Twisted Read online

  I turned back from the window and I said, “You’d just walk down to the road and back? That’s it?”

  “That’s all. I won’t run off, you don’t go get your gun. We trust each other. What could be simpler?”

  Listening to the wind. Not strong but a steady hiss that was comforting in a funny way even though any other time I’da thought it sounded cold and raw. It was like I heard a voice. I don’t know. Something in me said I oughta do this.

  I didn’t say nothing else ’cause I was right on the edge and I was afraid he’d say something that’d make me change my mind. I just took the Smith & Wesson and looked at it for a minute then went and put it on the kitchen table. I came back with the Buck and cut his feet free. Then I figured if I was going to do it I oughta go all the way. So I cut his hands free too. Weller seemed surprised I did that. But he smiled like he knew I was playing the game. I pulled him to his feet and held the blade to his neck and took him to the door.

  “You’re doing a good thing,” he said.

  I was thinking: Oh, man. I can’t believe this. It’s crazy. Part of me said, Cut him now, cut his throat. Do it!

  But I didn’t. I opened the door and smelled cold fall air and wood smoke and pine and I heard the wind in the rocks and trees above our head.

  “Go on,” I told him.

  Weller started off and he didn’t look back to check on me, see if I went to get the gun…faith, I guess. He kept walking real slow down toward the road.

  I felt funny, I’ll tell you, and a couple times when he went past some real shadowy places in the driveway and could disappear I was like, Oh, man, this is all messed up. I’m crazy.

  I almost panicked a few times and bolted for the Smitty but I didn’t. When Weller got down near the sidewalk I was actually holding my breath. I expected him to go, I really did. I was looking for that moment—when people tense up, when they’re gonna swing or draw down on you or bolt. It’s like their bodies’re shouting what they’re going to be doing before they do it. Only Weller wasn’t doing none of that. He walked down to the sidewalk real casual. And he turned and looked up at the face of the Lookout, like he was just another weekender.

  Then he turned around. He nodded at me.

  Which is when the cop car came by.

  It was a state trooper. Those’re the dark ones and he didn’t have the light bar going. So he was almost here before I knew it. I guess I was looking at Weller so hard I didn’t see nothing else.

  There it was, two doors away, and Weller saw it the same time I did.

  And I thought: That’s it. Oh, hell.

  But when I was turning to get the gun I saw this motion down by the road. And I stopped cold.

  Could you believe it? Weller’d dropped onto the ground and rolled underneath a tree. I closed the door real fast and watched from the window. The trooper stopped and turned his light on the driveway. The beam—it was real bright—it moved up and down and hit all the bushes and the front of the house then back to the road. But it was like Weller was digging down into the pine needles to keep from being seen. I mean, he was hiding from those sons of bitches. Doing whatever he could to stay out of the way of the light.

  Then the car moved on and I saw the lights checking out the house next door and then it was gone. I kept my eyes on Weller the whole time and he didn’t do nothing stupid. I seen him climb out from under the trees and dust himself off. Then he came walking back to the house. Easy, like he was walking to a bar to meet some buddies.

  He came inside. Gave this little sigh, like relief. And laughed. Then he held his hands out. I didn’t even ask him to. I taped ’em up again and he sat down in the chair, picked up his scotch and sipped it.

  And, damn, I’ll tell you something. The God’s truth. I felt good. Naw, naw, it wasn’t like I’d seen the light or anything like that crap. But I was thinking that of all the people in my life—my dad or my ex or Toth or anybody else, I never did really trust them. I’d never let myself go all the way. And here, tonight, I did. With a stranger and somebody who had the power to do me some harm. It was a pretty scary feeling but it was also a good feeling.

  A little thing, real little. But maybe that’s where stuff like this starts. I realized then that I’d been wrong. I could let him go. Oh, I’d keep him tied up here. Gagged. It’d be a day or so before he’d get out. But he’d agree to that. I knew he would. And I’d write his name and address down, let him know I knew where him and his family lived. But that was only part of why I’d let him go. I wasn’t sure what the rest of it was. But it was something about what’d just happened, something between me and him.

  “How you feel?” he asked.

  I wasn’t going to give too much away. No, sir. But I couldn’t help saying, “That car coming by? I thought I was gone then. But you did right by me.”

  “And you did right too, Jack.” And then he said, “Pour us another round.”

  I filled the glasses to the top. We tapped ’em.

  “Here’s to you, Jack. And to faith.”

  “To faith.”

  I tossed back the whisky and when I lowered my head, sniffing air through my nose to clear my head, well, that was when he got me. Right in the face.

  He was good, that son of a bitch. Tossed the glass low so that even when I ducked, which of course I did, the booze caught me in the eyes, and, man, that stung like nobody’s business. I couldn’t believe it. I was howling in pain and going for the knife. But it was too late. He had it all planned out, exactly what I was going to do. How I was gonna move. He brought his knee up into my chin and knocked a couple teeth out and I went over onto my back before I could get the knife outa my pocket. Then he dropped down on my belly with his knee—I remembered I’d never bothered to tape his feet up again—and he knocked the wind out, and I was lying there like I was paralyzed, trying to breathe and all. Only I couldn’t. And the pain was incredible but what was worse was the feeling that he didn’t trust me.

  I was whispering, “No, no, no! I was going to do it, man. You don’t understand! I was going to let you go.”

  I couldn’t see nothing and couldn’t really hear nothing either, my ears were roaring so much. I was gasping, “You don’t understand, you don’t understand.”

  Man, the pain was so bad. So bad…

  Weller must’ve got the tape off his hands, chewed through it, I guess, ’cause he was rolling me over. I felt him tape my hands together then grab me and drag me over to a chair, tape my feet to the legs. He got some water and threw it in my face to wash the whisky out of my eyes.

  He sat down in a chair in front of me. And he just stared at me for a long time while I caught my breath. He picked up his glass, poured more scotch. I shied away, thinking he was going to throw it in my face again but he just sat there, sipping it and staring at me.

  “You…I was going to let you go. I was.”

  “I know,” he said. Still calm.

  “You know?”

  “I could see it in your face. I’ve been a salesman for years, remember? I know when I’ve closed a deal.”

  I’m a pretty strong guy, ’specially when I’m mad, and I tried real hard to break through that tape but there was no doing it. “Goddamn you!” I shouted. “You said you weren’t going to turn me in. You, all your goddamn talk about faith—”

  “Shhhh,” Weller whispered. And he sat back, crossed his legs. Easy as could be. Looking me up and down. “That fellow your friend shot and killed back at the drugstore? The customer at the counter?”

  I nodded slowly.

  “He was my friend. It’s his place my wife and I’re staying at this weekend. With all our kids.”

  I just stared at him. His friend? What was he saying? “I didn’t—”

  “Be quiet,” he said, real soft. “I’ve known him for years. Gerry was one of my best friends.”

  “I didn’t want nobody to die. I—”

  “But somebody did die. And it was your fault.”

  “Toth….”

&n
bsp; He whispered, “It was your fault.”

  “All right, you tricked me. Call the cops. Get it over with, you goddamn liar.”

  “You really don’t understand, do you?” Weller shook his head. Why was he so calm? His hands weren’t shaking. He wasn’t looking around, nervous and all. Nothing like that. He said, “If I’d wanted to turn you in I would just’ve flagged down that squad car a few minutes ago. But I said I wouldn’t do that. And I won’t. I gave you my word I wouldn’t tell the cops a thing about you. And I won’t. Turning you in is the last thing I want to do.”

  “Then what do you want?” I shouted. “Tell me!” Trying to bust through that tape. And as he unfolded my Buck knife with a click, I was thinking of something I told him.

  Oh, man, no…Oh, no.

  Yeah, being blind, I guess. That’d be the worst thing I could think of.

  “What’re you going to do?” I whispered.

  “What’m I going to do, Jack?” Weller said, feeling the blade of the Buck with his thumb and looking me in the eye. “Well, I’ll tell you. I spent a good deal of time tonight proving to you that you shouldn’t kill me. And now…”

  “What, man? What?”

  “Now I’m going to spend a good deal of time proving to you that you should’ve.”

  Then, real slow, Weller finished his scotch and stood up. And he walked toward me, that weird little smile on his face.

  For Services Rendered

  “A t first I thought it was me…but now I know for sure: My husband’s trying to drive me crazy.”

  Dr. Harry Bernstein nodded and, after a moment’s pause, dutifully noted his patient’s words on the steno pad resting on his lap.

  “I don’t mean he’s irritating me, driving me crazy that way—I mean he’s making me question my sanity. And he’s doing it on purpose.”

  Patsy Randolph, facing away from Harry on his leather couch, turned to look at her psychiatrist. Even though he kept his Park Avenue office quite dark during his sessions he could see that there were tears in her eyes.

  “You’re very upset,” he said in a kind tone.

  “Sure, I’m upset,” she said. “And I’m scared.”

  This woman, in her late forties, had been his patient for two months. She’d been close to tears several times during their sessions but had never actually cried. Tears are important barometers of emotional weather. Some patients go for years without crying in front of their doctors and when the eyes begin to water any competent therapist sits up and takes notice.

  Harry studied Patsy closely as she turned away again and picked at a button on the cushion beside her thigh.

  “Go on,” he encouraged. “Tell me about it.”

  She snagged a Kleenex from the box beside the couch. Dabbed at her eyes but she did so carefully; as always, she wore impeccable makeup.

  “Please,” Harry said in a soft voice.

  “It’s happened a couple of times now,” she began reluctantly. “Last night was the worst. I was lying in bed and I heard this voice. I couldn’t really hear it clearly at first. Then it said…” She hesitated. “It said it was my father’s ghost.”

  Motifs in therapy didn’t get any better than this, and Harry paid close attention.

  “You weren’t dreaming?”

  “No, I was awake. I couldn’t sleep and I’d gotten up for a glass of water. Then I started walking around the apartment. Just pacing. I felt frantic. I lay back in bed. And the voice—I mean, Pete’s voice—said that it was my father’s ghost.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He just rambled on and on. Telling me about all kinds of things from my past. Incidents from when I was a girl. I’m not sure. It was hard to hear.”

  “And these were things your husband knew?”

  “Not all of them.” Her voice cracked. “But he could’ve found them out. Looking through my letters and my yearbooks.” Things like that.

  “You’re sure he was the one talking?”

  “The voice sounded sort of like Peter’s. Anyway, who else would it be?” She laughed, her voice nearly a cackle. “I mean, it could hardly be my father’s ghost, now, could it?”

  “Maybe he was just talking in his sleep.”

  She didn’t respond for a minute. “See, that’s the thing…He wasn’t in bed. He was in the den, playing some video game.”

  Harry continued to take his notes.

  “And you heard him from the den?”

  “He must have been at the door…Oh, Doctor, it sounds ridiculous. I know it does. But I think he was kneeling at the door—it’s right next to the bedroom—and was whispering.”

  “Did you go into the den? Ask him about it?”

  “I walked to the door real fast but by the time I opened it he was back at the desk.” She looked at her hands and found she’d shredded the Kleenex. She glanced at Harry to see if he’d noticed the compulsive behavior, which of course he had, and then stuffed the tissue into the pocket of her expensive beige slacks.

  “And then?”

  “I asked him if he’d heard anything, any voices. And he looked at me like I was nuts and went back to his game.”

  “And that night you didn’t hear any more voices?”

  “No.”

  Harry studied his patient. She’d been a pretty girl in her youth, he supposed, because she was a pretty woman now (therapists always saw the child within the adult). Her face was sleek and she had the slightly upturned nose of a Connecticut socialite who debates long and hard about having rhinoplasty but never does. He recalled that Patsy’d told him her weight was never a problem: she’d hire a personal trainer whenever she gained five pounds. She’d said—with irritation masking secret pride—that men often tried to pick her up in bars and coffee shops.

  He asked, “You say this’s happened before? Hearing the voice?”

  Another hesitation. “Maybe two or three times. All within the past couple of weeks.”

  “But why would Peter want to drive you crazy?”

  Patsy, who’d come to Harry presenting with the classic symptoms of a routine midlife crisis, hadn’t discussed her husband much yet. Harry knew he was good-looking, a few years younger than Patsy, not particularly ambitious. They’d been married for three years—second marriages for both of them—and they didn’t seem to have many interests in common. But of course that was just Patsy’s version. The “facts” that are revealed in a therapist’s office can be very fishy. Harry Bernstein worked hard to become a human lie detector and his impression of the marriage was that there was much unspoken conflict between husband and wife.

  Patsy considered his question. “I don’t know. I was talking to Sally….” Harry remembered her mentioning Sally, her best friend. She was another Upper East Side matron—one of the ladies who lunch—and was married to the president of one of the biggest banks in New York. “She said that maybe Peter’s jealous of me. I mean, look at us—I’m the one with the social life, I have the friends, I have the money….” He noticed a manic edge to her voice. She did too and controlled it. “I just don’t know why he’s doing it. But he is.”

  “Have you talked to him about this?”

  “I tried. But naturally he denies everything.” She shook her head and tears swelled in her eyes again. “And then…the birds.”

  “Birds?”

  Another Kleenex was snagged, used and shredded. She didn’t hide the evidence this time. “I have this collection of ceramic birds. Made by Boehm. Do you know about the company?”

  “No.”

  “They’re very expensive. They’re German. Beautifully made. They were my parents’. When our father died Steve and I split the inheritance but he got most of the personal family heirlooms. That really hurt me. But I did get the birds.”

  Harry knew that her mother had died ten years ago and her father about three years ago. The man had been very stern and had favored Patsy’s older brother, Stephen. He had been patronizing to her all her life.

  “I have four of them.
There used to be five but when I was twelve I broke one. I ran inside—I was very excited about something and I wanted to tell my father about it—and I bumped into the table and knocked one off. The sparrow. It broke. My father spanked me with a willow switch and sent me to bed without dinner.”

  Ah, an Important Event. Harry made a note but decided not to pursue the incident any further at that moment.

  “And?”

  “The morning after I heard my father’s ghost for the first time…” Her voice grew harsh. “I mean, the morning after Peter started whispering to me…I found one of the birds broken. It was lying on the living room floor. I asked Peter why he’d done it—he knows how important they were to me—and he denied it. He said I must have been sleepwalking and did it myself. But I know I didn’t. Peter had to’ve been the one.” She’d slipped into her raw, irrational voice again.

  Harry glanced at the clock. He hated the legacy of the psychoanalyst: the perfectly timed fifty-minute hour. There was so much more he wanted to delve into. But patients need consistency and, according to the old school, discipline. He said, “I’m sorry but I see our time’s up.”

  Dutifully Patsy rose. Harry observed how disheveled she looked. Yes, her makeup had been carefully applied but the buttons on her blouse weren’t done properly. Either she’d dressed in a hurry or hadn’t paid attention. And one of the straps on her expensive, tan shoes wasn’t hooked.

  She rose. “Thank you, Doctor…It’s good just to be able to tell someone about this.”

  “We’ll get everything worked out. I’ll see you next week.”

  After Patsy had left the office Harry Bernstein sat down at his desk. He spun slowly in his chair, gazing at his books—the DSM-IV, The Psychopathology of Everyday Life, the APA Handbook of Neuroses, volumes by Freud, Adler, Jung, Karen Horney, hundreds of others. Then looking out the window again, watching the late-afternoon sunlight fall on the cars and taxis speeding north on Park Avenue.