Twisted

by Steve Cavanagh

  It looked more like a suite than a room. Extended bathroom. Two sinks, large tub and wet room. Desk, couch and television in a separate room, just off the bedroom. Sliding glass doors to a small balcony with a little table and two chairs for an alfresco breakfast with a view of the Hollywood sign, LA fog permitting.

  Maria went straight into the bathroom, dropped her purse on the bathroom tiles and turned on the faucet. He sat on the bed, watched her undress as the tub filled. Daryl got up and went to the desk, opened his laptop, and fired it up. He entered the hotel WiFi code. There were no other sounds in the room, no TV, no piped music, just the sound of the bathtub filling up.

  Daryl remembered the smell in the kitchen of the house in Port Lonely, on that last day. Maria had cracked open a can of paint, and she’d put some on the walls just to make things look a little more convincing. That smell was the same as in the hallway. Odor can be a memory trigger, just like any sense, perhaps even more powerful than sight or sound.

  That look she’d given him in the hallway. Sense memory was a powerful thing. For some it could be the odor of a familiar perfume, for others the smell of a particular brand of cigarette, or a flower – that’s all that was needed to send the mind reeling into memory and nostalgia.

  She knew.

  He checked his email account on his laptop. The purchase of the property in Medina had gone through. The keys were waiting at his realtor’s office.

  Perfect timing. Maria had proved useful, but it was no longer wise nor safe to let her live.

  Daryl got up and checked his overnight bag. He’d packed everything bar a fresh shirt, which was still in the closet. He fetched the shirt, folded it and placed it in his bag.

  Ready to go.

  He could hear the tub still filling. Maria had closed the door without him hearing it. The sound muted now. She’d always enjoyed a long, hot bath. Often, before he left her on those clandestine liaisons, he would run her a hot bath, and watch her slip into it. He knew when the tub had filled and she got into it, he would have at least a half hour before the temperature fell low enough for her to get out.

  He hollered at Maria through the door. ‘I’ll have some wine waiting for you when you get out of the tub, okay?’

  ‘Sure. The red, please,’ said Maria.

  Instead of getting the wine, Daryl couldn’t resist using the time he had to write. He was coming to the end of the first draft. He opened the Word document on his laptop that contained his work in progress – the latest offering from J. T. LeBeau. He began to type. It was a new scene, set in a hotel just like this one. When he’d finished the scene, he read over his work, making small adjustments as he went through it. He would change the names later, so as not to make the truth of the matter too obvious to the authorities who might read the book. He wanted the truth to be there, but clouded, just in case they ever caught up with him.

  After ten minutes Darren heard the water sloshing, dripping onto the bathroom tiles. Martha was getting out of the tub, early. She stepped into the bedroom behind him. He turned, and saw the steam coming from the bathroom. She wore a white robe. Her hair looked an even deeper shade of black when it was wet. And now she had removed her lipstick, her pale face merely enhanced the color of her hair further – a lily contrasting with a black rose.

  Each was beautiful.

  ‘I’ll get the wine, shall I?’ said Martha.

  ‘Sorry, I forgot,’ said Darren.

  The suite boasted a fully stocked bar, hidden away in a dresser. She selected a bottle of Rioja and two glasses. From a drawer she picked up the wine opener, used the small blade at the side to cut away the plastic top. Then she used the automatic machine left in the minibar to uncork the wine. Leaving the bottle on the dresser, she let it breathe.

  Darren turned back to his laptop screen, saved the file. That’s when he felt Martha’s touch on his shoulder.

  ‘What’s this you’re working on?’ said Martha.

  He got up, turned the chair around, said, ‘Take a seat and I’ll let you read it.’

  Martha returned to the dresser, poured the wine into two glasses and gave one to Darren. She reversed into the office chair, glass of wine in hand, and Darren gently turned her around to face the screen. While she read, Darren stood to the side so he could watch her expression.

  Her eyes followed the text. He could see the rectangle of light from the screen reflected in the large black iris of her right eye, the convex surface distorting the image and bending it into a strange shape.

  Tiny muscles in her forehead twitched as she read the third line. Her eyes continued to travel across the screen, and down, and across – following the trail of the text.

  She began to tremble. Darren took the glass from her hands without resistance, placed it on the desk.

  Tears formed in her eyes. Her lip quivered. She was reading a narrative that described her own murder.

  And then, all at once, shock took her. Her hands reached for her face, her body taking in a huge gasp of air – an instinctual response to ready the muscles for escape.

  But there was no escape. She couldn’t move.

  ‘You’re J. T. LeBeau,’ she said, in a whisper.

  Darren stepped behind her, slipped his arms around her body and lifted her into the air.

  ‘I should have finished you in Port Lonely,’ said Darren.

  He began walking backwards, her legs kicking, her hands fighting his grip. Darren dropped her onto his hip, but kept one arm locked around her midriff. With his free hand he pushed the sliding balcony doors further open.

  She almost wriggled free, but he took hold again. Both arms encasing her waist and he hoisted her high.

  Darren took two steps onto the balcony, heaved, twisted, and threw Martha over the edge. He saw that look on her face as she fell, her arms outstretched, her voice only catching into a scream right then.

  He didn’t wait for her to hit the ground. The screaming and the car horns from below were enough.

  Darren went back inside, closed his laptop, put it in his bag. He found Martha’s phone sticking out of the top of her purse on the bathroom floor, typed an email to Sheriff Cole saying she couldn’t deal with the thought of a trial. She couldn’t stand up to her husband, Saul. It was all too much. He had won. She thanked him for what he had done for her, and told him he shouldn’t feel guilty for what she was about to do. She had had enough. Darren hit send on the email, and left the hotel.

  Daryl finished typing and stood up from his laptop. He walked over to the balcony doors and opened them.

  It was time for Maria to come out and have a glass of wine.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

  Maria listened to the rhythmic tumbling of water falling into the bathtub and stared into the bathroom mirror.

  She stood in front of the mirror in her underwear while she carefully removed her makeup with a cleansing wipe. Tossing the wipe into the trash can by her feet, she looked at the wash basin to find the rest of the pack. The rim of the basin looked very clean and tidy. Only her toothbrush, toothpaste and cleansing wipes remained. At first she thought nothing of it, then she looked again. Daryl must’ve packed his toothbrush. Stepping to the right, she stared into the trash and saw her wet wipe sitting beside Daryl’s disposable razor.

  They were due to stay in the hotel for at least another week.

  Why had Daryl packed his things?

  An image flashed before her mind. The passport. Paul’s passport. Sitting on the kitchen counter. The smell of paint was strong now. Almost making her gag. And yet the redecoration crew had not been in their room. Nothing had been repainted in the bathroom and still that smell was in her nose.

  Maria closed her eyes. And then saw Daryl, standing in a white plastic coverall suit. His eyes were dead.

  Her knees suddenly gave way, and she gripped the sink to steady herself. Managed not to fall.

  What the fuck is happening to me? she whispered, clasping her hands to the side of her head as if she were trying
to prevent her skull splitting.

  Then she saw it again, the image was strong. Clear. There had been no noise outside distracting Daryl, drawing him away from the kitchen. The only one in that room when she was attacked was Daryl. A tremendous stabbing pain brought her to her knees.

  She gasped. Grabbed for her purse on the floor beside her dress. She took out her phone, selected the number for Dole then stopped.

  Daryl was at the door, asking if she wanted wine. She said yes, the red. It was all she could do to stop a scream erupting from her throat.

  She shook her head. Panic was setting in. She thought of Paul that day. He was going to try to shoot Daryl. Not her. It was Daryl all along. She had messed up. Let a monster into her life.

  And what had Paul shouted at her? Tom’s calling.

  She repeated the phrase over and over.

  No. Not Tom’s calling. Tom called.

  Tom called. Tom called. Tom called.

  All of the air left her lungs. She shot out one arm to steady herself and almost dropped the phone.

  Not Tom called.

  Mom called.

  She dialed the answer machine. Her mom’s machine back in Port Lonely. It was one of the first of its type that allowed you to access your messages remotely. She keyed in the code. Listened.

  You have one new message.

  Five minutes later Maria hung up the call. She took the towel from the radiator next to her, put it in her mouth and cried and rocked back and forth as her body convulsed in tears and shame.

  After a while, she put the towel down. Water hit the back of her neck. She turned around, shut off the faucet for the tub. Then let some of the water out so it wouldn’t flood the bathroom.

  She stared at the door.

  Maria knew then that there was a killer on the other side. There was no way out. He had watched her closely that night when they returned to the room. She suddenly felt very afraid and noticed that her body was shivering violently.

  She dialed Dole’s phone. No answer. She left a muffled message, then put the phone back in her purse. She was shaking so much now that she couldn’t even speak.

  Guilt. Pain. Fear.

  She had wronged Paul.

  Maria knew there was only one thing she could do. It was clear in her mind. She had had enough of this mess. Paul had been stupid to take the money. Stupid to hide it from her. But no one had been more stupid than her, she thought. Not only had she fallen in love with a killer, but she had taken him back into her bed after he had attacked her. She felt the vomit rise in her stomach, and swallowed it down.

  What have I done?

  No way out. No way out. No way out.

  She’d had enough of men. Her father, her husband, her lover. They had all hurt her, used her, and left her to die.

  She’d had enough pain. She’d had enough of this fear. This guilt. This shame.

  This life.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

  Daryl opened the bathroom door. He couldn’t see Maria standing in the bathroom, she must still have been in the tub. The lights had been turned low. It was a tranquil scene. He thought about how he would describe it in the book, then stepped inside.

  ‘How about that glass …’

  His words died in his throat.

  Daryl looked down at the tub.

  The water was a dull shade of red. Like someone had dumped a pot of red ink in the water. Maria’s pale body rested in the tub, her dead eyes staring at the muted light bulbs in the ceiling. One wrist lay on the side of the tub, her fingers still curled around Daryl’s disposable razor that he’d tossed in the trash that morning. He saw a deep gash on the wrist, with blood leaking into the tub. He leaned over, saw a cut to the other submerged wrist.

  The bathwater was red with her blood. Blood on the razor. Razor in her hand. Cuts to her wrist. He knew he shouldn’t disturb this scene, if he could help it. It worked just fine for his purposes.

  He took a cleansing wipe from the pack sitting on the basin, wrapped his finger in the wipe and then touched her wrist. He altered the position of his finger several times – feeling for a pulse.

  None.

  She had been dreading the memorial. She was afraid of Paul, and what he might do. Daryl had been anxious as well. Fearful that seeing Paul might trigger some memory that had been submerged in pain, and blood on her brain. He had not expected this. He picked up her purse, took out her phone and checked it. The memory showed no recent calls. It didn’t show any calls – so perhaps she had deleted them. He couldn’t tell. Perhaps her phone did not store a call history. He typed out the email to Sheriff Dole, a goodbye note, then wiped the phone clean and dropped it on the floor. He turned, walked out of the bathroom with the wipe in his hand.

  No time to waste. Daryl packed up his laptop, put it in his bag along with the wipe, which he would dispose of later, and cursed as he left the room.

  His teeth grinded. His jaw working hard. Furious.

  He really liked that scene. The description of Maria reading about her own death, moments before it happened. It was a moment of pure pleasure that he would now never have. He felt cheated. Robbed of the kill.

  And he would have to go to work on the book that night. He couldn’t let that anomaly sit in his manuscript. That would eat away at him like a tick chewing his flesh.

  He would have to rewrite the whole goddamn scene.

  She’d beaten him.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

  Dole pulled up a few hundred feet from the hotel entrance. It was the closest parking space he could get. There was a valet service, of course, but Dole hated the thought of paying some kid to park his car.

  LA didn’t agree with Dole.

  He’d been parking his own damn car for over forty years. He wasn’t going to go changing that shit now.

  He turned off the engine of the LAPD pool car. A green Pontiac that felt like it was on its last legs. Cracking open the driver’s door, he paused. Closed the door and hunkered down beneath the steering wheel.

  Daryl gave a ticket to the valet outside the hotel. He had a bag with him. He stood on the sidewalk, taking care to keep his head down. Not looking anyone in the eye. Making himself inconspicuous.

  Dole wanted to talk to him, but something held him back. He wanted to see where Daryl went, and if he was staying in another hotel. It would be good to know where he might need to find Daryl in case they decided to pick him up in the morning after he’d spoken to Maria.

  While Daryl stood on the sidewalk, Dole took out his cell phone. He thought it might have been vibrating in his pocket while he was driving over here. The old pool car didn’t have a phone system, and Dole didn’t want to get caught on a traffic camera with a phone in his hand, especially when he was in the LAPD’s vehicle. That wouldn’t look good.

  He had a missed call from Maria. A new voicemail. And an email from her. He read the email first.

  It was a suicide note. He checked the missed call. The email had been sent half an hour after the call. He dialed up his voicemail, pressed the phone to his ear, his other hand strangling the steering wheel, his throat cloying with the emotions that were threatening to erupt.

  After the first ten seconds of the voicemail, he locked his eyes on Daryl.

  Over the sound of running water, Maria told him she had gotten it all wrong. She was in a hotel bathroom, with Daryl outside. She was trapped. He was the one who had attacked her. She remembered now. Paul was innocent. Her last plea was not for help.

  ‘You won’t get to me in time. No one could. Just get this bastard. Paul told me everything, he left a message on my answering service. He’s telling the truth. LeBeau must be stopped. Daryl has to be arrested. Get him. Don’t let him go.’

  The message ended. Dole started hammering the wheel with his fist. A black SUV pulled up outside the hotel, the valet got out of it and handed the keys to Daryl. He got in, pulled into traffic.

  Dole turned over the engine of the Pontiac a few times before it coughed into life. Then
he followed Daryl. He tried calling Bloch. Her phone was off. She must’ve been in the interview room with Paul.

  Goddamn it, he knew it. He had sensed it. The mailbox had been the first clue. Someone wanted the body found – that someone wanted Paul in the frame for Maria’s murder. She had survived. Now, Dole had no doubt she was dead. And he was following her murderer.

  He stayed a few cars back, keeping the SUV in sight but not getting too close.

  Dole took Maria’s last wish, held it in his gritted teeth.

  He wasn’t going to let Daryl get away. He was going to stop him.

  At that moment, Dole knew something else. He knew it like he knew heartache, and loss and guilt. All too familiar friends of his. He knew Daryl would be able to spin the investigation against Paul. That there was every chance Daryl could beat a charge. Maria had given him a dying declaration, but a good defense attorney could turn that into the mad ravings of a suicidal victim of a traumatic brain injury.

  At that moment, he was glad Bloch hadn’t picked up his call. He wasn’t going to try again. He wasn’t going to call for back-up. There was no justice for these victims in a courtroom.

  Dole was going to stop Daryl.

  But he sure as hell wasn’t going to arrest him.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

  Two hours after he’d left the hotel room, Daryl stood in front of his bathroom mirror. The house in LA was nothing fancy. It was an old colonial. Spanish. Two floors. Three bedrooms, with a large basement. On a clear morning he could see the five-oh-one, and the traffic flowing through the early mist like ghosts.

  It was late evening. Coming up on ten o’clock.

  Much had changed in the last hour. Daryl had shaved his head. First with an electric trimmer, then with a razor. At the memorial service he’d sported the beginnings of a beard. Short, well kept. Now it was a goatee. Spotted with white after he had carefully bleached sections with dye and a cotton bud. He was also deeply tanned. This proved more difficult than he’d first imagined. Before, he had always visited a salon that did spray-on tan treatments. This time he’d used an expensive bottle of self-tanning lotion. It took careful application and a lot of work to spread it evenly over the skin without leaving dark patches on his neck, or on his hands.