More Twisted

hating, set in places with atmosphere carefully described. Short stories are like a sniper’s bullet. Fast and shocking. In a story, I can make good bad and bad badder and, the most fun of all, really bad seem good.
    The title of my anthologies ( Twisted was the first) is no coincidence. To me, that big oh-my-God surprise is what short stories are all about. A few years ago I wrote a book about a psychotic illusionist and I realized that the novel was, in some ways, about me (as a writer, let me add quickly, not as a psycho or a magician). In researching the book I learned a lot about sleight of hand, misdirection, diversion and illusion, and I understood that those tricks are exactly what I’ve been doing for years to lull my readers into complacency and then, bang, zing ’em when they least expect it.
    While they’re watching my left hand, my right is getting ready to strike.
    Since that first collection was published in 2003, I’ve kept up my guilty pleasure of taking off a day or two here and there and writing more stories, all of which adhere to the philosophy I mention above: throw morality and sentiment out the window, and go for the gut-wrenching twist.
    In this collection, like my previous one, you’ll find a wide variety of stories, which incorporate my favorite themes: revenge, lust, psychosis, betrayal and greed, along with a healthy (so to speak) dose of family dysfunction. There’s one story set in Italy and one in VictorianEngland. One features a slick lawyer in a small town and another finds gullible tourists in a big one. You’ll see Peeping Toms, remorseless murderers, my own take on The Da Vinci Code and even a story about—who’d’ve thought?—an author who writes suspense.
    And for those who’d like an insight into tricks of the trade, I’ve included in an afterword a short piece about one of the stories here (“Afraid”), which I wrote as an illustration of how I incorporate the concept of fear into my fiction. I’ve placed it at the end, so as not to give away any susprises.
    Finally, a word of thanks to those who’ve encouraged me to write these stories, particularly Janet Hutchins and her inestimable Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, Marty Greenberg, Otto Penzler, Deborah Schneider, David Rosenthal, Marysue Rucci and, as always, Madelyn Warcholik.
    So, sit back and enjoy—and see if you can outguess me. Keep your eye on my right hand.
    Or do I mean left?
    —J.W.D.

C HAPTER AND V ERSE

    R everend . . . can I call you ‘Reverend’?”
    The round, middle-aged man in the clerical collar smiled. “That works for me.”
    “I’m Detective Mike Silverman with the County Sheriff’s Department.”
    Reverend Stanley Lansing nodded and examined the ID and badge that the nervously slim, salt-and-pepper–haired detective offered.
    “Is something wrong?”
    “Nothing involving you, sir. Not directly, I mean. Just hoping you might be able to help us with a situation we have.”
    “Situation. Hmm. Well, come on inside, please, Officer . . .”
    The men walked into the office connected to the First Presbyterian Church of Bedford, a quaint, white house of worship that Silverman had passed a thousand times on his route between office and home and never really thought about.
    That is, not until the murder this morning.
    Reverend Lansing’s office was musty and a gauze of dust covered most of the furniture. He seemed embarrassed.“Have to apologize. My wife and I’ve been away on vacation for the past week. She’s still up at the lake. I came back to write my sermon—and to deliver it to my flock this Sunday, of course.” He gave a wry laugh. “ If there’s anybody in the pews. Funny how religious commitment seems to go up around Christmas and then dip around vacation time.” Then the man of the cloth looked around the office with a frown. “And I’m afraid I don’t have anything to offer you. The church secretary’s off too. Although between you and me, you’re better off not sampling her coffee.”
    “No, I’m fine,” Silverman said.
    “So, what can I do for you, Officer?”
    “I won’t keep you long. I need some religious expertise on a case we’re running. I would’ve gone to my father’s rabbi but my question’s got to do with the New Testament. That’s your bailiwick, right? More than ours.”
    “Well,” the friendly, gray-haired reverend said, wiping his glasses on his jacket lapel and replacing them, “I’m just a small-town pastor, hardly