Jeffery Deaver - Twisted - The Collected Stories of Jeffery Deaver

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.

At 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.