Twist

by John Lutz

  “That’s the thing about it. He said nothing.”

  “I thought you heard his voice.”

  “I did. And I’m sure now what he was doing. He was reciting the alphabet. Even if I didn’t hear some of the letters, I could tell by the lilt of the voice, the old rhyme that we all learn at an early age. I almost thought he was going to finish and break into ‘Now I Know My ABC’s.’ He was reciting the alphabet. Not fast, but slowly, as if he were testing his memory.”

  Tell me what you think of me. Fedderman couldn’t resist reciting the last line of the childhood jingle in his mind.

  “Maybe he was teaching someone. A kid. Or someone foreign trying to learn the language.”

  No.” Adelaide shook her head. “It was more as if he was performing, trying to impress someone.”

  “But there was no applause? No complimentary remarks?”

  “Nothing. Only silence.”

  “Are you sure the voice wasn’t Constance Mason’s?”

  “Positive. It was a man speaking.” Adelaide gazed at him in a way that made him uncomfortable. “You absolutely positively sure you’re married?”

  Fedderman said, “It isn’t the kind of thing you forget.”

  He thanked Adelaide Appleton for her time and extended his hand to shake.

  “If you don’t mind,” she said. Smiling her apple-sweet smile, she deftly tried to button his shirt cuff. Fedderman managed to avoid that, and she brushed some imaginary crumbs off the front of his suit coat.

  Fedderman thanked her and got out of there.

  21

  When Harold showed up outside Carlie’s apartment, to take his shift sitting in the unmarked Ford and watching her building, Sal moved over to make room behind the steering wheel. The car was parked half a block down from the apartment, in a dark space between the ranges of two streetlights.

  Harold handed a carry-out coffee in through the window to Sal, and then got in on the driver’s side. No interior light showed in the car, as the bulb had been removed. The seat was still warm from Sal.

  “Anything going on?” Harold asked.

  “The usual.” Sal pried the plastic lid off his coffee, appreciated the rising steam for a moment, then took a sip that made a slurping sound.

  Harold looked at the illuminated hands of his wristwatch. Ten minutes past midnight. Sal would start home in a few minutes, where he’d settle in for something like a night’s sleep. Then Harold would be alone, tired, and bored out of his skull.

  “I wouldn’t mind switching shifts,” Harold said.

  Sal grunted. “Too late for that.”

  “How so?”

  “One of us would have to work two shifts in a row.”

  “You,” Harold said.

  “Why?”

  “To be fair.”

  “I don’t deal in fair,” Sal said, irritated. Why couldn’t Harold simply do his job?

  “We need a third guy,” Harold said. “That way nobody would do a double shift.”

  “Then you’d bitch about doing your third of a shift.”

  Sal opened the car door and prepared to leave. He was exhausted, his back ached, and he’d had enough of Harold, though he was grateful for the coffee.

  “Who’s that?” Harold asked.

  Sal looked and saw a man going up the steps to the entrance to Carlie’s building. Average-sized guy. Wearing dark clothes. Glancing around.

  “He looks furtive,” Harold said.

  “Could be a tenant who keeps late hours,” Sal said, thinking he couldn’t remember hearing any other cop use the word furtive. He placed his coffee in the car’s plastic cup holder. “Or something else.”

  He and Harold waited until the man was inside the foyer, then got out of the car simultaneously, closing the doors but not slamming them and making noise that might attract attention. They walked fast toward the apartment building.

  They’d taken only half a dozen steps when the building’s door opened and the average-sized man in dark clothing came back outside.

  “Surprise,” Harold said softly.

  The man immediately noticed Sal and Harold approaching and bounded down the steps, touching only the middle one, and was running hard away from them.

  “Jesus!” Sal said. “Why can’t the bastard have average speed?”

  “We can get him,” Harold said, and turned to run in the opposite direction.

  Sal knew what he was doing, running the short distance to the corner behind them, then cutting left on the cross street. If the guy they were chasing made a right turn, he and Harold might run into each other.

  But just as Harold’s strategy seemed like a good idea to Sal, the man ahead glanced back. He knew there was only one pursuer now, and if he was smart he’d figure out why and go straight or run left at the corner.

  He chose left, crossing the intersection, picking up speed.

  Damn it!

  Harold was out of it now.

  Sal continued to give chase. He tried using his two-way to summon backup, young cops with young legs. But he was bouncing up and down too hard to control his grip and figured the hell with it. If he stopped and called, the man would surely outdistance him far enough to disappear. Maybe he’d even snag a late-running cab.

  When he approached the corner, Sal made his left on the diagonal to pick up a step or two. At this hour, he didn’t bother looking for cars.

  A shadow flitted among darker shadows on the sidewalk ahead. The average guy, not as far ahead of him as Sal had assumed.

  But this was getting to be agony.

  Sal lowered his head and tried breathing through his nose so he wouldn’t get winded.

  His lungs were working like noisy bellows, and his heart was pounding. Not only that, he was developing a stitch in his right side. He knew what might be up ahead of him, and hoped if he did catch up, he’d have something left with which to fight.

  He was considering firing a warning shot, right here in the middle of Manhattan. The streets were almost empty.

  But there were windows. And people turned up when and where you least expected them.

  And who knew where a ricochet might go?

  Sal began to wobble, then faltered.

  A horn blared, jolting his senses, and a patrol car roared past him, the light strip on its roof sending out dancing bolts of color. The man ahead looked back and began to slow down, realizing he couldn’t outrun a car.

  The car’s siren yelped once, like a dog’s warning bark. Sal watched the man stop altogether and stand, leaning forward with his hands on his thighs.

  You’re out of breath, too, you bastard!

  Sal slowed to a steady walking speed, hoping he’d reach the NYPD car and the possible killer before his heart gave out.

  Ahead of him, the police car veered toward the man and angled in to the curb. Car doors opened and two uniforms got out. The runner raised his hands as if he were in a cowboy movie. One of the uniforms yelled something, signaling with his drawn gun, and the darkly dressed man stooped low and then lay facedown on the sidewalk.

  Within seconds, both uniformed cops were over him. One of them was cuffing his wrists behind him.

  Footsteps behind Sal made him turn.

  Harold was chugging along behind him, breathing hard, looking as pale as his gray mustache.

  “We’re getting too old for this stuff,” he said.

  Sal made a growling noise to disguise the fact that he was panting. “We got him, didn’t we?”

  “We got somebody,” Harold wheezed.

  Both men continued trudging toward where the Lady Liberty Killer might be, lying on the sidewalk with two cops standing over him. Both cops had their arms crossed. One of them was staring down at the suspect, and the other was watching the approach of Sal and Harold.

  Sal and Harold broke into a steady jog, side by side, putting up a pretty good front but actually moving more slowly than when they were walking.

  “One of us should have gotten into a foot race with him,”
Sal said. “The other should have gone back to the car and driven after him.”

  “Easy to say now,” Harold said.

  “No,” Sal said, “I can barely breathe, much less talk.”

  Sal flashed his shield and explained to the two uniforms who he and Harold were, and why they were there.

  “So this asshole might be the Lady Liberty Killer?” the younger of the two uniforms said. He sounded awed. He wore his cap tilted forward and looked like a young Clint Eastwood. His partner looked like no one in particular but was larger than Clint. Not good casting.

  “No, no, no . . .” the man lying awkwardly on the sidewalk said. He began to move.

  “Maybe, maybe, maybe,” Harold said.

  The older, larger uniform helped the handcuffed suspect stand up, while his partner opened their patrol car’s rear door. They loaded him into the backseat, which was separated from the front of the car by a steel mesh divider.

  Sal gave Carlie’s address to Eastwood and his partner, and they drove to the apartment building and waited while Sal and Harold walked the three blocks to join them.

  When the two walking detectives reached the parked police car, they were still breathing hard.

  “Tough night for you guys,” the younger cop who looked like Eastwood said, half sitting and propped against a front fender.

  “See what you got to look forward to?” Sal rasped, and spat off to the side.

  The young cop grinned.

  “It’s not so bad,” Harold assured him.

  Sal could have kicked Harold.

  “Don’t I know you from someplace?” Harold asked the young cop.

  Eastwood shook his head. “I don’t think so. Why? You feel lucky?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Sal thought about straightening Harold out, but what was the use?

  Instead, he went into the apartment building and woke up Carlie Clark.

  Carlie was wearing jeans, a blousy red tunic, and slippers, when she emerged from the building with Sal. Her eyes looked swollen from sleep, and her blond hair was tousled. The young cop stared at her appreciatively.

  She flinched as Sal gripped her elbow gently and guided her toward the back of the police cruiser.

  There were reflections on the slightly tinted car windows, and she leaned forward so she could see into the dim, meshed-in confines where the suspect sat. Sal could feel the vibrations of fear running up her arm.

  “He’s cuffed,” he assured Carlie, “even if he could get out.”

  That seemed to relax her, but not a lot.

  “This the guy who’s been stalking you?” Sal asked.

  She leaned slightly farther forward.

  “Jesse Trummel!” she said, and straightened up, wearing a surprised expression.

  Sal was surprised, too. “You know him?”

  “Yes. He works at Bold Designs.”

  “I guess he had designs on you,” Harold said.

  He was ignored.

  The large cop inside the car had been listening. The back window glided down.

  Carlie moved back a step. There was nothing but air between her and Jesse Trummel now.

  “You don’t have to be afraid of me, Carlie,” Trummel said. He had a high, phlegmy voice.

  “What were you doing in her apartment building?” Sal asked.

  Trummel made a point of looking him directly in the eye, not realizing that was what most liars did. “Leaving her a note, is all. Honest!”

  “You just happened to be in the neighborhood?”

  “Not far from here, actually. I was drinking at a friend’s house. You can check that and see—there was a bunch of us. When the party broke up and everyone started to leave, I remembered that Carlie lived nearby.”

  “So what?” Sal asked.

  “I . . . I admired—I mean, I admire Carlie. I don’t know if she knows that. But . . . well, I was drinking and not thinking straight, and I decided to let her know how I felt.”

  “Past midnight, and you were going to surprise her and declare your love?” Sal asked.

  “No, no. I wouldn’t do that. I left a note in her mailbox, is all.”

  “Weren’t you going to see her at work tomorrow?” Harold asked.

  “Sure, I was. But like I told you, I’d had enough to drink that I wasn’t thinking straight.”

  “Thinking with the wrong head,” Eastwood said.

  Sal looked over at him. “You want me to include that in my notes?”

  Eastwood shrugged and leaned farther back against the car. He tilted his cap down low on his forehead and looked even more like the movie star.

  Sal led Carlie away from the car, out of earshot. Harold knew the routine and stayed near the car, like the uniformed cop. Leaving Sal and Carlie alone so they could become buddies and confidants.

  Sal moved closer to Carlie and glanced over as if to make sure they were far enough away that they wouldn’t be overheard.

  “Were you aware of the way this guy thought of you?” he asked.

  Carlie seemed slightly embarrassed. “To tell you the truth, it’s been hard not to be aware of it. I mean, the way he stares at me . . .”

  “He looks average enough. Is he the man who’s been following you?”

  “No. Definitely not.”

  “How can you be so definite, if your stalker is so average looking?”

  “I see Jesse every day at work. He’s a draftsman. He works at a desk and computer setup not far from mine. Makes renderings.”

  “Which are?”

  “He works from plans or blueprints and shows what projects will look like after they’re completed.”

  Sal leaned toward her so their foreheads were almost touching. “Understand, I have to ask you this. Have you and this Jesse guy ever—”

  “Never! Our relationship—or at least what he’d like to be a relationship—is platonic and only one way.”

  Sal knew that people often fibbed about this. “So you and he aren’t in a romantic situation.”

  “Not in the slightest. I don’t dislike Jesse. But . . .”

  “So you don’t think of him that way?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Okay. I had to ask. I mean, Trummel’s not a bad-looking fella.”

  “I suppose not,” Carlie said. “He’s just . . .”

  They looked at each other and spoke simultaneously: “Average.”

  While the others stood and watched, Sal went back into the building with Carlie. To be on the safe side, he went up to her apartment with her so she could get her mailbox key and come back down to the foyer

  Her brass box contained only a single folded sheet of white paper. It was nothing the Postal Service had delivered. Sal slipped on a pair of white gloves and removed it from the box before she could.

  “There might be fingerprints,” he said. “Or something else. You’d be surprised what a police lab can come up with.”

  “But we know Jesse wrote it. He said he did.”

  “We don’t know exactly what we know,” Sal said. He was glad Harold wasn’t here to make this conversation more confusing.

  He carefully unfolded the note. It contained a single sentence written in blue ink.

  Sal held it out so Carlie could read it:

  I think about you all the time.

  It was unsigned.

  “Short and sweet,” Sal said. And anonymous.

  Carlie felt her face flush. She reached out for the note, but Sal refolded it on the seams and held it at the edges with his fingertips.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I’ve gotta keep this. I’ll take it outside and put it in an evidence bag. It’s part of the investigation, even if it doesn’t lead anywhere.”

  She jammed her hands in her baggy tunic’s pockets. “I understand.”

  Sal thought she didn’t. Not really.

  They returned to where the patrol car was parked. Sal showed the note to Harold, who looked at it without touching it, looked inside the car at Tru
mmel, and grinned.

  Sal refolded the note with care.

  I think about you all the time.

  “You’re a genuine heartthrob,” Sal said to Carlie, smiling.

  “I don’t see myself that way,” she said.

  Sal said, “There are at least two men who do.”

  Harold said, “Rawhide!”

  22

  Outside Kansas City, Missouri, 1996

  Mildred Gant drove her black Dodge van into the rest stop off the interstate, listening to the loud squeal of front brakes that needed new pads. She backed off slightly on the pedal, muting the squeal so as not to attract attention. Next to her, Dred “Squeaky” Gant sat staring straight ahead out a windshield that was scarred by the arc of a worn-out wiper blade.

  He had recited the alphabet at least a dozen times since they had set out this morning. His mother didn’t believe in time wasted, and as she had often told him, the alphabet was a good thing to occupy his mind. She wondered sometimes herself if she could recite the damned thing after listening so often to Squeaky. Some things could become too familiar,

  There were half a dozen parked cars nosed into the curb near the restrooms and vending machines. Beyond the restrooms was a larger blacktop lot area where trucks were parked. Not just big eighteen-wheelers, but smaller straight vans as well. Recently mowed grass surrounded the stop, and its scent still hung in the air. A woman walking a brace of white poodles was the only thing moving out there in the heat.

  “Out,” Mildred said. She watched while Dred unbuckled his seat belt; then she unbuckled hers and climbed down out of the van. She waited for Dred to walk around the front of the van to join her.

  She looked at Dred in his Missouri Tigers T-shirt, worn-out jeans, and moccasins. He was average height and weight for his age, but looked strong enough. He was staring at her expectantly.

  Off to the left of the restrooms and vending machines were a wood picnic table and some trash barrels—one of them for recyclables. Beyond that table was a small stretch of woods.

  “Sit yourself over there and wait,” Mildred said.

  She stood and watched while Dred silently obeyed. Then she went to the vending machines, used her forearm to wipe sweat from her forehead, and dug in a pocket of the smock-like dress she wore for some loose change. She fed some quarters into a machine and bought a couple of orange sodas in cans. The machine messed up giving her change and didn’t respond when she kicked it and rattled the coin return. Mildred’s world.