Twisted

Nodding at the pink-and-white-striped bag she’d set beside her chair.
    “Long underwear,” she joked. “It’s supposed to be a cold winter.”
    They talked some more, finishing a bottle of wine, then had one more glass each, though it seemed to her that she drank more than he did.
    She was getting tipsy. Watch out here, girl. Keep your wits about you.
    But then she thought about Jonathan and drank down the glass.
    Near ten P.M. he looked around the emptying restaurant. He fixed her with his eyes and said, “How about we go outside?”
    Marissa hesitated. Okay, this is it, she thought toherself. You can leave, or you can go out there with him.
    She thought of her resolution, she thought of Jonathan.
    She said, “Yes. Let’s go.”
    Outside, they walked side by side back to the deserted park she’d sat in earlier.
    They came to the same bench and she nodded at it and they sat down, Dale close beside her. She felt his presence—the nearness of a strong man, which she hadn’t felt for some time now. It was thrilling, comforting and unsettling all at the same time.
    They looked at the boat, the Maine Street, just visible through the trees.
    They sat in silence for a few minutes, huddling against the cold.
    Dale stretched. His arm went along the back of the bench, not quite around her shoulders, but she felt his muscles.
    How strong he was, she reflected.
    It was then that she glanced down and saw a twisted length of white rope protruding from his pocket, about to fall out.
    She nodded at it. “You’re going to lose something.”
    He glanced down. Picked it up, flexed the rope in his fingers. Unwound it. “Tool of the trade,” he said, looking at her querying frown.
    Then he slipped it back into his pocket.
    Dale looked back to the Maine Street, just visible through the trees, at the couple now out of the bedroom and sipping champagne again on the rear deck.
    “That’s him in there, the handsome guy?” he asked.
    “Yes,” Marissa said, “that’s my husband. That’s Jonathan.” She shivered again from the cold—and the disgust—as she watched him kiss the petite blonde.
    She started to ask Dale if he was going to do it tonight—to murder her husband—but then decided that he, probably like most professional killers, would prefer to speak in euphemisms. She asked simply, “When’s it going to happen?”

    They were now walking slowly away from the wharf; he’d seen what he needed to.
    “When?” Dale asked. “Depends. That woman in there with him? Who’s she?”
    “One of his little slut nurses. I don’t know. Karen, maybe.”
    “She’s spending the night?”
    “No. I’ve been spying on him for a month. He’ll kick her out about midnight. He can’t stand clinging mistresses. There’ll be another one tomorrow. But not before noon.”
    Dale nodded. “Then I’ll do it tonight. After she leaves.” He glanced at Marissa. “I’ll handle it like I was telling you—after he’s asleep I’ll get on board, tie him up and take the boat out a few miles. Then I’ll make it look like he got tangled in the anchor line and went overboard. Has he been drinking much?”
    “Is there water in the ocean?” she asked wryly.
    “Good, that’ll help. Then I’ll drive the boat close toHuntington and take a raft back in. Just let her drift.” Nodding at the Maine Street.
    “You always make it look like an accident?” Marissa asked, wondering if a question like this was breaking some kind of hit-man protocol.
    “As often as I can. That job I did tonight I mentioned? It was taking care of a woman in Yarmouth. She’d been abusing her own kids. I mean, beating them. ‘Pests,’ she called them. Disgusting. She wouldn’t stop but the husband couldn’t get the children to say anything to the police. They didn’t want to get her in trouble.”
    “God, how terrible.”
    Dale nodded. “I’ll say. So the husband hired me. I made it look like that rapist from Upper Falls broke in and killed her.”
    Marissa considered this. Then she asked, “Did you . . . ? I mean, you were pretending to be a rapist. . . .”
    “Oh, God, no,” Dale said, frowning. “I’d never do that. I just made it look like I did. Believe me, it was pretty gross finding a used condom from behind that massage parlor on Knightsbridge Street.”
    So hit men have standards, she reflected. At least some of them do.
    She looked him over. “Aren’t you worried I’m a policewoman or anything? Trying to set you up? I