Jeffery Deaver - Twisted - The Collected Stories of Jeffery Deaver

He sat next to her at the bar and ordered a glass of Pinot Noir. Sniffed it with pleasure then clinked his glass to hers.

They sipped.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d be late,” she said. “Sometimes it’s hard to get off work when you want to.”

Another sniff of wine. “I pretty much control my own hours,” he said.

They chatted for a few minutes and then went to the hostess’s stand. The woman showed them to the table he’d reserved. A moment later they were seated next to the window. Spotlights on the outside of the restaurant shone down into the gray water; the sight troubled her at first, thinking about Jonathan in the deadly ocean, but she forced her thoughts away and concentrated on Dale.

They made small talk. He was divorced and had no children, though he’d always wanted them. She and Jonathan hadn’t had children either, she explained. Talking about the weather in Maine, about politics.

“Been shopping?” he asked, smiling. Nodding at the pink-and-white-striped bag she’d set beside her chair.

“Long underwear,” she joked. “It’s supposed to be a cold winter.”

They talked some more, finishing a bottle of wine, then had one more glass each, though it seemed to her that she drank more than he did.

She was getting tipsy. Watch out here, girl. Keep your wits about you.

But then she thought about Jonathan and drank down the glass.

Near ten P.M. he looked around the emptying restaurant. He fixed her with his eyes and said, “How about we go outside?”

Marissa hesitated. Okay, this is it, she thought to herself. You can leave, or you can go out there with him.

She thought of her resolution, she thought of Jonathan.

She said, “Yes. Let’s go.”

Outside, they walked side by side back to the deserted park she’d sat in earlier.

They came to the same bench and she nodded at it and they sat down, Dale close beside her. She felt his presence — the nearness of a strong man, which she hadn’t felt for some time now. It was thrilling, comforting and unsettling all at the same time.

They looked at the boat, the Maine Street, just visible through the trees.

They sat in silence for a few minutes, huddling against the cold.

Dale stretched. His arm went along the back of the bench, not quite around her shoulders, but she felt his muscles.

How strong he was, she reflected.

It was then that she glanced down and saw a twisted length of white rope protruding from his pocket, about to fall out.

She nodded at it. “You’re going to lose something.”

He glanced down. Picked it up, flexed the rope in his fingers. Unwound it. “Tool of the trade,” he said, looking at her querying frown.

Then he slipped it back into his pocket.

Dale looked back to the Maine Street, just visible through the trees, at the couple now out of the bedroom and sipping champagne again on the rear deck.

“That’s him in there, the handsome guy?” he asked.

“Yes,” Marissa said, “that’s my husband. That’s Jonathan.” She shivered again from the cold — and the disgust — as she watched him kiss the petite blonde.

She started to ask Dale if he was going to do it tonight — to murder her husband — but then decided that he, probably like most professional killers, would prefer to speak in euphemisms. She asked simply, “When’s it going to happen?”

They were now walking slowly away from the wharf; he’d seen what he needed to.

“When?” Dale asked. “Depends. That woman in there with him? Who’s she?”

“One of his little slut nurses. I don’t know. Karen, maybe.”

“She’s spending the night?”

“No. I’ve been spying on him for a month. He’ll kick her out about midnight. He can’t stand clinging mistresses. There’ll be another one tomorrow. But not before noon.”

Dale nodded. “Then I’ll do it tonight. After she leaves.” He glanced at Marissa. “I’ll handle it like I was telling you — after he’s asleep I’ll get on board, tie him up and take the boat out a few miles. Then I’ll make it look like he got tangled in the anchor line and went overboard. Has he been drinking much?”

“Is there water in the ocean?” she asked wryly.

“Good, that’ll help. Then I’ll drive the boat close to Huntington and take a raft back in. Just let her drift.” Nodding at the Maine Street.

“You always make it look like an accident?” Marissa asked, wondering if a question like this was breaking some kind of hit-man protocol.

“As often as I can. That job I did tonight I mentioned? It was taking care of a woman in Yarmouth. She’d been abusing her own kids. I mean, beating them. ‘Pests,’ she called them. Disgusting. She wouldn’t stop but the husband couldn’t get the children to say anything to the police. They didn’t want to get her in trouble.”

“God, how terrible.”

Dale nodded. “I’ll say. So the husband hired me. I made it look like that rapist from Upper Falls broke in and killed her.”

Marissa considered this. Then she asked, “Did you...? I mean, you were pretending to be a rapist...”

“Oh, God, no,” Dale said, frowning. “I’d never do that. I just made it look like I did. Believe me, it was pretty gross finding a used condom from behind that massage parlor on Knightsbridge Street.”

So hit men have standards, she reflected. At least some of them do.

She looked him over. “Aren’t you worried I’m a policewoman or anything? Trying to set you up? I mean, I just got your name out of that magazine, Worldwide Soldier. ”

“You do this long enough, you get a feel for who’re real customers and who aren’t. Anyway, I spent the last week checking you out. You’re legitimate.”

If a woman paying someone twenty-five thousand dollars to kill her husband can be called legitimate.

Speaking of which...

She took a thick envelope out of her pocket. Handed it to Dale. It disappeared into the pocket with the white rope.

“Dale... wait, your name’s not really Dale, is it?”

“No, but it’s the one I’m using for this job.”

“Okay, well, Dale, he won’t feel anything?” she asked. “No pain?”

“Not a thing. Even if he were conscious that water’s so cold he’ll probably pass out and die of shock before he drowns.”

They’d reached the end of the park. Dale asked, “You’re sure about doing this?”

And Marissa asked herself, Am I sure about wanting Jonathan dead?

Jonathan — the man who tells me he goes fishing with the boys every weekend but in truth takes his nurses out on the boat for his little trysts. Who spends our savings on them. Who announced a few years after getting married that he’d had a vasectomy and didn’t want the children he’d promised we’d have. Who speaks to me like a ten-year-old about his job or current events, never even hearing me say, “I understand, honey. I’m a smart woman.” Who nagged me into quitting a job I loved. Who flies into a rage every time I want to go back to work. Who complains whenever I wear sexy clothes in public but who stopped sleeping with me years ago. Who gets violent whenever I bring up divorce because a doctor at a teaching hospital needs a wife to get ahead... and because he’s a sick control freak.

Marissa Cooper suddenly pictured the shattered corpse of a rattlesnake lying bloody on a hot patch of yellow Texas sand so many years ago.

That’s too bad. I want him to go to hell...

“I’m sure,” she said.

Dale shook her hand and said, “I’ll take care of things from here. Go home. You should practice playing the grieving widow.”

“I can handle that,” Marissa said. “I’ve been a grieving wife for years.”