Twisted

by Steve Cavanagh

  He reached the car, stared at the windshield, grabbed the envelope and immediately heard a loud roar and crunch. Before he could think, his body reacted – dropping him into a crouch. Shielding his head he spoke, without even gathering a thought. It was an automaton response.

  ‘What the hell was that?’ he said, before he even realized he’d uttered anything at all. The words were as much of a surprise as the initial sound that had startled him.

  He looked up, saw the fender of a police cruiser rolling toward him and stopping just a few feet from his head. The driver must have given the pedal a final kick as the V8 screamed once more before the engine died.

  Paul got up, using the Maserati for leverage. The driver’s door, then the passenger door of the sheriff’s car opened.

  Sheriff Dole slammed the driver’s door closed, looked over the hood of the car at the passenger. A woman in a deputy’s uniform. She had short black hair, spiked up in places, messy and yet stylish. She looked a little taller than the Sheriff, but that wouldn’t be hard. Paul, at six one, had towered over the sheriff the previous night. Both the sheriff and the deputy wore aviator sunglasses. Both broke off their gaze at each other, began taking in the surroundings.

  ‘Did we scare ya?’ said the Sheriff.

  Mumbling, ‘No,’ Paul slid the envelope into the back pocket of his jeans.

  ‘Sure looked like you were scared, way you ducked when you saw us coming,’ said Sheriff Dole.

  Regaining enough composure to form a decent response, Paul thought he’d better set things straight.

  ‘No, no, you just startled me. I ducked before I even saw your car. It was the noise. And, you know, I’m still a little freaked out about last night.’

  ‘Uh huh,’ said Dole.

  The deputy strode past him, turned and went into the house through the open front door without saying a word.

  ‘Say, ah, is everything okay?’ said Paul.

  ‘Sure is,’ said Dole as he came to stand beside Paul at the Maserati. ‘That’s Deputy Bloch. She’s just going to take a look at that window. Is your wife at home?’

  ‘Ah, no. She’s gone out.’

  ‘Thought so. Don’t see her car. Grocery shopping?’

  ‘Probably. Ahm, shouldn’t we go inside and—’

  ‘Nah,’ said Dole, ‘Bloch will be in and out in a few minutes tops. Just a formality. You don’t mind if I just get some details, do you?’

  He produced a notebook and pen from a pocket on his belt. Flipping open the book to a blank page, he began to make a new entry in blue ink.

  Paul gave his full name, date of birth. Dole wrote down each answer slowly and carefully in a flowing, neat script.

  ‘Where were you last night when your wife called?’

  ‘I’d just brought my boat into the marina,’ said Paul. He didn’t want anyone to know about his apartment. It might get back to Maria.

  Dole glanced up from his notes, his lips parting at the left corner of his mouth and displaying bright dentures. Even with the sunglasses, Paul could tell Dole was struggling to look him in the eye. The sun sat above Paul’s left shoulder, burning into Sheriff Dole’s face. He could see the bright flare of the sun reflected in those glasses.

  ‘What’d you say was the name of your boat?’ said Dole.

  ‘I’m not sure I told you before, never mind, it’s The Clarence,’ said Paul, stumbling over the words.

  ‘What time?’

  Paul took a step back, throwing his shadow over the sheriff’s face.

  ‘What do you mean? What time did I land the boat or what time did Maria call me?’

  Maybe it was the light, but Paul thought he saw Dole’s mustache twitch at the corner of his mouth. And even though Paul had asked a question, instead of giving an answer, he watched Dole write down every word that he’d said.

  ‘Both,’ said Dole. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and returned his pen to the page, ready to note down the response.

  ‘I don’t know, exactly. Just a minute or so, maybe more, before Maria called me.’

  ‘Do you have your phone with you?’

  ‘I do,’ said Paul, before he could think of anything better to say. He reached into his front pocket for the phone, hesitated, wondered if this was a wise move, then decided he had no choice and he took the phone out and waved it at Dole.

  ‘Let me get a note of the call, and your number,’ said Dole.

  Scrolling through his phone record he found the call, showed it to Dole who made a note.

  ‘And the number please?’ said Dole.

  Paul called it out from memory.

  ‘Have you taken a good look around the house? Found anything missing at all?’ said Sheriff Dole.

  ‘I did have a look around, for sure. Far as I can tell nothing has been taken.’

  The sheriff finished his note, put the book away and said, ‘Mr. Cooper, do you know of anyone who would want to harm you or your wife?’

  ‘No. You asked me that last night, I think.’

  ‘Sure did. Could be you weren’t thinking straight last night.’

  ‘My answer is still no,’ said Paul, folding his arms.

  ‘Uh huh. Well, have you noticed anything out of the ordinary lately? Cars parked on the road? Maybe a new, regular face on the beach?’

  He could almost feel the envelope in his back pocket burning a hole through his jeans. He thought for a moment before saying, ‘Can’t say as I’ve noticed.’

  The sound of a hard sole on gravel approaching from behind made Paul turn. Deputy Bloch left the house, walked past Paul without a word and took her seat in the cruiser.

  ‘Well, looks like we’re done here for now,’ said the sheriff, tipping his ball cap to Paul. The people of Port Lonely were normally averse to conversation. They said what they had to say and then they shut the hell up. So it didn’t come as a surprise when Sheriff Dole got back into his car, reversed out of the drive and made his way east, back to the town.

  The V8 engine faded away into the distance like thunder. Paul drew the envelope from his back pocket and opened it. Inside was a single page. Folded twice. In capitals? Handwritten.

  I KNOW WHO YOU ARE

  MR. LEBEAU

  Paul folded up the letter, slid it back into the envelope as he returned to the porch. He’d left his cigarettes on the small table beside the rocking chairs. He lit himself a fresh Camel with trembling fingers, then held the flame from the lighter to the envelope. Watched it burn. He dropped the smoldering envelope in the sand bucket. Waited until it had been reduced to black ash, floating on the breeze.

  He knew then there were no coincidences. No mere burglars. He had been found. There was only one thing he could do in response. He would need help. There was one other who knew his secret. She could help.

  Paul typed out an email on his phone, hit send.

  A feather of ash swept by his face, borne by the zephyrs darting off the sea. He thought of a blue Toyota Camry in flames. The car a red, screaming relief against the black night. He’d watched the gas tank blow, and the inferno die with the dawn. By that time his eyes were burning and the skin on his face felt hard and taut from the heat. He remembered the smell of smoke that lingered long after in his hair and on his hands. Most of all he recalled the noise from the trunk.

  Bang, bang, bang.

  That night he’d told himself it was the fire cracking glass and the interior plastics which made the sound. Yes, he was sure of it. Or at least he’d convinced himself of this explanation. It couldn’t have been the person in the trunk. They were already dead. They had to have been.

  His fear had died in the events after that blaze.

  Now, it flew back into his body like a phoenix.

  If he was going to survive, it was kill or be killed. There was no other way.

  Anonymity came with a heavy price.

  His phone buzzed in his pocket. He glanced at it. He’d saved the contact on his phone under the name ‘Plumber’. Just in case Maria
ever got suspicious and decided to check through his contacts list. Paul swiped the screen to answer the call.

  ‘Are you alright?’ said the voice. Even though it was a woman on the phone, the voice was deep, and each word sounded slightly cracked. As if there were smoke in her throat. And yet, somehow, the voice always sounded soothing.

  ‘No, I’m not okay, Josephine, I’ve been found.’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  ‘Mrs. Cooper is full of shit,’ said Deputy Bloch.

  Sheriff Dole had driven from the Coopers’ beach house back to town without Bloch so much as breathing. They had turned left onto Maple Avenue and were approaching the sheriff’s office on the corner when Bloch decided she was ready to talk. Shaking his head, Dole parked in the lot out back and pressed his tongue between his teeth. Bloch didn’t say much. She took her time to think things through, didn’t engage in small talk, never said hello, goodbye, or thank you, but when she opened her mouth to talk you could be damn sure she had something to say. And people listened.

  He flicked on the parking brake, turned toward her.

  ‘You figured that much out in the first thirty seconds you were inside the house. Come on, I drove all the ways out there so you could give me something. Full of shit I got. What don’t I got?’

  Bloch stared out through the windshield, avoiding Dole’s eyes. He had no doubt she could feel him staring at her. He was doing it on purpose – trying to get Bloch to speak through the pressure of sheer awkwardness. Bloch didn’t mind awkward silences. She was a walking awkward silence.

  ‘I checked the tall grass from the porch and again from the upstairs bedroom window. If there had been someone lying out in that grass, casing the Coopers’ beach house, you would still see the depressions in the earth, and the flattened grass. No footprints on the grass either. If someone had been out there I would’ve seen a trace. There was none. No one approached the house from the beach last night.’

  ‘Uh huh, and the rest?’ said Dole.

  ‘You knew about the broken window pane in the study. It was broken from the outside. Glass on the carpet. There are twelve panes of glass in that porch window. The intruder broke the pane closest to the latch. That latch is real small. You can only see the position of the latch from inside the house,’ said Bloch.

  Dole hadn’t noticed this. It was yet more proof that he’d done the right thing last year by hiring Bloch. He’d interviewed five deputies from five different counties for the job. Melissa Bloch was the least experienced, least qualified, had the poorest recommendations from her senior officers, apart from one glowing reference from New York, and didn’t get along with anyone. Least of all Sheriff Dole. In her job interview she’d given short, monotone answers, she didn’t smile, and had all the personality of a dead raccoon. At one point, Dole flicked through the pages of the résumé she’d sent over and found the reference from the lieutenant in her current posting. She was in New York, stationed at the Fourteenth Precinct and wanted out. The last line of the reference drew his attention.

  … Bloch is a very fine police officer. Smart, hard-working and dedicated, if a little on the quiet side.

  Dole nodded to himself. He’d had better conversations with two-day-old corpses. He had found himself wrapping up the interview ten minutes early just so he could get her out of his office. She made him uncomfortable. Dole guessed she made everyone uncomfortable.

  ‘Well, you’ll be hearing from us,’ Dole had said, standing and offering his hand.

  He remembered that for a few seconds Bloch had just sat there. Then she got up, took Dole’s hand in a firm grip and pulled him in close. She inclined her head, whispered, ‘The painting behind your desk is upside down.’

  She released his hand, nodded and left. Dole turned around and stared at the framed Dali print behind him on the wall. A clock, with roman numerals on the dial, melting on an invisible table in the middle of the desert while strange shapes surrounded it. That picture had been on the wall for the past five years. Birthday gift from his sister in Albuquerque. God knows how many people he’d had through his office. Some of them had even commented on the picture. She was the only one who’d noticed. And now Dole noticed the clock was indeed upside down. He’d been so taken by the striking, misshapen figures around it, he’d ignored the roman numerals. Placing a chair beneath the picture, he stood, took the thing off the wall, turned it around and hung it up again. Standing back a few feet, he gazed at the scene anew. His mustache twitched – goddamn thing looked even weirder the right way up. The picture didn’t matter though. Bloch mattered. Never a man to ignore his gut, Dole hired her. She’d spoken maybe five hundred words to him since the day she started on the job.

  Every one of those words had been important.

  Damn, I should have noticed the latch, he thought. Whoever had broken into that house had been in that room before.

  ‘What do you think about Maria Cooper’s story? What’s the lie? She disturbs the intruder, gets attacked and then the perp makes a bolt for the front door?’ asked Dole.

  He didn’t need her to answer. She stared at him. Shook her head. None of it was true.

  ‘Uh huh,’ said Dole.

  They got out of the car and went through the rear security door that led directly to the holding cells. No guests behind bars today. They passed through the cell area via another security door and into the main sheriff’s office. Sue was at the coffee machine, pouring herself a cup from the bun flask. She was short, well built, generous waist and tight perm. She managed to be both warm and formidable in a way that disarmed most people. Her pink blouse hung down close to her knees. Dole had ordered her a uniform, of course. It remained in the plastic wrapper, securely stored in her locker. She’d told him she didn’t care for it.

  ‘You catch the phantom burglar yet?’ said Sue.

  ‘An arrest is imminent,’ said Dole.

  He glanced over the row of desks until he reached Bloch’s. Along with files and mail trays, he saw a J. T. LeBeau novel lying on the desk. The local bookstore sold those things by the dozen every damn day. It seemed that no matter where he went, someone had their nose buried in a J. T. LeBeau book. He didn’t care for mysteries. Dole could always see the twist coming.

  The sheriff’s personal office was nothing more than a boxed-off glass partition. Apart from pictures of McCain and Obama on his desk there was little else of a personal nature. A laptop lay open beside the pictures, no paper lay in his tray, and the Dali print presided over all from the wall behind the desk.

  A five-hundred-dollar orthopedic chair took Dole’s weight and he hit a button on the armrest to activate the vibration massage on his lower back. He always left his office door open unless he was occupied with a guest. Dole liked to talk to his people, and made sure they were welcome to talk to him. His foot grazed a slim, battered file at his feet.

  Jane Doe’s file.

  It was ten years ago she’d been found by some hikers who’d noticed the body floating in the water below them. They had skirted the ridge, found a cell phone signal and called Dole. He recalled the drive to that scene almost perfectly. The sky had been overcast that morning, with light rain showers every hour or so, but they never lasted long. He thought of the wipers on his old sheriff’s truck squeaking all the way there. The local radio station played ‘House of the Rising Sun’ by The Animals as he hit the coast road. During the drive he’d thought of all the things he might find when he reached the scene. A body wasn’t on his list. He was thinking about all of the things that could’ve found their way in there that maybe looked like a body. Garbage bags. Logs. Old clothes. Pipes. There hadn’t been a homicide in Port Lonely in thirty years. Nor a suicide, for that matter.

  When he arrived he met the hikers, who took him to a spot where he could look down on the water.

  The rain had kicked in again, and the surface of the spillway danced with heavy rain. It soaked in Dole’s eyes, covered his glasses, and beat a heavy drum on the back of his neck as he realized the hi
kers were not mistaken.

  The naked body of a dead woman turned gently in the water.

  Dole shook off the memory. The office was so quiet it was easy to lapse into bad memories.

  The phone didn’t ring. No one in the office spoke. The only sounds came from the spoon tinkling against the rim of Sue’s coffee cup and the soft whirring from the air conditioners. Dole put his hands behind his head, leaned back and hollered for Sue to come into the office.

  She came in, closed the frosted glass door, and took a seat opposite the sheriff.

  ‘No coffee for me?’ said Dole.

  ‘Get your own damn coffee,’ said Sue through a glorious smile.

  ‘I want you to ask around, find out all you can about the Coopers. You know everyone in this town. Somebody has to be close enough to these people to give us more background. And don’t mention the break-in. Far as Mr. Cooper is concerned nothing was taken. That’s the quote you give to any newspapers that come callin’. Last thing we need is the press to be all over this. Then you’ll have five hundred home owners sleeping with AK-47s on their nightstands.’

  ‘Did you take fingerprints?’ asked Sue.

  ‘No point. We’d just get the occupants of the house. No burglar is going to leave behind prints. We’d waste time and resources and be right back where we started.’

  Eyes darting to the floor, Sue drank more coffee. A movement that spoke to Dole like she was holding something inside and pouring coffee down her throat lest it came out.

  ‘Talk to me,’ said Dole.

  He may as well have fired a starting pistol. Sue talked fast. Her diction, perfect. A chain gun of statements and questions delivered in a high-pitched, honeyed Southern drawl.