Twisted

together. There was nothing kinky about him, nothing odd. He was simply, well, overwhelming. That was the only way she could describe it. His strong arms around her, his large body atop hers . . .
    As they lay now in the warm, cheap bed, she watched his chest rising and falling. There was a nasty scar on it, clearly visible beneath the black, curly hair. She wanted to ask him about it but couldn’t bring herself to.
    “Lawrence?”
    He glanced at her cautiously. This was the revered moment after coupling. A risky time. Certain conventions had to be followed. Honesty was dangerous but sincerity a must. Synonyms for commitment and love and the future —if not those words themselves—had ruined many rosy evenings.
    But Carolyn’s mind wasn’t on any of those matters. She was picturing the black gun in her glove compartment and the high, frantic voice of the man who’d nearly kidnapped her.
    “What do you do for a living now?” she asked him.
    A pause.
    “I used to sell auto parts. Well, manage a store. I’m between things right now.”
    “Got fired?”
    “Yeah, got fired.” He stretched, a bone popped. “You have a record, they’ll fire you if some kid in the mailroom takes a box of staples home. You’re always the number-one suspect. I came up for ajob interview in Hammond today. Didn’t work out.”
    She remembered his sullen face during the conversation on his cell phone:
    “Can I ask you a question?” he asked.
    “Sure. I’m married, no children. I love sex and I drink too much. Anything else?”
    “Why didn’t you want to call the cops?”
    But instead of answering she asked, “Why didn’t you get shook back there?”
    He shrugged those great shoulders again. “I’ve had guns pointed at me before. I can tell when somebody’s going to use a piece and when he’s not. Oh, that kid’d been a pro, I’d’ve said so long, lady, and hoped the state troopers got to you before it was too late.”
    “Have you ever killed anybody?”
    The hesitation was his answer.
    “No more questions from you till you answer mine,” he said. “Why no cops?”
    “Because I have a business proposition for you.”
    “What, you need some auto parts?”
    “No, I want you to murder my husband.”

    “Divorce him,” Lawrence said. “That’s what they make lawyers for.”
    “He’s worth a lot of money.”
    “If he’s cheating, you’ll get half. Maybe more.”
    “Well . . .”
    “Oh. He’s not the only guilty party.” Lawrence laughed and gestured toward the bed they were lying in. “Guess not. Who cheated first?”
    “He did.” Then she added, “Well, he got caught first.”
    “Tough luck. But I’m not a hit man. I never was.”
    “What can I say to convince you?”
    “Nothing. Not. A. Thing.”
    “What can I do to convince you?” She moved her hands along his body, pinched his thigh playfully.
    He laughed.
    He stopped smiling when she asked, “Fifty thousand?”
    But after a moment: “I’ve done my time. I didn’t like it.”
    “A hundred?”
    The hesitation was probably only a millisecond but to Carolyn it was plenty long enough.
    Lawrence said, “I don’t think so.”
    “ I don’t think —that’s not the same as no. ”
    “It’s not easy killing somebody. Well, matter of fact, that part is easy. But getting away’s tricky. That’s the almost-impossible part.”
    As she often did in the meetings she ran at the hospital—when the people who worked for her would come up with excuses for not having their reports or proposals in on time—Carolyn said, “I’m hearing almost. I’m hearing tricky. But all that tells me is it’s doable.”
    “You ever threatened him?”
    She shrugged. “I found him with his girlfriend once at the mall. I lost it. I said I’d kill them both. . . . No, I think I said they’d wish they were dead by the time I got through with them.”
    “Ouch.”
    “I don’t think anybody heard me.”
    “Well,” he said slowly, like a doctor formulating an opinion. “You’ve got a reason to kill him. That’s a problem. It means you’ve got to find a fall guy. You’ve got to make it look like it’s more likely somebody else committed the crime than you, even if you have a motive. We need—”
    “Another suspect?”
    “Yeah.”
    She smiled and eased her breasts against him. “Like a carjacker. Or a mugger?”
    “Sure.” His eyes swung toward the gas station. He nodded. “That kid, we’ve got his gun . . .”
    Stan had several