Twisted

on Alex’s leg, “you’ll be right as rain in no time.”
    No, sweetheart, I hate fighting . . . I’d much rather catch ’em by surprise. . . .
    Alex leapt to his feet, sweeping up his own knife. He stepped behind the astonished fisherman, caught him in a neck lock. He smelled unclean hair, dirty clothes and the piquant scent of fish entrails. He jammed the staghorn knife into the man’s gut. The man’s voice wailed in a piercing scream.
    As he worked the blade leisurely up to the shuddering man’s breastbone, Alex was pleased to find, as with his other victims, here and in Connecticut, that the anxiety that’d been boiling within him vanished immediately—just about the moment they died. He also noted that playing the injured fisherman was still an effective way to put his victims at ease. True, he was still a bit concerned about the sheriff’s department notice—somebody must’ve gotten a glimpse of him around the time of the last murder. Oh, well, he joked to himself, he’d just have to find himself a new fishin’ hole. Maybe it was time to try Jersey.
    He slowly eased the man to the ground, where he lay on his back, quivering. Alex glanced toward the road but the park was still deserted. He bent low and examined the man carefully, a pleasant smile on Alex’s face. No, he wasn’t quite dead yet though he soon would be, perhaps before the crows started to work on him.
    Perhaps not.
    Alex climbed back up to the path and had a second cup of coffee—this one he enjoyed immensely; Sue was truly a master with the espresso maker. Then he cleaned the blood off the knife meticulously. Not only because he didn’t want any evidence to connect him to the crime but simply because Alex had learned his lesson well; he always oiled, dried and sharpened.

    Later that night Alex Mollan returned home to find 60 Minutes on, Jessica and Sue sitting on the couch in front of the tube, sharing a huge bowl of popcorn. He was pleased that the show was about a government contractor’s malfeasance and not murder or rape or anything that might upset the little girl. He hugged them both hard.
    “Hey, Jessie-Bessie, how’s the world’s best daughter?”
    “Missed you, Daddy. Mommy and I baked gingerbread boys and girls today and I made a dog.”
    He winked at Sue and could see in her face that she was pleased to find him in such a good mood. She was more pleased still when he told her that all the fish he’d caught were below size and he’d had to throw them back. She was a sport, but fish, to her, were entrees served by a man in a black jacket who deftly deboned them while you sipped a nice cold white wine.
    “Did you bring me something, Daddy?” Jessica asked coyly, tilting her head and letting her long blonde hair hang down over her shoulder.
    Alex thought, as he often did: She’ll be a heartbreaker someday.
    “Sure did.”
    “Something for our collection?”
    “Yep.”
    He dug into his pocket and handed her the present.
    “What is it, Daddy? Oh, this’s totally cool!” she said and his heart hummed with contentment to see her take the watch in her hand. “Look, Mommy, it’s not just a watch. It’s got a compass in it. And it fits on your belt. This’s neat!”
    “You like it?”
    “I’ll make a special box just for it,” the girl said. “I’m glad you’re home, Daddy.”
    His daughter hugged him hard, and then Sue called to them from the dining room, saying that dinner was ready and could they please come and sit down.

N OCTURNE

    L ate night on the West Side of Manhattan.
    The young cop walked past Central Park, through the misty spring air, wondering where was the downpour the Channel 9 meteorologist had promised.
    Patrol Officer Anthony Vincenzo turned west. He crossed Columbus then Broadway, half listening to the static from the speaker/mike of his Motorola Handi-Talkie pinned to the shoulder of his uniform blouse, under the black rain slicker.
    He looked at his watch. Nearly eleven P.M. “Hell,” he snapped and walked faster. He was in a bad mood because he’d spent most of his tour at the precinct house, typing up an arrest report and then accompanying the perp—a young chain snatcher—down to Bellevue because he’d OD’ed after he’d been collared. He’d probably swallowed his whole stash before Tony ran him down so the DA wouldn’t add a drug count to the larceny. Now, he’d not only godown for the smack or rock but he’d had a tube suck his gut clean. Some people.