Twisted: The Collected Stories (40 page)

Susan Thompson climbed out of Rich Musgrave’s Malibu. The large, handsome man was holding the door for her. She took his hand and he eased her to her feet; her shoulder and knee still ached fiercely from the spill she’d taken on the ice that morning.

“What a day,” she said, sighing.

“I don’t mind getting pulled over by the cops,” Rich said, laughing. “I could’ve done without the guns, though.”

Carrying all her shopping bags in one hand, he helped her to the front door. They walked carefully over the three-inch blanket of fine snow.

“You want to come in? Carly’s here—that’s her car. You can watch me prostrate myself in front of her and apologize for being such a bozo. I could’ve sworn I left that note on the table.”

“I think I’ll let you run the gauntlet on your own.” Rich was divorced too and was spending Christmas eve with his two sons at his place in Armonk. He needed to pick them up soon. She thanked him again for everything and apologized once more for the scare with the police. He’d been a nice guy about the whole thing. But, as she fished her keys out of her purse and watched him walk back to the car, she reflected that there was no doubt the relationship wasn’t going anywhere. What was the problem? Susan wondered. Rough edges, she supposed. She wanted a gentleman. She wanted somebody who
was kind, who had a sense of humor. Somebody who could make her laugh.

She waved good-bye and stepped into the house, pulled the door shut behind her.

Carly had already started on the decorations, bless her, and Susan smelled something cooking in the kitchen. Had the girl made dinner? This was a first. She looked into the den and blinked in surprise. Carly’d decked out the room beautifully, garlands, ribbons, candles. And on the coffee table was a big plate of cheese and crackers, a bowl of nuts, fruit, two glasses sitting beside a bottle of California sparkling wine. The girl was nineteen, but Susan let her have some wine when they were home alone.

“Honey, how wonderful!”

“Mom,” Carly called, walking to the doorway. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

The girl was carrying a baking dish. Inside were some hot canapés. She set it on the table and hugged her mother.

Susan threw her arms around the girl, ignoring the pain from the fall that morning. She apologized for the mistake about the note and for making her daughter worry so much. The girl, though, just laughed it off.

“Is it true that policeman’s in a wheelchair?” Susan asked. “He can’t move?”

“He’s not a policeman anymore. He’s kind of a consultant. But, yeah, he’s paralyzed.”

Carly went on to explain about Lincoln Rhyme and how they’d found her and Rich Musgrave. Then she wiped her hands on her apron and took it off.
“Mom, I want to give you one of your presents tonight.”

“Tonight? Are we starting a new tradition?”

“Maybe we are.”

“Well, okay . . .” Then Susan took the girl’s arm. “In that case, let me give you mine first.” She got her purse from the table and dug inside. She found the small velvet box. “This is what I got out of the safe deposit box this morning.”

She handed it to the girl, who opened it. Her eyes went wide. “Oh, Mom . . .”

It was an antique diamond and emerald ring.

“This was—”

“Grandma’s. Her engagement ring.” Susan nodded. “I wanted you to have something special. I know you’ve had a rough time lately, honey. I’ve been too busy at work. I haven’t been as nice to Jake as I should. And some of the men I’ve dated . . . well, I know you didn’t like them that much.” A laughing whisper. “Of course,
I
didn’t like them that much either. I’m resolving not to date losers anymore.”

Carly frowned. “Mom, you’ve never dated losers. . . . More like semi-losers.”

“That’s even worse! I couldn’t even find a red-blooded, full-fledged loser to date!”

Carly hugged her mother again and put the ring on. “It’s so beautiful.”

“Merry Christmas, honey.”

“Now, time for your present.”

“I think I like our new tradition.”

Her daughter instructed, “Sit down. Close your eyes. I’m going outside to get it.”

“All right.”

“Sit on the couch right there.”

She sat and closed her eyes tight.

“Don’t peek.”

“I won’t.” Susan heard the front door open and close. A moment later she frowned, hearing the sound of a car engine starting. Was it Carly’s? Was she leaving?

But then she heard footsteps behind her. The girl must have come back in through the kitchen door.

“Well, can I look now?”

“Sure,” said a man’s voice.

Susan jumped in surprise. She turned and found herself staring at her ex-husband. He carried a large box with a ribbon on it.

“Anthony . . .” she began.

Dalton sat on the chair across from her. “Been a long time, hasn’t it?”

“What are you doing here?”

“When Carly thought you were missing, I went over to that cop’s place to be with her. We were worried about you. We got to talking and, well, that’s her Christmas present to you and me: getting us together tonight and just seeing what happens.”

“Where is she?”

“She went to her boyfriend’s to spend the night with him.” He smiled. “We’ve got the whole evening ahead of us. All alone. Just like the old days.”

Susan started to rise. But Anthony stood up fast and swung his palm into her face with a jarring slap. She fell back on the couch. “You get up when I tell you to,” he said cheerfully, smiling down at her. “Merry Christmas, Susan. It’s good to see you again.”

She looked toward the door.

“Don’t even think about it.” He opened the sparkling wine and poured two glasses. He offered her one. She shook her head. “Take it.”

“Please, Anthony, just—”

“Take the goddamn glass,” he hissed.

Susan did, her hand shaking violently. As they touched flutes, memories from when they were married flooded back to her: His sarcasm, his rage. And, of course, the beatings.

Oh, but he’d been clever. He never hurt her in front of people. He was especially careful around Carly. Like the psychopath that he was, Anthony Dalton was the model father to the girl. And the model husband to the world.

Nobody knew the source of her bruises, cuts, broken fingers . . .

“Mommy’s such a klutz,” Susan would tell young Carly, fighting back the tears. “I fell down the stairs again.”

She’d long ago given up trying to understand what made Anthony tick. A troubled childhood, a glitch in the brain? She didn’t know and after a year of marriage she didn’t care. Her only goal was to get out. But she’d been too terrified to go to the police. Finally, in desperation, she’d turned to her father for help. The burly man owned several construction companies in New York and he had “connections.” She’d confessed to him what had happened and her father took charge of the problem. He had two associates from Brooklyn, armed
with baseball bats and a gun, pay Anthony a visit. The threats, and a lot of money, had bought her freedom from the man, who reluctantly agreed to a divorce, to give up custody of Carly and not to hurt Susan again,

But, with terror flooding through her now, she realized why he was here tonight. Her father had passed away last spring.

Her protector was gone.

“I love Christmas, don’t you?” Anthony Dalton mused, drinking more wine.

“What do you want?” she asked in a quivering voice.

“I can never get too much of the music.” He walked to the stereo and turned it on. “Silent Night” was playing. “Did you know that it was first played on guitar? Because the church organ was broken.”

“Please, just leave.”

“The music . . . I like the decorations too.”

She started to stand but he rose fast, slapping her again. “Sit down,” he whispered, the soft sound more frightening than if he’d screamed.

Tears filled her eyes and she held her hand to her stinging cheek.

A boyish laugh. “And presents! We all love presents. . . . Don’t you want to see what I got you?”

“We are not getting back together, Anthony. I do not want you in my life again.”

“Why would I want someone like
you
in my life? What an ego . . .” He looked her over, smiling faintly, with his placid blue eyes. She remembered this too—how calm he could be. Sometimes even when he was beating her.

“Anthony, there’s no harm so far, nobody’s been hurt.”

“Shhhh.”

Without his seeing, her hand slipped to her jacket pocket where she’d put her cell phone. She’d turned it back on after the mix-up with Carly earlier. She didn’t, however, think she could hit 911 without looking. But her finger found the “send” button. By pressing it twice the phone would call the last number dialed. Rich Musgrave’s. She hoped his phone was still on and that he’d hear what was happening. He’d call the police. Or possibly even return to the house. Anthony wouldn’t dare hurt her in front of a witness—and Rich was a large man and looked very strong. He outweighed her ex by fifty pounds.

She pressed the button now. After a moment she said, “You’re scaring me, Anthony. Please leave.”

“Scaring you?”

“I’ll call the police.”

“If you stand up I’ll break your arm. Are we clear on that?”

She nodded, terrified but thankful, at least, that if Rich was listening, he would have heard this exchange and probably be calling the police now.

Dalton looked under the tree. “Is
my
present there?” He browsed through the packages, seeming disappointed that there was none with his name on it.

She recalled this too: One minute he’d be fine. The next, completely out of touch with reality. He’d been hospitalized three times when they were married. Susan remembered telling Carly that her
father had to go to Asia on monthlong business trips.

“Nothing for poor me,” he said, standing back from the tree.

Susan’s jaw trembled. “I’m sorry. If I’d known—”

“It’s a joke, Susan,” he said. “Why would you get me anything? You didn’t love me when we were married; you don’t love me now. The important thing is that I got
you
something. After the scare about what’d happened to you this afternoon I went shopping. I wanted to find just the right present.”

Dalton drank down more wine and refilled his glass. He eyed her carefully. “Probably better if you stay snuggled in right where you are. I’ll open it for you.”

Her eyes glanced at the box. It had been carelessly wrapped—by him, of course—and he ripped the paper off roughly. He lifted out something cylindrical, made of metal.

“It’s a camping heater. Carly said you’d taken that up. Hiking, out-of-doors . . . Interesting that you never liked to do anything fun when we were married.”

“I never liked to do anything with
you,”
she said angrily. “You’d beat me up if I said the wrong thing or didn’t do what you’d told me.”

Ignoring her words, he handed her the heater. Then he took out something else. A red can. On the side:
Kerosene.
“Of course,” Anthony continued, frowning, “that’s one
bad
thing about Christmas . . . lot of accidents this time of year. You read that article in
USA Today
? Fires, particularly. Lot of people die in fires.”

He glanced at the warning label and took a cigarette lighter from his pocket.

“Oh, God, no! . . . Please. Anthony.”

It was then that Susan heard a car’s brakes squeal outside. The police? Or was it Rich?

Or was it her imagination?

Anthony was busying himself taking the lid off the kerosene.

Yes, there were definitely footsteps on the walk. Susan prayed it wasn’t Carly.

Then the doorbell rang. Anthony looked toward the front door, startled.

And as he did, Susan flung the champagne glass into his face with all her strength and leapt to her feet, sprinting for the door. She glanced behind her to see Anthony stumbling backward. The glass had broken and cut his chin. “Goddamn bitch!” he roared, starting for her.

But she had a good head start and flung the door open.

Rich Musgrave stood there, eyes wide in shock. “What?”

“It’s my ex!” she gasped. “He’s trying to kill me!”

“Jesus,” Rich said. He put his arm around her. “Don’t worry, Susan.”

“We have to get away! Call the police.”

She took his hand and started to flee into the front yard.

But Rich didn’t move. What the hell was he doing? Did he want to
fight
? This was no time for any chivalry crap. “Please, Rich. We have to run!”

Then she felt his hand tighten on hers. The grip
became excruciating. His other hand took her by the waist and he turned her around. He shoved her back inside. “Yo, Anthony,” Rich called, laughing. “Lose something?”