Twisted

by Steve Cavanagh

  ‘You look far too thin. I’ll have to fatten you up. Thankfully there are half a dozen great restaurants I’ve got lined up for us. Come on, my car is outside.’

  Josephine led him into the late afternoon sunshine and a green convertible parked close to the exit. Paul put his bag in the trunk, and they took off.

  He said little, preferring to let Josephine talk. She didn’t mention the trial, or the money, or the litany of problems that now faced Paul. He was glad of that.

  After a while they arrived in a suburb filled with huge houses. Some were traditional, some more art deco and others were positively industrial. The light was fading now, turning to a crimson dusk.

  ‘Who would want to live in a house that looked like a factory?’ she said, scoffing.

  Soon she pulled off the road into a street lined with tall colonial mansions. At the end of the street a particularly old and beautiful house sat back from the others. A large oak tree grew in the garden. She parked in the driveway, and got out.

  Paul fetched his bag from the trunk and saw Josephine standing in front of the house, admiring the place. The house had a classic look – wood panel siding painted brilliant white. Three brick steps led to a porch, with dormer windows stretching across the face of the building. It even had a white picket fence at one end of the front lawn.

  A dream house.

  ‘Gorgeous, isn’t it, darling?’ said Josephine.

  Paul nodded, smiled. The old house had stood the test of time. It looked well-maintained and somehow, in the sunlight, a place where anyone could be happy.

  He followed Josephine to the front door. She unlocked it with her key, and he followed her inside.

  A two-story entrance hall. Massive curling staircase on the right, with a polished redwood bannister. On the left was an old oil painting – a woman who was seemingly in the clutches of a huge black swan.

  ‘Isn’t it beautiful? Leda and the Swan. You know, from Yeats?’ said Josephine.

  Paul nodded, he didn’t know. There were fresh flowers on a table below the painting. They masked the slightly musty smell of the old place.

  Straight ahead he saw a set of French doors leading to the kitchen, and no doubt the garden and pool beyond. To his right, just before the staircase, an alcove led to a large living room. He turned his attention back to Josephine. She was standing in front of the painting with her back to Paul. Inhaling through her nose, then breathing out slow through her mouth. As if she was drinking in the air and the painting all at once.

  Paul glanced over his shoulder, saw the front door was closed. Paul breathed out. He’d lost everything that had been good in his life. And now it was time to finish this tale, once and for all.

  He dropped his bag, stepped forward and grabbed Josephine’s throat from behind. The fingers of his right hand locked around her slender throat. Her mouth opened, gasping.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she said, panic in her voice.

  ‘Where is he? I know it was you who told Daryl where I was hiding. I know it. I’ve thought about it for a long time and it could only have been you. So where is he? Where’s your new client? Where’s LeBeau?’

  A voice called out from the living room. It was at once familiar, and yet strange.

  ‘Bring her in here, Paul. Don’t hurt her. That would be rude.’

  Paul turned around, sharply, keeping Josephine in front of him. He had one arm around her throat, keeping her close. He stepped forward. Josephine acting as a human shield.

  Once through the alcove, Paul saw a grand open-plan living space. Green leather couches surrounded a mahogany coffee table. The four couches formed a wide square, with the table in the center. On the couch facing the entrance to the living room sat a man in a pale blue suit, open white shirt. He was tanned. His head must have been shaved down with an electronic razor, or perhaps the man had shaved his head some days ago, because a dark fuzz, and no more than that, passed for a hairline. It was Daryl. Only it wasn’t. Daryl was just another identity. One he had changed. The man who sat on the couch was now LeBeau. His posture, skin, eyes, all had taken on a different aspect.

  ‘Why don’t you sit down, Paul? Before you do something stupid,’ said LeBeau. He gestured to the couch in front of him, across the coffee table. Paul noticed a gun sitting on the couch beside LeBeau. His right hand strayed toward it, then rested gently on the grip, index finger on the trigger guard – ready to pick it up and fire.

  ‘I’m just fine where I am,’ said Paul.

  ‘I wouldn’t want you to hurt Josephine,’ said LeBeau. ‘She’s been so helpful. I wouldn’t have found you without her. Let her go, and I won’t shoot. I’m glad you’ve come. I have something for you.’

  His eyes flicked toward something on the coffee table. Paul took a moment to glance at it now. It was a bound manuscript, sitting beside a laptop.

  ‘I have a lot to thank you for, Paul. First, for holding onto my money. Second, for giving me my latest novel. I think it’s my best. I’d like you to read it.’

  ‘Fuck you and your book,’ said Paul.

  ‘Let me go,’ said Josephine.

  ‘Shut up,’ said Paul.

  He couldn’t take his gaze off LeBeau. The man had a feral quality that Paul found magnetic, and terrifying. It felt like being in a room with a tiger – those large eyes calculating how and when to strike. The man on the couch was a true predator.

  Paul heard a click. Somewhere in the house. Out back. A door latch of some kind.

  LeBeau heard it too. His eyes flicked wide, his lips drew across his face, baring his teeth, and then he moved, with incredible speed.

  At once LeBeau had the gun in his hand. He stood and backed away toward the other end of the room where there was a door. LeBeau raised the gun.

  Footsteps now, behind Paul. Boots running. Coming toward him from the hallway.

  ‘Police, drop the gun,’ said Bloch, as she came into the room, arms stretched into a firing pose, a Glock in her hand.

  At that moment, Josephine squirmed to one side, threw a backhanded fist into Paul’s groin and his grip on her broke. He felt the agonizing pain as a wave that traveled through his stomach, and sucked all the air from his lungs.

  He didn’t see what happened next. He dropped to the floor, two shots rang out. Bloch was suddenly there on the floor beside him, taking cover behind a couch. The air was thick with plaster dust as more shots fired over their heads into the wall behind them.

  The volley of shots ended, Bloch got both feet beneath her in a crouch, then popped up, gun aimed, and loosed one shot before she was thrown backwards by another volley. She hit the wall behind her, hard, and slumped down, her head lolling to one side. Paul saw the rips in her leather jacket, as if it had been torn apart by a wild animal. The gun had fallen from her grip, and landed on the floor beside her.

  From the other end of the room, Paul heard a groan, and the sound of a body hitting the floor. Bloch must have tagged LeBeau with that shot. Paul crawled toward Bloch’s gun, but someone grabbed his ankle and something heavy hit him in the back. He turned over, and Josephine was on top of him. She had a heavy glass vase in her hands, raised above her head.

  She was going to put it in Paul’s face.

  Josephine arched her back, her face contorted in rage.

  And then Paul heard another bang. His face was hit with something wet. He opened his eyes and saw the vase fall backwards over Josephine’s head. Her face was blank, and she had a massive wound in her chest. Her eyes rolled back in her head and she slumped off of him, and replacing her in his field of vision he saw Maria.

  She had a pistol in her hand, pointed at the spot where Josephine had been. Only it couldn’t have been Maria.

  Maria was dead. Bloch told him she had taken her own life. And yet here she was. Dressed in blue jeans, and a black jacket. Her hair tied back. She looked at Bloch, then nodded at Paul. Paul tried to sit up, then a searing pain in his chest forced him down. He looked at his chest, put his hand there and fo
und a pool of blood. The bullet had gone through Josephine and hit him in the chest.

  Maria took the pistol from Bloch while they were out back. They had arrived on the flight before Paul’s. Rented a car, and waited for him and Josephine to arrive. Maria trusted Bloch. She was the only one who knew she was still alive, that she had faked her suicide in the hotel room with Daryl.

  The mansion had large gardens, and they had climbed the fence with ease. Bloch had found the back door open, and they had both slipped inside quietly. Paul was taking most of the risk. Bloch was a good person. Maria could tell. Dole was dead, of that she was sure. LeBeau was deadly. She had to end it. And Bloch had agreed.

  Now things were falling into place for Maria.

  She’d stood at the entrance to the living room, gun in her hand, and watched Bloch take two shots to the chest. She heard the body drop at the other end of the room. LeBeau had been hit. She saw Paul crawl toward the gun, Josephine hitting him in the back with a vase, then, when he turned over she climbed on top of him. She was about to kill him, and when she raised the vase over her head Maria had shot her without a second thought.

  Paul saw her then, and he looked wild and dazed. Incredulous. And she saw the wound in his chest. The bullet had gone clean through Josephine, and hit Paul. She didn’t mean it. It had been an accident. Putting her panic and guilt aside, she realized if she didn’t move, she might be next to catch a bullet. LeBeau was still in that room.

  She stepped into the lounge, and turned to see LeBeau lying on the floor, trying to crawl out of the door at the back of the room. The blood was thick and dark on the carpet. He had discarded his gun, and Maria knew then he had been hit badly by Bloch’s round.

  ‘Daryl, my love,’ said Maria.

  LeBeau stopped, turned over, his eyes wide in panic. His face soaked in sweat. His suit was a bloody mess. The bullet had taken him in the stomach, dead center.

  ‘You’re dead,’ he said. ‘Am I dead?’

  He had a stupid look on his face. Panic making him shiver.

  Maria raised the gun, pointed it at him.

  ‘When I woke up in the hospital they told me I had vasculitis. An underlying condition. Inflammation of the veins. Said I scared the shit out of the doctors because they could hardly find a pulse. I knew if I made it look like I was dead it would fool you too. I won – you son of a bitch.’

  He opened his mouth to say something more. A distraction, as he reached for the gun, just a few feet away. Maria robbed him of his words with three pulls of the trigger. First shot took him in the head. The last two in the chest.

  Maria breathed out, walked back to Paul, and stood over him.

  He was gasping for breath, his lips coated in blood. She knelt down, and cradled his head.

  ‘You’re alive … I’m so glad you’re alive. I’m sorry,’ he said.

  Maria kissed him, told him it was okay. Everything was going to be okay. None of this was his fault.

  ‘No … it is my fault. Please … forgive me,’ said Paul.

  ‘I forgive you,’ said Maria, and she held his hand until his breath gave out, and he died in her arms.

  She got up, and moved to Bloch. Gently, she touched Bloch’s cheek, spoke softly to her. There was no blood on her chest. The vest had stopped the rounds but there was blood at the back of her head from contact with the wall. Slowly, Bloch came to.

  ‘It’s over,’ said Maria.

  Maria helped Bloch to her feet, and when she was steady, Maria let go. She put the pistol in her pocket, and picked up the laptop and manuscript from the table, tucked them under her arm.

  ‘Go,’ said Bloch. ‘I’ll call local police, straighten everything out.’

  With that, Maria left.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE

  Maria adjusted the laptop. It had almost slid right off her thighs. She took a sip from the piña colada, set it back down on the sand next to her Manolo Blahnik shoes.

  She focused on the screen. She was on a deadline.

  Bloch had covered for her. The news on the day after the shootout in Medina was all about a brave officer called Melissa Bloch who had traced a bail jumper to Medina, and had shot him dead, but not before he had murdered two people. A man and a woman, whose names had not been released to the media.

  A week after Maria had returned to Bay City, she placed a call to a man in New York named Fullerton. He worked at the publishing house that produced the LeBeau books.

  ‘Mr. Fullerton, it’s Maria Cooper. Thank you for your kindness at the memorial, but I feel so terribly guilty. I have to tell you the truth. My husband, Paul, or J. T. LeBeau, well, he left an unfinished manuscript. I’m going to finish it. I’m going to be your new J. T. LeBeau and I’d like to agree terms, but please, for now, let’s make it our secret.’

  Two weeks after that phone call, Maria had a publishing deal for five million dollars, a team of attorneys who were tracing the LeBeau properties, and the money. No one else was going to claim it. And Maria had the means to make it hers.

  Her new novel was to be called Twisted. It was mostly complete when she took the manuscript from the house. A digital copy remained on the laptop, and she was able to make some small changes to it. The ending had to be rewritten, for a start. The original author had used fake names, like Martha, Saul and Darren. She changed it back to the real names of the main characters. The author’s note at the beginning of the novel she left unchanged. It fitted her purpose too. No one would know what was real, and what was fiction, apart from those involved. And they were all dead, bar her and Bloch. Bloch would never tell anyone what really happened.

  Maria took another sip from her piña colada, looked up at the bright blue sky over Barbados, then returned her eyes to the manuscript. She was close to the end. She read over what she had just typed.

  Maria stood at the entrance to the living room, gun in her hand, and watched Bloch fire off one round before she took two shots to the chest, hit her head against the wall and then fell unconscious. She heard the body drop at the other end of the room. LeBeau had been hit, too. She saw Paul crawl toward the gun, Josephine hitting him in the back with a vase.

  Josephine hadn’t realized the danger she was in. Maria aimed the gun at Josephine’s back and pulled the trigger. The shot stopped her instantly, and she fell dead to the floor.

  Paul turned in shock, looked at Maria wide-eyed. She had saved his life. He tried to stand and Maria said, ‘Stay down, Paul.’

  She stepped into the lounge, only to see LeBeau trying to crawl out of the door at the back of the room. The blood was thick and dark on the carpet. He had discarded his gun, and Maria knew then he had been hit badly by Bloch’s round.

  ‘Daryl, my love,’ said Maria.

  LeBeau stopped, turned over, his eyes wide in panic. His face soaked in sweat. His suit was a bloody mess. The bullet had taken him in the stomach, dead center. He had a stupid look on his face. Panic making him shiver.

  ‘You’re dead,’ he said. ‘Am I dead?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Maria. ‘You are now.’

  Maria raised the gun, pointed it at him and shot him in the head. For good measure she put two in his chest.

  She turned away from him, and there in front of her stood Paul.

  ‘You’re alive. I’m so glad you’re alive. I’m so sorry,’ said Paul.

  He stood before her, his hands outstretched, his face filled with genuine regret. He was alive, and unharmed, and Maria knew then that she could never love him.

  ‘I’m sorry too, Paul. I’m sorry I ever met you,’ said Maria as she pointed the gun at his chest and pulled the trigger.

  Paul fell to the floor, dead.

  Maria selected the passage of text she’d just read, then deleted it.

  She would need to make up something better.

  The truth can be far too brutal.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  from the author, Steve Cavanagh

  There are many people who deserve thanks for their help with this novel
. The idea for this book came from my wife, Tracy. For that I am very grateful, and for her support, comments and suggestions which made the book come alive. I couldn’t do anything without her.

  My editors, the brilliant Francesca Pathak and Christine Kopprasch, for making the book so much better and pushing me to the limit with this story. To Emad, Harriet, Katie and all at Orion. To Amy, Bob and all at Flatiron Books. To Euan and all at A. M. Heath for your support, wisdom and expert representation.

  To Luca Veste, for early reading and encouraging me to continue with this book.

  To the writers who have supported me and helped me in this business.

  To James Law and Quentin Bates for all their nautical assistance on sinking a boat.

  To Chloe and Noah. And Lolly.

  To my Dad.

  To Marie and Tom.

  To my family and friends.

  To the booksellers all over the world who hand-sell my books to customers.

  To you, the reader.

  Thank you all.

  Also by Steve Cavanagh

  The Defence

  The Cross (novella)

  The Plea

  The Liar

  Thirteen

  THE MURDER TRIAL OF THE CENTURY IS HERE

  A ruthless prosecutor.

  A brilliant defence lawyer.

  A defendant with a secret.

  And a serial killer on the jury …

  ‘Ingenious’ MICHAEL CONNELLY

  ‘Outstanding’ LEE CHILD

  ‘Smart and original’ CLARE MACKINTOSH

  Available to buy in paperback and ebook now.

  Eddie Flynn returns in the next edge-of-your-seat thriller

  WHO IS DEADLIER …

  Leonard Howell’s worst nightmare has come true: his daughter Caroline has been kidnapped. Not content with relying on the cops, Howell calls the only man he trusts to get her back.