Beneath the window, a floating ball of woman’s hair ridiculed that coward. The anger I’d felt toward the dogs returned, and it, too, ridiculed any display of weakness. Guarantee my humiliation by welcoming an assault? No—I wouldn’t do that.
“I warned you!” I yelled. Then put the phone to my ear and spoke too loudly, “That’s right, Officer! Send a couple of guys to the back door.” When my attacker appeared to stiffen, I added, “Yes, he’s armed! Shoot him, if you can—I don’t think you have a choice!”
In some quiet corner of my mind, questions formed: Is it smart to convince a crazy man he’s cornered? Or that you’ve just ordered him killed?
My doubts vanished when the man ducked backward for a moment and blended into the shadows, where he did . . . something. I couldn’t see. A moment later, though, I knew my bluff had failed. I heard a grunt of rage, and the axe reappeared near the ceiling. There was the sound of heavy footsteps, then the man was beneath the axe, holding it over his head and striding toward me.
I had opened several drawers while standing at the table—nothing but dish towels and plastic plates. Frantically, I turned toward the window—an impossible choice. Use a towel to shatter the glass? Even if I’d found a hammer, there wasn’t time.
The pit bulls had quieted but were scratching at the door—chewing at the wood, too, biting off chunks and growling—their eagerness probably fired by every word they’d heard me speak. Open the door, they’d be at my throat before I took a step. Unless I was willing to risk the worst on the chance of saving myself.
I pulled out a drawer and flung it into the man’s path. He stumbled but caught himself while I sprinted to the kitchen door, put my hand on the dead bolt, and turned to face him. There was enough light now to see that he was wearing a baggy raincoat. It hung to his ankles . . . rubber gloves, too, and what looked like a sun mask, the stretchy, tubular type that fishermen pull over their heads to prevent skin cancer. Two black eyes peered out; just a hint of design on the material, but the design was common enough for me to recognize.
I hammered my heel against the door and yelled, “Get out or I’ll loose these dogs on you!” which caused a renewed frenzy of barking. At the same instant, a terrible thought came into my mind: What if he owns the dogs?
It didn’t matter. My threat stopped the man, but he also drew the axe back as if to throw it, which left me no choice. I yanked the door open and jumped behind it, my back pressed flat against the wall, and I held the doorknob tight with both hands. For the next several seconds, only sounds and fear dominated my senses: a din of clattering claws, a slobbering growl, the thunder of a man running . . . furniture crashed—or was it the sound of an axe shattering a door? Then, from what might have been outside, floated a wild howl of pain. Animal or man, I couldn’t tell. I didn’t care.
I peeked around the door, then sprinted to my truck. Not until I was almost to Burnt Store Road did I use my cell to call 911—the whole time checking the mirror, afraid I was still being chased.
Standing amid a fireworks of flashing blue lights, I said to a detective, “I’ve already sat in the back of two squad cars and answered that very same question. I don’t feel like sitting. And don’t see the point of repeating myself.”
The most troubling question, out of the dozens I’d been asked, was, “Are you sure you saw something in the sink?” Two detectives and a sheriff’s deputy had varied the wording, of course. “Tell me again about that wig.” And, “In a dark room, what caused you to think the hair was human?” And, “How did you know the water was bloody if you couldn’t find a light switch?”
I hadn’t said bloody, I had said reddish-colored, so it had been an attempt to trick me. Not the first or last either.
The questions by themselves weren’t upsetting, but the fact I was being asked so delicately, and repeatedly, told me what the police would not: the sink had been empty when they arrived. Nor had the pit bulls returned, and maybe the wreckage in the living room had been removed, too. No way to guess specifics, but I was convinced that someone had returned to the house and neatened up the crime scene. They’d had time to do a good job, too, which was my fault. I had refused to park at the intersection of Pay Day Road and await help as the operator had insisted—sit there alone and risk the axe man having a fast truck or ATV? Nope. Instead, I’d driven straight to a Publix parking lot, six miles away, where there were bright lights and witnesses. Even police GPSes didn’t list the pot hauler’s nickname for what amounted to a long driveway, so thirty minutes or more had lapsed by the time I’d led police back to the old Helms place.
“It’s not that we don’t believe you, Mrs. Smith,” the detective was saying now. “It’s procedure. People under stress sometimes forget details. Sometimes even imagine details that—”
“It’s Ms. Smith,” I interrupted. “And I didn’t imagine a door beaten down with an axe. And I didn’t imagine the man who tried to kill me with that same axe.”
“The same axe?” the detective said, trying to draw me out by sounding intrigued.
I ignored him by offering advice. “As to the pit bulls, take a walk around the yard, then be sure to check your shoes before you step in a car. Detective? I don’t care if you believe me or not. Find Rosanna Helms, that’s all I care about. Someone broke into that poor woman’s house and there’s no telling what they did to her.”
The man frowned and started to say, “Ms. Smith, it’s not my job to believe—” but then stopped to concentrate on a radio message by touching a finger to his ear. I listened to him say, “Yeah . . . Yeah—if you say so.” Then, “Yeah, well, I’m not crazy about the idea, but—” Then, “Sheriff, if that’s what you want, no problem. She’s right here.” Then the detective stood taller, looking for landmarks, saying, “We’re by the house, the whole perimeter’s taped off, so we’re standing in the drive by the . . . Well, hell, if he knows the woman, he’ll recognize her, right?”
I wondered who it was who knew me, while the detective, looking peeved, adjusted a knob on the transceiver in his breast pocket. “There’s someone wants to speak with you,” he said finally. “He’s on his way.”
“A relative of Mrs. Helms?” I asked.
The man shook his head. “You’re welcome to sit in my car. The mosquitoes, I spent a couple of nights camping on Cayo Costa, but they weren’t this damn bad. How about a bottle of water?”
To the west, an orange sky topped the tree line but could not penetrate the haunted-house shadows of the Helms place. I sighed in the heavy way people do when they’re tired of cooperating and replied, “I’m late already. If you’re not holding me as a suspect, I have the right to leave. Anything else, sorry. It’ll have to wait ’till tomorrow.”
The detective’s pleasant attitude vanished as if a switch had been thrown. “You an attorney?”
“No, but—”
“How do you know you’re not a suspect? I’m going to be real honest, Ms. Smith, parts of your story don’t match up with what we found in there.” He motioned toward the house. “So far, all we have is a probable vandalism and a reported assault. The victim—if that’s what you are—is usually eager to cooperate.”
Because I was getting mad, the temptation was to inform this plainclothes deputy that I was a licensed private investigator bonded by the state and there was nothing I had signed or sworn to that obligated me to tolerate his bullying. The risk, though, was his questions would become even more aggressive and reveal I was a novice, not an actual professional in that field. A private investigator is something very different from a woman who has an investigator’s license because she inherited a business from her uncle and who has only one successful case under her belt.
The little experience I’ve had, however, told me that threatening a cop wouldn’t hasten my release. Especially here, across the line in Sematee County, where my family owned no property. So I backed off, explaining, “Thing is, I’ve got t
o get home and tell my mother. I dread it. She and Mrs. Helms went to school together. Best friends for something like sixty years, and she’s going to take the news hard.”
“As far as we know,” the deputy reminded me, “the woman who owns this place is just fine. The lab guys are in there right now.” His head swiveled, then he ordered me to stay right where I was by adding, “Don’t wander off, I’ll be back in a second.”
Within reach was a key lime tree. I yanked off a leaf, tore it, then used its sweet odor to clean my hands and also calm myself. It was almost seven o’clock! Earlier, from the Publix parking lot, I had texted Ford rather than call because I feared he would hear the distress in my voice and offer to cancel. But there was no hiding my upset when he telephoned seconds later. Now, instead of postponing our date, he was on his way to Sulfur Wells because, as he said, “I don’t need the whole story to know you shouldn’t be alone, especially alone driving a boat.”
His thoughtfulness had almost unleashed the tears I’d been holding back since arriving at the parking lot. Maybe he had sensed that, too, because his voice had softened when he said, “Pack a bag, you’re staying with me at the lab. I’ll make dinner—fresh pompano and potatoes on the grill. How’s that sound?”
Ford, as I had learned, referred to his stilthouse as “the lab” because it was equipped for marine research projects, so his offer sounded like sweet relief to me.
That was half an hour ago, though, and now I was having second thoughts. Ford’s boat is even faster than mine, and he knows the backcountry almost as well, so he was probably waiting at our dock right now, which was a new source of anxiety. I could picture Loretta interrogating the man, terrifying him with examples of my family’s genetics—he was a biologist, after all. He would be alert to emotional oddities that might be hidden in my personality. Why hadn’t I thought to warn him!
An unmarked car, I noticed, was idling toward me, the detective walking alongside and speaking to the driver through an open window. Someone new coming to ask questions. I still had time to text Ford and I did:
Almost done. Oh—Mother hasn’t been the same since her stroke, so be patient and pretend to believe her ’till I get there.
After a moment of indecision, I added, Miss you, H4.
I hit the Send key twice before remembering there was no signal. By then, I could see that the unmarked car was, in fact, a sporty-looking Audi that had somehow survived the bad road. I recognized the driver, too, when he stepped out, although it took a moment. The face was familiar, but didn’t belong at a crime scene where pit bulls and hooded men attacked women.
It was my charter client from yesterday, the good-looking younger man. Joel Ransler.
• • •
IF MY CLIENTS offer a business card, fine, but I never ask their occupation, nor do I contact them unless invited. As my late Uncle Jake had counseled me, What is said on a boat, especially a small boat, is private and has to stay that way. I’ve fished movie stars, a bunch of pro ballplayers, even an astronaut, but I never brag about them by name, let alone ask for an autograph. For all you know, your clients told their wives they’re attending a funeral in Cleveland. Be respectful, do your job—leave gossiping to Yankees and amateurs.
Which is why I didn’t need to pretend to be surprised when the detective introduced my client, saying, “Mr. Ransler is the county special prosecutor, so you can tell him anything you’d tell me.” He turned to Ransler. “We haven’t filed any charges yet, Joel. You sure you’ve got the time for this?”
Ransler had a face and smile that reminded me of an actor I had yet to recall; an actor who was old now, maybe dead—I don’t see many movies—but had been equally good-looking, with a white smile and charm that filled a room even from a TV screen. He was showing that smile now, his eyes seeing only me, when he gave the deputy’s shoulder a pat and said, “Ms. Smith and I are old friends, Billy. I would’ve been here sooner, but I was in Arcadia when I heard the dispatcher mention her name.”
Arcadia is inland Florida, a beautiful little town, but a two-hour drive, and it wasn’t in Sematee County. Instantly, I felt safer, even special. Just as fast, the detective’s attitude toward me changed. “Sorry, Mrs.—Miz Smith—if some of my questions seemed rough, but—”
Ransler let the man off the hook by interrupting, “Billy’s one of the best we’ve got and that’s what he’s paid to do. She understands that—don’t you, Hannah?”
Time to make peace, and I did. “He couldn’t have been more polite—same with the other deputies. What happened here was so crazy, it’s a wonder they could make sense out of a word I said.”
Fifteen minutes later, Joel Ransler had his hand on my back and was steering me away from the house, where I’d just taken the special prosecutor step-by-step, describing what had happened. I had been right about someone returning to remove evidence. The recliner sat squarely in front of the television, which was still on. The kitchen sink was empty; maybe they’d wiped the place clean of fingerprints, too. The back door wasn’t broken as I expected, but there was no denying someone had used an axe on the front door and smashed the china cabinet, too, although the floor had been swept clean—even the Fisherfolk Inc. pamphlets I’d seen were gone. When I told Ransler my suspicions, he didn’t pamper me by remaining neutral.
“It’s what stupid criminals do if they don’t panic,” he said. “Or a sociopath whose mood swings back to normal. They realize what they’ve done, so try to erase it by neatening up afterward.”
I said, “Even charity pamphlets?”
“Chaos becomes the enemy,” he replied, then got down to business. “Your attacker wore a raincoat, you said. What color?”
Ransler had been so nice I didn’t want to be rude, but it was now twenty after seven and I’d mentioned a couple of times I was in a hurry. Sensing my impatience, he added, “I believe your story, every word. Question is, who did this? And where’s Rosanna Helms?” Then gave me a squeeze before removing his arm from my shoulder. “The reason the raincoat is important is—well, there are a couple of reasons. A killer with an axe knows there will be a lot of blood, so it shows premeditation. You described him as big and sort of shapeless.”
“It was one of those cheap, poncho-type rain slickers,” I said, “but looked bigger, I guess. Sorry, you’re right. I left that part out.”
Ransler thought about it. “Sort of like a tent, and he was wearing a hood.”
“No,” I said. “A few years back, fishermen started using sun masks. Skin cancer is a real problem. They’re tubular, sort of a stretchy material you pull down over your head.”
“You sound sure.”
“Patagonia sells some with shark jaws below the eyeholes. You know, a great white shark’s teeth where a fisherman’s mouth would be? It’s popular. Right away, even with the lights off, I recognized what he was wearing.”
“Shark jaws,” Ransler said with a wince that told me he was thinking about the hammerhead we’d seen. “A big man wearing gloves and a sun mask.”
“As tall as me,” I said. “Taller, maybe.”
“But shapeless because of a rain poncho, or whatever it was draped over him.”
“You saw for yourself how dark it is in that kitchen.”
Ransler paused to consider the careful wording of what came next. “Then how do you know it was a man, Hannah?”
The question surprised me. “Well . . . his voice, I guess. The way he handled the axe. You know, strong.” But then had to admit, “I guess it is possible. He didn’t actually say anything, just sort of bellowed when he came at me. I suppose it could have been a woman, but I’d bet against it, I really would.”
“Did you know Crystal Helms was released from Raiford three weeks ago?”
Another surprise, but I shook my head to refuse the idea he was suggesting. “I haven’t seen her in years.”
“Was she a big girl?”
<
br /> “Well, yes, but Crystal could never—”
“Hurt you or her own mother?” Ransler cut in. “I’m not saying she did, but I want you to be aware of the situation. And the son—I forget what Billy said his name is—he was paroled in early March.”
“Mica’s out, too?” I said softly. “We had no reason to stay in touch, even with Crystal—not since grade school. Our mothers stayed friends, that’s all, but my mother never said a word.”
“In the morning, I’ll check the records, but I know the Helms family has a long history of felonies related to drug dealing. The daughter especially—again, I have to pull the file—but one of my guys said Crystal spent some of her time in the psych ward.” The man squared himself and placed his hands on my shoulders in a comforting way. “That’s just between you and me. I wouldn’t share this with most people—I’m not allowed to, in fact.”
He waited until I looked at him before adding, “I like you, Hannah. An attractive woman who can handle a boat—can handle just about any situation, from what I gather. I trust you, and I’m worried because you’re an unusual woman—and the person who did this is insane. My opinion, of course.”
I moved slightly, thinking Ransler would remove his hands. He didn’t, but that was okay. “I appreciate it, Joel,” I said.
“I take care of my friends, Hannah Smith—even the few who’ve proven they can take care of themselves.”
My eyes had tried to drift away, but now I had no choice but to reply, “You did a background check after our charter, didn’t you? Or was it before?” There was a long list of information he could have discovered—I’m single and live alone, for one thing. From the way he said proven I could take care of myself, though, I could tell he was referencing an incident that had put my name in the news some months back: I’d shot and wounded a man who’d threatened to rape me.
Deceived (A Hannah Smith Novel) Page 6
