Twisted: The Collected Stories (41 page)

In despair, Susan sat on the couch and sobbed.

They’d tied her hands and feet with Christmas ribbon, which would burn away, leaving no evidence that she’d been bound after the fire, Rich had explained, sounding like a carpenter imparting a construction tip to a homeowner.

It had all been planned for months, her ex-husband was smugly pleased to tell her. As soon as he’d learned that Susan’s father had died, he started making plans to get even with her—for her “disobedience” when they were married and then for divorcing him. So he’d hired Rich Musgrave to work his way into her life and wait for an opportunity to kill her.

Rich had picked her up at a shopping mall a few weeks ago and they’d hit it off at once. They’d had a lot in common, it seemed—though Susan realized now that he’d merely been fed information about her from Anthony to make it seem like they were soul mates. Planning the killing itself was tough; Susan led a very busy life and she was rarely alone. But Rich learned that she was taking today off. He suggested they meet in Jersey and go to the malls. Then he’d suggest driving to an inn for lunch. But they’d never make it that far. He’d kill her and dump her body in the flats.

But she’d called Rich this morning, asking him if
he’d drive; she’d fallen and hurt her knee. He’d be happy to. . . . Then he’d called Anthony and they’d decided that they could still go ahead with the plan. This worked out even better, in fact, because it turned out that Susan
had
left the note and shopping list for her daughter on the entryway table after all. When he picked her up that morning he’d pocketed the note and list and slipped them into her purse—to be buried with her—so there’d be no trace of him. Rich had also made sure her cell phone was off so she couldn’t call for help if she saw what he was up to.

Then they’d run a few errands and headed toward Jersey.

But it hadn’t worked out as planned. Carly had gone to the police and, to Anthony’s shock, they’d tracked down Rich’s car. Her ex had called Rich from Lincoln Rhyme’s apartment, pretending to be talking to a business associate about missing an office party; in fact, he was alerting Rich that the police were after him. Susan remembered him taking a call in the car and seeming uneasy with whatever news he was receiving. “What? You’re shitting me!” (Rough edges, yep, she’d thought at the time.) Ten minutes later that red-haired cop, Amelia, and the state trooper had pulled them over.

After that incident Rich had been reluctant to proceed with the murder. But Anthony had coldly insisted they go ahead. Rich finally agreed when Anthony said they’d make the death look like an accident—and when he promised that after Susan died and Carly’d inherited a couple of million
dollars, Anthony would make certain Rich got some of that.

“You son of a bitch! You leave her alone!”

Anthony ignored his ex-wife. He was amused. “So she just called you now?”

“Yeah,” Rich said. “Hit ‘redial,’ I guess. Pretty fucking smart.”

“Damn,” Anthony said, shaking his head.

“Good thing I was the last person she called. Not Pizza Hut.”

Anthony said to Susan, “Nice thought. But Rich was coming back anyway. He was parked up the street, waiting for Carly to leave.”

“Please . . . don’t do this.”

Anthony poured the kerosene on the couch.

“No, no, no . . .”

He stood back and watched her, enjoying her terror.

But through her tears of panic Susan saw that Rich Musgrave was frowning. He shook his head. “Can’t do it, man,” he said to Anthony as he stared at Susan’s tearful face.

Anthony looked up, frowning. Was his friend having pangs of guilt?

Help me, please, she begged Rich silently.

“Whatta you mean?” Anthony asked.

“You can’t burn somebody to death. That’s way harsh. . . . We have to kill her first.”

Susan gasped.

“But the police’ll know it’s not an accident.”

“No, no, I’ll just—” He held his hand to his own throat. “You know. After the fire they won’t have a clue she was strangled.”

Anthony shrugged. “Okay.” He nodded to Rich, who stepped up behind her, as Anthony poured the rest of the liquid around Susan.

“Oh, no, Anthony, don’t! Please . . . God, no . . .”

Her words were choked off as she felt Rich’s huge hands close around her neck, felt them tightening.

As she began to die, a roaring filled her ears, then blackness. Finally huge bursts of light speckled her vision. Brighter and brighter.

What were the flashes? she wondered, growing calm as the air was cut off from her lungs.

Were they from her dying brain cells?

Were they the flames from the kerosene?

Or was this, she thought manically, the brilliance of heaven? She’d never really believed in it before. . . . Maybe . . .

But then the lights faded. The roaring too. And suddenly she was breathing again, the air flowing into her lungs. She felt a huge weight on her shoulders and neck. Something dug into her face, stinging.

Gasping, she squinted as her vision returned. A dozen police officers, men and women, in those black outfits you saw on TV shows, gripping heavy guns, were filling the room. The guns had flashlights on them; their beams had been the bright lights she’d seen. They’d kicked the door in and grabbed Rich Musgrave. He’d fallen, trying to escape; it had been his belt buckle that’d cut her cheek. They cuffed him roughly and dragged him out the door.

One of the officers in black and that woman detective,
Amelia Sachs, wearing a bulletproof vest, pointed their guns toward Anthony Dalton. “On the floor, now, face down!” she growled.

The shock of the ex-husband’s face gave way to righteous indignation. Then the madman gave a faint smile. “Put your guns down.” He held out the cigarette lighter near the fuel-soaked couch, a few feet away from Susan. One flick and the couch would burst into a sea of fire.

One officer started for her.

“No!” Dalton raged. “Leave her.” He moved the lighter closer to the liquid, put his thumb on the tab.

The cop froze.

“You’re going to back out of here. I want everybody out of this room, except . . . you,” he said to Sachs. “You’re going to give me your gun and we’re walking out of here together. Or I’ll burn us all to death. I’ll do it. I goddamn will do it!”

The redhead ignored his words. “I want that lighter on the ground now. And you face down right after it. Now! I
will
fire.”

“No, you won’t. The flash from your gun’ll set off the fumes. This whole place’ll go up.”

The policewoman lowered her black gun, frowning as she considered his words. She looked at the cop beside her and nodded. “He’s right.”

She glanced around her, picked up a pillow from an old rocking chair and held it over the muzzle of her gun.

Dalton frowned and dropped to the couch, started to click the lighter. But the policewoman’s idea was a good one. There was no flash at all when she fired through the pillow, three times, sending
Susan’s ex-husband sprawling back against the fireplace.

The Rollx van was parked at the curb. The Storm Arrow wheel-chair, which was devoid of ribbons and spruce, was on the van’s elevator platform, lowered to the ground, resting on the snow. Lincoln Rhyme was in the thick parka that Thom had insisted he wear, despite the criminalist’s protests that it wasn’t necessary since he was going to remain in the van.

But, when they’d arrived at Susan Thompson’s house, Thom had thought it would be good for Rhyme to have a little fresh air.

He grumbled at first but then acquiesced to being lowered to the ground outside. He rarely got out in cold weather—even places that were disabled-accessible were often hard to negotiate on snow and ice—and he was never one for the out-of-doors anyway, even before the accident. But he was now surprised to find how much he enjoyed feeling the crisp chill on his face, watching the ghost of his breath roll from his mouth and vanish in the crystalline air, smelling the smoke from fireplaces.

The incident was mostly concluded. Richard Musgrave was in a holding cell in Garden City. Firemen had rendered the den in Susan’s house safe, removing the sofa and cleaning up or neutralizing the kerosene Dalton had tried to kill her with, and she’d been given an okay from the medics. Nassau County had run the crime scene, and Sachs was now huddled
with two county detectives. There was no question she’d acted properly in shooting Anthony Dalton but there’d still be a formal shooting-incident inquiry. The officers finished their interview, wished her a merry Christmas and crunched through the snow to the van, where they spent a few minutes speaking to Rhyme with a sliver of awe in their voices; they knew the criminalist’s reputation and could hardly believe that he was here in their own backyard.

After the detectives left, Susan Thompson and her daughter walked down to the van, the woman moving stiffly, wincing occasionally.

“You’re Mr. Rhyme.”

“Lincoln, please.”

Susan introduced herself and thanked him effusively. Then she asked, “How on earth did you know what Anthony was going to do?”

“He told me himself.” A glance at the walkway to the house.

“The path?” she asked.

“I could have figured it out from the evidence,” Rhyme muttered, “if we’d had all our resources available. It would have been more
efficient.”
A scientist, Rhyme was fundamentally suspicious of words and witnesses. He nodded to Sachs, who tempered Rhyme’s deification of physical evidence with what he called “people cop” skills, and she explained, “Lincoln remembered that you’d moved into the house last summer. Carly mentioned it this morning.”

The girl nodded.

“And when your ex was at the town house this afternoon
he said that he hadn’t seen you since last Christmas.”

Susan frowned and said, “That’s right. He told me last year that he was going away on business for six months so he brought two checks for Carly’s tuition to my office. I haven’t seen him since. Well, until tonight.”

“But he also said that the path from this house to the street was steep.”

Rhyme took up the narrative. “He said it was like a ski slope. Which meant he
had
been here, and since he described the walk that way, it was probably recently, sometime after the first snow. Maybe the discrepancy was nothing—he might’ve just dropped something off or picked up Carly when you weren’t here. But there was also a chance he’d lied and had been stalking you.”

“No, he never came here that I knew about. He must have been watching me.”

Rhyme said, “I thought it was worth looking into. I checked him out and found out about his times in the mental hospitals, the jail sentences, assaults on two recent girlfriends.”

“Hospital?” Carly gasped. “Assaults?”

The girl knew nothing about this? Rhyme lifted an eyebrow at Sachs, who shrugged. The criminalist continued. “And last Christmas, when he told you he was going away on business? Well, that ‘business’ was a six-month sentence in a Jersey prison for road rage and assault. He nearly killed another man over a fender bender.”

Susan frowned. “I didn’t know about that one. Or that he’d hurt anybody else.”

“So we kept speculating, Sachs and Lon and I. We got a down-and-dirty warrant to check his phone calls and it turned out he’d called Musgrave a dozen times in the last couple of weeks. Lon checked on him and the word on the street is that he’s for-hire muscle. I figured that Dalton met somebody in jail who hooked him up with Musgrave.”

“He wouldn’t do anything to me while my father was alive,” Susan said and explained how it had been her dad who’d gotten the abusive man away from her.

The woman’s words were spoken to all of them, clustered in the snow around the van, but it was Carly’s eyes she gazed at. This was, in effect, a stark confession that her mother had been lying to her about her father for years and years.

“When the plan with Musgrave didn’t work out this afternoon, Dalton figured he’d do it himself.”

“But . . . no, no, no, not Dad!” Carly whispered. She stepped away from her mother, shivering, tears running down her red cheeks. “He . . . It can’t be true! He was so nice! He . . .”

Susan shook her head. “Honey, I’m sorry, but your father was a very sick man. He knew how to put on a perfect facade, he was a real charmer—until he decided he didn’t trust you or you did something he didn’t like.” She put her arm around her daughter. “Those trips he took to Asia? No, those were the times in the hospitals and jails. Remember I always said I was banging into things?”

“You were a klutz,” the girl said in a small voice. “You don’t mean—”

Susan nodded. “It was your father. He’d knock me down the stairs, he’d hit me with a rolling pin, extension cords, tennis rackets.”

Carly turned away and stared at the house. “You kept saying what a good man he was. And all I could think of was, well, if he was so damn good, why didn’t you want to get back together?”

“I wanted to protect you from the truth. I wanted you to have a loving father. But I couldn’t give you one—he hated me so much.”

But the girl was unmoved. Years of lies, even those offered for the best of motives, would take a long time to digest, let alone forgive.