Jeffery Deaver - Twisted - The Collected Stories of Jeffery Deaver

Susan frowned. “I didn’t know about that one. Or that he’d hurt anybody else.”

“So we kept speculating, Sachs and Lon and I. We got a down-and-dirty warrant to check his phone calls and it turned out he’d called Musgrave a dozen times in the last couple of weeks. Lon checked on him and the word on the street is that he’s for-hire muscle. I figured that Dalton met somebody in jail who hooked him up with Musgrave.”

“He wouldn’t do anything to me while my father was alive,” Susan said and explained how it had been her dad who’d gotten the abusive man away from her.

The woman’s words were spoken to all of them, clustered in the snow around the van, but it was Carly’s eyes she gazed at. This was, in effect, a stark confession that her mother had been lying to her about her father for years and years.

“When the plan with Musgrave didn’t work out this afternoon, Dalton figured he’d do it himself.”

“But... no, no, no, not Dad!” Carly whispered. She stepped away from her mother, shivering, tears running down her red cheeks. “He... It can’t be true! He was so nice! He...”

Susan shook her head. “Honey, I’m sorry, but your father was a very sick man. He knew how to put on a perfect facade, he was a real charmer — until he decided he didn’t trust you or you did something he didn’t like.” She put her arm around her daughter. “Those trips he took to Asia? No, those were the times in the hospitals and jails. Remember I always said I was banging into things?”

“You were a klutz,” the girl said in a small voice. “You don’t mean—”

Susan nodded. “It was your father. He’d knock me down the stairs, he’d hit me with a rolling pin, extension cords, tennis rackets.”

Carly turned away and stared at the house. “You kept saying what a good man he was. And all I could think of was, well, if he was so damn good, why didn’t you want to get back together?”

“I wanted to protect you from the truth. I wanted you to have a loving father. But I couldn’t give you one — he hated me so much.”

But the girl was unmoved. Years of lies, even those offered for the best of motives, would take a long time to digest, let alone forgive.

If they could ever be forgiven.

There were voices from the doorway. The Nassau County coroner’s men were wheeling Anthony Dalton’s body out of the house.

“Honey,” Susan began. “I’m sorry. I—”

But the girl held up a hand to silence her mother. They watched as the body was loaded into the coroner’s van.

Susan wiped the tears from her face. She said, “Honey, I know this is too much for you... I know you’re mad. I don’t have any right to ask... but can you just do one thing to help me? I have to tell everybody coming to the party tomorrow that we’re canceling. It’ll get too late if I have to call them all myself.”

The girl stared as the van disappeared down the snowy street.

“Carly,” her mother whispered.

“No,” she answered her mother.

Her face flooding with resignation and pain, Susan nodded knowingly. “Sure, sweetheart, I understand. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t’ve asked. You go see Jake. You don’t have to—”

“That’s not what I mean,” the girl said bluntly. “I mean, we’re not canceling the party.”

“We can’t, not after—”

“Why not?” the girl asked. There was flint in her voice.

“But—”

“We’re going to have our party,” Carly said firmly. “We’ll find a room in a restaurant or hotel somewhere. It’s late but let’s start making some calls.”

“You think we could?” Susan asked.

“Yes,” the girl said, “we can.”

Susan too invited the three of them to the party.

“I may have other commitments,” Rhyme said quickly. “I’ll have to check my schedule.”

“We’ll see,” Sachs told her coyly.

Eyes wet with tears, mouth unsmiling, Carly thanked Rhyme, Sachs and Thom.

The two women returned to the house, daughter helping mother up the steep path. They moved in silence. The girl was angry, Rhyme could see. And numb. But she hadn’t walked away from her mother. A lot of people would have.

The door to the house closed with a loud snap, carried through the compact, cold air.

“Hey, anybody want to drive around and look at the decorations on the houses?” Thom asked.

Sachs and Rhyme looked at each other. The criminalist said, “I think we’ll pass. How ’bout we get back to the city? Look at the hour. It’s late. Forty-five minutes till Christmas. Doesn’t the time fly when you’re doing good deeds?”

Thom repeated, “Humbug.” But he said it cheerfully.

Sachs kissed Rhyme. “I’ll see you back home,” she said and walked toward the Camaro as Thom swung the door of the van shut. In tandem, the two vehicles started down the snowy street.

“A few people, a very few people’re lucky enough to find a special kind of love. A love that’s... more. That goes beyond anything that ever was.”

“I suppose so.”

“I know so. Allison and me, we’re in that category.” Manko’s voice then dropped to a discreet whisper as he looked at me with his barracks-buddy’s grin. “I’ve had a barrelful of women. You know me, Frankie boy. You know I’ve been around.”

Manko was in the mood to perform and all I could do was play both straight man and audience. “So you’ve said, Mr. M.”

“Those other girls, looking back, some of ’em were lovers. And some were just, you know, for the night. Wham, bam. That sort of thing. But till I met Allison, I didn’t understand what love was all about.”

“It’s a transcendent love.”

“Transcendent.” He tasted the word, nodding slowly. “What’s that mean?”

Just after I’d met Manko I’d learned that while he was poorly read and generally uninformed, he never hesitated to own up to his ignorance, which a lot of smart people never do. That had been my first clue as to the kind of man he was.

“It’s exactly what you’re describing,” I explained. “A love that rises above what you normally see and experience.”

“Yeah. I like that, Frankie boy. Transcendent. That says it. That’s what we’ve got. You ever love anyone that way?”

“Sort of. A long time ago.” This was partially true. But I said nothing more. Although I considered Manko a friend in some ways, our souls were worlds apart and I wasn’t going to share my deepest personal life with him. Not that it mattered, for at the moment he was more interested in speaking about the woman who was the center of his own solar system.

“Allison Morgan. Allison Kimberly Morgan. Her father gave her a nickname. Kimmie. But that’s crap. It’s a kid’s name. And one thing she isn’t is a kid.”

“Has a Southern sound to it.” I’m a native of North Carolina and went to school with a bevy of Sally Mays and Cheryl Annes.

“It does, yeah. But she’s not. She’s from Ohio. Born and bred.” Manko glanced at his watch and stretched. “It’s late. Almost time to meet her.”

“Allison?”

He nodded and smiled the trademarked, toothy Manko smile. “I mean, you’re cute in your own way, Frank, but if I gotta choose between the two of you...”

I laughed and repressed a yawn. It was late — eleven-twenty P.M. An unusual hour for me to be finishing dinner but not to be engaged in conversation over coffee. Not having an Allison of my own to hurry home to, or anyone other than a cat, I often watched the clock slip past midnight or one A.M. in the company of friends.

Manko pushed aside the dinner dishes and poured more coffee.

“I’ll be awake all night,” I protested mildly.