Twisted: The Collected Stories (21 page)

On Saturday Mo drove him to the airport.

“You two’re going to have fun together?”

“You bet,” Pete said. He sounded cheerful because he
was
cheerful. “We’re gonna have a fine time.”

On the day of the murder, while his wife and her lover were sipping wine in a room at the Mountain View Lodge, Roy had lunch with a business associate.
The man, who wished to remain anonymous, reported that Roy was in unusually good spirits. It seemed his depression had lifted and he was happy once more.

Fine, fine, fine . . .

Mo kissed him and then hugged him hard. He didn’t kiss her back, though he did give her a hug, reminding himself that he had to be a good actor.

“You’re looking forward to going, aren’t you?” she asked.

“I sure am,” he answered. This was true.

“I love you,” she said.

“I love you too,” he responded. This was not true. He hated her. He hoped the plane left on time. He didn’t want to wait here with her any longer than he had to.

The flight attendant, a pretty blonde woman, kept stopping at his seat. This wasn’t unusual for Pete. Women liked him. He’d heard a million times that he was cute, he was handsome, he was charming. Women were always leaning close and telling him that. Touching his arm, squeezing his shoulder. But today he answered her questions with a simple yes or no. And kept reading
Triangle.
Reading the passages he’d underlined. Memorizing them.

Learning about fingerprints, about interviewing witnesses, about footprints and trace evidence. There was a lot he didn’t understand but he did figure out how smart the cops were and that he’d have to be very careful if he was going to kill Doug and get away with it.

“We’re about to land,” the flight attendant said.
“Could you put your seat belt on, please?” She smiled at him.

He clicked the belt on and went back to his book.

Hank Gibson’s body had fallen one hundred and twelve feet. He’d landed on his right side and of the more than two hundred bones in the human body, he’d broken seventy-seven of them. His ribs had pierced all his major internal organs and his skull was flattened on one side.

“Welcome to Baltimore, where the local time is twelve twenty-five,” the flight attendant said. “Please remain in your seat with the seat belt fastened until the plane has come to a complete stop and the pilot has turned off the
Fasten Seat Belt
sign. Thank you.”

The medical examiner estimated that Hank was traveling 80 mph when he struck the ground and that death was virtually instantaneous.

Welcome to Baltimore . . .

Doug met him at the airport. Shook his hand.

“How you doing?” Doug asked.

“Okay.”

This was so weird. Spending the weekend with a man that Mo knew so well and that Pete hardly knew at all.

Going hiking with somebody he hardly knew at all.

Going to kill somebody he hardly knew at all . . .

He walked along beside Doug.

“I need a beer and some crabs,” Doug said as they got into his car. “You hungry?”

“Sure am.”

They stopped at the waterfront and went into an old dive. The place stunk. It smelled like the cleanser Mo used on the floor when Randolf, their Labrador retriever puppy, made a mess on the carpet.

Doug whistled at the waitress before they’d even sat down. “Hey, honey, think you can handle two real men?” He gave her the sort of grin he’d seen Doug give Mo a couple of times. Pete looked away, a little embarrassed but plenty disgusted.

When they started to eat, Doug calmed down, though that was probably the beers more than the food. Like Mo got after her third glass of Gallo in the evenings.

Pete wasn’t saying much. Doug tried to be cheerful. He talked and talked but it was just garbage. Pete didn’t pay any attention.

“Maybe I’ll give my girlfriend a call,” Doug said suddenly. “See if she wants to join us.”

“You have a girlfriend? What’s her name?”

“Uhm. Cathy,” he said.

The waitress’s name tag said,
Hi, I’m Cathleen.

“That’d be fun,” Pete said.

“She might be going out of town this weekend.” He avoided Pete’s eyes. “But I’ll call her later.”

Pete’s only smart when it comes to computers and sports. He’s stupid about everything else. . . .

Finally Doug looked at his watch and said, “So what do you feel like doing now?”

Pete pretended to think for a minute and asked, “Anyplace we can go hiking around here?”

“Hiking?”

“Like any mountain trails?”

Doug finished his beer, shook his head. “Naw, nothing like that I know of.”

Pete felt rage again—his hands were shaking, the blood roaring in his ears—but he covered it up pretty well and tried to think. Now, what was he going to do? He’d counted on Doug agreeing to whatever he wanted. He’d counted on a nice high cliff.

Hank was traveling 80 mph when he struck the ground. . . .

But then Doug continued. “But if you want to be outside, one thing we could do maybe is go hunting.”

“Hunting?”

“Nothing good’s in season now,” Doug said. “But there’s always rabbits and squirrels.”

“Well—”

“I’ve got a couple guns we can use.”

Pete debated for only a moment and then said, “Okay. Let’s go hunting.”

“You shoot much?” Doug asked him.

“Some.”

In fact, Pete was a good shot. His father had taught him how to load and clean guns and how to handle them. (“Never point it at anything unless you’re prepared to shoot it.”)

But Pete didn’t want Doug to know he knew anything about guns so he let the man show him how to load the little twenty-two and how to pull the slide to cock it and where the safety was.

I’m a
much
better actor than Mo.

They were in Doug’s house, which was pretty
nice. It was in the woods and it was a big place, full of stone walls and glass. The furniture wasn’t like the cheap things Mo and Pete had. It was mostly antiques.

Which depressed Pete even more, made him angrier, because he knew that Mo liked money and she liked
people
who had money even if they were idiots, like Doug. When Pete looked at Doug’s beautiful house he knew that if Mo ever saw it then she’d want Doug even more. Then he wondered if she
had
seen it. Pete had gone to Wisconsin a few months ago, to see his father and cousins. Maybe Mo had come down here to spend the night with Doug.

“So,” Doug said. “Ready?”

“Where’re we going?” Pete asked.

“There’s a good field about a mile from here. It’s not posted. Anything we can hit, we can take.”

“Sounds good to me,” Pete said.

They got into the car and Doug pulled onto the road.

“Better put that seat belt on,” Doug warned. “I drive like a crazy man.”

Pete was looking around the big, empty field.

Not a soul.

“What?” Doug asked, and Pete realized that the man was staring at him.

“I said it’s pretty quiet.”

And deserted. No witnesses. Like the ones who screwed up Roy’s plans in
Triangle.

“Nobody knows about this place. I found it by my
little old lonesome.” Doug said this real proud, as if he’d discovered a cure for cancer. “Lessee.” He lifted his rifle and squeezed off a round.

Crack . . .

He missed a can sitting about thirty feet away.

“Little rusty,” he said. “But, hey, aren’t we having fun?”

“Sure are,” Pete answered.

Doug fired again, three times, and hit the can on the last shot. It leapt into the air. “There we go!”

Doug reloaded and they started through the tall grass and brush.

They walked for five minutes.

“There,” Doug said. “Can you hit that rock over there?”

He was pointing at a white rock about twenty feet from them. Pete thought he could have hit it but he missed on purpose. He emptied the clip.

“Not bad,” Doug said. “Came close the last few shots.” Pete knew he was being sarcastic.

Pete reloaded and they continued through the grass.

“So,” Doug said. “How’s she doing?”

“Fine. She’s fine.”

Whenever Mo was upset and Pete’d ask her how she was she’d say, “Fine. I’m fine.”

Which didn’t mean fine at all. It meant, I don’t feel like telling you anything. I’m keeping secrets from you.

I don’t love you anymore.

They stepped over a few fallen logs and started down a hill. The grass was mixed with blue flowers and daisies. Mo liked to garden and was always driving
up to the nursery to buy plants. Sometimes she’d come back without any and Pete began to wonder if, on those trips, she was really seeing Doug instead. He got angry again. Hands sweaty, teeth grinding together.

“She get her car fixed?” Doug asked. “She was saying that there was something wrong with the transmission.”

How’d he know that? The car broke down only four days ago. Had Doug been there and Pete didn’t know it?

Doug glanced at Pete and repeated the question.

Pete blinked. “Oh, her car? Yeah, it’s okay. She took it in and they fixed it.”

But then he felt better because that meant they
hadn’t
talked yesterday or otherwise she would have told him about getting the car fixed.

On the other hand, maybe Doug was lying to him now. Making it
look
as if she hadn’t told him about the car when they really had talked.

Pete looked at Doug’s pudgy face and couldn’t decide whether to believe him or not. He looked sort of innocent but Pete had learned that people who seemed innocent were sometimes the most guilty. Roy, the husband in
Triangle,
had been a church choir director. From the smiling picture in the book, you’d never guess he’d kill somebody.

Thinking about the book, thinking about murder.

Pete was scanning the field. Yes, there . . . about fifty feet away. A fence. Five feet high. It would work just fine.

Fine . . .

As fine as Mo.

Who wanted Doug more than she wanted Pete.

“What’re you looking for?” Doug asked.

“Something to shoot.”

And thought: Witnesses. That’s what I’m looking for.

“Let’s go that way,” Pete said and walked toward the fence.

Doug shrugged. “Sure. Why not?”

Pete studied it as they approached. Wood posts about eight feet apart, five strands of rusting wire.

Not too easy to climb over but it wasn’t barbed wire like some of the fences they’d passed. Besides, Pete didn’t want it
too
easy to climb. He’d been thinking. He had a plan.

Roy had thought about the murder for weeks. It had obsessed his every waking moment. He’d drawn charts and diagrams and planned every detail down to the nth degree. In his mind, at least, it was the perfect crime. . . .

Pete now asked, “So what’s your girlfriend do?”

“Uhm, my girlfriend? She works in Baltimore.”

“Oh. Doing what?”

“In an office. Big company.”

“Oh.”

They got closer to the fence. Pete asked, “You’re divorced? Mo was saying you’re divorced.”

“Right. Betty and I split up two years ago.”