Whatever feelings Paul still held for Maria twisted inside him. This happened often. People will do extraordinary things because of hate, but they will do even greater things for love.
‘Five,’ said the man.
The love that Paul held for Maria fed his anger – building the adrenaline in his system. Whoever had hurt her would suffer. Paul would make sure of it.
‘Four.’
To do that, he had to think, he had to relax and speak, right now, or it would all be over.
‘Three.’
Paul dug his fingers into the mattress, gripping it tightly, anchoring himself in the now. The next words from his mouth better be good, and they’d better be the truth.
‘Two,’ he said, picking up the gun.
‘I didn’t hurt her,’ said Paul.
‘One.’
‘I love Maria. That’s why I left her.’
The gun stopped in the air before its aim had fallen across Paul. The man put the gun back on the table with a slow, graceful movement that Paul considered carefully. This was not a man who acted on instinct.
‘I don’t understand,’ said the fisherman.
Paul’s mouth became dry again, his throat burning and constricting, and yet somehow he spoke – his voice broken and cracked. The first thing that came into his mind was the truth. He had to say something convincing or he could spend the rest of his life in a jail cell.
‘I have a secret. Somehow … someone has discovered my secret. I thought they might hurt me, or someone close to me.’
He managed to swallow, bring some moisture back to his mouth. Enough to say, ‘That’s why I left.’
For a time, Paul listened to his breath whistling in his throat, his lungs, and kept his eyes firmly on the man across the room in the lamplight. Paul watched him stroke his chin, then lean forward and put both hands on his knees.
Finally, the man nodded and said, ‘I don’t like secrets, Paul. Not if you’re gonna stay here. If what you’re saying is true, then there’s somebody out there who’s trying to kill you. They probably put a hole in your boat, and they damn near killed your wife. Far as I can tell, the cops aren’t looking for anyone else but you. You’re the prime suspect. If you didn’t hurt your wife, and from what you’ve told me I don’t think you did, then you’ll need help. Trust works both ways, Paul. Here’s your last chance. Tell me what this secret is, and why it matters so much, and don’t lie. If you lie I’ll toss your ass in the street and call the cops myself.’
One last push. One final sentence. The look in the man’s eyes was a laser beam. Paul couldn’t lie. He had never been more vulnerable – tied to a bed in an armed stranger’s house. A stranger with a look that could cut through bedrock.
It took all of his strength, and he almost vomited as soon as he did it, but Paul managed to sit up a little in the bed, at least getting his shoulders up off the mattress, and hold the man’s gaze as he spoke.
‘I have money – a lot of money – I have twenty million dollars in an account in the Cayman Islands. Someone found out about the money. They want it,’ he said.
When the fisherman picked up the gun again, Paul knew he’d just made a huge mistake.
‘You a drug dealer, Paul?’
‘No, no, no. Definitely not. It’s not what it looks like.’
‘It looks illegal, is what it looks like. No straight person I know has got twenty million dollars in an offshore account. Now you want to tell me the truth, or do I gotta call the cops? Because right now I’m thinking I need to give ’em a call.’
There was no choice. Technically, there were two ways to go with this but really one wasn’t an option at all. Paul had only one thing he could say which could rescue him from this situation. The ropes pulled at his wrists and his shoulders were barking with the strain, but despite all of that, Paul spoke those words – the words that he had never spoken before.
‘I’m J. T. LeBeau.’
No sooner had the name died on his lips than he vowed never to speak those words again.
‘The writer?’
‘Yeah, the writer. I had my latest novel on a pen drive when I went overboard. I’ve got a lot of money, and someone has figured out who I really am and they’re coming after me. That’s what this is all about.’
The fisherman bent over, pulled up the leg of his jeans and came back up with a knife in his hand. The blade caught the lamplight, flickered like flame. The edge was slightly curved and sharp as the devil.
He started walking toward Paul, silently. A death march. He was a big man. Tall and thick with muscle. Paul couldn’t read the man’s eyes. He could smell the sea and the faint odor of fish as he came closer. Paul felt strangely calm. He’d done all he could. He could say nothing more. The only thing he could wish for now would be to bleed out fast with as little pain as possible. A last tear filled the corner of his eye. Trembling, he shut both eyes, felt the tear bleed on his cheek and waited for the cold touch of the knife.
Instead he felt the rope around his wrists tightening, then freeing.
Paul looked up at his captor who had severed the rope around his wrist. He then cut the rest of Paul’s bonds.
‘My apologies, but with the news and all … I just had to be sure. I’m sorry, Paul, or should I call you Mr. LeBeau? Probably not. I’ve read your books, like most folks. If I can help you I will. There’s a sink over there for you to wash up and fresh clothes in the trunk. Get some sleep. In the morning I’ll come get you. Relax, you’re safe here. And you’re very welcome to my house.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The drive home from Maria’s house gave Daryl the chills. He had a bag in his trunk filled with bloody coveralls, bloody gloves and Maria’s body wasn’t even cold yet. It was unlikely anyone would find the body until the next morning when the mailman would approach the house having found the broken mailbox. Then he would notice the open front door, the blood Daryl had smeared upon it. Enough to entice him inside and find Maria’s body wrapped in plastic.
Relax. He had time, he told himself.
The main thing was to drive home safe that night, and make sure he didn’t get pulled over. His leg bounced nervously on the gas pedal at every stop light, his fingers trembled if he didn’t grip the steering wheel tightly. Passing the sheriff’s office, he could feel a tightening of the muscles in his neck, but he didn’t glance at the building. Not once. At last, he got through the town and took the old coast road that swept down to the ocean on the other side of Port Lonely. Twenty minutes later he arrived at the water’s edge. His boat stood at the private jetty, and his house was quiet and dark. Daryl parked and took his backpack with him as he left the car. He had a burn barrel out back. The backpack went into the barrel, followed by lighter fluid and a box of matches. Daryl watched the flames take hold then left the barrel to do the rest of the work.
The deadbolt on the front door slid open, then the cylinder lock. Daryl flicked on a lamp in the hallway, and stood silently, listening. Every sense he possessed seemed heightened – the adrenaline surge that spiked when he delivered the second hammer blow to Maria’s head was really messing with his thinking process.
Daryl took another key from his pocket and unlocked the basement door. He took the stairs at a steady, safe pace. The lamp in the corner of the basement just throwing enough light on the steps for him to see. When his boots hit the basement floor, he paused.
Floorboards creaked as Daryl made his way to the foot of the bed. There lay the sleeping figure of Paul Cooper. Daryl had not yet tightened Paul’s bonds. He would do it in time, when Paul had slept some more.
‘Hey, you okay?’ said Daryl.
Paul stirred, turned and half opened his eyes.
‘Where am I?’ said Paul, his voice thick with sleep.
‘You’re safe,’ said Daryl.
Paul tried to focus on Daryl and before he fell asleep again, he said, ‘You saved me. You’re the fisherman. Thank you.’
‘Don’t mention it. I’m just glad
I caught you,’ said Daryl.
As Paul slid into another dream, Daryl filled a fresh syringe with a shot of his special mix and injected it carefully into the fleshy part of Paul’s side. So good with the syringe, Paul didn’t even raise an eyelid as Daryl slid the needle into his vein. The tranquillizer and morphine mix, a special blend Daryl had concocted.
‘Sleep,’ said Daryl. ‘Your troubles are only just beginning.’
Paul wouldn’t remember the conversation after that shot.
For a couple of days Daryl kept Paul sedated. Daryl ate noodles, cleaned his gun and watched the news.
He gave Paul sips of water. And plenty of injections.
The latest report from the local news anchor gave him some hope. Maria Cooper was in a stable, yet critical condition having suffered brain damage. He knew if his luck held, she wouldn’t remember a thing. He cursed himself, too. She should not have survived. The press liaison officer for the hospital revealed on the news that Maria had undergone emergency brain surgery to remove a massive sub-arachnoid hemorrhage.
The cops filled in the missing blanks in a press conference. Sheriff Abraham Dole of the Port Lonely Sheriff’s Department confirmed that she’d suffered some memory loss and appealed for witnesses to come forward. The Sheriff’s Department were also keen to speak to any witnesses who could confirm the movements of Paul Cooper. The State Coast Guard had received a distress signal from Paul Cooper on Sunday evening, the night before Maria Cooper was found on the beach. His boat had sunk, and his life vest had been found several miles away from the shipwreck. Specialist divers were still examining the wreckage.
Paul Cooper was missing at sea. The Sheriff’s Department has refused to rule him out as a suspect.
Daryl shut off the TV, finished a glass of milk and set it down on the coffee table. He’d been careful with Paul’s boat. The hole he’d made in the hull while diving in the marina was ragged enough to appear accidental. The battery he’d hooked up to the bilge alarm, and the bilge pump itself, had simply shorted the circuits. The marine investigation team would have to use a screwdriver to get a look at the internal circuitry anyway, thus removing any tool marks he’d left on the screws. No, there would be no way to trace the sinking of Paul’s boat back to him.
Only Maria could give him trouble. His one loose end. One that he could tie up if she left hospital before he was through. He thought about the look on her face before the hammer fell for the second time. She was terrified. He held that image before him. Savoring it.
It almost made up for the feeling of disgust that hit him when he’d called her honey. That left a foul taste in his mouth, like bile. He shook his head, ran his tongue around his mouth, tasting the residue of noodle broth. Anything to take away that taste.
Maria’s survival was a significant setback, but one that he now believed he could deal with. Thankfully, she hadn’t remembered anything. If she had told the cops the truth, they wouldn’t classify Paul as a suspect. No, then the alert would be in full swing for Daryl.
So far, his luck held. It would need to hold for longer. It would require some adjustments, and he would have to accelerate his timeframe, but Daryl knew he could continue with his plans.
He checked his watch. It was coming up on four-fifteen on Tuesday afternoon. He took his empty glass and washed it in the basin then left it to dry. He opened another pack of noodles, placed them in a pot of water and turned on the gas hob. A towel sat on top of the kitchen counter. Spread out on the towel was an array of weapons. A pair of hunting knifes. One with a blade a foot long. Sharp and curved on one side, serrated on the other. Its twin was identical but much smaller. Daryl placed the smaller blade in the ankle scabbard and clipped it around his right ankle. The larger knife he placed in the scabbard and then put it in the lock box at his feet.
That left the handgun. He picked up the Colt, loaded it, chambered a round and engaged the safety before slipping into the waistband of his jeans. The other knife he stowed in the box, which he locked with a key from his key chain. He removed the kickboard from beneath the kitchen counter, slid the box into the space and then replaced the board.
His laptop lay on the table.
He opened it, hit the on switch then turned away and brewed coffee. While the liquid bubbled into the bun flask, Daryl sat down at the kitchen table and opened a blank Word document.
It had been a while since he’d sat down to type.
At first, his fingers failed to find the right keys. He was a little clumsy, and the inaccuracy of his fingers fed into his words on screen. There was no flow in the language, which felt stilted and halting.
He looked at the screen.
He’d typed a couple of paragraphs. Good enough for now.
He poured his first cup of coffee from the fresh batch, and thought about Maria.
She had been struck from behind. He could blame Paul if her memory improved. Feed her a lie that Paul attacked her, then him, and it was all he could do to escape with his life. Whatever happened, he would deal with it.
He slept fitfully that night, knowing he would speak to Paul in the morning. He’d reduced the shot, knowing it would have worn off by daybreak. On the Wednesday morning, he dressed in his old fishing sweater and brought the .45 and the laptop into the basement, woke Paul and did his fisherman routine. He had enjoyed listening to Paul squirm and panic. Even though Paul had been economical with the truth, Daryl had at least managed to get him talking about the money. That was all he needed.
Twenty million dollars was a hell of a prize, and Daryl knew he had to work for it. He’d made a plan, and so far with a few exceptions it was proving its worth. The only thing he hadn’t expected was how much he was enjoying it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Sheriff Dole stood in the emptiness that invaded every scene of extreme violence. The house wasn’t just empty of its inhabitants, it was as if life itself had left the place. The silence spread everywhere, like an infection. Inevitably, the houseplants would die, the blood stains would wash away but the hole in the fabric of the house would remain.
The Sheriff’s Department had been over the house a bunch of times. He’d arranged for techs from Lomax City to take away Paul Cooper’s laptop and bring it back once they’d overridden the password and opened the damn thing up. He didn’t expect to find much, but it couldn’t hurt to try. Deputy Bloch had spent half a day at the scene, and had filled a notebook with observations, thoughts, theories and notations describing in detail anything that she considered curious.
True to her nature, Bloch was reluctant to discuss her thoughts. There was so much evidence at the Cooper house and yet so much of it raised more questions than it answered. Dole insisted that they visit the house together, and talk. With some agitation, Bloch had agreed but added the caveat that their conversation should not be documented, lest their theories become fodder for a defense attorney way down the line. Dole accepted this.
Now, at ten-thirty on a bright Wednesday morning, Dole stood in the living room of the Cooper house and stared at the outline of a large body, marked out in yellow tape on the floor in the shape of the local mailman. Poor Bill. By the time the ambulance had arrived, Bill’s heart had stopped. The paramedics had worked on him for forty-five minutes, but the clot-buster injection, and the paddles and CPR had all failed to revive Bill Buchanan.
Poor man, thought Dole. An unintended victim. However, Dole knew that in every violent crime there were always more victims. Friends, family, lovers, passers-by. The more violent the incident, the more potent the strain of trauma that infected others. It got into their system through their eyes, or their senses, or in the more fatal cases it targeted the heart and soul. Dole had seen it before in other towns, other cities. A child dies, or is taken, and the parents pass not long after. It won’t say so on the death certificate, but Dole knew there was such a thing as death from a broken heart.
He knew because he was a survivor. He’d never married. There were women who’d come and gone when
he was a young man in the deep South, before he moved to New York. That’s where he had met one who had been very special indeed. Her name was Eden, and she was twenty-five years old when she died of a rare form of cancer. Dole had fallen in love with her first time he saw her, dancing in a bar with her friends on a Saturday night in downtown Manhattan. They had one amazing year together, and then she got sick. The months of chemo, and treatment and pain were the toughest of his life. He knew he would lose her and she refused to marry him. Refused to make him a widower at twenty-six. Not long after she passed he spent a night with a bottle of whiskey, and lost count of the amount of times he’d put his gun in his mouth. He never pulled the trigger.
In Port Lonely, he found himself gazing out to sea from time to time, searching the horizon for ships, ready to walk into the water and disappear. The job held him back. Jane Doe especially. He couldn’t leave that case alone. He needed to find her killer, and he needed to give her a name. Until then he would keep on surviving.
So far, Maria Cooper was surviving too but she was in an induced coma, and her chances were fifty-fifty.
Footsteps outside. Dole opened the front door of the Cooper house and greeted Bloch. Forensic investigators had already visited the property. No need for the hazmat suits. Bloch put on a pair of black latex gloves, same as Dole wore, and then she nodded.
Ready.
They took some time to examine the bloodstains on the door. A smear of dried blood, three inches above the lock. Same blood type as Maria – they were awaiting DNA confirmation that it was indeed her blood. For now, both Dole and Bloch worked on the assumption it was hers.
‘Killer leaves by the front door. Blood transference from hands or gloves?’ said Dole, standing inside the house, with the door slightly open and reaching a hand up to the area of the stain. Easy to see how someone could grab part of the door, swing it open if they were making a quick exit.
Bloch nodded.
Nothing more of interest outside for now, they went indoors.
Twisted Page 14
