Twisted: The Collected Stories - 1

by Jeffery Deaver

  For an hour he fished with a vengeance, casting spoons, then jigs. He switched to a surface popper and had a couple of jumps but the fish never took the hook. Once, just after he launched the green, froglike lure through the air, he heard the snap of a branch behind him. A painful chill shot down his back. He turned quickly and studied the forest. No one.

  Selecting a different lure, Alex glanced down at his perfectly ordered and cleaned toolbox he used for tackle. He saw his spotless, honed fishing knife. He had a fleeting memory of his father, years ago, pulling off his belt and wrapping the end around his fist, telling young Alex to pull down his jeans and bend over. "You left that screwdriver outside, boy. How many times I gotta tell you to treat your tools with respect? Oil the ones that rust, dry the ones that warp, and keep your knives sharp as razors. Now, I'm giving you five for ruining that screwdriver. Here it comes. One..."

  He'd never known what screwdriver the man had been talking about. Probably there wasn't one. But afterward, Alex the boy and now Alex the man always oiled, dried and sharpened. Yet he knew that his father's approach was so wrong. He could teach Jessie-Bessie the right way to live without resorting to losing his temper, without beatings, without screaming -- all those traumas whose aftermath lasted forever.

  He'd calmed for a while but thinking of his father made him anxious again. He recalled the conversation he'd had with his daughter earlier -- about fighting, about school-yard bullies -- and that made him anxious too. Alex knew he kept everything bottled up. He wondered if he had actually spoken back to his father, face-to-face, then maybe he wouldn't feel the tension and stress as painfully as he did now. Alex tended to take the easy way, avoiding confrontations.

  Fist fights... a new self-help concept, he laughed to himself.

  He halfheartedly cast a few more times then hooked the lure into the bail of his reel and began walking along the shore, heading east. He stepped from rock to rock carefully, looking down the whole time, mindful of the slippery rocks. Once he nearly tumbled into the cold, black water as he stared at the reflections of the fast-moving strips of clouds, gray and grayer, in the oily water near his feet.

  Because he was gazing at his footing he didn't see the man until he was only ten or twelve feet from him. Alex stopped. The driver of the pickup truck, he assumed, crouching at the shore.

  He was in his mid-forties, dressed in jeans and a workshirt. Gaunt and wiry, his face was foxlike, an impression accentuated because of a two-or three-day growth of beard. His right hand held a galvanized pipe over his head. His left gripped the tail of a walleye pike, holding the thrashing, shimmering fish against a rock. He glanced at Alex, took in his expensive, designer-label outdoor clothing, and then slammed the pipe down on the fish's head, killing it instantly. He pitched it into a bucket and picked up his rod and reel.

  "How you doing?" Alex asked.

  The man nodded.

  "Having any luck?"

  "Some." The fellow eyed the clothes again, walked to the shore and began casting.

  "Haven't caught a thing."

  The man said nothing for a minute. He cast, the lure sailing far into the lake. "What're you using?" he asked finally.

  "Poppers. On a twelve-inch leader. Fifteen-pound line."

  "Ah." As if this explained why he wasn't catching anything. He said nothing else. Alex felt his anxiety flutter like the crows' wings. Fishermen were usually among the friendliest of sportsmen, willing to share their intelligence about lures and locations. It wasn't as if they were competing for the only fish in the whole damn lake, he thought.

  What the hell's so hard about being polite? he wondered. If people behaved the way they ought to, the decent way he'd told Jessie that they behaved, the world would be different -- no hate, no anger, no scared little girls. No boys afraid of their fathers, no boys growing up into anxious men.

  "What time you got?" Alex asked.

  The man looked at the combination compass/watch hanging on his belt. "Half past noon. Thereabouts."

  Alex nodded at a nearby picnic bench. "Mind if I have my lunch here?"

  "Suit yourself."

  He sat down, opened the bag and pulled out his sandwich and apple. His hand touched something else -- a piece of drawing paper, folded in quarters. Opening it, Alex felt a rush of emotion. Jessica had drawn him a picture with the colored pencils he'd bought for her birthday last month. It was of him -- a square-jawed, clean-shaven man with thick black hair -- reeling in a shark about ten times his size. The fish had a terrified expression on its face. Beneath it she'd written:

  Fish beware... my daddy's out there!!!

  -- Jessica Bessie Mollan

  He thought fondly of his family once more and his anger dissipated. He ate the meat loaf sandwich slowly. Then opened the thermos. He was aware that the other fisherman was glancing his way. "Hey, mister, you like some coffee? My wife made it special. It's French roast."

  "Can't drink it. My gut." Not smiling, glancing away. Not even thanking him. The man gathered up his tackle and walked to a tree stump, sawn off smooth about three feet above the ground, like a table, and stained with old blood. He set down the bucket he carried and pulled a fish out. He beheaded it fast, with a long, sharp knife, and slit open the slick belly, scooping out the entrails with his fingers. He pitched the head and the guts ten feet away into a cluster of waiting crows and they began to fight noisily over the wet, sticky flesh. The man tossed the cleaned carcass back into the bloody bucket.

  Alex looked around and saw they were completely alone. The only sound was the faint lapping of lake water, the caws of the mad crows. He started to take a bite of sandwich but the sight of the birds ripping apart the slick entrails sickened him and he shoved the food away.

  It was then that he noticed a piece of paper on the ground. It had apparently been blown off a message board at the picnic area or been pulled down by the rain. He was curious and walked over, picked it up. Though the sheet was water stained he could still make out the words. The notice wasn't from Fishery and Game, as he'd thought. It was from the county sheriff.

  He felt a fast, uneasy twist within him as he read the stark words. The notice offered a reward of $50,000 for information about the killer of four individuals in and around Wolf Lake State Park over the past six months. They'd all been knifed to death, but robbery wasn't the apparent motive -- only a few valuables were missing. The deaths were thought to have been caused by the same man who'd killed two hikers in a Connecticut state park last month. No one had gotten a good look at him, though one witness described him as in his mid-forties and slim.

  Alex's skin felt hot and he looked up toward the fisherman.

  He was gone.

  But his tackle wasn't. The man had simply left everything there and vanished into the woods. Almost everything, that is. Alex noted that he'd taken his knife with him.

  The notice from the sheriff's department fell from his hand. Alex studied the forest again, a full circle. No sign. No sound.

  Alex gulped down the coffee he now had no taste for and took a deep breath. Calm down, he instructed himself harshly. Calm, calm, calm...

  "Don't go, Daddy... Please."

  He screwed the thermos back together, watching his hands shake fiercely. Was that a snap in the woods behind him? But he couldn't tell; the sound of anxiety roared in his head, Alex started along the path through rocks that led deeper into the forest.

  He got only a few yards.

  His $300 L.L. Bean boots slid off a smooth piece of granite and he tumbled into a shallow ravine. His tackle box fell open and the contents scattered onto the damp ground. Alex landed on his feet but pitched forward into a rock and rolled onto his back, cradling his leg. He cried out.

  Moaning loudly, he rocked back and forth. "Oh, it hurts... Oh, God..."

  Then, a shuffle of feet. The scrawny fisherman was looking over the rock at him. His face was flecked with blood from the energetic fish cleaning. Behind him the crows cawed madly.

  "My ankle," Alex g
asped.

  "I'll come help ya," he said slowly. "Don't you move."

  But rather than climbing down the short distance Alex had fallen, the man disappeared behind a tall outcropping of rock.

  Alex moaned again. He started to call out to the man but he stopped. He listened carefully and heard nothing. But a moment later the man's footsteps began to approach, from behind -- he'd circled around and was walking toward Alex through a narrow alley between two huge rocks.

  Still clutching his leg with his hands, he felt his heart pounding with the dreaded anxiety. Alex slid around so that he'd be facing the man when he arrived.

  The footsteps grew closer.

  "Hello?" Alex called in a gasp.

  No response.

  The sound of boots on sand became boots on rocks as the disheveled man approached. He carried a small metal box in his left hand.

  He paused, standing directly above Alex, looking him over. Then he said, "Too bad I went to get my lunch outa my truck just now." He nodded at the metal box. "I coulda told you these rocks're slipperier than eels. There's a safer way round. Now, don't you worry. I was a medic for a time. Lemme take a look at that ankle of yours." He crouched down and added, "Do apologize lookin' at you like you was from outer space, mister. Since them killings started I check out everybody comes here pretty close."

  Have you ever been in a fight, Daddy?

  "Don't you worry, now," the man muttered, focusing on Alex's leg, "you'll be right as rain in no time."

  No, sweetheart, I hate fighting... I'd much rather catch 'em by surprise...

  Alex leapt to his feet, sweeping up his own knife. He stepped behind the astonished fisherman, caught him in a neck lock. He smelled unclean hair, dirty clothes and the piquant scent of fish entrails. He jammed the staghorn knife into the man's gut. The man's voice wailed in a piercing scream.

  As he worked the blade leisurely up to the shuddering man's breastbone, Alex was pleased to find, as with his other victims, here and in Connecticut, that the anxiety that'd been boiling within him vanished immediately -- just about the moment they died. He also noted that playing the injured fisherman was still an effective way to put his victims at ease. True, he was still a bit concerned about the sheriff's department notice -- somebody must've gotten a glimpse of him around the time of the last murder. Oh, well, he joked to himself, he'd just have to find himself a new fishin' hole. Maybe it was time to try Jersey.

  He slowly eased the man to the ground, where he lay on his back, quivering. Alex glanced toward the road but the park was still deserted. He bent low and examined the man carefully, a pleasant smile on Alex's face. No, he wasn't quite dead yet though he soon would be, perhaps before the crows started to work on him.

  Perhaps not.

  Alex climbed back up to the path and had a second cup of coffee -- this one he enjoyed immensely; Sue was truly a master with the espresso maker. Then he cleaned the blood off the knife meticulously. Not only because he didn't want any evidence to connect him to the crime but simply because Alex had learned his lesson well; he always oiled, dried and sharpened.

  *

  Later that night Alex Mollan returned home to find 60 Minutes on, Jessica and Sue sitting on the couch in front of the tube, sharing a huge bowl of popcorn. He was pleased that the show was about a government contractor's malfeasance and not murder or rape or anything that might upset the little girl. He hugged them both hard.

  "Hey, Jessie-Bessie, how's the world's best daughter?"

  "Missed you, Daddy. Mommy and I baked gingerbread boys and girls today and I made a dog."

  He winked at Sue and could see in her face that she was pleased to find him in such a good mood. She was more pleased still when he told her that all the fish he'd caught were below size and he'd had to throw them back. She was a sport, but fish, to her, were entrees served by a man in a black jacket who deftly deboned them while you sipped a nice cold white wine.

  "Did you bring me something, Daddy?" Jessica asked coyly, tilting her head and letting her long blonde hair hang down over her shoulder.

  Alex thought, as he often did: She'll be a heartbreaker someday.

  "Sure did."

  "Something for our collection?"

  "Yep."

  He dug into his pocket and handed her the present.

  "What is it, Daddy? Oh, this's totally cool!" she said and his heart hummed with contentment to see her take the watch in her hand. "Look, Mommy, it's not just a watch. It's got a compass in it. And it fits on your belt. This's neat!"

  "You like it?"

  "I'll make a special box just for it," the girl said. "I'm glad you're home, Daddy."

  His daughter hugged him hard, and then Sue called to them from the dining room, saying that dinner was ready and could they please come and sit down.

  Nocturne

  Late night on the West Side of Manhattan.

  The young cop walked past Central Park, through the misty spring air, wondering where was the downpour the Channel 9 meteorologist had promised.

  Patrol Officer Anthony Vincenzo turned west. He crossed Columbus then Broadway, half listening to the static from the speaker/mike of his Motorola Handi-Talkie pinned to the shoulder of his uniform blouse, under the black rain slicker.

  He looked at his watch. Nearly eleven p.m. "Hell," he snapped and walked faster. He was in a bad mood because he'd spent most of his tour at the precinct house, typing up an arrest report and then accompanying the perp -- a young chain snatcher -- down to Bellevue because he'd OD'ed after he'd been collared. He'd probably swallowed his whole stash before Tony ran him down so the DA wouldn't add a drug count to the larceny. Now, he'd not only go down for the smack or rock but he'd had a tube suck his gut clean. Some people. Man.

  Anyway, the collar made the cop miss the best part of his beat.

  Every night for the last hour of his tour Tony Vincenzo would coincidentally on purpose find himself circling a block in the West Seventies, which just happened to be the site of the New York Concert Hall, a dark brown auditorium dating from the last century. The building was not well soundproofed. So, if he got close to a window, he could easily hear the performances. Tony considered this a perk of the job. And he felt entitled to it; he'd wanted to be a cop since he was a kid, but not just any cop -- a detective. The problem was he was only in his mid-twenties and it was hard as hell for a youngster like that to get a gold shield these days. He'd have another four or five years of boring Patrol to get through before he'd even be considered for Detective Division.

  So as long as he was forced to walk a beat, he was going to walk a beat his way. With a perk or two. Forget free doughnuts and coffee; he wanted music.

  Which he loved almost as much as he loved being a cop.

  Any kind of music. He had Squirrel Nut Zippers CDs. He had Tony Bennett LPs from the fifties and Django Reinhardt disks from the forties. He had Diana Ross on 45s and Fats Waller on 78s. He had the Beatles' White Album in every format known to man: CD, LP, eight-track, cassette, reel to reel. If they'd sold it on piano roll he'd have one of those too.

  Tony even loved classical music and had since he'd been a kid. Which, if you grew up in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn, was risky business and could get you pounded bad in the parking lot after school if you admitted it to anybody. But listen to it he did, and admit it he did. He came by this love from his parents. His mother had been a funeral parlor organist before she got pregnant with the first of Tony's three older brothers. She'd quit the job but continued to play at home for the family on their old upright piano in the living room of their attached house on Fourth. Tony's dad knew music too. He played the concertina and zither and owned probably a thousand LPs, mostly of opera and classic Italian songs.

  Tonight, as he walked up to the fire escape of the concert hall, where he liked to perch to listen to the performance, he heard the finale of a symphony, followed by enthusiastic applause and shouts. The New American Symphony Orchestra had been appearing, he saw from the poster, and they'd been
playing an all-Mozart program. Tony clicked his tongue angrily, sorry he'd missed the show. Tony liked Mozart; his father had played his Don Giovanni LP until it wore out. (The old man would pace around the living room, nodding in time to the music, muttering, "Mozart is good, Mozart is good.").

  The audience was leaving. Tony took a flyer about an upcoming concert and decided to hang around the stage door. Sometimes he got to talk to the musicians and that could be a big kick.

  He ambled up to the corner, turned right and walked right into the middle of a stickup.

  Twenty feet away, a young man in a ski mask, sweats and running shoes was holding a gun, protruding from the front pouch of his black sweatshirt, on a tall, immaculate man in a tuxedo -- one of the musicians, about fifty-five or so. The mugger was after his violin.

  "No," the man cried, "don't take it. You can't!"

  Drawing his service Glock, dropping into a crouch, Tony spoke into his mike, "Portable three eight eight four, robbery in progress at Seven Seven and Riverside. Need immediate backup. Suspect is armed."

  The perp and the victim both heard and turned toward Tony.

  The muggers eyes went wide with fear as the policeman dropped further into a two-handed firing stance. "Hands in the air!" he screamed. "Now! Do it now!"

  But the boy was panicked. He froze for a moment then swung the musician in front of him, a shield. The tall man continued to clutch the violin case desperately.

  "Please! Don't take it!"

  Hands shaking, Tony tried to sight on the muggers head. But what little skin was visible was as black as the mask and he blended with the shadows along the street. There was no clear target.

  "Don't move," the boy said, voice cracking. "I'll kill him."

  Tony stood upright, lifted his left hand, palm outward. "Okay, okay. Look, nobody's hurt," he said. "We can work this out."

  Sirens sounded in the distance.

  "Gimme it!" the boy snapped to the musician.

  "No!" The tall man turned and swung his fist at the boy's head.

  "Don't!" Tony cried. Certain he'd hear the pop of a pistol shot and see the man fall. Then Tony'd have to draw a target and pull the trigger of his own gun, making his first kill in the line of duty.