More Twisted: Collected Stories, Vol. II

by Jeffery Deaver

  Marissa found him easy to talk to. That night they’d met she’d rambled on about her life — complaining about her domineering father, her regret at leaving fashion for a boring job, and her former husband, to whom she occasionally loaned money that was never paid back. When she’d realized how moody and complaining she sounded, she’d blushed and apologized. But he hadn’t minded at all; he enjoyed hearing what she had to say, he admitted. What a departure from most of the men she dated, who focused only on her looks — and on themselves.

  They’d walked along the Arno, then strolled across the Ponte Vecchio, where a young boy tried to sell him roses for his “wife.” Instead he bought her a tourist souvenir: a Lucretia Borgia poison ring. She’d laughed hard and she kissed him on the cheek.

  The next week he came to visit her in the Navigli in Milan; she’d seen him twice after that on business here in Florence. This was to be their first weekend away. They were not yet lovers but Marissa knew that would soon change.

  Now, on their way to the “surprise” destination, Antonio made another sharp turn down a dim residential street. The neighborhood was run-down. Marissa was troubled that he was taking this shortcut — and troubled all the more when he abruptly skidded to a stop at the curb.

  What was this? she wondered.

  He climbed out. “Just have an errand. I’ll be right back.” He hesitated. “You might want to leave the doors locked.” He strode to a decrepit house, looked around him and entered without knocking. Marissa noticed that he’d taken the car keys with him, which made her feel trapped. She loved to drive — her car was a silver Maserati — and she didn’t take well to the role of passenger. She decided to follow his advice and checked to make sure all the doors were locked. As she was looking at his side of the car she glanced out the window. She saw two twin boys, about ten years old, standing motionless, side by side, across the street. They stared at her, unsmiling. One whispered something. The other nodded gravely. She felt a shiver at the unnerving sight.

  Then, turning back, Marissa gasped in shock. An old woman’s skull-like face stared at her, merely a foot away on the passenger side of the Audi. The woman must have been sick and near death.

  Through the half-open window Marissa stammered, “Can I help you?”

  Wearing dirty, torn clothing, the scrawny woman rocked unsteadily on her feet. Her yellow eyes glanced over her shoulder quickly, as if she was concerned about being seen. She then glanced at the car, which seemed familiar to her.

  “Do you know Antonio?” Marissa asked, calming.

  “I’m Olga. I’m the queen of the Via Magdelena. I know everyone…” A frown. “I have come to offer you my sympathies.”

  “About what?”

  “Why, the death of your sister, of course.”

  “My sister? I don’t have a sister.”

  “You’re not Lucia’s sister?”

  “I don’t know a Lucia.”

  The woman shook her head. “But you so resemble her.”

  Marissa could hardly bear to look into the woman’s wet, jaundiced eyes.

  “I’ve troubled you unnecessarily,” Olga said. “Forgive me.”

  She turned away.

  “Wait,” Marissa called. “Who was she, this Lucia?”

  The woman paused. She leaned down and whispered, “An artist. She made dolls. I am not speaking of toys. They were works of art. She made them out of porcelain. The woman was a magician. It was as if she could capture human souls and place them in her dolls.”

  “And she died?”

  “Last year, yes.”

  “How did you know her?”

  Olga glanced one more time at the building Antonio had gone into. “Forgive me if I troubled you. I was mistaken, it seems.” She hobbled away.

  Antonio returned a moment later, carrying a small, gray paper bag. He set this in the back seat. He said nothing about his errand other than to apologize that it took longer than he planned. As he dropped into the driver’s seat, Marissa looked past him to the opposite side of the street. The twins were gone.

  Antonio shoved the shifter into gear and they sped away. Marissa asked him about the old woman. He blinked in surprise. He hesitated then gave a laugh. “Olga… she’s crazy. Not right in the head.”

  “Do you know a Lucia?”

  Antonio shook his head. “Did she say I did?”

  “No. But… it seemed she was telling me about her because she recognized your car.”

  “Well, as I say, she’s crazy.”

  Antonio fell silent and wound his way out of town, eventually catching the A7. He then turned south onto the SS222, the famous Chiantigiana highway, which winds through the wine region between Florence and Siena.

  As Marissa gripped the handhold above the door in the car, they raced through Strada then past the magnificent Castello di Uzzano, then Greve and into the sparser region south of Panzano. This was beautiful country — but there was an eeriness about it. Not too many kilometers north, the Monster of Florence had butchered more than a dozen people from the late sixties to the mid-eighties and here, south, two other madmen had not long ago tortured and slaughtered several women. These recent killers had been captured and were in prison, but the deaths were particularly gruesome and had occurred not far from where they were at the moment. Now that she’d thought of them Marissa couldn’t put the murders out of her mind.

  She was about to ask that Antonio turn the radio on, when suddenly, about three kilometers from Quercegrossa, he turned sharply onto a one-lane dirt road. They drove for nearly a kilometer before Marissa finally asked, her voice uneasy, “Where are we, Antonio? I wish you’d tell me.”

  He glanced at her troubled face. Then he smiled. “I’m sorry.” He abandoned the mystery and solemnity he’d been displaying. The old Antonio was back. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I was just being dramatic. I’m taking you to my family’s country home. It was an old mill. My father and I renovated it ourselves. It’s a special place and I wanted to share it with you.”

  Marissa relaxed and placed her hand on his leg. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t cross-examining you…. There’s just been so much pressure at work… and trying to persuade my father to let me have a few days off — oh, it was a nightmare.”

  “Well, you can relax now.” His hand closed around hers.

  She lowered her window and breathed in the fragrant air. “It’s lovely out here.”

  “It is, yes. Pure peace and quiet. No neighbors for several kilometers.”

  They drove five more minutes then parked. He retrieved the gray bag he’d collected at that ramshackle place in Florence and then removed the suitcases and a bag of groceries from the trunk. They walked fifty meters along a path through an overgrown, thorny olive grove and then he nodded toward a footbridge over a fast-moving stream. “There it is.”

  In the low light of dusk she could just make out the house on the opposite shore. It was quite an impressive place, though far more gothic than romantic — an ancient, two-story stone mill with small windows barred with metal rods.

  They crossed the bridge and he set the suitcases down at the front door. He fished for the key. Marissa turned and looked down. Black and fast moving, the stream seemed quite deep. Only a low railing separated her from a sheer, twenty-foot drop into the water.

  His voice, close to her ear, made her jump. He’d come up behind her. “I know what you’re thinking.”

  “What?” she asked, her heart beating fast.

  He put his arm around her and said, “You’re thinking about that urge.”

  “Urge?”

  “To throw yourself in. It’s the same thing people feel when standing on observation decks or the edge of a cliff — that strange desire to step off into space. No reason, no logic. But it’s always there. As if—” He released her shoulder. “—I were to let go there’d be nothing to stop you from jumping in. Do you know what I mean?”

  Marissa shivered — largely because she knew exactly what he meant. Bu
t she said nothing. To change the course of the conversation she pointed at the far shore, at a small white, wooden cross, surrounded by flowers. “What’s that?”

  He squinted. “Again? Ah, trespassers leave them. It happens often. It’s quite irritating.”

  “Why?”

  After a moment he said, “A boy died here. Before we owned the mill…. He lived up the road. Nobody knows exactly what happened but it seems he was playing with a soccer ball and it rolled into the water. He fell in trying to get it. The water’s very fast — you can see. He was sucked into the sluice there and was wedged upside down.”

  Marissa was claustrophobic. This thought terrified her.

  “It took him a half hour to die. Now his relatives come to leave the memorial. They claim they don’t. They say the crosses and flowers just appear out of nowhere. But of course they’re lying.”

  Her eyes were riveted on the dark, narrow intake, where the child had died. What a terrible way to end your life.

  Antonio’s loud voice startled her again. But this time he was laughing. “Now, enough morbid stories. Let’s eat!”

  Gratefully, Marissa followed him inside. She was relieved to see that the interior was very comfortable, actually cozy. It was nicely painted and on the wall hung expensive paintings and tapestries. Antonio lit candles and opened prosecco. They toasted their first long weekend together and began to prepare dinner. Marissa whipped up an antipasto platter of marinated vegetables and ham but Antonio did most of the cooking. He made linguine with butter and the white truffles for the first course and trout with herbs for the main. She was impressed, watching his assured hands cut and mix and whisk and assemble. Enjoying his skill, yes, but she was saddened slightly too, regretting that her long hours at the shop prevented her from spending as much time as she would have liked in her own kitchen, making meals for friends.

  Marissa set the table while he went downstairs to the wine cellar and returned with a 199 °Chianti from a famous local vineyard. A lover of wine, Marissa lifted an eyebrow and remarked that it was a wonderful vintage, hard to find; even the labels were collectors’ items. “You must have a wonderful wine cellar. Can I see it?”

  But as she stepped toward the door he pulled it shut, wincing slightly. “Oh, it’s a mess down there. I’m embarrassed. I didn’t get a chance to straighten it. Perhaps later.”

  “Of course,” she agreed.

  He set the food out and, in candlelight, they ate a leisurely dinner, talking the entire time. He told her about the crazy neighbors, a bad-tempered tomcat that thought he owned the property, the difficulty he and his father had had in finding period accessories to restore the mill.

  Afterwards, they carried the dishes into the kitchen and Antonio suggested they have grappa in the parlor. He pointed it out to her. She walked into the small, intimate room and sat on the couch, then heard the squeal of the wine cellar door and his footsteps descending the stairs. He returned five minutes later with two filled glasses. They sat together, sipping the liquor. It seemed more bitter than most of the grappas she’d had but she was sure that, given Antonio’s good taste, it was an expensive distillation.

  She was feeling warm, feeling comfortable, feeling giddy.

  Leaning back against his strong shoulder, she lifted her face and kissed him. Antonio kissed back, hard. Then whispered, “There’s a present for you in there.” He pointed to a nearby bathroom.

  “A present?”

  “Go see.”

  She rose and, in the room, found an antique silk robe on a hanger. The garment was golden, with tiny flowers on it and lace at the edging.

  “It’s beautiful,” she called. She debated. Should she put it on? That would be a clear message to him…. Did she want to send it or not?

  Yes, she decided, she did.

  She stripped her clothes off, slipped the thin robe on then returned to the parlor. He smiled and took her hand, stared into her eyes. “You’re so beautiful. You look just like… an angel.”

  His words echoed the line he’d used when they met. But there was something slightly off about his tone, as if he’d intended to say that she looked like something else and caught himself just in time.

  Then she laughed to herself. You’re used to your father — parsing everything he says, looking for double meanings and subtle criticisms. Relax.

  Marissa sat down beside Antonio once more. They kissed passionately. He pulled the clip out of her hair and let it tumble to her shoulders then took her face in both hands and stared into her eyes for a long moment. He kissed her again. She was very light-headed from his touch and the liquor. When he whispered, “Let’s go into the bedroom,” she nodded.

  “It’s through there.” He pointed to the kitchen. “I think there’re some candles beside the bed. Why don’t you light them? I’ll lock up.”

  Picking up some matches, Marissa walked into the kitchen. She noticed that he’d left the wine cellar door open. She glanced down the steep stairs and could see much of the room. It wasn’t messy at all, as he’d said. In fact, the place was spotlessly clean, well organized. She heard Antonio closing a window or door in another part of the house and, out of curiosity, walked quietly halfway down the stairs. She paused, frowning, staring at something under a table nearby. It was a soccer ball, half-deflated.

  She recalled that the boy who’d drowned had been playing with a ball like this. Was it his?

  Continuing down the steps, Marissa stooped and picked it up. The ball was a special one, commemorating one of Milan’s big wins last year; the date was printed on it. So it couldn’t have been the dead boy’s — Antonio had said he’d drowned when the previous owner was living here. But Antonio had been the owner for at least five years — which is when his father, who’d helped renovate the place, had died. It was just a strange coincidence.

  But wait…. Thinking back to his account of the incident, Marissa recalled that Antonio had said that nobody knew exactly what happened to the youngster. But if that was true, then how could he possibly know it’d taken the boy a half hour to die?

  Fear began to grow deep inside her. She heard the creak of his footsteps above her. She put the ball back and turned to the stairs. But then she stopped and gasped. On a stone wall to the right of the steps was a photograph. It was of Antonio and a woman who looked very much like Marissa, her hair dangling to her shoulders. They were both wearing wedding rings — even though he said he’d never been married.

  And the woman was wearing the same robe that Marissa now wore.

  She was, of course, Lucia.

  Who’d died last year.

  With stunning clarity, Marissa understood: Antonio had murdered his wife. The boy with the football had perhaps heard her screams for help or had witnessed the killing. Antonio had chased him and flung him into the stream where he’d been pulled into the sluice and drowned while the mad husband watched him die.

  Her heart pounding, she walked closer to the sideboard underneath the photograph. There was the gray bag that Antonio had picked up in Florence. It was sitting beside the bottle of grappa he’d just opened. Marissa opened the bag. Inside was a bottle of barbiturates, half empty. A glance at the top of the sideboard showed a dusting of powder, the same color as the pills — as yellow as the jaundiced eyes of the old woman who’d come up to Antonio’s car.

  It was as if he’d crushed some of the drugs.

  To mix into her grappa, Marissa realized.

  A searing wave of panic raced through her and pooled in her belly. Marissa had never been so afraid in her life. His plan was to drug her and — and then what?

  She couldn’t waste time speculating. She had to escape. Now!

  Starting up the stairs, Marissa froze.

  Antonio was standing above her. In his hand was a carving knife. “I told you I didn’t want you in the wine cellar, Lucia.”

  “What?” Marissa whispered, weak with terror.

  “Why did you come back?” he whispered. Then gave a chilling laugh. “Ah, Luc
ia, Lucia… you came back from the dead. Why? You deserved to die. You made me fall in love with you, you took my heart and my soul and you were going to just walk away and leave me alone.”

  “Antonio,” Marissa said, her voice cracking. “I’m not—”

  “You thought I was just one of your dolls, didn’t you? Something you could create and then sell and abandon?”

  He started down the stairs, closing the door behind him.

  “No, Antonio. Listen to me—”

  “How could you come back?”

  “I’m not Lucia!” she screamed.

  She thought back to their initial meeting. It wasn’t an angel he thought she resembled when they first met; it was the wife he’d murdered.

  “Lucia,” he moaned.

  He reached up to the wall and clicked out the lights. The room was utterly dark.

  “God, no. Please!” She backed away, her bare feet stinging on the cold floor.

  She could hear his footsteps descending toward her — the creaking wood gave him away. But then he stepped onto the stone floor and she lost track of where he was.

  No…. Tears dotted her eyes.

  He called, “Did you come back to turn me into another one of your dolls?”

  Marissa backed away. Where was he? She couldn’t hear him.

  Where?

  Was he—?

  A stream of hot breath kissed her left cheek. He was no more than a foot away.

  “Lucia!”

  She screamed and dropped to her knees. She couldn’t move forward, toward where she believed the stairs were — he was in her way — but she remembered seeing a small door against the far wall. Maybe it led to the backyard. Feeling her way along the wall, she finally located it, ripped the door open and tumbled inside, slamming it behind her.

  Sobbing, she struck a match.

  No!