Twisted

by Steve Cavanagh

  There was no good outcome. No solution that would make things alright again. Her world had tilted and everything would be different from now on. She thought she knew Paul. Trusted him. All along she had felt he wasn’t like the others. He was honest. Quiet. Damaged. He had baggage that he couldn’t talk about. God knows, Maria had baggage too. In some strange way, for a while at least, they’d made each other whole.

  Things change.

  She would leave him. She would be with Daryl. Whatever she got in the divorce, it would be enough. Probably half of the money in the joint account. Ten grand, and maybe a small share of the house. She would tell him about Daryl. Explain what happened, tell him she was lonely and that she had fallen in love with someone else. She didn’t want much in return. The thought of coming clean, and leaving this godforsaken town with money in her pocket, filled her with a new kind of excitement. Holding hands and kissing Daryl in public – unashamed and unafraid. And in love. She would take ten grand then and there and never look back.

  Enough to get started again. And if he said no, then she would pull the J. T. LeBeau card. Threaten to expose him. No way he would risk that for a measly ten grand. Thinking about that confrontation set her skin alive with goosebumps. Excited, and afraid. That was the easiest way to get out of there fast. And yet the thought of Paul hiding all that wealth from her made her stomach turn. She had given up everything to be with him and there was no easy way to build that life again. The soda can screeched and she realized she’d crushed it. Cola ran over her fingers, making them sticky.

  She was afraid. And angry. And one fed off the other.

  It wasn’t fair. Not fair at all.

  The rain eased a little, and she looked around the town. Then out to sea. She knew one thing for certain. No way was she going to miss this place. She couldn’t wait to get away. That’s if she could persuade Daryl to quit his job and move.

  Lights flashed. Someone unlocking a car. Maria turned, casually, toward the only activity in view. It was a car, maybe fifty feet ahead of her and on the side street. She saw a blonde woman struggling with an umbrella.

  A man walked beside her.

  The woman put the umbrella in her car. She wore black leather boots, and a beautiful coat. Women in this town knew how to dress expensively. Maria thought she recognized something about the man with her. She hit the windshield wipers. Once.

  Once was enough.

  The woman embraced Paul, touched his face. Maria’s breath caught in her throat. Such an intimate gesture. One born of a long relationship, trust and naked affection.

  She got in her car and drove away.

  Paul walked to the end of the street, then turned the corner and disappeared.

  She knew then that there was more than one reason why Paul was away so much. From the look of that car, it was brand new. A hundred grand for a new model SUV like that. She didn’t recognize the woman. She was richly attired. Pretty. Blonde.

  The pounding sound in her ears came from her heart. She could feel it pulsing at her throat. First time she was ever aware of her heartbeat.

  Maria put the car in gear, pulled straight out into the road from the parking bay to the sound of a horn behind her. She’d pulled out in front of another car. She saw it now in her rear-view mirror, the driver shaking two fingers and mouthing obscenities. Maria didn’t care. She stood on the accelerator, raced to the bottom of the street. No sign of Paul. He couldn’t have driven away. In fact, she saw his car, empty, parked across the way in the lot reserved for the marina.

  She turned at the junction, drove away fast and kept her foot on the gas until she got to the parking lot at Mariner’s Point four minutes later. It was a jagged spike of rock, jutting into the sea, with a path worn by many feet to the end of the rock and the roaring white water below it. Maria’s car was the only one in the lot. The rainstorm kept everyone else away. Maria got out of the car, ignored the rain whipping through her clothes, soaking her hair, her makeup, her feet. She threw a leg over the barrier that prevented visitors from walking out to the end of the point. She took five steps, felt the wash from a wave crashing against the rock. Tasted the salt on her lips.

  Maria bent over, put her hands on her knees and screamed.

  The fear was gone.

  Only anger remained.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Four lazy hours into his shift at the country club bar, Daryl saw her.

  He’d been uncomfortable since that morning. He didn’t like the direction Maria was taking this. She’d told him that morning she was on her way to see a lawyer. Someone in an out-of-town practice. When he’d begun seeing her, the last thing on his mind was Maria getting a divorce, but things change. People change. Maybe he could steer her out of that mindset. Maybe part of him didn’t want to do that. It was a delicate situation. That much Daryl could comprehend.

  The bar at the club could’ve been a replica of a hundred bars in a hundred different country clubs. Oak paneling on the walls. Bad oil paintings of golfers. Worse oil paintings of landscapes. And dotted around the bar were antique five-irons, deer heads and dull silver trophies locked in glass cabinets. Leather studded benches and chairs sat around dark tables. Scotch sold well, and the older the better. Wives lunched together – picking over their food and complaining about their terrible husbands. The husbands drank together and bitched about their wives.

  The only people of color were those serving the members. An old-school rural American nightmare. And despite the wealth of the members, not one of them would lay out a decent tip even if their knees depended on it.

  Daryl pulled down the front of his waistcoat and collected some more glasses from the tables, stacking them tall in the crook of his arm. He leaned over a table, turned when he saw movement at the entrance to the bar and caught a glimpse of a lady talking to Aaron – the deputy bar manager.

  He’d collected more glasses than he could comfortably carry, so he set down a stack and began to clean the tables he’d just cleared with a cloth and antibacterial spray. While he cleaned, he watched. She wore a long pink blouse. Maybe too long for a short lady like her. A tight perm made her hair look like a crash helmet she could take off and set down on the stool beside her.

  The lady was familiar. Maybe he’d seen her before, maybe not. He couldn’t pin her down for a long time. Only when he saw the notebook emerge from her purse as she sat at the bar did he make the connection because only two types of people make notes in that kind of notebook, having that kind of conversation – journalists and cops.

  She was no journo.

  Sue. Yes, that was her name. Sue. Or Mary Sue. One or the other or both. They all sounded the same to him. She worked with the Port Lonely Sheriff’s Office. He’d seen her before, coming out of that building on Main Street and getting into her car. She was leaning over the bar, listening closely to Aaron. Whispering. Making notes.

  There had been no incidents at the club. No thefts. No damage to club property and no fights in the bar. Sue was there to find out more about Maria. He felt sure of it. At some moment, Aaron would mention his name to her, and then he’d turn and point at him. His boss never missed a trick – Aaron had caught sight of him talking to Maria a bunch of times. Even made a joke out of it, but it was a joke with a jag at the end.

  ‘We provide a service to the members, Daryl. We’re not here to service them.’

  Not even a good joke.

  He took the glasses past the bar, hiding his face behind the stack, and went into the kitchen and placed them on the bench. Checked his watch. Another eight hours to go before the end of his shift. He heard the bar manager, Tom, talking to the head chef in the kitchen about an order for lemons and limes. Bending low, he opened the dishwasher, loaded up the empties and put it on a cycle.

  His phone buzzed in his pocket. Maria. He let it ring out.

  It gave him an idea of how to get out of there. Making his way further into the kitchen, he found Tom standing with the head chef at the pass, comparing order sheet
s.

  ‘Hey Tommy, I just got a call on my cell. Family emergency. You mind if I take a personal day?’

  ‘We’re covered for tonight. Go do what you gotta do and I’ll see you Monday,’ said Tom.

  Turning swiftly, Daryl thanked Tom, then took off his bow tie and opened his collar as he cut through the kitchen to the back door. In the back parking lot he found his car, and thankfully there wasn’t a delivery truck parked in front of it, blocking his exit. He got into the car and drove out of the lot.

  Taking the back streets, he avoided most of Main Street before finally turning onto it and then off it again when he came to a parking lot. The rain came on strong now. Hammering the car. He killed the engine. The rain followed the dark clouds like a promise.

  He took out his cell and called Maria back.

  ‘Hi, how’s—’ he began, but she cut him off. Maria spoke in between gasps of air. Her voice trembling and her throat thick from crying.

  ‘Paul has been seeing someone else,’ she said.

  There was nothing he could say in return that wouldn’t sound hollow and hypocritical. He wanted to go to her. Hold her. Calm her down and tell her everything would be alright, that he was there for her all the way.

  He didn’t get the chance. All he could do was listen to her crying. He tried to talk to her. Softly at first. Then, when she either couldn’t or wouldn’t hear him, he stopped. And just listened. After a while, her breathing slowed, the powerful tremor in her voice abated.

  ‘I want to come and see you. Where are you?’ said Daryl.

  The stuttered breath returned. ‘No, I can’t see anyone. I need some time. I … I have to process this. Understand it. I don’t trust Paul. I don’t even know him anymore. I … I need you to … to … do something for me.’

  ‘Anything,’ said Daryl, instantly.

  ‘I need you to follow Paul. His car is in the marina lot, but he’s not out on his boat. He’s here, in Port Lonely. Follow him. Tell me what he does. He’ll see my car and he’ll know it’s me. I need you to do this. Please. I can’t take this anymore.’

  ‘Okay, okay, just breathe. Take it easy. I’ll watch his car. I’ll follow him. Keep an eye on what he does. Just please don’t do anything stupid, okay? I …’ He hesitated, but only for a second. ‘I need you, Maria.’

  She hung up. Daryl started the engine, drove to the lot at the marina and found Paul’s Maserati. He parked a good fifty feet away, killed the engine and watched the car through the rain streaming down his windshield. He thought of Maria, and how strong she could be. Some women would have gone straight for their husband’s throat, justifiably so. Maria always had a cool head. She wanted ammunition. She wanted to gather whatever she could and then go after the bastard.

  Smart lady.

  Daryl saw Paul making his way toward the car, his coat gathered up around his neck, an umbrella bending and twisting in the wind. He waited until the Maserati left the lot, then Daryl followed. He kept his distance as the car turned onto Main Street, drove through the town and out toward the coast road leading to the house. Daryl couldn’t stop at Paul’s house, and there was no cover for the car. He was reasonably sure that’s where Paul was headed, so he made a left turn at the beach and parked in the lot. Thankfully, the rain had eased.

  Stepping out of the car he caught the scent of rain, the ocean and a face full of sand-flecked gusts. From the trunk he retrieved a weatherproof jacket. He put it on then lifted clear a black leather hold-all and slung it over one shoulder, then the other. Throwing up his hood to shelter from the wind, Daryl set off toward the beach. It was cold now. The wind unforgiving in such an exposed area.

  Despite the conditions he trekked up the beach. A half-hour passed before he saw Maria’s house. Paul’s Maserati was parked outside the house and Maria’s car wasn’t in the driveway. That was the first thing he noticed. Second thing he saw was Paul through the bedroom window of the house that looked out over the ocean. The beach looked deserted and Daryl took a knee behind the ridge that separated the grassland from the sand dunes. Reaching into his hold-all, he removed an old pair of binoculars he sometimes used for bird watching, and focused them on the house. Paul stared down at the bed, leaned over and adjusted something, then moved away to the closet. He returned with a pile of folded jeans in his hand, bent over the bed and disappeared from view for a second before straightening up again and then leaving the room.

  Lowering the binoculars, Daryl scanned the house looking for any sign of movement. The side door opened and Paul left the house, dragging a large suitcase behind him. The automatic lid release on the trunk activated before Paul could walk around the car. He then heaved the case inside, touched a button on the trunk and as it slowly descended Paul went back inside. Soon after, the lights came on in the kitchen. Paul went to the fridge, collected some items and placed them on the counter. He took a chopping knife from a board and started to work.

  Daryl had only eaten at Maria’s once before. She said she didn’t cook. Couldn’t cook. Paul must’ve done the cooking, when he was home of course. Only thing she could manage to put on the table without burning it was spaghetti. He told her he liked spaghetti. She steamed and swore her way around the kitchen and twenty minutes later produced a plate of spaghetti with tomato sauce from a can.

  Daryl smiled and ate it and told her it was good. It wasn’t.

  He fished his cell phone from his pocket. Maria calling. He picked up.

  ‘Hi, where are you?’ she said, in a raw, pitchy voice. He could tell she’d been crying again.

  ‘I’m on the beach. Paul’s home,’ he said.

  Right then, Daryl didn’t want to say more. She was hurting, and that made her volatile in his mind.

  ‘What’s he doing? Anything out of the ordinary?’

  He sighed. No choice but to tell her. No easy way to break it. He just had to come out with it.

  ‘He’s just packed a bag and put it in his car. Looks like your note on the windshield spooked him. No doubt about it now. He’s J. T. LeBeau. Real and in the flesh,’ he said.

  ‘I’ll be there in twenty minutes. Thanks for this,’ she said in a way that didn’t sound thankful. He could hear the words catching in her throat – tears and a flood of pain threatening to drown each sentence. Daryl could hear the car in the background. Heard it accelerating, eating up the road. She was on speaker phone. ‘You didn’t, ahm, talk to him or anything?’

  ‘Course not. You want me to wait around in case there’s trouble?’

  ‘No. There’ll be no trouble,’ she said. Daryl could tell by the tone that she wasn’t sure.

  ‘You don’t have to go home, you know. I could meet you at our favorite spot. I’ll bring a six-pack and a bottle of red, and we could stay out all night. We should be together,’ he said.

  He let Maria take in that offer. Waited for her, patiently. When she finally spoke, he heard her through a fresh blanket of tears.

  ‘No … it’s fine. Thank you. I love you so much. I’ll call you,’ she said, and hung up.

  Stretching his legs, Daryl pushed the cramp from his calves, and then stood. He put away his binoculars and his cell and started back to his car. He drove to the marina, got into his boat. This wasn’t like the cruiser that Paul had, it was smaller and older. Daryl had bought it cheap and fixed it up so he could take people on diving classes, make a little money on the side. The storm prevented him leaving the marina. He’d be risking his life taking the boat into this chop. Instead, he put on his wetsuit, loaded up a fresh tank of air and slipped over the side. The thought of the police asking questions in the bar unsettled him. It could either be a starting point or a finishing point in their investigation. The more he thought about it, the more he came to believe the cop was just getting general background on Maria and Paul. They might want to talk to him, as he served Maria more often than not when she came into the club. And Paul never came to the bar. Maybe that would be a line of inquiry – maybe not. For now, all Daryl wanted to do was be in
the cold, dark waters. There was a perfect solitude in the deep. Down where all the monsters lived.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  A makeup bag in the glove compartment had come to Maria’s rescue a number of times. She’d parked a few hundred yards from the house, in the entrance to a disused lane that led to old farm land long since sold to developers who’d done nothing more than let the land run wild. The crying she’d done in the past twenty-four hours had swollen her eyes, and that last statement from Daryl had made the tears flow once more.

  She looked in the rear-view mirror, checked her lipstick and eyes – declared it a decent repair job.

  Deep breaths. Four or five of them. And then she pulled out onto the coast road and within seconds found herself at the house. All that day she’d been thinking about the place as the house. It struck her that she’d nearly always referred to it that way. Not once had she ever called the place home.

  She saw him through the side window, cooking dinner in the kitchen.

  More deep breaths.

  She got out of the car, locked it and went into the house.

  He was playing music. Classical. Not something to her taste but she’d gotten used to it. It was the kind of music Maria could simply zone out – as if it were background noise. Her footsteps on the wooden floor rang out her arrival. When her heels touched the hard white tiles of the kitchen Paul swung around, startled, the knife in his hand, his face glazed in fear.

  ‘It’s me,’ she said.

  His turn with the deep breaths and a hand on his chest. Paul’s lips curled into a smile which quickly faded into a stern expression. Not anger. Concern, maybe.

  ‘You’re soaked through. Where have you been all day? I was worried,’ he said.

  If he had been worried he’d clearly gotten over it, thought Maria. He didn’t ask how she was doing? If she was alright? He didn’t approach her for a hug, or a kiss. The bastard didn’t care about her at all.