A crime scene, I thought. Don’t touch anything.
I had finished three semesters toward my A.S. degree in law enforcement before Loretta’s stroke and had at least learned the basics. But then I ignored my own counsel by hurrying across the room to retrieve the telephone, which was also on the floor.
Nine-one-one. I hammered the buttons with an index finger. The signal tones suggested the phone was working, but it was dead when I put it to my ear. My god, Loretta had been right about the significance of no answering machine! I was already frightened, but this realization pushed me close to panic.
Pinky’s hurt, maybe dying! my mother had said, or something similar. I couldn’t escape to the truck; not now, I couldn’t, because what my mother had feared might be true. I had to continue searching the house.
“Miz Helms! You here?” How unnerving it was to hear my own voice tainted by the coward that is in me. It caused me to take stock. I am an oversized woman, fitter and stronger than most. Poor, tiny Mrs. Helms was in her seventies, had survived family tragedies and cancer yet continued to live her life with a woman’s energy, still fussing over clothes and her looks. If an intruder was in this house, Mrs. Helms was the one who had a right to be frightened, not me!
I picked up the shovel, noticing the pamphlets when I knelt. Dozens of the things on glossy paper, all the same:
PRESERVE OUR HERITAGE
JOIN FISHERFOLK of SOUTH FLORIDA, Inc.
The words were printed in white over an old-timey photo of a pioneer woman stirring a cauldron. Below it was an architect’s drawing of a modern building—it appeared to be a museum.
A charity project, I thought. Had I seen the same pamphlet among my mother’s magazines? If not, there was something similar, which was no surprise. Elderly women were easy targets for solicitors seeking donations. Loretta, because she was lonely, took every automated phone call just to hear a human voice. Same when a solicitor came to the door. Pinky Helms would have been no different. I dropped the pamphlet and continued on through the house, flicking on lights as I went.
In the hallway was a heavy metal floor lamp with twin globes, milky white, that came on when I hit the wall switch. The staircase to the second floor was there: wood beneath carpet worn bare by the passage of children and time. Crystal’s room was up there. Mica’s, too. Mica was three years younger but already taller than me when he entered middle school, and already smoking cigarettes and weed. By then, Crystal and I were strangers, separated by interests and school districts, since the village of Sulfur Wells was on the line that separated Sematee County from Lee County. I hadn’t been up those stairs in twenty years. I didn’t want to go up them now. Wasn’t it smarter to search Mrs. Helms’s bedroom first? A woman in her seventies, even if fleeing for her life, wasn’t likely to charge up the stairs.
There was a door, though, that separated the stairs from the rest of the house—typical of old houses that had been pieced together before air-conditioning. I knew the woman’s bedroom was somewhere off the kitchen, which meant I would have to open the door before continuing: a cheap door, painted green, with a white ceramic knob. I stood staring at it for several seconds, aware that the dread I felt was irrational. A man with an axe would have bashed the thing to pieces; at the very least, would not have closed a door behind him. But an elderly woman on the run might have.
A competent investigator searches buildings systematically, always clearing one room before proceeding to the next.
Textbook training from the degree I had failed to complete. Competence, I realized, could also be a handy excuse for cowardice.
I turned away from the door and went up the stairs, wood creaking beneath my weight with every slow step, my eyes focused on lace curtains white with sunlight at the top of the landing. They streamed with dust beams that pulled me forward as if on a tightrope while I used the shovel for balance. Even so, it was a clumsy weapon to carry. Halfway up, when I turned to glance behind me, the blade clunked against the banister so loudly, it startled me and I almost fell. Then I dropped the shovel, which made even more noise when it sledded down the stairs, banging each step like a cymbal.
To steady myself, I leaned against the wall, my heart pounding again. Should I retrieve the shovel? Or continue without it?
To postpone the decision, I used my voice again. “Anyone up there?” Then added a lie in case I had cornered an intruder. “The police are here! We’re worried about you, Miz Helms.”
The silence I expected was jolted by a new sound coming from outside the house; a distant noise that touched my ears as the random snaring of a drum. Then the sound deepened and took form, and I thought, Barking dogs! Dogs coming toward the house at a run; a slathering chorus I recognized from hunting with my Uncle Jake in the Everglades as a girl. It was the bellow of catch dogs that had picked up the scent and were on the heels of game.
Pit bulls. The Helms dogs had returned.
Dear god, I thought, remembering: You left the front door open!
The oversight had left me unprotected. Nothing at all to slow those animals if they struck my scent and came after me—me, a stranger, not only on their property but inside their owner’s home.
Run!
Because I panicked, that’s what I did. Hand on the banister, I vaulted down the steps, but then hesitated, the green door to my right, the living room to the left. The door offered protection, but only temporary. The living room exited to the porch, then my truck, which was the only sure means of escape. Drive half a mile on Pay Day Road, I would have a cell signal again and could call the police. But the wild barking of the dogs was so close now—would they catch me as I crossed the yard?
Not if I hurried! So I turned left. Stumbled over the shovel, hesitated again before picking it up, then sprinted down the hall toward the living room. The pine floor was slick. A shovel is also an awkward tool to run with. I had to slap a hand on the wall to make my final turn, skidded on the broken glass, and then continued more cautiously. I kept my eyes on the open doorway. It was a beacon, an airy rectangle bright with daylight and freedom, that, oddly, had muted my own hearing as abruptly as the wide-screen TV, where, on the game show, a young woman was weeping, whether for joy or in despair I neither knew nor cared. Three strides from the door, though, I stopped, my head tilted, straining to hear.
The dogs—they had stopped barking. Why?
I wasn’t deaf. I banged the shovel on the floor to prove it to myself. The thunk of metal on wood registered in my ears, but my attention was already riveted to a more chilling sound: claws clattering on gravel; a heavy, wolfish breathing so close that the slap of a panting tongue was unmistakable. I took a step back when the panting stopped. It was replaced by the rumble of a dog growling.
No . . . two dogs. Their silhouettes trotted across the lighted doorway. Both pit bulls, their heads the size of concrete blocks, stubby horns for ears, on dwarfed bodies of brindle-yellow fur and muscle, drifted past unaware of my presence. I pressed my back against a wall and didn’t move, didn’t breathe. It didn’t save me. The odor of my skin, my clothing, the odor of my fear, was in the air, and one dog stopped, lifted his nose to taste my scent, then returned to the doorway and looked inside. Soon, he was joined by the other dog, both animals alert, intense, their tiny eyes now so focused on me that the flooring vibrated when they began to growl in unison.
I have been charged by dogs while jogging and know it’s best to take the offensive. I’ve backed down collies and retrievers and even a pit bull, who was so instantly sweet that he had begged me to scratch his ears, then followed me home.
It was a strategy worth trying. “Get out of here!” I yelled, and banged the shovel hard on the floor. I took a step toward the door and did it again. “Get!”
These dogs, however, were not sweet-natured. They looked half starved, all jaws and instinct, and they came at me when I moved. The lead dog—there’s always an alpha dog—
came first, trotting toward me, then lunged, stiff-legged, and roared when I jabbed the shovel at it. She was female, judging from the absence of the testicles that hung so prominently from the second dog, who was larger and also slyer. He slunk into the room without barking, teeth bared, and disappeared behind the overturned recliner. When he reappeared, he was to my left, and moving toward the hall, an attempt to corner me, I realized—two dogs who hunted as a pack. I began to sidestep toward the bigger male because the hallway was my only escape.
When the female charged again, I swung the shovel too hard and the thing almost flew out of my hands. The near loss frightened me so badly, I felt an electric sensation between the ears. With it bloomed a horrible certainty that these animals, if they got me on the ground, would not just maul me, they would feed on me. I could not lose the shovel. I could not lose my footing. Turn my back on either pit bull, even for an instant, and that would be the beginning of an assault so horrible I couldn’t allow myself to contemplate it—nor would I tolerate the indignity these animals were forcing on me!
I was terrified, but I was also getting mad.
“Get the hell away!” I hollered, jabbing. The alpha dog grabbed at the shovel when I thrust it, teeth striking the blade with the metallic sound of flint striking sparks. At the same instant, the larger dog snaked his head at me, teeth clacking near my calf, then retreated to a safe distance. Twice that happened, which gave me an idea. I feinted at the female again to lure the male closer, then swung the shovel blindly to my left, hoping the larger dog would attack. He did. The shovel blade glanced off the animal’s head and spun him sideways, yelping. The alpha dog was in such a frenzy that a yelp of weakness invited attack and she did attack him, slashing her teeth at the larger dog’s flank before returning her attention to me.
Too late. I had jumped into the hallway and was already backing away, holding the shovel in both hands like a spear. The female stalked me but kept her distance. Behind me, the garish green door I had dreaded was now my rescuer—if I could get the thing open and closed before I was bitten. That was key. Once a pit bull locks its jaws into flesh, there is no breaking free. It could still happen. No matter how I used the shovel for protection, there would be a moment when I had to turn and leave my legs unprotected. If the dog buried her teeth in me, no matter how hard I fought, I would be dragged to the floor, and they would both have me.
The alpha dog seemed to sense her chance would soon come and was biding her time as the male rejoined her. She paused to award him with a quick sniff, then continued to follow, her throat rumbling, as I backed past the stairway where the floor lamp cast its milky light. I was within reach of the doorknob now. But I had to invent something to distract the dogs to allow me the free second needed to slip into the next room and slam the door.
What?
I risked a glance over my shoulder at the porcelain knob. It was threaded through a metal plate that had a keyhole. A terrifying thought flashed into my mind: What if the door was locked? If it was locked, the diversion I was considering would hinder me more than help. It fact, the decision would leave me disfigured for life, or worse.
Can’t be locked, I told myself. No one in their right mind would lock a door in a stairwell.
Well, I would soon find out.
I had been edging toward the staircase, an angle that gave me more protection but also put me in a corner next to the lamp. These pit bulls were hunters and instinctively saw their advantage, which they secured by separating a few feet to trap me. They were barking again, trying to back me against the wall with mock charges, working themselves into the frenzy that I knew prefaced a full-on attack. I had to do something—and did. The floor lamp was made of pot metal and heavier than expected when I grabbed it and slammed it toward the dogs. The twin glass globes shattered, but the pop of incandescent bulbs wasn’t as loud as I’d hoped.
Even so, both dogs yelped and jumped away. It gave me time to yank the door open and back into the next room, but I did it in such a rush I dropped the shovel after banging my wrist on something.
BOOM! . . . BOOM! The pit bulls had recovered quickly and were already throwing themselves at the door, their barking a slathered garble that made it impossible to think. I put my shoulder against the wood, breathing hard, my heart pounding. To add to the chaos, the room I’d entered was a mystery of shadows and dark shapes, only two westward windows allowing light. I felt around until I found the dead bolt and latched the door tight but still kept my weight against it.
BOOM! . . . BOOM! . . . BOOM! With each assault, the wood vibrated like a drum. The dogs weren’t giving up.
I was in the kitchen, I realized. I could tell from the odor of linoleum and Lysol and garbage that had begun to rot. Also, I could see the glint of pans hanging, the shape of a refrigerator. A sink, too, with twin faucets set beneath a window too small for the room. A lancet of light came through the glass, though not much. It was hot in here; a space built to fend off tropical summers but, instead, only denied sunlight.
Get to the truck, I told myself. Do it now before the dogs circle around back! Mrs. Helms, if she’s here, if she’s alive, will have to wait for the police.
I hadn’t given the woman a thought, of course, since the pit bulls had attacked. She came into my mind now, however, because my eyes were adjusting to the shadows and I recognized the shape and gleam of something near the sink, although it took me a second.
A wig?
Yes, a woman’s wig; silver hair cropped short and combed to a sheen, a style for business luncheons. Loretta had mentioned that a wig would be delivered today, which proved Mrs. Helms had been here, and probably still was.
No . . . I might be mistaken about that. Since her chemotherapy, the woman had bought several wigs, usually inexpensive brands made of nylon. This one, even from a distance, looked expensive, like natural human hair, and why would a woman as fussy as Pinky Helms leave a new wig by the sink? Someone else could have put it there. So it proved nothing, and I wasn’t sticking around even if it did.
Scratching and panting, the pit bulls were digging beneath the door now. Determined to get their teeth in me, but I felt secure enough to step away, then sag against the wall for a moment. After several deep breaths, I pushed off and hurried across the room in search of a light switch and an exit. On the way, I allowed myself to detour near the sink because the window provided a lighted footpath. Passed close enough to realize the wig wasn’t near the sink, it was in the sink.
I stopped; felt a chill that made me reluctant to step closer. Yes . . . the wig was sitting or floating in water on what might have been a Styrofoam base. Rust-stained water, copper red, beneath a window that boiled with late-afternoon sunlight. Bad pipes would explain the reddish color; a country well that blackened water with minerals, sulfur and iron, explained it, too. The village of Sulfur Wells had been named for that very reason and supported what I desperately wanted to believe. My nerves couldn’t handle another explanation. I had to get out of this place!
Dazed, I hurried toward the darkest corner of the kitchen, where reason told me there would be a door. There was. No doubt about it because the door cracked a few inches as I approached, filtering an expanding band of light. I felt the heat of the sun thatch my body, but what appeared within that band of daylight paralyzed me. A man was there—a wedge of face wrapped in a scarf, one dark eye staring. One black glove, too. His big hand braced something against his shoulder, a tool of some type on a hickory-thick handle.
An axe.
• • •
I AM NOT a woman who screams when surprised. Even as a girl, Loretta, her friends, too, had commented on my stoic, tomboy ways. The accusations that were always hidden in their comments had been troubling to me until I was older. By then, I knew I was attracted to men, so I have accepted those early criticisms—along with many others voiced by Loretta—as proof I’ve inherited solid qualities that, despite my secret weakn
esses, make a stronger woman and give me confidence.
When the man appeared, I did not scream. Even when he shifted the axe to his other shoulder to slide into the kitchen, I didn’t scream, although I did back away. But when he slammed the door behind him, cloaking him in darkness, I couldn’t help myself. A whimpering sound escaped my lips, which I instantly retracted by calling, “If you hurt Mrs. Helms, mister, you’d better run while you have the chance!”
No reply. Instead, I heard the rattle of metal, then the thunk of a dead bolt burying itself in the doorframe. He had locked us in.
I stayed on the offensive. “Police are on their way! In fact, in fact”—I fumbled to retrieve the cell phone from my pocket, then held it up—“they’re listening to every word I say!”
The man turned to face me, his body as wide and shapeless as a raincoat. I couldn’t see details, just the bulk of his shoulders, the contour of his head, a momentary glint of something that mirrored a shard of light—the axe blade? Then he walked toward me, but so slowly that shadows swirled around him like displaced fog. Was it confidence or caution? The kitchen was dark, but, if he kept coming, I would soon get a better look at him. Or had my threats made him uncertain? The dogs were still at the kitchen door, their barking frenzied—another possibility.
I couldn’t just stand there, so I ran to put a table between us, then waited. Either direction, I was trapped. I looked at the window above the sink. It wasn’t much wider than my shoulders. I could wiggle through if I shattered the glass, but not fast enough to save my legs and lower torso from at least one blow from the axe. Just imagining the impact caused a numbness in me. It dulled my movements and my thinking. The coward in me was urging Be submissive, beg for your life. Earn his kindness!
Deceived (A Hannah Smith Novel) Page 5
