Twisted

by Steve Cavanagh

  Coward.

  He let that word sit in the forefront of his mind. Paul was a coward.

  He had let people die to protect himself. Paul knew LeBeau would not stop the killing. He couldn’t have gone to the police about Linzi, or the theories he had about LeBeau’s real-life murders. There was no real evidence. The wild accusations from a jealous author, most likely. He knew he couldn’t go to the police now. They wanted him for the attack on Maria, and he was an accomplice – there was twenty million dollars worth of evidence to convince any court of that.

  Paul decided there was only one course of action. He wouldn’t run anymore. He would get the money first, and at least then he would have a chance of making things up with Maria. He would tell her everything, give her the life she truly deserved.

  LeBeau wouldn’t try to kill him until the money was out of that bank. Paul had the advantage of this knowledge. He realized then, that he had always known this day would come – that he couldn’t run forever. That someday, LeBeau would find him. Maybe that was why he couldn’t fully commit to a life with Maria. There was always something dark and terrible on the edge of the horizon.

  He sat up in bed, opened his eyes and made a promise to Maria.

  He would get the money.

  He would give it to her.

  He would kill LeBeau.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Lying in bed wide awake before sun-up was not an unusual occurrence for Sheriff Dole.

  He found sleeping ever more difficult as he grew older. Never marrying and rarely sharing a bed with a partner meant he had picked up some bad habits. He drank too much coffee. He snored. He sometimes left the TV on in the corner of the bedroom, and he had no routine. Didn’t much feel like starting one, either. Sure, some warm milk, a little soothing music, reading a novel, or even meditating – all of these things he knew could help him sleep. He just couldn’t get the hang of any of them. Meds were out of the question. No way was he gonna let a doctor give him so much as an Advil. Word got around town fast. Soon people would say the Sheriff was past it. No, he told himself he didn’t need any pills, or routines, and he definitely did not want to meditate.

  In this job you sleep when you’re dead.

  That’s what he told himself. Increasingly, he thought his advice sucked.

  He thought about the message that Bloch had taken from Cooper’s computer once again, then decided to get up. The one thing he allowed himself as a little luxury was a damned good coffee machine. It was older than his car, made a hell of a racket in the morning and if the coffee didn’t jar him awake, the noise from the goddamn machine surely would.

  The sun began to rise behind his house, and he sat on the front porch and drank an espresso. His third of the morning. He’d often sat there while thinking about the Jane Doe case. Now she had a name, but no past, and no identity.

  Dole felt the familiar tug of guilt. It was a weight that he fitted around his own neck. Sometimes he carried it okay, other days it took him right down to the floor.

  Dole had known Linzi had been murdered. He didn’t believe the medical examiner’s conclusion – suicide.

  Who takes their clothes off, hides them so they can’t ever be found on top of a ridge and then jumps off?

  He didn’t believe suicide then. He had not come closer to doing so since.

  He blamed himself for not getting to the truth sooner. Paul Cooper was J. T. LeBeau, Paul Cooper had killed Linzi then moved to Port Lonely years later. Dole told himself he should have seen something about Paul. He should have been able to spot a killer right in front of his eyes. It was ridiculous. Nevertheless, he felt that guilt. And that made it real.

  Beneath a plant pot, beside his porch bench, he’d stashed a box of small cigars. He moved the pot, took a cigar from the box and lit it with a match. Unlike his father, who always put the cigar in his mouth to light it, Dole simply held a match to the cigar and turned it. Soon as the tobacco began to glow, he blew out the match then took a puff on the cigar. A poker player from New Orleans had shown him this technique. He said it made sure the flavor of the cigar was not ruined by inhaling the chemicals from the naked flame.

  He drank his espresso. Puffed on his cigar. Watched the sky. Listened to the creaking of gutters and stucco from the houses across the street as they were warmed into life by the new morning sun.

  In the distance he heard the screech of tires.

  Then an engine, revving high.

  The Sheriff’s Department vehicle came over the rise at fifty miles an hour, catching air and landing with a thump on the blacktop. It stopped outside his house in a scream of tires and smoke. Deputy Bloch got out and ran up his porch steps.

  ‘I’m not on duty until I put my pants on,’ said Dole, taking the last drag on his cigar before sending it flying over his porch rail and into the next-door neighbor’s rose bushes.

  Bloch watched the flight of the cigar butt, then turned back to Dole with a scowl.

  ‘His cat shits on my lawn. What are you gonna do? Arrest me? Christ on a bike, Bloch, it’s only seven in the a.m.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be out here if you’d answered your damn phone.’

  He’d left his cell on the bed. Still, he was only a ten-minute drive from the Sheriff’s Department anyway.

  ‘Is somebody in imminent danger?’ asked Dole.

  Momentarily confused, Bloch said, ‘No, but have you read—’

  ‘Then it can wait. My brain doesn’t start work until at least nine-thirty, and not before I’ve had more coffee and some bacon and eggs.’

  ‘This can’t wait,’ said Bloch.

  They moved inside, and Dole fired up the coffee machine just as Bloch started talking. Moments later the coffee made its way into Dole’s cup, he made one for Bloch then the machine fell silent. He turned to face her.

  ‘Are you always so talkative in the morning?’ he said.

  ‘We have a new suspect,’ said Bloch.

  Dole ran a hand over his face.

  ‘It’s in Sue’s report. Maria Cooper got friendly with a waiter in the country club.’

  ‘That’s it. That’s our new suspect? Some waiter she was friendly with?’ said Dole.

  ‘No, not just some waiter. I called the club this morning. The waiter hasn’t shown up for work in a few days. He went home early the day before Paul Cooper went missing. Hasn’t been seen since. His name is Daryl Oakes.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Paul had never seen the point in meditation.

  In the summer there were more yoga classes running in Port Lonely than bars. He’d read articles, even went to some of those classes and bought an online video masterclass on transcendental meditation. The idea behind it seemed solid enough, and he craved the serenity, peace of mind and anti-anxiety qualities of the practice.

  It had never worked for him. He couldn’t switch off that brain of his. A writer’s brain, where every piece of information is fed into the conscious and subconscious and is liable to be spat back out at any moment in the shape of an idea for a story or a line of dialogue on the page.

  Only thing that had proved moderately useful were the breathing exercises. Paul had learned to gain control of his breath. Sometimes it helped take the edge off his anxiety, but as soon as he closed his eyes he would see visions of burning cars. He couldn’t change that channel in his head – no matter how hard he tried.

  Standing at the edge of the bed in Daryl’s basement, Paul opened his hands, spread out his arms and took a huge intake of breath. Held it. Let it out slow. Repeated his mantra and started all over again. After ten minutes, all he could see was that car and the flames licking out of the windows. Even so, his heart rate was down. He found he could speak without stuttering over every word, and he was no longer shaking.

  It didn’t take the fear away. It did help slowing down his body, the first step in being able to manage his fear. He felt better. He would need to be.

  Maybe meditation wasn’t so bad after all, he thought. Th
is was the first time he’d gotten results like this. It could’ve been the fact that if he didn’t act normal around Daryl he would be in serious trouble, or it could’ve been the lack of stimulants – no booze in Daryl’s riverside palace.

  He told himself he was calm. He had to be calm.

  If he didn’t cool it, he would be dead.

  He knew then that the imminent threat of being murdered had provided the only incentive he’d ever had to really giving meditation a try. His life depended on it.

  The thought made him smile, in spite of his situation, but he supposed that if more people were in immediate danger of being murdered they might be open to trying new things. It had a freeing quality that morning, for which he was grateful.

  His jeans were still a little damp by the time he put them on, but he could live with it. The sock was still damp. He didn’t need it; Daryl had left him a few pairs the day before. He put on fresh socks, then made his way slowly up the staircase to the door. It was open, just a crack. He dragged it open quietly then stopped when he heard a knock on the front door.

  The front door sat around six feet from the basement door. He heard Daryl’s boots in the hallway and closed the door over instinctively, leaving only an inch or two of a gap. Daryl’s face appeared in the space.

  ‘Somebody at the door. Keep down and don’t come out. I’ll get rid of them,’ he said in a low voice.

  ‘Who is it?’ said Paul.

  Daryl turned around, glanced out of the hall window.

  ‘Sheriff. Don’t worry. Just stay down.’

  As Daryl turned around Paul noticed the gun tucked into the back of his jeans. Daryl reached around, took the gun in his hand, checked it and then placed it beneath a kitchen towel on the hall table.

  Paul held the door handle and pulled it toward him, narrowing his view, but at the same time allowing him to see Daryl, unobserved.

  There was no kind of bullshit meditation that could stop his heart punching that beat in his chest. He felt the sweat form on his forehead and he clamped his jaw shut to stop the tremors reaching his teeth.

  Daryl opened the door, leaned into the gap to fill it, put his boot on the other side to stop the sheriff pushing it open any further.

  ‘Hi there, Mr. Oakes?’ said the sheriff.

  Paul couldn’t see him, but he recognized Sheriff Dole’s drawl.

  ‘That’s me.’

  ‘Mind if I call you—’

  ‘Mr. Oakes would be just fine,’ said Daryl. ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘We’re hoping so. Mind if we come in?’

  ‘I’m not accepting company at the moment, all due respect, Sheriff. I ain’t been feelin’ too good these past few days and I’ve neglected the house.’

  Silence. Then the sound of Dole’s boots on the ground outside.

  ‘Uh-huh,’ said Dole. ‘Well, I suppose we can talk here. It’s not like there’s neighbors to worry about, now is there?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Could you tell us where you’ve been the last few days?’

  ‘Here. I maybe went out for groceries once or twice, but like I said, I’ve been pretty sick.’

  ‘I can see the sweat on your lip, son. Fever, is it?’ said Dole, in a way that appeared to hint that the sweat on Daryl’s face was for some altogether less innocent reason.

  ‘Somethin’ like that,’ said Daryl.

  Another pause. Deliberate. Even though Paul couldn’t see the sheriff, he knew this was not a man who had any trouble dreaming up questions.

  ‘Do you know Maria Cooper?’ said Dole.

  ‘I saw it on the news. Poor woman. She came into the club every now and then. I’d wait her table, pass the time, you know – I don’t like seeing a lady sitting on her own drinking. And she always tipped good. Not like those other cheapskates who wouldn’t give you the shit off of their shoe leather.’

  ‘What did you folks talk about?’

  ‘Not much. We talked about the weather, the news, I don’t know. Just small talk, I guess.’

  ‘You ever meet each other outside of the club?’

  It was Daryl’s turn to pause. A dull ache came from Paul’s jaw and his teeth squeaked. He let go of the door handle. It took everything Paul had not to attack Daryl. This murdering son of a bitch had almost killed Maria. Beaten her skull to a pulp. He told himself to cool it. Keep calm. He thought of the money, dug his fingernails into his palm and shook with the rage boiling up inside. It was confirmation of what he had already known, deep down. He bit his lip to stop himself screaming and punching the walls.

  Daryl stared at the ground, his fingers barely touching his lips. It looked like he was trying his hardest to remember – careful about his answer.

  Paul knew Daryl was in trouble now. If Daryl said he’d never seen Maria outside of the club, and Sheriff Dole knew otherwise, then Daryl may as well cuff himself right then and there.

  ‘I don’t believe so,’ said Daryl.

  As he waited for his answer to drop, Daryl’s left hand slid out, flipped away the kitchen towel and rested on the gun on the counter. The sheriff and whoever was with him wouldn’t be able to see it. Not until it was too late.

  Paul bent his knees. If Daryl moved the gun one inch then Paul was going to burst through the door and charge him. He might get there before the first shot, but probably not. Still, if Daryl went for it then he would have to try. Paul couldn’t let anyone else die because of Daryl.

  Or because of him.

  ‘You sure you never met up outside of the club?’ said Dole.

  ‘Pretty sure,’ said Daryl, keeping his arm straight, ready to whip the gun into Dole’s face if this went south.

  With the blood roaring in his ears, Paul didn’t catch the sheriff’s response.

  Daryl’s arm tensed. Paul shifted his weight, ready to spring forward off his right foot.

  Bird song. The wind in the pine trees. The fragile murmur from a TV in another room. And the soft, internal drone of Paul’s body churning adrenaline. Nothing else.

  He assessed the distance between him and Daryl again. He definitely wouldn’t make it.

  Paul crouched down further and opened the door.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Dole had been keeping one eye on Bloch the whole time he’d stood on the porch. She would turn when Oakes was distracted enough by Dole, and holding her camera by her side she got some pics of the side of the house and part of what lay at the rear.

  She’d had long enough to get some pics and Oakes was giving them nothing. At the same time, Dole felt uneasy as soon as he’d laid eyes on the man. For a waiter at a country club, Oakes looked incredibly fit and muscular. There was almost zero fat on the man, and his bicep stood out like a softball under a washcloth.

  This was a man who kept in shape.

  It wasn’t the physicality that unsettled Dole. No, it was the eyes. The expression. Clearly the man was hiding something. His behavior spoke volumes.

  Right then Dole didn’t know exactly what Oakes was hiding. He sure didn’t like the question about meeting Maria Cooper outside the club. No, sir. He’d taken his time to answer – probably weighing up whether Dole had something in his back pocket like a statement saying Maria Cooper and Oakes met every Tuesday afternoon in the diner for skinny lattes and Bridge.

  Dole readjusted his stance, trying to save himself from the dull ache that was springing to life in his knee. He put his hand on his hip, straightened his other leg and shifted his center of gravity, taking the pressure off the bad knee.

  Soon as Dole’s hand went for the hip, right behind his gun-holster, he saw Daryl’s arm tense.

  That’s when Dole sensed something badly wrong with Oakes. The man at the door was ready to attack. He probably had a two-by-four on the table next to the front entrance, or maybe a gun. A frightening thought even without the shark-dead eyes.

  He asked him if he was sure. Oakes thought about it. Or was he thinking about whipping out a knife or a gun instead? Eventually, Oakes sai
d he was pretty sure.

  Dole let a good many things slide. He’d never gotten around to joining the digital revolution, there was a broken plank on his stairs, his shoes could do with a polish, but he put these things off – said he’d get around to it eventually. Eventually he would, too.

  One thing he didn’t let slide was his gun handling. Dole shot fifty rounds every two weeks. All of them wound up just where he’d intended them to go. Every month, he did draw-fire training. A hang back to his first days on the force when he’d undergone close protection training. He could draw his weapon from the holster, fire three shots. All in under three seconds. He’d gotten it down to just over two seconds in his youth. Now he was content with a two-point-five second average. Bloch was about the same.

  If Oakes did make a play – Dole was ready.

  Dole didn’t ask any more questions. Now was not the time. He just let the moment breathe. With any other potential suspect, Dole would search their face carefully, especially the eyes. Oakes had dead eyes. Almost black in this light.

  Remaining quiet and watchful for most of the conversation, he could sense Bloch’s unease. She shifted her feet, then took a step forward.

  ‘Do you know Maria Cooper’s husband, Paul?’ said Bloch.

  ‘No, can’t say that I do,’ said Daryl.

  ‘Maybe we should be getting back,’ said Deputy Bloch.

  Never taking his gaze from Oakes, Dole took a step backwards, said, ‘Maybe you’re right. You’ve been helpful, Mr. Oakes. We’ll leave you in peace, for now.’

  When Dole and Bloch were safely in the car, and Oakes had closed his front door, both of them breathed a sigh of relief.

  ‘That guy is intense,’ said Bloch.

  ‘Sure is, did you see the boat out back?’ said Dole.

  ‘I sure did. Got a sneaky pic on my phone, too. That’s a hell of a boat to run on a waiter’s salary.’

  ‘We’ll head back to the station, do the paperwork then get it to the judge. You think it’s enough for a warrant to search Daryl’s house?’