More Twisted: Collected Stories, Vol. II

Jeffery Deaver More Twisted: Collected Stories, Vol. II

To John Gilstrap

PREFACE

From time to time I do something even more terrifying than write sick and twisted novels and stories; I grab a microphone and get up in front of a roomful of people.

No, I’m not talking American Idol; I’m referring to teaching writing.

One of the most often asked questions when I’m playing professor is this: Should I start writing short stories and then work my way up to novels? My answer is no. It’s not like starting to ride a tricycle and then graduating to a bike. Forgive my clumsy mixing of metaphors, but short stories and novels aren’t even apples and oranges; they’re apples and potatoes.

Novels seek to emotionally engage readers on all levels, and, to achieve that goal, authors must develop characters in depth, create realistic settings, do extensive research and come up with a structured pacing that alternates between the thoughtful and the rip-roaring.

A short story’s different. As I said in the introduction to my first collection of stories,

The payoff in the case of short stories isn’t a roller coaster of plot reversals involving characters they’ve spent lots of time learning about and loving or 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 Victorian England. 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 Greenburg, 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.

CHAPTER AND VERSE

Reverend… 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 an expert. But I probably know Matthew, Mark, Luke and John better than your average rabbi, I suspect. Now, tell me how I can help.”

“You’ve heard about the witness protection program, right?”

“Like Goodfellas, that sort of thing? The Sopranos.”

“More or less, yep. The U.S. Marshals run the federal program but we have our own state witness protection system.”

“Really? I didn’t know that. But I guess it makes sense.”

“I’m in charge of the program in the county here and one of the people we’re protecting is about to appear as a witness in a trial in Hamilton. It’s our job to keep him safe through the trial and after we get a conviction — we hope — then we’ll get him a new identity and move him out of the state.”

“A Mafia trial?”

“Something like that.”