memoir? Or fiction? I can’t say. You may have found this book on the true crime shelf, or in the thriller section of your local bookstore. It doesn’t matter. Forget about that. There are only two things you need to know:

  1. On my specific instructions my publishers have not edited this text. There have been no editorial notes, structural edits or other outside interference. It’s just you and me.

  2. From here on in, don’t believe a single word you read.

  J. T. LeBeau,

  California, 2018.

  THE BEGINNING OF THE END

  August

  Paul Cooper waited outside a theater on La Brea Avenue in the hot midday sun with a gun in his pocket and a head full of bad ideas. He took off his sunglasses, wiped the sweat from his forehead onto the sleeve of his tee and went over the plan one more time.

  He would wait for the guests inside the theater to leave. Paul had managed to secure a spot close to the barrier, on a fenced-off walkway leading from the theater to the curb. The mourners would have to walk right by him as they made their way to the street and their waiting limos. It gave him the best view of the crowd. The target was here. He was sure of that. More than likely in the theater. Less likely to be in the crowd but he scanned the faces of the people around him nonetheless. He couldn’t miss this opportunity. When he saw the target, he would draw that .38 from his pants pocket and pull the trigger in their face.

  The lot outside the theater was full. A crowd of two to three hundred people lined either side of the barriers. They were paying their respects to their dead idol. The theater wasn’t showing a play that day. No, the space had been booked for a memorial service dedicated to the late J. T. LeBeau.

  The service had started late and progressed slower than advertised in the program. Like all memorial services, the speeches went on for far too long. What were the organizers supposed to do? Were they supposed to drag Stephen King or John Grisham off the stage? And while the writers read extracts from LeBeau’s work in the air-conditioned theater, outside, the fans clutched books, held aloft signs, sung and supported each other in their collective, unearned grief.

  Paul felt sick. Either it was the mass hysteria around him, grown women crying for a dead author, or the heat. Or both. Or the bellyful of vodka. He’d needed a few stiff drinks to stop his hands shaking.

  He didn’t have a real taste for killing. Not yet. He had blood on his hands – a lot of blood. But this was somehow different. This one was special.

  Every time he caught the name LeBeau in the air around him, that knife in his stomach twisted just a little bit more. While J. T. LeBeau was a household name, the author was definitely not a well-known face. The opposite, in fact. No one in the crowd had ever met the writer. They may own every edition of LeBeau’s novels, they may even own one of the rarer signed copies of that famous first novel, they may think they know the writer through close-reading of the work, but none of them had ever met their hero. None of them had even seen a picture of LeBeau, much less met him. And now they never would. Dead writers can’t do signings.

  Four people in the world knew the real identity of J. T. LeBeau. And one of those four people was about to eat a bullet fired from the .38 Special in Paul Cooper’s pocket.

  The glass doors that lined the entrance to the theater opened and a crowd poured out into the punishing Los Angeles heat. Of course, they’d dressed for it. Pale linen suits hung off the bony shoulders of the men pushing their way to their cars. Most preferred white or cream suits with black ties sufficing as a token of respect. A mournful black suit would be murderous in this heatwave. The women were more formally attired, sacrificing comfort to please etiquette. Somber silk dresses clung to their legs as they adjusted their hats and put on their shades.

  Sweat dribbled down his cheek and into his beard. He scooped the bottom of his shirt into his hands and wiped his face, momentarily exposing a pale belly. When he let the shirt fall it stuck to his midriff. The gun felt heavy in his pocket. It also weighed on his mind. He checked the crowd again, putting a foot on the base of the barrier and standing up, craning his neck above the heads of those around him. No sign of the target in the masses. He started to doubt his plan. Maybe the target wouldn’t show after all.

  And then, without warning, there was no more time for thinking.

  There he was. On the red carpet. Five feet away. Walking past, head bowed.

  He’d visualized this moment many times. Would he gaze, terrified, at the muzzle of the gun? Would he cry out? Would security have time to react?

  There were four armed guards surrounding the target. Moving in tandem, slowly and deliberately. And while the target kept his head down, the security surrounding him watched the crowd on either side of the barrier carefully.

  As soon as that shot rang out, the guards would be scrambling for him. He knew he was about to kill someone, in broad daylight, in front of five hundred witnesses. And he knew he would get away with it. No question. Getting
away with murder was the easy part. After all, Paul was responsible for at least a couple of corpses. Probably more. It was too easy to lose count.

  The hard part for Paul would be pulling the trigger. It’s never easy. Gripping the barrier with one hand, his other delved into his pocket and locked around the gun. He told himself he could do this. A ripple went through his guts, sending hot acid into his throat. He swallowed it back down then blew sweat off his lips. His heart jacked up the drumbeat in his ears.

  He thought of all that he’d suffered. If anything would get him through the next ten seconds it was rage. He needed it. He had to build his anger into an unstoppable engine that would propel him into this act. For the last few months he’d thought of nothing but revenge. Revenge for the betrayals, the lies, and the pain.

  Do it, he thought. Do it now!

  Paul began to pull the gun. But then he froze. A hand was on his shoulder.

  The person behind him leaned forward, and Paul felt their hot breath on his neck as they spoke.

  Even with the people tightly packed around him, and the blood roaring through his system, he heard those words as clear as a trumpet blast. And it was a blast. A simple statement. Spoken plainly. Paul felt those words strip the flesh clean off his back.

  ‘I know who you are,’ said the voice in his ear. ‘You’re J. T. LeBeau.’

  CHAPTER ONE

  4 months ago

  The last thing Maria had expected was to fall in love.

  And yet she couldn’t deny it any longer. Maria was in love with Daryl. Beautiful, thoughtful Daryl. They lay in bed together with sunlight warming their skin. The breeze from the bedroom window an occasional respite from the heat of their passion. Maria caught the smell of the sea in Daryl’s hair. His lips pressed to hers. His hands held her body.

  And she wanted nothing more than Daryl that afternoon.

  She locked her legs around his waist, crossing her ankles, cinching him tightly. His eyes closed. His mouth opened as she felt his body quiver.

  When he was done, she eased apart her legs and gently pushed him off. He rolled to the side and slumped down in the bed beside her. Maria turned away and stared out of the full-length window at the sea. It was calm and pure blue. A dog played on the small stretch of sandy beach at the bottom of the hill leading down from her house. She listened but couldn’t hear it barking. Too far away. A young couple came into view as they walked along the beach. The girl waved a stick at the dog before hurling it into the surf and linking arms with her lover.

  Maria felt a hole growing in her stomach. Her throat was coarse and dry.

  She turned over and looked at Daryl. He lay on his back, the rise and fall of his stomach slowing as he caught his breath. She kissed him. That kiss was full of longing. Maria knew she truly loved Daryl. That this was real. And that hole in her stomach came from knowing that she might never walk on the beach with him. Not like that young couple out there on the sand. She drew back, held his face in her hands.

  Yes, Maria loved this man, but she was married to someone else.

  The thought of her husband felt like someone bumping into a record player, making the needle jump across the grooves in the vinyl, scratching reality into a love song. She had things to do. Had to clean up. She kissed him again. A peck. More of a call to action than a kiss. The real world was threatening to invade her time with Daryl – to steal him back from her and send her crashing to reality.

  ‘You okay?’ he said.

  ‘I’m good,’ said Maria. ‘Just thinking I have to change the sheets now.’

  ‘Give me a sec and I’ll help you,’ said Daryl.

  He got up and walked to the en suite bathroom. Maria found her clothes in a pile at the foot of the bed and dressed in her jeans and blouse. She tied up her long black hair with a band and set about stripping the bed. When Maria had a job to do, she did it fast. She couldn’t abide laziness. Every task she undertook she hit at a hundred miles an hour. Tidying, washing, cleaning, walking, even making love.

  She almost ripped the duvet cover as she tore it off. Then she gathered it in her arms and threw it behind her, into the bathroom. There was a big linen basket in there. After she’d pulled off the sheet, she balled it, but this time she turned and threw it. She went back toward the bed to get the pillowcases and felt something hard underfoot. She’d stepped on something. Daryl’s pants. Picking them up, she tossed them into the bathroom too.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Daryl.

  By the time Daryl put on his blue jeans and came out of the bathroom, Maria was unfolding the fresh sheets she kept in a drawer below the mattress. He switched on the radio on the nightstand. It was tuned to a rock station. Her husband’s preference. Daryl hit the search button, found a station that played eighties hits and smiled when the first beats of an A-HA song played. One of Maria’s favorites. And he knew it. She could tell by the wry smile on his face. Daryl took one end of the sheet and helped her lay it on the bed. He stuffed the sheet under the mattress without folding the corners. Maria came around to his side of the bed, took the sheet out and folded the corner. Daryl lifted the mattress letting her slip the sheet underneath. Her husband had never changed the sheets. Never helped her with anything. She found herself rocking with the beat, prompting one of those big easy smiles from Daryl. He put his hands on her hips, felt her swaying and drew her to him, gently kissing her neck. She giggled, released herself from his grip. If he planted one more kiss she knew where it would lead. She would be back in bed with him. He was irresistible. She didn’t want that – she would only have to change the sheets again.

  She’d moved into the house with her husband just after they were married. It would be their two-year anniversary next month. She wasn’t looking forward to it. Next week it would be her five-month anniversary with Daryl. She knew which one she was looking forward to most. And it wasn’t her wedding anniversary. Maria stood back, satisfied with the bed. Her husband would never know. Although, it was getting to the point where she wanted him to find out. The only reason she held off was because she didn’t want to spook Daryl. Things were getting serious, and with every passing day Daryl became more precious. No way she wanted to mess that up.

  She hadn’t found work since she set foot in the town. There was no great demand for public relations managers in Port Lonely. There was not a great demand for anything. An emptiness hung about the streets even in summer when the sidewalks were filled with tourists and holiday-home residents. This town felt like a rich, shit-kicker’s paradise. A handful of decent restaurants, one main street with a dozen stores and nothing in them that she wanted to buy, two golf courses and the sea. That was Port Lonely.

  After the first year in town Maria felt herself sliding into a dark place. At first, she flirted with men in restaurants on the rare occasions her husband took her out. She would catch the eye of the best-looking man in the room, then look away, smiling as soon as they returned her gaze. When that failed to provoke a response, she thought about taking it further – maybe having a one-night-stand, but she never did. Her husband continued to travel for work, leaving her alone. He said marketing was a people business, and face-to-face worked best. Then she met Daryl last December. Things changed. If she hadn’t met Daryl, Maria was convinced she would’ve gone quite mad.

  ‘Would you like me to run you a bath? Or do you wanna smoke first?’ said Daryl.

  He was only half dressed. His shirt still lay on the chair beside the window, and his pants were slung low. Belt still undone. A thin layer of sweat coated his hard stomach. Daryl liked to workout, dive, surf, and smoke, but not necessarily in that order. The smoking wasn’t a problem in the motels they used on the highway out of town, but it was more problematic at home. She often liked to relax in a bath after spending time with Daryl. It soothed her, eased her into a different life.

  Maria’s throat felt dry, but she wanted a cigarette more than the bath. Never a hard smoker, Maria only felt the craving after sex or a bottle of wine.

  H
e stood there, silently, gazing at his nails and waiting for her response. She didn’t want to answer him, and found herself biting her lip, delaying her reply so she could merely look. Maria didn’t take Daryl to her bed for his conversation. It wasn’t that kind of relationship. He was unlike anyone she had ever met. There was a quiet freedom in Daryl. A handsome drifter quality. He was a beautiful bird that Maria had decided to keep. Not to say that Daryl was dumb, either. He knew about a great many subjects. Or more accurately, he knew a little about a great many things. There was no depth to his knowledge, but Maria didn’t care. Daryl had presence. Something in his butter-blond hair and the hard lines on this face that made people look at him. She was happiest wrapping herself in his thick arms and rocking gently in the sun chairs on her porch while they smoked.

  ‘Give me a second, then we’ll go out. I don’t want the smell in the house,’ said Maria.

  Slinging his shirt over his shoulder casually, Daryl led her downstairs. The house still looked like something out of a realtor’s brochure, albeit a property that had been on the market for a long time. The cream paint job had started to dull and the cracks, covered up by the previous seller, had re-appeared at certain points on the ceiling. Two weeks before, she asked if she could redecorate. That still stuck in her throat – that she had to ask her husband. He’d told her no. He liked the house just fine the way it was, and she should find herself another project. Preferably one that didn’t cost too much money and ideally one that he could control.

  Maria followed Daryl through the kitchen, out the glass doorway and onto the back porch. Two rocking chairs were set up. The chairs were painted green, in a distressed style, which looked to Maria as if the guy who was supposed to be painting the chairs was distressed and this had shown in his work.

  ‘Goddamn it,’ said Daryl.

  He’d fished a pack of Camel’s out of his jeans and was examining the contents. Maria watched him tip loose tobacco and the remains of two broken cigarettes into his palm.

  ‘Oh, sorry. I thought I felt something in your jeans when I stepped on ’em,’ said Maria, apologetically.