Jonathan Kellerman - Twisted

She studied the turn of his wrists. Thin, for a man. Long, delicate fingers. He should’ve played an instrument. She realized she’d never heard him hum, or sing or express any interest in music.

The shower had loosened his shoulder bandage and he’d redressed the wound with ointment from his backpack, then popped an antibiotic. Petra thought the three-inch gash a lot more than “nothing.” Ragged and puffy, surrounded by puckered, reddened flesh. Horrible. What would his leg look like?

She said, “Why’d you cut the trip short?”

“To see you.”

“I wish.”

“It’s true,” he said.

“Maybe partially true. Tell me the whole thing.”

It had gone down this way: Eric, an Israeli security officer, and three other foreign cops- an Englishman, an Australian, and a Belgian- sitting at the café on Hayarkon Street with iced coffees and soft drinks and, in the Englishman’s case, lots of beer. Ninety degrees in Tel Aviv, with equivalent humidity. You showered, dried off, were drenched moments later.

The five of them had been training all day, watching footage, reviewing Interpol data, scanning partially declassified documents. The other cops were miserable, hated Tel Aviv.

Eric didn’t mind the city. He’d been there twice before, a few years ago, running errands for the American embassy. Courier service from Riyadh to Israel via Amman, Jordan. Tight little packages, no idea what they were, but he got through Customs everywhere with no explanation. Later, he’d explored this very street, taking in the cheap beach hotels, the bars and clubs and restaurants, Thai and Romanian hookers doing the stroll.

Lots of embassies nearby. Prostitutes and diplomats, there was a match for you.

When the Israeli went off to fetch more drinks, the other policemen started in again about how much they despised the entire damn country. Too noisy, too humid, the food was too spicy, Israelis were rude.

“Too you-know-what,” said the Belgian. Obnoxious by nature, anti-Semitic by choice, he was ready to display his biases the moment the Israeli security guy’s head was turned. Smirks, grimaces, tugs at the nose. Sotto voce comments about Arabs and Jews all being sand-jockeys, why not just let them blow each other to smithereens.

This was the guy Brussels had sent to work on international security cooperation. Back home, he’d been a police bureaucrat, before that an Army officer.

Belgian Army officer, when was the last time the Belgians had fought anyone? Probably back in the fifties when they were slaughtering Congolese.

Yesterday, when the Belgian and Eric were alone, both of them urinating in a men’s room at police headquarters on French Hill in Jerusalem, the Belgian aimed his wienie away from the urinal and began spraying the floor. Laughing and saying, “I piss on all of them.”

When the first bomber showed up, the Israeli officer was still off ordering refills. Eric would forever swear he’d smelled the asshole before he actually saw him. Felt his fear, an instant flick of some primeval nerve filament.

Whatever the reason, he’d been the first to catch on.

Turning and watching the guy wend his way through the tables. Young, pudgy, hair spiked up and blond-tipped to look like an Israeli beach bum.

But wrong. The long, black coat in ninety-degree weather. The sweating, the warp-speed eyes.

Eric said, “We’ve got trouble,” and cocked his head and prepared to move.

The Belgian said, “This whole fucking country is troub- ”

Eric got up. Slowly, casually. Taking his empty glass in hand, as if ready for replenishment.

The asshole in the coat got closer.

The Australian and the Belgian were oblivious but the Englishman followed Eric’s sidelong glance and caught on right away. He started to rise, the unspoken message: flank him, take him down together.

Alcohol had dulled his responses and his foot caught in the leg of his chair and he lurched forward.

The Belgian laughed, said something in French.

Eric swiveled slowly, careful not to make eye contact with the bomber.

Ten feet between them, five. Eric knew what the bastard was doing: positioning himself in the middle of the crowd, wanting to maximize the slaughter.

Now they were brushing elbows. Now he really could smell the guy, putrid with anticipation.

Wild eyes. Lips moving, some sort of silent prayer.

Acne on his forehead and chin, dirt creases in his neck. A kid, twenty, tops.

The Belgian said something else. Louder. Eric knew enough French to make it out. “Hot as hell and the idiots dress like Polish refugees.”

The guy in the coat might’ve caught the disdain in the comment because he stopped. Glared at the Belgian. Reached inside his coat.

The Belgian started to catch on. Turned white. Blinked and stared and peed his pants.

Eric sprang, hit Black Coat hard in the throat with his right hand, used his left to twist the asshole’s arm. Up and back. Way back, hard. He heard bones snap. The guy’s eyes bugged and he screamed.

Fell.

His coat flapped open. Big, thick, black vest around his torso. Tug-wire at the bottom.

Trying to reach it, Eric ripped the asshole’s shoulder joint, stomped on the free hand and broke it. Stomped on the guy’s chest, too, hearing ribs snap.

The bomber’s eyes rolled back.

Someone said, “What’s going on?”

The tail end of the question was drowned out by screaming.

Scattering, upending chairs and tables. Glass shattered. Plates of food slid to the ground as people bolted in panic.

The bomber wasn’t moving.

Thank God it was over.

Then the Englishman said “Shit,” and this time it was Eric’s turn to follow his eyes.

To the periphery of the fleeing crowd. Another long-coated figure, same approximate age, smaller, thinner, dark-haired. Olive-drab coat, Israeli Army surplus.

Too many people between them to do anything.

Number Two shouted and reached into his coat.

Eric threw himself to the ground.

Hell arrived.

Eric had told the story quickly, in the flat voice that Petra had once considered weird.

He got out of bed, went to the kitchen, came back with two glasses of water, handed her one.

Her head was still full of horror. “Sorry if I pushed you- ”

“As far as the department knows I’m on my way to Morocco. The whole thing was a fraud- security cooperation. The Europeans were clowns, it was just a p.r. exercise. After the bombing, we were all called into the U.S. embassy. A bunch of envoys, each of our countries, wearing expensive suits and shit-eating grins, presenting us with citations. The American was an Ivy League twerp who informed us the take-down was going to be spun as a collaborative effort. The smoothly oiled international team working in concert.”

“Including the Belgian,” said Petra.

“The Belgian was already wearing a medal his envoy had given him. Velvet box and all. They must keep them in stock.”

He rolled toward Petra. “I left before they got to me. Packed up and found a flight and here I am.”

“When will you tell the department?”

“Don’t know if I need to.”

She stared at him.

He said, “I’ve been thinking about leaving for a while. Except for you, I’m not happy. For a long time I figured I never would be happy but now I’m thinking there’s a chance.”

He kissed her lips very lightly.

She swung her arm over his shoulder, pressed his head down onto her breasts.

“There’s more than a chance,” she said.

“My quitting,” he said. “You wouldn’t mind?”

“Why would I mind? Who better than me to know what you mean about the job?”