Twisted: The Collected Stories (7 page)

“That’s stupid.”

“I think it’s just the opposite. It’d be the smartest thing you’d ever do in your life.”

I tossed back another scotch and had to think about this.

Weller said, “I can see it there already. Some of that faith. It’s there. Not a lot. But some.”

And yeah, maybe there was a little. ’Cause I was thinking about how mad I got at Toth and the way he ruined everything. I didn’t want anybody to get killed tonight. I
was
sick of it. Sick of the way my life had gone. Sometimes it was good, being alone and all. Not answering to anybody. But sometimes it was real bad. And this guy Weller, it was like he was showing me something different.

“So,” I said. “You just want me to put the gun down?”

He looked around. “Put it in the kitchen. You stand in the doorway or window. All I’m gonna do is walk down to the street and walk back.”

I looked out the window. It was maybe fifty feet down the driveway. There were these bushes on either side of it. He could just take off and I’d never find him.

All through the sky I could see police-car lights flickering.

“Naw, I ain’t gonna. You’re nuts.”

I expected begging or something. Or him getting pissed off more likely—which is what happens to me when people don’t do what I tell them. Or don’t do it fast enough. But, naw, he just nodded. “Okay, Jack. You thought about it. That’s a good thing. You’re not ready yet. I respect that.” He sipped a little more scotch, looking at the glass. And that was the end of it.

Then all of a sudden these searchlights started up. They was some ways away but I still got spooked and backed away from the window. Pulled my gun out. Only then I saw that it wasn’t nothing to do with the robbery. It was just a couple big spotlights shining on the Lookout. They must’ve gone on every night, this time.

I looked up at it. From here it didn’t look like a face at all. It was just a rock. Gray and brown and these funny pine trees growing sideways out of cracks.

Watching it for a minute or two. Looking out over the town. And something that guy was saying went into my head. Not the words, really. Just the
thought.
And I was thinking about everybody in that town. Leading normal lives. There was a church steeple and the roofs of small houses. A lot of little yellow lights in town. You could just make out the hills in the distance. And I wished for a minute I was in one of them houses. Sitting there. Watching TV with a wife next to me.

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. . . .”

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.

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.