Twisted: The Collected Stories

by Jeffery Deaver

  “Wood for brains is why.”

  They poked through a few other caves, feeling hot and itchy-sweaty and sickened by the stink of a dead catfish, but didn’t find any more money.

  They looked down at the bag. Neither said a word. Ed glanced up at the sky through a notch in the Massanuttens, at the nearly full moon, glowing with brilliance and promise. Standing on either side of the bag the two men rocked on their heels like nervous boys at a junior high dance. The shoal beneath their feet was smooth and black and soft, just like a thousand other banks along the Shenandoah, banks where these two had spent so many hours fishing and drinking beer and—in their daydreams—making love with roadhouse waitresses and cheerleaders.

  Ed said, “This’s a lot of money.”

  “Yeah,” Boz said, stretching a lot of syllables out of the word. “What’re you saying, Edward?”

  “I’m—”

  “Don’t beat around the bush.”

  “I’m thinking, there’s only two people know about it, ’side from us.”

  Nate and Lester. “Keep going.”

  “So what would happen . . . I’m just thinking out loud here. What would happen if they got together—accidental, of course—in a room back at the station? If, say, Lester had his knife back.”

  “Accidental.”

  “Sure.”

  “Well, he’d gut Nate and leave him like that catfish over there.”

  “ ’Course, if that happened,” Ed continued, “we’d have to shoot Lester, right?”

  “Have to. Prisoner gets loose, has a weapon . . .”

  “Be a sad thing to have happen.”

  “But necessary,” Boz offered. Then: “That Nate, he’s dangerous.”

  “Never liked him.”

  “He’s the sort’d go postal in a year or two. Climb up to the South Bank Baptist Church tower and let loose with an AR-15.”

  “Don’t doubt it.”

  “Where’s that knife of Lester’s?”

  “Evidence locker. But it could find its way back upstairs.”

  “We sure we want to do this?”

  Ed opened the canvas bag. Looked inside. So did Boz. Stared for a time.

  “Let’s get a beer,” Boz said.

  “Okay, let’s.”

  Even though alcohol on duty was clearly prohibited by the Procedure Manual.

  An hour later they snuck in the back door of the station.

  Boz went down to the evidence room and found Lester’s knife. He padded back upstairs, made sure that Sheriff Tappin hadn’t returned yet and slipped into the main interview room. He left the knife on the table—under a folder, hidden but not too hidden—and stepped innocently back into the corridor.

  Ed brought Lester Botts up to the door, hands cuffed in front of him, which was definitely contrary to procedure, and escorted him inside.

  “I don’t see why the hell you’re holding me,” the tendony man said. His thinning hair was greasy and stuck out in all directions. His clothes were muddy and hadn’t been washed in months, it looked like.

  “Sit down, shut up,” Boz barked. “We’re holding you ’cause Nate Spoda ID’d you as the one stashing Armored Courier bags down by the river tonight.”

  “That son of a bitch!” Lester roared and started to rise.

  Boz shoved him back in his seat. “Yep, ID’d you right down to that tattoo of yours, which is the ugliest-looking woman I have ever seen, by the way. Say, that your mother?”

  “That Nate,” Lester muttered, looking at the door, “he’s meat. Oh, that boy’s gonna pay.”

  “Enough of that talk,” Ed said. Then: “We’re going downstairs for five minutes, see the Commonwealth’s Attorney. He’s gonna wanta talk to you. So you just cool your heels in here and don’t cause a ruckus.”

  They stepped outside and locked the door. Boz cocked his head and heard the shuffle of chains moving toward the table. He gave Ed a thumbs-up.

  At the end of the corridor, thick with August heat and moisture, they found Nate Spoda by the vending machines, sitting at a broken Formica table, sipping Pepsi and eating a Twinkie.

  “Come on down here, Nate, just got a few more questions.”

  “After you, sir,” Ed said, gesturing with his hand.

  Nate took another bite of Twinkie and preceded them down the hall toward the interview room. Ed whispered to Boz, “He’ll scream. But we gotta give Lester time to finish it before we go in.”

  “Okay, sure. Hey, Ed?”

  “What?”

  “You know I never shot anybody before.”

  “It ain’t anybody. It’s Lester Botts. Anyway, we’ll shoot together. At the same time. How’s that? Make you feel better?”

  “Okay.”

  “And if Nate’s still alive, shoot him too, and we’ll say it was—”

  “—accidental.”

  “Right.”

  Outside the door, Nate turned to them, washed down the Twinkie with the soda. There was Twinkie cream on his chin. Disgusting.

  “Oh, one thing—” the kid began.

  “Nate, this won’t take long. We’ll have you home in no time.” Ed unlocked the door. “Go on inside. We’ll be in, in a minute.”

  “Sure. But there’s something—”

  “Just go on in.”

  Nate hesitated uncertainly. He started to open the door.

  “Nate,” a man’s voice called.

  Boz and Ed spun around to see three men walking up the hall. They were in suits. And if they weren’t federal agents, Boz thought, I’m Elvis’s ghost. Shit.

  “Hi, Agent Bigelow,” Nate said cheerfully.

  He knows them? Ed’s heart began to race. They interviewed him while we were gone? . . . Okay, think, goddamnit. What’d he tell ’em? Whatta we do?

  But he couldn’t think.

  Wood for brains . . .

  The agent was a tall, somber man, balding, his short blond hair in a monk’s fringe just above narrow ears. He and the others flashed IDs—yep, FBI—and asked, “You’re deputy Bosworth Peller and you’re deputy Edward Rankin?”

  “Yessir,” they offered.

  Boz was thinking: Lord, failure to secure a prisoner is a suspendable offense.

  Ed, thinking pretty much the same, turned to Nate and said, “Tell you what, Nate, let’s us go back to the canteen. Get another soda?”

  “Or Twinkie. Those’re good, ain’t they?”

  “It’s cooler in here,” Nate said and pushed inside the room where Lester and his well-honed knife awaited.

  “No!” Boz shouted.

  “What’s the matter, Deputy?” one of the FBI agents asked.

  “Well, nothing,” Boz said quickly.

  Both Boz and Ed found themselves staring at the door, behind which Nate was probably being stabbed to death at this moment. They forced their attention back to the federal law officers.

  Wondering how they could salvage it. Well, sure . . . if Lester came out in a rush, all bloody, holding the knife, they could still nail him. The agents might even join in.

  Damn, it was quiet in there. Maybe Lester had slit Nate’s throat real sudden and was trying to get out through the window.

  “Let’s go inside,” Bigelow suggested, nodding toward the door. “We should talk about the case.”

  “Well, I don’t know if we want to do that.”

  “Why not?” another agent said. “Nate said it was cooler.”

  “After you,” Bigelow said and motioned to the two deputies.

  Who looked at each other and kept their hands near their service revolvers as they stepped through the door.

  Lester was sitting in a chair, legs crossed, cuffed hands in his lap. Sitting across the table from him was Nate Spoda, flipping through a battered copy of the sheriff’s department Procedure Manual. The knife was just where Boz’d left it.

  Thank you, Lord in heaven . . .

  Boz looked at Ed. Silence. Ed recovered first. “I suppose you’re wondering why this suspect’s here, Agent Bigelow. I
guess there was a mix-up, don’t you think, Boz? Wasn’t the Commonwealth’s Attorney supposed to be here?”

  “That’s what I thought. Sure. A mix-up.”

  “What suspect?” Bigelow asked.

  “Uhm, well, Lester here.”

  “You better charge me or release me pretty damn soon,” the man barked.

  Bigelow asked, “Who’s he? What’s he doing here?”

  “Well, we arrested him for the robbery tonight,” Boz said. His tone asked, Am I missing something?

  “You did?” the agent grumbled. “Why?”

  “Uhm” was all that Boz could muster. Had they jeopardized the case with sloppy forensics?

  A fourth FBI agent came into the room and handed a file to Bigelow. He read carefully, nodding. Then he looked up. “Okay. We’ve got probable cause.”

  Boz shivered with relief and turned a slick smile on Lester. “Thought you were off the hook, huh? Well—”

  Bigelow nodded his shiny head and in a flash the other agents had relieved Boz and Ed of their weapons and belts, including the overpriced, made-in-Taiwan billy club Boz was so proud of.

  “Officers, you have the right to remain silent . . .”

  The rest of the Miranda warning trickled from his somber lips and when it was through they were cuffed.

  “What’s this all about?” Boz shouted.

  Bigelow tapped the folder he’d received. “We just had an evidence response team go through the getaway car. Both your fingerprints were all over it. And we found dozens of footprints that seem to be police-issue shoes—like both of yours—leading down to the water near Mr. Spoda’s house.”

  “I backed the car out to search it,” Boz protested. “That’s all.”

  “Without gloves? Without a crime scene unit present?”

  “Well, it was an open-and-shut case . . .”

  “We also happened to find over ninety thousand dollars in the back of your personal car, Officer Rankin.”

  “We just didn’t have a chance to log it in. What with all—”

  “The excitement,” Boz said. “You know.”

  Ed said, “Check out those bags. They’ll have Lester’s prints all over them.”

  “Actually,” Bigelow said as calm as a McDonald’s clerk, “they don’t. Only the two of yours. And there’s a chrome-plated thirty-eight in your glove compartment. Tentative ballistics match the gun used in the robbery. Oh, and a ski mask too. Matches fibers found in the armored truck.”

  “Wait . . . it’s a setup. You ain’t got a case here. It’s all circumstantial!”

  “Afraid not. We have an eyewitness.”

  “Who?” Boz glanced toward the corridor.

  “Nate, are these the men you saw walking by the river near your house just after the robbery this afternoon?”

  Nate looked from Boz to Ed. “Yessir. This’s them.”

  “You liar!” Ed cried.

  “And they were in uniform?”

  “Just like now.”

  “What the hell is going on here?” Boz snapped.

  Ed choked faintly then turned a cold eye toward Nate. “You little—”

  Bigelow said, “Gentlemen, we’re transferring you to the federal lockup in Arlington. You can call attorneys from there.”

  “He’s lying,” Boz shouted. “He told us he didn’t see who was in the bushes.”

  Finally Bigelow cracked a smile. “Well, he’s hardly going to tell you that you’re the ones he saw, is he? Two bullies with guns and nightsticks standing over him? He was terrified enough telling us the truth.”

  “No, listen to me,” Ed pleaded. “You don’t understand. He’s just out to get us because we picked on him in high school.”

  The agent beside Bigelow snickered. “Pathetic.”

  “Take ’em to the van.”

  The men disappeared. Bigelow ordered the cuffs taken off Lester Botts. “You can go now.”

  The scrawny man glanced contemptuously around the room and stalked outside.

  “Can I go too?” Nate asked.

  “Sure can, sir.” Bigelow shook his hand. “Bet it’s been a long day.”

  Nate Spoda put on a CD. Hit the “play” button.

  Mostly, late at night, he listened to Debussy or Ravel—something soothing. But tonight he was playing a Sergey Prokofiev piece. It was boisterous and rousing. As was Nate’s mood.

  He listened to classical music all day long, piped out onto the front porch through $1,000 speakers. Nate often laughed to himself, recalling the time he’d overheard somebody in town mention the “satanic” music he listened to. He wasn’t sure what the particular hail-the-devil piece was but the timing of the comment suggested that what the grain salesman had overheard was Rachmaninoff.

  Sorry it ain’t Garth, fellas. . . .

  He walked through the house, shutting out lights, though he left on the picture lights illuminating the Miró and the Jackson Pollock—his mood, again. He had to get to Paris soon. A dealer friend of his had acquired two small Picassos and had promised Nate first pick. He also missed Jeanette; he hadn’t seen her in a month.

  He wandered out onto his porch.

  It was nearly midnight. He sat down in his mother’s JFK rocker and gazed upward. This time of year the sky above the Shenandoah Valley was usually too hazy to see the heavens clearly—the local joke was that Caldon should’ve been named Caldron. But tonight, where the black of the trees became the black of the heavens, a brilliant dusting of stars spread out in a hemisphere above him. He sat this way for some minutes, taking pleasure in the constellations and moon.

  He heard the footsteps long before he saw the figure moving up the path.

  “Hey,” he called.

  “Hey,” Lester Botts called back. He climbed the stairs, panting, and dropped four heavy canvas bags on the gray-painted porch. He sat, as he always did, not in one of the chairs but on the deck itself, his back against a post.

  “You left over ninety thousand?” Nate asked.

  “Sorry,” Lester said, cringing, ever deferential to his boss. “I counted wrong.”

  Nate laughed. “Probably was a good idea.” He’d thought Boz and Ed would fall for the scam if they’d seeded as little as thirty or forty thousand in the cave and getaway car. You wave double a man’s annual salary, tax free, in front of his face and nine times out of ten you’ve bought him. But a job this big, it was probably a good idea to have a little extra bait.

  Nate and Lester would still net nearly $400,000.

  “We’ve gotta sit on it for a while, even if it’s cash?” Lester asked.

  “Better be real careful with this one,” Nate said. As a rule they never operated in Virginia. Usually they traveled to New York, California or Florida for their heists. But when Nate learned from an associate in D.C. that the local Armored Courier branch was moving a cash shipment up to a new bank in Luray, he couldn’t resist. Nate knew the guards would be lightweights and had probably never handled anything but check-cashing runs on paydays at the local plants. The money was appealing, of course. But what tipped the scale was that Nate figured that in order to make the scam work they needed two unwitting participants, preferably law enforcers. He didn’t have any doubt whom to pick; adolescent grudges last as long as those of spurned lovers.

  “You have to shoot him?” Nate asked. Meaning the guard. One of his rules was no gunplay unless absolutely necessary.

  “He was a kid. Looking like he was going to go for that Glock on his hip. I was careful, only tapped a rib ’r two.”

  Nate nodded, eyes on the sky. Hoping for a shooting star. Didn’t see one.

  “You feel sorry for them?” Lester asked, after a moment.

  “Who, the guards?”

  “Naw, Ed and Boz.”

  Nate considered this for a moment. The music and the fragrant late-summer air and the rhythmic symphony of insects and frogs had turned Nate philosophical. “I’m thinking about something that Boz said. About how I didn’t see eye to eye with him and Ed. He w
as talking about the heist but what he was really talking about was my life and theirs—whether he knew it or not.”

  “Most likely didn’t.”

  “But it makes sense,” he reflected. “Sums things up pretty well. The difference between us. . . . I could’ve lived with it if those boys’d just gone their own way, in school and afterwards. But they didn’t. Nope. They made an issue out of it every chance they could. Too bad. But that was their choice.”

  “Well, good for us y’all didn’t see eye to eye,” said Lester, introspective himself. “Here’s to differences.”

  “Here’s to differences.”

  The men clinked beer cans together and drank.

  Nate leaned forward and began to divvy up the cash into two equal piles.

  TRIANGLE

  “Maybe I’ll go to Baltimore.”

  “You mean . . .” She looked over at him.

  “Next weekend. When you’re having the shower for Christie.”

  “To see . . .”

  “Doug,” he answered.

  “Really?” Mo Anderson looked carefully at her fingernails, which she was painting bright red. He didn’t like the color but he didn’t say anything about it. She continued. “A bunch of women round here—boring. You’d enjoy yourself in Maryland. It’ll be fun,” she said.

  “I think so too,” Pete Anderson said. He sat across from Mo on the front porch of their split-level house in suburban Westchester County. The month was June and the air was thick with the smell of the jasmine that Mo had planted earlier in the spring. Pete used to like that smell. Now, though, it made him sick to his stomach.

  Mo inspected her nails for streaks and pretended to be bored with the idea of him going to see Doug, who was her boss, an “important” guy who covered the whole East Coast territory. He’d invited both Mo and Pete to his country place but she’d planned a wedding shower for her niece. Doug had said to Pete, “Well, why don’t you come on down solo?” Pete had said he’d think about it.

  Oh, sure, she seemed bored with the idea of him going by himself. But she was a lousy actress; Pete could tell she was really excited at the thought and he knew why. But he just watched the lightning bugs and kept quiet. Played dumb. Unlike Mo, he could act.