Twist

by John Lutz

  A younger May.

  Q&A was set up somewhat like a precinct house squad room. There were neat rows of desks rather than cubicles, so there could be a free flow of information. Only Quinn’s desk was next to a partial cubicle that could be easily rearranged for semi-privacy.

  The blond woman, who looked to be in her early twenties, quickly realized that Quinn was the only one in the spacious office and fixed her gaze on him. She was wearing jeans, brown open-toed sandals, and a sleeveless blue blouse with large white buttons. Sunglasses dangled on a cord just above her breasts. She started toward Quinn. The window light playing over her face changed, and suddenly he knew her.

  She said, “Hi, Uncle Frank.”

  Quinn stood up. “You’re Carlie! Carlie Clark!” She was the daughter of May’s sister. “You’ve grown up. Last time I saw you was when you were on your way to middle school.”

  “In California,” Carlie said.

  “Which is why it took me a few seconds to recognize you. You’re not a kid anymore, and you’re supposed to be on the other side of the continent.”

  She gave a tiny mock shiver. “Ooh! You make it seem so far away.”

  They’d never had a chance to be close, and he actually didn’t know Carlie very well. As a kid she’d taken to him for some reason, and used to call him Uncle Frank. Nobody had called him that for years, until a few minutes ago.

  She rolled a chair over from Pearl’s nearby desk and sat down in it. Quinn got a slight whiff of perfume, which he liked.

  He sat back down behind his desk.

  “I’ve only been in New York a few weeks,” she said. “Got an apartment in SoHo provided by the company.”

  “Company?”

  “Bold Designs. I’m working for them as a retail designs consultant.”

  “Wait a minute.... You’re . . .”

  She smiled. “Twenty-six,” she said.

  He studied her. Bold features. Dishwater-blond hair. Blue eyes. She didn’t actually much resemble either May, or May’s sister. He’d filled in the details with memory. And yet . . . maybe without the bangs or pigtails. “You can’t be twenty-six,” he said.

  “I wish.”

  “And a . . .”

  “Retail designer.”

  “Which is?”

  “I lay out floor plans for retail establishments, maximizing shelf space with traffic flow, providing for display and checkout experiences. I’m in New York doing a women’s boutique that will specialize in a few name brands that complement each other.”

  “Sounds interesting,” Quinn lied.

  She gave him a broad smile.

  “Really,” he said, doubling down.

  “Confession time,” she said.

  Quinn wasn’t sure exactly what she meant.

  “I didn’t just look you up because we’re family,” Carlie said. “I’m here because the police in this city seem to think I’m invisible.”

  “You should go into crime,” Quinn said.

  “You were always funny, Uncle Frank.”

  “Your aunt May didn’t think so.”

  “Guess not.” Carlie shot him a penetrating stare and suddenly looked very much like May. “Are you still with Pearl?”

  “Yes.”

  “She’s a detective, too, right?”

  “Right.”

  “You could always make me laugh, but at the same time, you intimidated me. Still do.”

  “Intimidated you?”

  “In a good way, if such a thing is possible. Maybe part of it was your size. I was just a kid, so you seemed even larger.”

  “Well, there’ll be no more of that intimidation business, and that’s an order.”

  She grinned, but what he’d said actually did seem to put her at ease in his presence.

  “You must scare the hell out of suspects,” she said.

  “ ’Course I do.”

  The street door opened and Jody walked in. She saw that Quinn was with someone and started back toward the door.

  “Wait a minute,” Quinn said.

  Jody turned, cocked her head at him quizzically, and moved toward him and Carlie.

  “This is my ex-wife’s sister’s daughter, Carlie,” he said. He turned toward Carlie. “This is Jody.”

  Carlie stood up and the two women shook hands. “I’m here to see my Uncle Frank,” Carlie said.

  “So you’re Quinn’s niece?” Jody asked.

  “We think so,” Quinn said. “She might be once removed or something. I get confused on that kind of thing. Anyway, she’s family.”

  Carlie gave Jody an inquiring look. “And you’d be . . . ?”

  “Quinn’s daughter,” Jody said.

  Uh-oh. Quinn caught a whiff of venom in the air. Still, he couldn’t help being amused and proud. He had come to regard Jody as a daughter, almost as much as his real daughter, Lauri, who was closer with May out in California.

  He decided to let the possessive daughter remark pass. Someone—probably Carlie—would straighten Jody out.

  “Carlie’s in town as a consultant,” Quinn said. “She’s in retail design.”

  “There’s a demand for that,” Jody said. Quinn would have bet she had no idea what retail design was. She looked at Carlie. “So you’re just visiting?”

  “Yes. Only for as long as it takes me to lay out and oversee the job. In the few weeks I’ve been here, I’ve somehow managed to get in trouble. I went to the police, but they don’t seem able or willing to help before something happens. That’s why I came to see Uncle Frank.”

  Quinn saw Jody wince.

  “What’s the something you’re afraid might happen?” Quinn asked.

  Carlie sat back down and looked uncomfortable. “It sounds crazy, I know, but I’m afraid I might wind up like that other woman.”

  It took Quinn a few seconds to realize whom she meant. “Bonnie Anderson?” And as he asked for confirmation, he suddenly saw himself why Carlie had looked so familiar. It wasn’t only family resemblance. She actually did resemble the dead woman.

  “When I see her photos in the papers or on TV,” Carlie said, “sometimes I think I’m looking at myself.”

  “A lot of women in New York are thinking that,” Quinn said. “This killer’s got them spooked. Odds are you have nothing to worry about.”

  “That’s more or less what the police told me. They didn’t take the fact that I’m being stalked at all serious. To them I’m just another dumb blonde with an overactive imagination.”

  “They’ve gotten past the ‘dumb blonde’ thing,” Quinn said. “Really.”

  “I thought I had, too.”

  “Fact is, in times like this, there are a lot of women contacting the police, asking for help because they’re afraid. And their fear’s not unreasonable. But there are millions of women in this city, Carlie. Hundreds of thousand of them at least somewhat resemble Bonnie Anderson, who’s been hyped by media as the killer’s so-called type.”

  “But I do resemble her.”

  “Somewhat,” Quinn admitted.

  “And I am being stalked.”

  Quinn waited, thinking he’d better listen closely.

  Carlie said, “I came here a few times but didn’t actually enter. I just stood out on the street, trying to make up my mind. I was nervous.”

  “Why?”

  She gave a helpless shrug. “I’d heard so much about you, most of it intimidating. Then something else happened. I noticed a man watching me, outside this place, from across the street. Later I saw him near my apartment. Since then, at least four times, the same man’s followed me home from work, on the subway, walking to my apartment. Sometimes I peek outside my apartment window and see him in the street. When I was eating lunch at a diner near where I work, I looked up and there he was staring through the window at me. It’s as if he wants me to know he’s stalking me.”

  Quinn and Jody exchanged a look. They knew that if this killer was stalking Carlie he would indeed want her to know about it. That was part of h
is power trip. Act One of the drama he was forcing on an unwilling victim so that eventually she’d be debilitated by fear.

  “If you were afraid, why didn’t you come in here and confide in us?” Jody asked.

  “That’s what I’m doing now. Since I’ve become convinced my imagination’s not working overtime.”

  “So he latched on to you here, where you had an obvious interest, then began stalking you?” Quinn asked.

  “I . . . well, I think so. Yes.”

  Then probably spent the last few weeks learning all he could about you. Making a predator’s study of you. “Describe him,” Quinn said, picking up a pen and moving a notepad over to where he could reach it.

  “That isn’t easy. He’s average looking. I think he has brown hair. Average height and weight.”

  “You think?”

  “Yes. He was dressed in dark slacks and a blue short-sleeved shirt once, on the subway. One morning he had on jogging sweats and running shoes. He wears a beret or a beret-like hat, sometimes a ball cap, sometimes a slouch hat. As if I won’t recognize him in a different hat.”

  “But you do recognize him?”

  “Yes. No. Only in a chameleon-like way. If he gets close enough. And he usually does. Once, on a crowded sidewalk where I didn’t feel so scared, I turned around to face him. Then a pair of women passed between us. I took my eyes off him for just a few seconds and he disappeared. I tried but couldn’t find him. Finally I continued walking home, glanced back, and there he was again. It’s . . .” She bowed her head.

  “Take it easy, dear,” Quinn said in a soothing voice.

  “Chameleon like?” Jody asked.

  “Yes,” Carlie said. “It’s an odd thing. I think if he combed his hair differently, wore different clothes, I might not be able to positively identify him. He seems able to change his . . . persona. Honestly, it’s scaring the shit out of me.”

  “That’s what the bastard wants,” Jody said. She was riled up now. For some reason glaring at Quinn as if he’d done something terrible. “Can’t this guy be picked up for harassment? I’d argue the case.”

  Carlie looked at Jody.

  “She’s an attorney,” Quinn explained. He turned his attention to Jody. “You’ve already got the animal-rights case to keep you busy.”

  “I shouldn’t need a lawyer,” Carlie said. “You’d think the cops—” She looked at Quinn. “I know, you don’t agree with me about the NYPD.”

  “I take your complaint seriously,” he said. Even though you’d never be able to pick your stalker out of a lineup. He lifted up the phone and called Fedderman. “We’ll get you some protection, then I’m going to call somebody I know.”

  “The commissioner,” Jody said. Quinn wished she hadn’t.

  “Police commissioner?” Carlie said, surprised.

  “They’re friends,” Jody said.

  “Don’t lie to her,” Quinn said. He swiveled in his chair, concentrating on his phone conversation.

  It wasn’t with Renz. Not yet, anyway.

  “Feds. Got an assignment for you.”

  While they waited for Fedderman to arrive, Quinn listened to Jody explain her law firm’s case for an animal rights organization. The courts had already found that there was a right to sue on the behalf of animals. It was done all the time to stop developments that threatened endangered species. Jody wanted to be able to sue across species, on behalf of all animals. A sort of class-action approach.

  “I dunno,” Carlie said. “Could a person murder a rat? I mean, if an exterminator killed a rat, could you sue on behalf of all rats?”

  “Of all animals!”

  “Are you actually talking about a murder conviction?”

  “Definitely. If there are mitigating circumstances, the penalty needn’t be as severe as life in prison.”

  Carlie wasn’t buying into it. “Would it be illegal to step on a roach?”

  Jody had heard that one. She smiled. “Would you represent a roach?”

  “Well, no.”

  “So it’s hypothetical and a frivolous use of the courts.”

  “I wouldn’t represent a rat, either,” Carlie said. “And what about the fact that a roach or a rat can’t declare that you’re his or her attorney?”

  Quinn thought about mentioning how difficult it would be to obtain a retainer from a roach or a rat, but decided to keep out of the discussion.

  He was relieved when Fedderman walked in.

  Quinn introduced Fedderman to Carlie and explained the situation. Not about roaches and rats, but about Carlie being stalked. Fedderman listened carefully, nodded, and assured Carlie she had no worries as long as he was around—and he’d be around.

  “First thing we’ll do,” he said, “is make sure your apartment is tight.”

  “Tight?”

  “Doors, windows, ingress, outgress.”

  “Outgress?”

  They left together, Carlie trailing her effusive thanks to Uncle Frank.

  “Pretty girl,” Quinn said.

  “She is,” Jody agreed. “Or she would be without those pigtails. She really needs to do something about that hair.”

  Said the redheaded woman with hair like berserk bedsprings, Quinn thought.

  But didn’t say.

  He picked up the phone and called Harley Renz, so he could hear the same thing the NYPD had told Carlie.

  13

  Bland County, Missouri, 1990

  The woman from the white van, which had last year been traded for a blue van, gripped six-year-old Dred “Squeaky” Gant by the upper arm and led him toward the house. She had put on considerable weight, but evenly. A big woman, no longer young but still vital. Fleshy but firm. She was what used to be called zaftig. Compared to a six-year-old boy, zaftig translated into superior strength.

  They didn’t go into the ramshackle house, but instead walked around to metal storm cellar doors set almost horizontally, but at a slight angle tilting away from where they joined the house’s foundation. They led to a concrete six-by-eight-foot room that served as a tornado shelter. Tornadoes often roared across the flatlands, chewing up crops, houses, anything in their way. The only real shelter was underground, where the powerful, searching winds couldn’t reach you—as long as they weren’t strong enough to pluck you out of wherever you were hiding.

  The double doors to the storm cellar were clad with sheet steel that was screwed into hard cedar. The doors were heavy, and once barred from inside couldn’t be lifted by the wind. Or by desperate neighbors seeking refuge from a nuclear attack, which was something the woman, Mildred Gant, sometimes dreamed about.

  Mildred, strong though she was, had to expend some effort to shove the boy to the ground, where he lay in the tall grass with his knees drawn up.

  Not much fight in you, Mildred thought. I raised you right.

  She keyed open a padlock on a heavy chain that ran between the doors’ handles, played out the chain through one handle, then hooked beefy fingers around the handle of the right-side door. She grunted loudly as she heaved it open. The doors were wide enough that there was no need to open the left-side door.

  Steep wooden steps without a hand rail led to the underground room. There was no other way in or out.

  Mildred yanked Squeaky to his feet and led him to the dark rectangle in the bright sunlight. She pushed him ahead of her down the steps.

  Some of the breeze found its way into the shelter, but it was still plenty hot and uncomfortable. The small room was dank and smelled like urine, from when Squeaky could no longer hold his water and had to relieve himself in the bucket that was hosed out every two or three days.

  There was a pull cord and a screw-in porcelain light fixture mounted on the wall between the storm cellar and the basement proper. The woman pulled on the cord and a sixty-watt light bulb winked on. It was on the basement circuit, and the only source of electricity in the shelter. It provided barely enough illumination when both shelter doors were shut.

  Every morning, befo
re the flatlands really heated up, Mildred would take the boy to the storm cellar. There was a small wicker stool there, and an old cane rocker with sturdy legs. She had taught Squeaky how to repair cane chairs, and he was almost ready, almost skillful enough to repair broken chairs that she’d buy at auction, repair, and resell at auction. She used to repair the chairs herself, but her fingers had fallen victim to arthritis to the point where she couldn’t work long with the long strands of cane. It was a job that required younger hands. Very young hands could do it well, up to a point. Squeaky would be even better at caning when he was older and stronger.

  Not that he’d ever be strong inside.

  Mildred didn’t completely ignore Squeaky’s education. She’d picked up some used textbooks at a flea market. They were marked on with pen and pencil, and a few of the pages were missing, but they were good enough. The infrequent lessons would start with basic grammar and reading comprehension. Squeaky would recite the alphabet, then read aloud a chapter of the book.

  “Ain’t no one gonna call you unschooled,” Mildred said. “Take you away from me.”

  After the sacrosanct alphabet had been successfully recited, she would barely listen as he read from the book. It was his grammar she was concerned with, not her own.

  When the grammar lesson was over, it was time for him to go to work.

  Mildred would sit on the wicker stool and watch, occasionally guiding his fingers to demonstrate. He toiled and learned to work with his hands in the stifling shelter, breathing in the stench of the bucket’s contents, and the odor of the woman’s rank body along with his own. He worked the cane strands between each other, over and under, over and under, lacing them skillfully as she’d demonstrated, finding the grain and splitting strands precisely down the middle, for finer work. Sometimes, for bends and corners, the cane had to be worked while it was wet and more pliable.

  Listening to each other’s breathing, Squeaky and the woman he knew as his mother would become lost in their task. Every fifteen minutes or so, one or the other of them would take a swig of water from the glass jug kept on a shelf. Other than that, they worked in silence, she watching the boy and correcting him when he did anything wrong, he learning patience and servitude, as well as a useful skill.