Twisted: The Collected Stories
Page 31
“I headed for the interstate, driving sixty-two, right on the button, because they don’t arrest you if you’re doing just seven miles over the limit. It’s a state police rule, I heard somewhere. I stayed in the right lane and pointed that old Dodge east-southeast. Didn’t stop for anything. Ohio, West Virginia, Virginia, North Carolina. Once we started crossing borders, I felt better. Her father was sure to come home from his trip right away and call the local cops but whether they’d get the highway patrol in, I had my doubts. I mean, he’d have some explaining to do—about how he kept his daughter a prisoner and everything.” Manko shook his head. “But you know what I did?”
From the rueful look on his face I could guess. “You underestimated the enemy.”
Manko shook his head. “Thomas Morgan,” he mused. “I think he must’ve been a godfather or something.”
“I suppose they have them in Ohio too.”
“He had friends everywhere. Virginia troopers, Carolina, everywhere! Money is power, we were saying. We were heading south on Route Twenty-one, making for Charlotte, when I ran into ’em. I went into a 7-Eleven to buy some food and beer and what happens but there’re some good ole boys right there, Smoky hats and everything, asking the clerk about a couple on the run from Ohio. I mean, us! I managed to get out without them seeing us and we peeled rubber outta there, I’ll tell you. We drove for a while but by then it was almost dawn and I figured we better lay low for the day.
“I pulled into a big forest preserve. We spent the whole day together, lying there, my arms around her, her head on my chest. We just lay in the grass beside the car and I told her stories about places we’d travel to. The Philippines, Thailand, California. And I told her what life’d be like in Florida too.”
He looked at me with a grave expression on his taut face. “I could’ve had her, Frank. You know what I’m saying? Right there. On the grass. The insects buzzing around us. You could hear this river, a waterfall, nearby.” Manko’s voice fell to a murmur. “But it wouldn’t’ve been right. I wanted everything to be perfect. I wanted us to be in our own place, in Florida, in our bedroom, married. That sounds old-fashioned, I know. You think that was stupid of me? You don’t think so, do you?”
“No, Manko, it’s not stupid at all.” Awkwardly I looked for something to add. “It was good of you.”
He looked forlorn for a minute, perhaps regretting, stupid or wise, his choosing to keep their relationship chaste.
“Then,” he said, smiling devilishly, “things got hairy. At midnight we headed south again. This car passed us then hit the brakes and did a U-ie. Came right after us. Morgan’s men. I turned off the highway and headed east over back roads. Man, what a drive! One-lane bridges, dirt roads. Zipping through small towns. Whoa, Frankie boy, I had four wheels treading air! It was fan-tastic. You should’ve seen it. There must’ve been twenty cars after us. I managed to lose ’em but I knew we couldn’t get very far, the two of us. I figured we better split up.
“I knew that part of the state pretty good. Had a couple buddies in the service from Winston-Salem. We’d go hunting and stayed in this old, abandoned lodge near China Grove. Took some doing but I finally found the place.
“I pulled up and made sure it was empty. We sat in the car and I put my arm around her. I pulled her close and told her what I decided—that she should stay here. If her father got his hands on her, it’d be all over. He’d send her away for sure. Maybe even brainwash her. Don’t laugh. Morgan’d do it. Even his own flesh and blood. She’d hide out here and I’d lead ’em off for a ways. Then . . .”
“Yes?”
“I’d wait for him.”
“For Morgan? What were you going to do?”
“Have it out with him once and for all. One-on-one, him and me. Oh, I don’t mean kill him. Just show him he wasn’t king of the universe. Allison begged me not to. She knew how dangerous he was. But I didn’t care. I knew he’d never leave us alone. He was the devil. He’d follow us forever if I didn’t stop him. She begged me to take her with me but I knew I couldn’t. She had to stay. It was so clear to me. See, Frank, that’s what love is, I think. Not being afraid to make a decision for someone else.”
Manko, the rough-hewn philosopher.
“I held her tight and told her not to worry. I told her how there wasn’t enough room in my heart for all the love I felt for her. We’d be together again soon.”
“Was it safe there, you think?”
“The cabin? Sure. Morgan’d never find it.”
“It was in China Grove?”
“Half hour away. On Badin Lake.”
I laughed. “You’re kidding me?”
“You know it?”
“Sure I do. I used to go skinny-dipping there eons ago.” I nodded that it was a good choice. “Hard to spot those cabins on the western shore.”
“It’s a damn pretty place too. You know, I was driving off and I looked back and I remember thinking how nice it’d be if that was our house and there Allison’d be in the doorway waiting for me to come home from work.”
Manko rose and walked to the window. He gazed through his reflection into the wet night.
“After I left I drove to a state road. I pulled right in front of them and made like I was heading back to her, but really leading the hounds off, you know. But they caught me . . . man, everybody. Cops, the security boys . . . and Morgan himself.
“He stormed up to me, all pissed off, red in the face. He threatened me. And then he begged me to tell him where she was hiding. But I just looked back at him. I didn’t say a word. And all his bucks, all his thugs . . . nothing. Money’s power, sure, but so is love. I didn’t even have to fight him. He looked me in the eyes and he knew that I’d won. His daughter loved me, not him. Allison was safe. We’d be together, the two of us. We’d beat Thomas Morgan—tycoon, rich son of a bitch, and father of the most beautiful woman on earth. He just turned around and walked back to his limo. End of story.”
Silence fell between us. It was nearly midnight and I’d been here for over three hours. I stretched. Manko paced slowly, his face aglow with anticipation. “You know, Frank, a lot of my life hasn’t gone the way I wanted it to. Allison’s either. But one thing we’ve got is our love. That makes everything okay.”
“A transcendent love.”
A ping sounded and I realized that Manko’d touched his cup to mine once again. We emptied them. He looked out the window into the black night. The rain had stopped and a faint moon was evident through the clouds. A distant clock started striking twelve. He smiled. “Time to go meet her, Frank.”
A solid rap struck the door, which swung open suddenly. I was startled and stood.
Manko turned calmly, the smile still on his face.
“Evening, Tim,” said a man of about sixty. He wore a rumpled brown suit. From behind him several sets of eyes peered at Manko and me.
It rankled me slightly to hear the given name. Manko’d always made it clear that he preferred his nickname and considered the use of Tim or Timothy an insult. But tonight he didn’t even notice; he smiled. There was silence for a moment as another man, wearing a pale blue uniform, stepped into the room with a tray, loaded it up with the dirty dishes.
“Enjoy it, Manko?” he asked, nodding at the tray.
“Ambrosia,” he said, lifting a wry eyebrow toward me.
The older man nodded then took a blue-backed document from his suit jacket and opened it. There was a long pause. Then in a solemn Southern baritone he read, “Timothy Albert Mankowitz, in accordance with the sentence pronounced against you pursuant to your conviction for the kidnapping and murder of Allison Kimberly Morgan, I hereby serve upon you this death warrant issued by the governor of the State of North Carolina, to be effected at midnight this day.”
The warden handed Manko the paper. He and his lawyer had already seen the faxed version from the court and tonight he merely glanced with boredom at the document. In his face I noted none of the stark befuddlement you almost always see in t
he faces of condemned prisoners as they read the last correspondence they’ll ever receive.
“We got the line open to the governor, Tim,” the warden drawled, “and he’s at his desk. I just talked to him. But I don’t think . . . I mean, he probably won’t intervene.”
“I told you all along.” Manko said softly, “I didn’t even want those appeals.”
The execution operations officer, a thin, businesslike man who looked like a feed-and-grain clerk, cuffed Manko’s wrists and removed his shoes.
The warden motioned me outside and I stepped into the corridor. Unlike the popular conception of a dismal, Gothic death row, this wing of the prison resembled an overly lit Sunday school hallway. His head leaned close. “Any luck, Father?”
I lifted my eyes from the shiny linoleum. “I think so. He told me about a cabin on Badin Lake. Western shore. You know it?”
The warden shook his head. “But we’ll have the troopers get some dogs over there. Hope it pans out,” he added, whispering, “Lord, I hope that.”
So ended my grim task on this grim evening.
Prison chaplains always walk the last hundred feet with the condemned but rarely are they enlisted as a last-ditch means to wheedle information out of the prisoners. I’d consulted my bishop and this mission didn’t seem to violate my vows. Still, it was clearly a deceit and one that would trouble me, I suspected, for a long time. Yet it would trouble me less than the thought of Allison Morgan’s body lying in an unconsecrated grave, whose location Manko adamantly refused to reveal—his ultimate way, he said, of protecting her from her father.
Allison Kimberly Morgan—stalked relentlessly for months after she dumped Manko following their second date. Kidnapped from her bed then driven through four states with the FBI and a hundred troopers in pursuit. And finally . . . finally, when it was clear that Manko’s precious plans for a life together in Florida would never happen, knifed to death while—apparently—he held her close and told her how there wasn’t enough room in his heart for all the love he felt for her.
Until tonight her parents’ only consolation was in knowing that she’d died quickly—her abundant blood in the front seat of his Dodge testified to that. Now there was at least the hope they could give her a proper burial and in doing so offer her a bit of the love that they may—or may not—have denied her in life.
Manko appeared in the hallway, wearing disposable paper slippers the condemned wear to the execution chamber. The warden looked at his watch and motioned him down the corridor. “You’ll go peaceful, won’t you, son?”
Manko laughed. He was the only one here with serenity in his eyes.
And why not?
He was about to join his own true love. They’d be together once again.
“You like my story, Frank?”
I told him I did. Then he smiled at me in a curious way, an expression that seemed to contain a hint both of forgiveness and of something I can only call the irrepressible Manko challenge. Perhaps, I reflected, it would not be this evening’s deceit that would weigh on me so heavily but rather the simple fact that I would never know whether or not Manko was on to me.
But who could tell? He was, as I’ve said, a born actor.
The warden looked at me. “Father?”
I shook my head. “I’m afraid Manko’s going to forgo absolution,” I said. “But he’d like me to read him a few psalms.”
“Allison,” Manko said earnestly, “loves poetry.”
I slipped the Bible from my suit pocket and began to read as we started down the corridor, walking side by side.
THE WIDOW OF PINE CREEK
“Sometimes help just appears from the sky.”
This was an expression of her mother’s and it didn’t mean angels or spirits or any of that New Age stuff but meant “from thin air”—when you were least expecting it.
Okay, Mama, let’s hope. ’Cause I can use some help now. Can use it bad.
Sandra May DuMont leaned back in a black-leather office chair and let the papers in her hand drop onto the old desk that dominated her late husband’s office. As she looked out the window she wondered if she was looking at that help right now.
Not exactly appearing from the sky—but walking up the cement path to the factory, in the form of a man with an easy smile and sharp eyes.
She turned away and caught sight of herself in the antique mirror she’d bought for her husband ten years ago, on their fifth anniversary. Today, she had only a brief memory of that happier day; what she concentrated on now was her image; a large woman, though not fat. Quick green eyes. She was wearing an off-white dress imprinted with blue cornflowers. Sleeveless—this was Georgia in mid May—revealing sturdy upper arms. Her long hair was dark blond and was pulled back and fixed with a matter-of-fact tortoiseshell barrette. Just a touch of makeup. No perfume. She was thirty-eight but, funny thing, she’d come to realize, her weight made her look younger.
By rights she should be feeling calm and self-assured. But she wasn’t. Her eyes went to the papers in front of her again.
No, she wasn’t feeling that way at all.
She needed help.
From the sky.
Or from anywhere.
The intercom buzzed, startling her, though she was expecting the sound. It was an old-fashioned unit, brown plastic, with a dozen buttons. It had taken her some time to figure out how it worked. She pushed a button. “Yes?”
“Mrs. DuMont, there’s a Mr. Ralston here.”
“Good. Send him in, Loretta.”
The door opened and a man stepped inside. He said. “Hi, there.”
“Hey,” Sandra May responded as she stood automatically, recalling that in the rural South women rarely stood to greet men. And thinking too: How my life has changed in the last six months.
She noticed, as she had when she’d met him last weekend, that Bill Ralston wasn’t really a handsome man. His face was angular, his black hair unruly, and though he was thin he didn’t seem to be in particularly good shape.
And that accent! Last Sunday, as they’d stood on the deck of what passed for a country club in Pine Creek, he’d grinned and said, “How’s it going? I’m Bill Ralston. I’m from New York.”
As if the nasal tone in his voice hadn’t told her already.
And “how’s it going?” Well, that was hardly the sort of greeting you heard from the locals (the “Pine Creakers,” Sandra May called them—though only to herself).
“Come on in,” she said to him now. She walked over to the couch, gestured with an upturned palm for him to sit across from her. As she walked, Sandra May kept her eyes in the mirror, focused on his, and she observed that he never once glanced at her body. That was good, she thought. He passed the first test. He sat down and examined the office and the pictures on the wall, most of them of Jim on hunting and fishing trips.
She thought again of that day just before Halloween, the state trooper’s voice on the other end of the phone, echoing with a sorrowful hollowness.
“Mrs. DuMont . . . I’m very sorry to tell you this. It’s about your husband. . . .”
No, don’t think about that now. Concentrate. You’re in bad trouble, girl, and this might be the only person in the world who can help you.
Sandra May’s first impulse was to get Ralston coffee or tea. But then she stopped herself. She was now president of the company and she had employees for that sort of thing. Old traditions die hard—more words from Sandra May’s mother, who was proof incarnate of the adage.
“Would you like something? Sweet tea?”
He laughed. “You folks sure drink a lot of iced tea down here.”
“That’s the South for you.”
“Sure. Love some.”
She called Loretta, Jim’s longtime secretary and the office manager.
The pretty woman—who must have spent two hours putting on her makeup every morning—stuck her head in the door. “Yes, Mrs. DuMont?”
“Could you bring us some iced tea, please?”
“I’ll tell you, Mr. Ralston—”
“Bill, please.”
“Bill . . . It’s second nature down here. Being polite. My mother said a person should put on their manners every morning the way they put on their clothes.”
He smiled at the homily.
And speaking of clothes . . . Sandra May didn’t know what to think of his. Bill Ralston was dressed . . . well, Northern. That was the only way to describe it. Black suit and a dark shirt. No tie. Just the opposite of Jim—who wore brown slacks, a powder-blue shirt and a tan sports coat as if the outfit were a mandatory uniform.
“That’s your husband?” he asked, looking at the pictures on the wall.
“That’s Jim, yes,” she said softly.
“Nice-looking man. Can I ask what happened?”
She hesitated for a minute and Ralston picked up on it immediately.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “I shouldn’t’ve asked. It’s—”
But she interrupted. “No, it’s all right. I don’t mind talking about it. A fishing accident last fall. At Billings Lake. He fell in, hit his head and drowned.”
“Man, that’s terrible. Were you on the trip when it happened?”
Laughing hollowly, she said, “I wish I had been, I could’ve saved him. But, no, I only went with him once or twice. Fishing’s so . . . messy. You hook the poor thing, you hit it over the head with a club, you cut it up. . . . Besides, I guess you don’t know the Southern protocol. Wives don’t fish.” She gazed up at some of the pictures. Said reflectively, “Jim was only forty-seven. I guess when you’re married to someone and you think about them dying you think it’ll happen when they’re old. My mother died when she was eighty. And my father passed away when he was eighty-one. They were together for fifty-eight years.”