Twisted

talking on a cell phone. He nodded unhappily; whoever was speaking on the other end of the line was delivering bad news.
    Carolyn slipped the nozzle into her gas tank and set the catch on the handle. She stood up, felt a chill. She was wearing her beige Evan Picone suit, low cut, no blouse, and a short skirt. With some satisfaction she noticed the customer’s eyes lift from the asphalt and scan her body. Even though there was something crude about him—the craggy face, themeaty hands—he was dressed well. A smooth gray suit and a dark trench coat with lots of flaps. His car was a Lincoln, golden brown. It cost, she figured, about the same as hers. She approved of men in expensive cars.
    The nozzle snapped off and she went inside to pay.
    A cup of black coffee, a roll of Lifesavers. Pep-O-Mint. Without a hint of recognition, the young clerk looked up from his portable TV only long enough to glance at her chest while he gave her the change; maybe it was just her face he didn’t recognize.
    She stepped back outside, glancing at the man with the Lincoln as he tossed his phone on the seat of the car and reached into his pocket, fishing for money. He glanced toward her again.
    Then he froze. His eyes went wide, focusing just past her.
    And she felt an arm snake around her waist, felt cold metal at her ear.
    “Oh, God . . .”
    “Shut up, lady,” a young man’s voice stuttered in her ear. He was nervous and smelled of whisky. “We’re gonna get in your car and drive. You scream, you’re dead.”
    Carolyn had never been mugged. She’d lived in Chicago and New York City and briefly in Paris but the only time she’d ever been physically threatened, the perpetrator hadn’t been a crook but the wife of the man who lived across the hall from her on the Left Bank. She was now paralyzed with fear.
    As the mugger dragged her toward her car she stammered, “Please, just take the keys.”
    “No way, babe. I want you’s much as I want your wheels.”
    “Please, no!” she moaned. “I’ll give you a lot of money. I’ll—”
    “Shut up. You’re coming with me.”
    “No, she’s not.” Lincoln Man had walked up to the passenger side of her Lexus. He was standing between them and the car. His eyes were steady. He didn’t seem afraid. The skinny kid, on the other hand, seemed terrified. He shoved the gun forward. “Get the hell outa the way, mister. Nobody’ll get hurt, you do what I say.”
    The man said calmly, “You want the car, take the car. Take my car. It’s new. Got twelve thousand miles on it.” He held up the keys.
    “I’m taking her and her car and you’re getting outa my way. I don’t want to shoot you.” The gun wavered. He was a scrawny young guy, backwoods, with dishwater-brown hair in a snaky ponytail.
    Lincoln Man smiled and continued to talk calmly. “Look, friend. Carjacking’s no big deal. But a kidnapping or rape count? Forget about it. You’ll go away forever.”
    “Get the hell out of my way!” his voice crackled. He moved forward a few feet, forcing Carolyn along with him. She was whimpering. Hated herself for it but she had no control.
    Lincoln Man stood his ground and the kid shoved the gun directly into his face.
    What happened next happened fast.
    She saw:
    Lincoln Man turning his palms toward the mugger in a gesture of surrender, stepping back slightly.
    The passenger door swinging open and the kid shoving her inside. (Carolyn, thinking crazily: I’ve never been in the passenger seat of my car before, the seat’s too far forward, I’ll tear my panty hose. . . .)
    The mugger walking around the front of the car to the driver’s side of the Lexus, forcing Lincoln Man—hands still raised—out of the way.
    Carolyn glanced hopelessly into the gas station window. The young attendant was still behind the counter, still eating potato chips, still watching Roseanne on the tiny TV.
    The mugger started to climb into the car, then paused, looking back, realizing the nozzle was still in the gas tank of the car.
    Then Lincoln Man was lunging, grabbing the mugger’s gun hand. He gasped in surprise and fought fiercely to free his hand.
    But Lincoln Man was stronger. Carolyn pushed open her door and sprang out as the two men tumbled onto the hood of the Lexus and grappled for the gun. Lincoln Man banged his opponent’s wrist onto the windshield several times and the black pistol flew from his grasp. Carolyn squinted as it landed at her feet. The gun didn’t go off.
    She’d