Twisted by Jay Bonansinga Page B

paper cup with another inch of Stolie, then took a sip. “You can rest assured, my friend, you will get plenty of ‘shit’ coming at you at precisely a hundred and seventy-five miles per hour.”
    â€œI understand that—”
    â€œNo, my friend, I do not think you understand, I do not think that you are hearing me at all.” Kaminsky took another slug and let it burn the back of his throat. His voice lowered an octave as he stared at the TV screen projecting satellite images of Eve. “Have you ever seen what a category five eye wall can do to a telephone pole?”
    â€œKay—”
    â€œLet me finish, Grove. Please. In 1992, during Hurricane Andrew, I witnessed a telephone pole jump out of the ground and impale a fireman to a barn, Grove. It drilled itself right through his chest cavity, pinning him to the barn like an insect, Grove, like a butterfly.” Kaminsky stifled a belch, and Grove started to say something but the Russian would not let him interrupt. “One year ago ... Hurricane Katrina ... we found a severed hand, Grove, in Slidell, Louisiana, in a vacant lot next to an overturned tractor. Police could not identify this hand, which had a Spanish signet ring on it. Do you know where this hand came from, Grove?”
    No answer.
    Kaminsky asked again if Grove knew where this severed hand came from.
    â€œNo, I don’t, Kay, I don’t know where it came from,” the voice said with a sigh. “But I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”
    â€œCuba, my friend. The hand, it came from Cuba, a thousand miles away.”
    After a pause, the voice said, “Are you finished?”
    Kaminsky grinned. “I simply offer this word of warning as a service to the public.”
    â€œYou mean a ‘public service,’ it’s called a ‘public service.’”
    â€œRight, yes. Precisely.”
    â€œI appreciate the thought, Kay, but I still want you to fly me into Eve’s eye today.”
    Kaminsky shook his head. He had known Ulysses Grove ever since the Happy Face Killer case back in 1990. At that time, Grove was still a young turk, pissing off the brass at the bureau on a regular basis with his controversial theories regarding lunar cycles and weather, and their effect on the psychopathology of serial killers. During the hunt for the murderous truck driver, Keith Hunter Jesperson, Grove had come to Kaminsky for expertise on the moon and its effect on tides and weather. The twosome instantly clicked, notwithstanding their vast personality differences. Kaminsky had always admired Grove’s methodical, relentless professionalism. Kaminsky had known young men like Grove back in Moscow, men who invariably clashed with the Central Committee and were often exiled to Siberia. Men with balls . Kaminsky looked up to these men—mostly because Kaminsky never had the courage to stay in his homeland and fight. Instead, he defected, and ran away from his problems. But Ulysses Grove had never been the type to defect from anything. Even now, this very moment, Kaminsky could sense this iron spirit radiating over the wires. “Still the same old Grove,” Kaminsky said finally, taking one last sip of vodka.
    â€œWhattya say, Kay? You gonna help me out here or what?”
    Kaminsky glanced at the clock, then shot a glance over at the wall map that hung above the coffee machine. “Tell me where it is that you are again?”
    â€œLet’s see, I’m about forty miles south of Savannah, in a little fleabag just off I-95.”
    â€œHold on, I am putting you on speaker.” Kaminsky dropped the phone, poked the Speaker button, then quickly rolled his swivel chair across the tile floor to the topographical map of the eastern seaboard. Color-coded stick pins denoted the coastal “entry points” of past hurricanes: Elena, 1985. Gilbert, 1988. Hugo, 1989. Emily, 1993. Opal, Michelle, Lily, Isabel, Jeanne, Cassandra, and ...