More Twisted

to hit bone. A tattoo there was more than body painting; it was a defiant reminder that pain was nothing to the wearer.
    “Trouble?”
    “Your parents can cause you grief after they’re dead.”
    Any psychiatrist’d tell you that, Sloan thought, but decided that this was a bit too clever for Greg.
    The young man rubbed his massive hand over his glistening crew cut. That was quite a scar he had. Another one was on his opposite arm. “There was this thing happened a few years ago.”
    “What was that?” Bill asked.
    Sloan noticed that Agnes had shredded the napkin she was holding.
    “Well, I’m not inclined to go into specifics with strangers,” he said, irritated.
    “I’m sorry,” Bill said quickly.
    “I’m just making a point. Which is that somebody whowas dead was still causing me problems. I could see it real clear. A bitch when she was alive, a bitch when she was dead. God gave her a troublemaker’s soul. You believe in God, Sloan?”
    “No.”
    Agnes stirred. Sloan glanced at three crucifixes on the wall.
    “I believe in selling. That’s about it.”
    “That’s your soul then. Warmed to ninety-eight point six.” A rubbery grin. “Since you’re still alive.”
    “And what’s your soul like, Greg? Good, bad?”
    “Well, I’m not a welcher,” he said coyly. “Beyond that, you’ll have to guess. I don’t give as much away as you do.”
    The lights dimmed. Another dip in the power.
    “Look at that,” Greg said. “Maybe it’s the souls of some family hanging around here, playing with the lights. Whatta you think, Bill?”
    “I don’t know. Maybe.”
    “A family that died here,” Greg mused. “Anybody die here that you know of, Bill?”
    Agnes swallowed hard. Bill took a sip from a glass of what looked like flat soda. His hands shook.
    The lights came back on full. Greg looked around the place. “Whatta you think this house’s worth, Sloan?”
    “I don’t know,” he answered calmly, growing tired of the baiting. “I sell computers, remember? Not houses.”
    “I’m thinking a cool two hundred thousand.”
    The noise again from behind the door. It was louder this time, audible over the moaning of the air conditioner. A scraping, a thud.
    The three people in the room looked toward the door.Agnes and Bill were uneasy. Nobody said a word about the sound.
    “Where’ve you been selling your computers?” Greg asked.
    “I was in Durrant today. Now I’m heading east.”
    “Times’re slow ’round here. People out of work, right, Bill?”
    “Hard times.”
    “Hard times here, hard times everywhere.” Greg seemed drunk but Sloan smelled no liquor and noticed that the only alcohol in sight was a corked bottle of New York State port and a cheap brandy, sitting safely behind a greasy-windowed breakfront. “Hard times for salesmen too, I’ll bet. Even salesmen who can sell anything, like you.”
    Sloan calmly asked, “Something about me you don’t like, Greg?”
    “Why, no.” But the man’s steely eyes muttered the opposite. “Where’d you get that idea?”
    “It’s the heat,” Agnes said quickly, playing mediator. “I was watching this show on the news. CNN. About what the heat’s doing. Rioting in Detroit, forest fires up near Saginaw. It’s making people act crazy.”
    “Crazy?” Greg asked. “Crazy?”
    “I didn’t mean you,” she said fast.
    Greg turned to Sloan. “Let’s ask Mr. Salesman here if I’m acting crazy.”
    Sloan figured he could have the boy on his back in a stranglehold in four or five minutes, but there’d be some serious damage to the tacky nicknacks. And the police’d come and there’d be all sorts of complications.
    “Well, how ’bout it?”
    “Nope, you don’t seem crazy to me.”
    “You’re saying that ’cause you don’t want a hassle. Maybe you don’t have a salesman’s soul. Maybe you’ve got a liar’s soul . . .” He rubbed his face with both hands. “Damn, I’ve sweated a gallon.”
    Sloan sensed control leaving the man. He noticed a gun rack on the wall. There were two rifles in it. He judged how fast he could get there. Was Bill stupid enough to leave an unlocked, loaded gun on the rack? Probably.
    “Let me tell you something—” Greg began ominously, tapping the sweaty arms of the chair with blunt fingers.
    The doorbell rang.
    No one moved for a moment. Then Greg rose and walked to it, opened the door.
    A husky man with long hair stood in the doorway. “Somebody called for a tow?”
    “That’d be