Twisted

by Steve Cavanagh

  ‘Could be. We knew that burglary call was a dud. Only thing damaged was that drawer. I’d say that’s where she found his records, the LeBeau account statement. She used Daryl to cover for her and help her create a story that explained the drawer. Gives her time to think before she confronts him about it.

  ‘Look, we’ve got time to read those damn books, look into LeBeau some more and get ourselves ready. Paul is going to show at the memorial. I’d bet my life on it.’

  Bloch nodded, but that sour look on her face remained.

  ‘We have a case against Paul. We don’t have any kind of case against Daryl. Adultery is not a crime. So what’s eating you?’ said Dole.

  She looked at him, and he already knew what she was going to say.

  ‘The mailbox. That’s what’s bugging me and I can’t reckon it with our case. It just doesn’t fit.’

  CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

  THE BEGINNING OF THE END

  August

  Paul Cooper waited outside a theater on La Brea Avenue in the hot midday sun with a gun in his pocket and a head full of bad ideas. He took off his sunglasses, wiped the sweat from his forehead onto the sleeve of his tee and went over the plan one more time.

  He would wait for the guests inside the theater to leave. Paul had managed to secure a spot close to the barrier, on a fenced-off walkway leading from the theater to the curb. The mourners would have to walk right by him as they made their way to the street and their waiting limos. When Daryl walked past, he would draw that .38 from his pants pocket and pull the trigger in his face. He had no choice. He had to save Maria.

  The lot outside the theater was full. A crowd of two or three hundred people lined either side of the barriers. They were paying their respects to their dead idol. The theater wasn’t showing a play that day. No, the space had been booked for a memorial service dedicated to the late J. T. LeBeau.

  Paul felt sick. Either it was the mass hysteria around him, grown women crying for a dead author, or the heat. Or both. Or the bellyful of vodka. He’d needed a few stiff drinks to stop his hands shaking.

  Every time he caught the name LeBeau in the air around him, that knife in his stomach twisted just a little bit more.

  Four people in the world knew the true identity of J. T. LeBeau. Two were already dead. Bob Crenshaw burned to death locked in the trunk of a blazing car. One was beaten to death – a young woman named Linzi. Two remained. And one of them was about to eat a bullet fired from the .38 Special in Paul Cooper’s pocket.

  The glass doors that lined the entrance to the theater opened and a crowd poured out into the punishing Los Angeles heat. Of course, they’d dressed for it. Pale linen suits hung off the bony shoulders of the men pushing their way to their cars. Most preferred white or cream suits with black ties sufficing as a token of respect. A mournful black suit would be murderous in this heatwave. The women were more formally attired, sacrificing comfort to please etiquette. Somber silk dresses clung to their legs as they adjusted their hats and put on their shades.

  Sweat dribbled down his cheek and into his beard. He scooped the bottom of his shirt into his hands and wiped his face, momentarily exposing a pale belly. When he let the shirt fall it stuck to his midriff. The gun felt heavy in his pocket. It also weighed on his mind. He checked the crowd again, putting a foot on the barrier and standing up, craning his neck above the heads of those around him. No sign of the target in the masses. He started to doubt his plan. Maybe Daryl wouldn’t show after all.

  And then, without warning, there was no more time for thinking.

  Daryl was on the red carpet. Five feet away from him. Walking past, head bowed.

  Paul had visualized this moment many times. Would Daryl gaze, terrified, at the muzzle of the gun? Would he cry out? Would security have time to react?

  There were four armed guards surrounding Daryl. Moving in tandem, slowly and deliberately. And while Daryl kept his head down, the security surrounding him watched the crowd on either side of the barrier carefully. He hadn’t planned for this, but it didn’t matter.

  The hard part for Paul would be pulling the trigger. He wondered if he could do it. Gripping the barrier with one hand, his other delved into his pocket and locked around the gun. He told himself he could do this. A ripple went through his guts, sending hot acid into his throat. He swallowed it back down then blew sweat off of his lips. His heart jacked up the drumbeat in his ears.

  Do it, he thought. Do it now!

  Paul began to pull the gun. He stopped when he felt the hand on his shoulder. Someone standing behind him. He froze.

  The person behind him leaned forward, and Paul felt their hot breath on his neck as they whispered to him.

  Even with the people tightly packed around him, and the blood roaring through his system, he heard those words as clear as a trumpet blast. And it was a blast. A simple statement. Spoken plainly. Paul felt like those words stripped the flesh clean off his back.

  ‘I know who you are,’ said the voice in his ear. ‘You’re J. T. LeBeau.’

  It wasn’t just words.

  Paul recognized the voice.

  He felt the hand on his shoulder applying pressure, turning him around.

  Sheriff Dole had lost weight. Slimmer, harder. Still had that stupid mustache. It hadn’t seemed to lose any weight. In fact, it looked thicker than before. No sheriff’s uniform. Plain clothes. To blend in with the crowd. His small black eyes focused on Paul as he shook his head.

  ‘It’s over, son. You have to come with me now,’ said Dole.

  Paul swallowed down a bitter taste. He still had a hand on the gun. If he drew it, Dole would shoot him dead. Not that he had any intention of shooting Dole. He thought if he could draw the gun and fire it over the heads of the crowd he could get away, disappear in the mass of people. That was his plan from the start. Fire, make sure to hit Daryl. Head shot. Then duck and run like everyone else. The crowd was too thick. Too tightly packed for anyone to make a good ID.

  ‘Whatever you’re thinking about doing, don’t. Just show me your hands,’ said Dole. Paul hadn’t noticed at first, but he saw now that Dole had drawn a weapon, which he held down by his side.

  A fat bead of sweat started a run from his hairline, down over his forehead, curled around his cheek and settled on the end of his chin. He didn’t move. The gun heavy and hot in his pocket, his hand wrapped tightly around the hand stock.

  ‘Don’t make me put a bullet in you, son,’ said Dole.

  Paul let go of the gun. Slowly, he began to raise his hands. As he did so, the sheriff’s words replayed in his mind. The sheriff didn’t threaten to shoot him. Didn’t threaten to kill him either. When he’d spoken, it was a plea for himself. Dole didn’t want to take a life. He didn’t want to have that on his conscience. A strange thing to say, given the situation. It rung true for Paul.

  As much as his life was now forfeited, he didn’t have anything to live for bar revenge. The pure satisfaction of knowing that he would’ve gone on breathing for longer than Daryl. There was satisfaction in that thought. It caught his imagination, made him feel powerful. Helped him to regain some of the confidence that had been stripped away, layer by layer, day after day, through living in fear.

  In some ways a bullet would not be a bad way to check out. If it had been another cop, barking threats, gun pointed at his head, Paul might have pulled the revolver and fired at his target.

  Dole was different. He had reminded Paul that every action he took made an impact. His death would destroy that part of Dole which he had managed to hold onto as a long-serving law enforcement officer. He’d actually asked for that not to happen.

  Paul respected that. As much as he hated Daryl, he would not take another life other than his. Nor would he ruin a life by taking his revenge. It was too high a price.

  ‘There’s a gun in my right pocket. I’m gonna leave it there, and take my hands out slow and put them on top of my head,’ said Paul.

  He did so, and Dole watched him careful
ly, ready to raise that gun and fire if Paul made the wrong move. Keeping his fingers splayed open, he slowly raised them and then placed them on his head.

  ‘Turn around, now, Paul,’ said Dole.

  Paul turned to face the red carpet. He was aware that at least one woman on his left, and two women on his right had realized he was being arrested. No one had heard the exchange between him and Dole over the noise from the crowd. A space began to form around Paul, making him stand out. He looked to his right at the steady stream of people leaving the theater. He looked left and saw Daryl staring at him.

  Dole took hold of Paul’s left wrist. He pulled it off his head and down around behind his back.

  A dark suit, blue shirt and dark navy tie covered Daryl. Not in mourning, then. There was no anger in his eyes, and his expression seemed, if anything, to be one of pity. Paul knew that Daryl, the actual J. T. LeBeau, would not miss this service. The chance to attend and be anonymous in a sea of celebrities and fans celebrating his work.

  His bloody work.

  Paul felt the cold metal from the cuffs snaking around his left wrist. His right hand was still free. He could reach into his pocket, grab the gun and fire before Dole could stop him. But then Dole would likely put a bullet into the back of Paul’s head.

  The cuffs began to click as Dole squeezed them closed around his left wrist.

  Daryl said, ‘Look who it is. The great writer himself.’

  There was a keen anger in Daryl’s eyes. Paul felt Dole touch his right wrist and he knew Dole no longer had the gun drawn – one hand holding Paul’s left wrist tight against his back, the other reaching for his right wrist. Perhaps this realization freed his body to react. Perhaps not. He could not know, would never know whether he acted consciously or unconsciously in those next moments. He certainly didn’t think about his actions.

  They just happened.

  He felt Daryl’s eyes touch a cold place in his chest. A place where he had lived for so many years. A fearful place.

  Paul whipped his hand down, avoiding Dole’s grasp. He couldn’t help it. Fear had claimed him. His body reacted as if he was standing in front of a predator. All thought abandoned. The brain disconnected from the body. Only survival mattered. An instinctual, primal mode had kicked in and taken control of Paul’s body. His reactions were not his own. They were automatic. He did not decide to make the move – and yet the move was made. The body took charge to rid itself of this danger. It could not trust Paul’s mind to make the decision.

  His fingers reached the lip of his pants pocket.

  Dole realizing what was happening, grabbed hold of Paul’s lower arm and with his other hand, he twisted the cuffs. The pain felt sharp and welcome. It did not deter Paul. It could not, and Dole didn’t have the leverage to stop him drawing the weapon and firing.

  Paul’s hand gripped the gun, his index finger finding the trigger. It was a snub-nosed revolver, with no hammer so that it wouldn’t get caught in his pocket when he drew it.

  Paul began to pull the gun. From somewhere far away, he thought he heard Sheriff Dole’s voice. It appeared faint, as if Paul was at the bottom of a deep well. Unable to hear, or think, or feel, just act.

  The gun came free of his pocket. He began to raise it.

  Daryl didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. There was no one between Paul and Daryl. No security now. A clear line of sight. A clean shot.

  Paul saw some movement behind Daryl.

  And Paul’s front brain switched on the brakes. His conscious thought took control. It was as if the sight before him operated like a switch, instantly flicking on his brain. And he dropped the gun.

  Maria stepped out from behind Daryl. He turned toward her and held out the crook of his arm. Paul watched Maria’s delicate fingers wrap around the sleeve of Daryl’s jacket as she moved closer to him.

  She caught Paul’s eyes. Clutched Daryl tighter. Huddled into his side. She wore a black dress and she’d changed her hair. It was a short bob, ink-black. It shone as it caught the dying sun. She looked pale, and scarlet lipstick emphasized her new ivory skin. It was Maria, but not Paul’s Maria.

  There was no emotion in that face. It looked more like a mask to Paul.

  Dole had lost patience with him – he had been shouting in Paul’s ear, but Paul had been unable to hear him. Both of his hands were now locked in the cuffs and he felt pressure on his back, forcing him down onto the ground. A woman in the crowd must have seen the gun as she was the first to scream. Within seconds, the crowd were billowing away from the security fence in a mad scramble to get out of the theater lot. Panic had taken hold. People would be hurt in the stampede. Paul knew this, accepted it. After all, it had been part of his original plan.

  His chest hit the concrete, then his cheek. He felt Dole’s knee in his back, forcing the air out of him. Heard the scraping sound of gunmetal on concrete as Dole picked up the weapon.

  Paul had a vague idea that Dole was reading him his rights. He didn’t listen. Every sense he possessed set its sights on Maria.

  Paul screamed. His voice was raw and guttural, but he had to shout over the crowd, he needed Maria to hear him. And he shouted the only thing he could think of that would have a chance at saving her.

  ‘Maria! Your mom called,’ he cried.

  Daryl held Maria close, kissed her and turned, and both of them walked away. Paul couldn’t tell if she’d heard him or not. He had barely heard himself over the crowd, but it didn’t stop him screaming it out.

  Paul realized he couldn’t even hear the sheriff’s voice because he was screaming. His throat felt like a hot skillet, the force of his voice erupting from him – shouting, shouting, crying out.

  CHAPTER SIXTY

  She heard the commotion and knew it had to be Paul. Daryl had stopped, turned to look at the crowd as they left the theater together. Maria took a moment before she brought her gaze to the source of the disturbance. She didn’t know how she would react to seeing Paul for the first time in months. Her heart beat faster. Her neck flushed red. A flutter began in her lower jaw. Breath quickening.

  Fear.

  There was nothing to physically fear from Paul. She was surrounded by armed security. Her apprehension came from self-preservation. Would she feel something when she saw him? This was what frightened her. That the mere sight of Paul would touch some part of her old self. Awaken it.

  Maria had survived an attempt on her life. She hated Paul for that. And she hated herself for living with a man who would do that to her.

  In truth, the Maria who had been attacked in her own kitchen did not survive. That Maria had died on the cold tiles.

  This Maria was a very different person.

  It started with the physical training and physiotherapy. The hospital found a physiotherapist more in tune with Maria’s personality. The work had been tough. She had a weakness on the left side of her body. It took a week before she could use a fork properly. The gross motor skills took longer. Walking had been like learning to ride a bike. What had been automatic before had taken thought, massive physical effort and mental processes. She had to deliberately move her left leg: actually think about it before it would obey. There was a corridor outside the gym. One side of a square surrounding a small peaceful garden. Each corridor was ninety feet long. Pale tiled floor. A wall painted leaf green on one side and a long window on the other with a view of the garden. Step by step, using a rollator, covered in sweat, Maria managed twenty feet the first day. Thirty feet the day after. On the third day she had a fall at ten feet. That was not a good day, but she didn’t cry. She came out fighting. By the end of the week she’d managed two thirds of the corridor. After two weeks she could manage the entire length of the corridor and half of the next one.

  A month after she’d been admitted, Maria could walk around that square unassisted. The weight training helped, and the co-ordination came back. New neural pathways were built, and she had learned to compensate for any difficulties. Not a hundred percent. But not far off.
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br />   The psychotherapy lasted one session. Too raw. Too early to process. The therapist talked to her about brain injury – and the effects on the mind. She said it was like a fire that momentarily blazed across the surface of a sponge. The flames would damage the sponge, create holes where it had found air pockets, and in other parts it would melt things together. He told her she might experience gaps in memory, and because of the trauma, her mind might try to fill those gaps in memory. False memories, he called it. Transference. Maria felt a searing pain in her head every time the counselor spoke, so she told him to shut the hell up.

  He told her she wasn’t ready for counseling. Not just yet.

  Apart from the physical therapy, Maria wasn’t interested. The head doctors made her teeth hurt. She ignored the neuropsychologist. His name was Brian. She mostly liked Brian. He was tall and had an athletic aspect. Thin, muscular, and long-limbed. He always wore a yellow necktie so bright and garish that it made her eyes pop. That part she didn’t like so much. He showed Maria her brain on his computer. The scans were frightening. She couldn’t look. Brian explained that he and his colleagues had to do some tests. Most of them Maria thought were stupid or had stupid names. There was a Wisconsin Card Test, or something like that, where he showed her cards and asked her to match them. It wasn’t like playing Snap, which she remembered playing with her mother. These cards didn’t quite match each other, and some not at all. She had to look at flashing lights while they measured her eye reactions. There were more scans, and the next week she did more tests. One of them was about gambling. Maria liked that one.

  On the third time she saw Brian she was bored. And he wore that tie again. Maria only heard snatches of what he said.

  ‘Frontal lobe injury … changes in behavior … memory impairment … disinhibition … risk taking … impulsivity … attention fatigue …’

  The hospital let Maria go home but she didn’t want to return to the house. Instead she got a hotel room in Bay City. Paid in advance for the week. She wasn’t just ready to cook and clean for herself – not yet. And in fact, she didn’t want to. The sheriff had been good to her. He’d kept in contact, visiting her in the hospital often. And now she was out, he sent regular emails. She always answered him. Had to keep him on her side. Yes, she believed that Paul had tried to kill her. She had never told Dole that she had once planned to blackmail Paul.