More Twisted

alive!”
    The detective rose, pulled the scattergun out of Fletcher’s lifeless hands and trotted over to the author. Fletcher had shot him and he was unconscious.
    “Andy, stay with us!” Altman called, pressing his hand onto the bloody wound in the author’s belly. Over the crest of the road the detective could see the flashing lights and hear the sirens, growing steadily louder. Heleaned down and whispered into the man’s ear, “Hang in there! You’ll be all right, you’ll be all right, you’ll be all right . . .”

    His book had saved his life, the author was explaining with a laugh that turned into a wince.
    It was the next morning, and Quentin Altman and Carter’s wife—a handsome, middle-aged blonde—were standing at his bedside in Greenville Hospital. Fletcher’s bullet had missed vital organs but had snapped a rib and the author was in major pain despite the happy pills he’d been given.
    Carter told them what had happened last evening: “Fletcher says let’s go to dinner—he knew some good barbecue place in the country. We were driving along this deserted road and I was talking about Two Deaths and said that this was just the sort of road I had in mind when I wrote that scene where the Hunter was stalking the first victim after he sees her at McDonald’s. Then, Fletcher said that he pictured that road being in cornfields, not forests.”
    “But he said he hadn’t read the book,” Altman said.
    “Exactly . . . . He realized he’d screwed up. He got real quiet for a minute, and I was thinking something’s wrong. I was even going to jump out of the car. But then he pulls his gun out and I grab it but he still shoots me. I reach over with my foot and slam on the brake. We go off the road and he slams his head into the window or something. I grab the gun and roll out of the car. I’m heading for the bushes to hide in but I see him getting the shotgun from the trunk. He starts toward me and I shoot him.”He shook his head. “Man, if it hadn’t been for the book, what he said about it, I never would’ve known what he was going to do.”
    Since Altman was involved in the incident, the investigation of the shooting went to another detective, who reported that the forensics bore out Carter’s story. There was GSR—gunshot residue—on Fletcher’s hand, which meant he’d fired the pistol, and a bullet with Carter’s blood on it embedded in the cruiser passenger door. Evidence also proved that Fletcher was indeed the Greenville Strangler. The sergeant’s fingerprints were all over the mallet and a search of the sergeant’s house revealed several items—stockings and lingerie—that had been taken from the homes of the victims. Murdering Howard Desmond and trying to murder Andy Carter—well, those had been to cover up his original crimes. But what had been the sergeant’s motive for killing the two women in Greenville? Maybe the anger at being left by his wife had boiled over. Maybe he’d had a secret affair with one of the victims, which had turned sour, and he’d decided to stage her death as a random act of violence. Maybe someday an answer would come to light.
    Or maybe, Altman reflected, unlike in a mystery novel, they’d never know what had driven the man to step over the edge into the dark world of the killers he’d once hunted.
    It was then that Wallace Gordon loped into the hospital room, saying, “Hot off the presses.” He handed a copy of the Tribune to Carter. On the front page was Wallace’s story about the solving of the Greenville Strangler case.
    “Keep that,” Wallace said. “A souvenir.”
    Thanking him, Carter’s wife folded the paper up and set it aside with the stiff gesture of someone who has no interest in memorabilia about a difficult episode in one’s life.
    Quentin Altman walked to the door and, just as he was about to leave, paused. He turned back. “Oh, one thing, Andy—how’s that book of yours end? Do the police ever find the Hunter?”
    Carter caught himself as he was about to answer. The author gave a grin. “You know, Detective—you want to find that out, I’m afraid you’re just going to have to buy yourself a copy.”

    Several days later Andrew Carter slipped out of his bed, where he’d lain, wide-awake, for the past three hours. It was two a.m.
    He glanced at the quiescent form of his sleeping wife and—with the help of his cane—limped to his closet, where he found and pulled on an old pair of faded jeans,