I withdrew my hand and thought about it. Did I really want to carry a gun?
No . . . I did not. I had enjoyed target shooting as a girl, but putting a bullet through the hip of a human being, then witnessing my attacker’s rage and pain, had replaced my naïve notions with the ugly reality that a bullet scars from both ends. Never again did I want to shoot another human being, so why carry a gun?
I closed the cover of the phony book, pushed it aside, and positioned the computer screen closer. To prove my resolve, I opened the folder I most dreaded and found fifteen documents related to the murder of Dwight Helms. The most repellent had been labeled by the Sematee County Sheriff’s Department Homicide; Helms, D. W., Crime Scene Photos, followed by the date and the status, which was Active. In my current mood, it seemed required that I start there and I did.
It was a multiple PDF file. When I clicked it, sheets of thumbnail images appeared, then opened in such rapid-fire succession that I could only sit there dazed as the photographs stacked themselves on the screen. Old black-and-white shots that had been scanned into the system, each so graphic that my constant wincing soon mimicked the rhythm of a punching bag. The body of Dwight Helms had been found at night. Flashbulbs added a glossiness to the photos, turning pools of blood to silver, casting shadows that magnified each small, grisly detail.
Finally, I regained control of my eyes and managed to turn away. I stood, took a deep breath to stem my queasiness, then started toward the bathroom just in case. That’s when the phone rang. It would have been a relief to hear the voice of Birdy Tupplemeyer, so I grabbed for it but heard Loretta’s panicked voice instead.
“I called nine-one-one, but he’s still out there and I’m scared!” she began, then told me she’d seen a man outside, his shadow in the moonlight, moving from window to window.
I asked just enough questions to convince myself my mother wasn’t stoned or dreaming, and that she really had called police, before saying, “Make sure the doors are locked, I’m on my way.”
In a rush, I shut down the computer and threw a few things in a bag. At the door, though, I hesitated, my hand on the light switch, while I stared at the leather-bound book on the desk.
NEGOTIATORS.
Such a strange title for a box that contained a deadly weapon—a pistol that had already saved my life once and might save me again if a man armed with an axe was on our property. If the crime scene photos hadn’t been so fresh in my mind, I probably wouldn’t have reconsidered, but I did because of the terrible way Dwight Helms had died.
As I drove toward Sulfur Well, the book was on the seat next to me but slightly heavier. Along with the pistol, it now contained a loaded magazine.
The nice sheriff’s deputy, who said he’d seen Liberty Tupplemeyer but had never spoken to her, pulled away just before midnight. He had searched the area with a flashlight while I stayed inside and comforted my mother. Something else I’d done was use the house phone to fire the night sitter, who, Loretta claimed, had been drunk or high on crack, then pretended to be called away by a family emergency.
“I wouldn’t trust that girl with a potato peeler, let alone my life,” Loretta had sputtered. “Who hired her anyway? You should have better judgment, Hannah!”
“I just left a message for the agency,” I replied with patience. “You don’t have to worry about seeing her again.”
“Seeing that tramp’s not what I’m worried about. A man who peeps in windows isn’t after a woman’s money, if you know what I’m saying.”
I asked, “Are you sure you saw someone in the yard? Mullet fishermen break down late sometimes and have to walk to the marina.”
“Not just the yard,” Loretta insisted, “he was going from window to window. Didn’t I just say that? He wanted to get a look at me with my clothes off before he broke down the door. So don’t lecture me about not taking a bath! If you had any sense, you’d be finding us winter coats to wear instead of worrying about mullet fishermen and broke-down engines.”
I hadn’t mentioned bathing, but I had asked why Joel Ransler’s name and cell number were scribbled on the pad next to the phone. Now, once again, I asked for an explanation.
“I don’t pry into your personal business,” Loretta fired back, her gray eyes flaring. “At least there’s one person in this world who cares what happens to me. And he’s good-looking, too! Rance,” she added, using the special prosecutor’s nickname, “that’s who I should’ve called after nine-one-one. He’d know how to deal with a rapist.”
For too many minutes, we went back and forth like that before my mother finally conceded that Ransler had called that afternoon to see how she was getting along, and also with more questions about the late Rosanna Helms. The special prosecutor had covered more ground than that, though, I could tell by Loretta’s evasive manner.
“Did he ask about me, or how much you donated to that charity, Fisherfolk?” I pressed, which only caused more turmoil, so I gave up and waited on the porch until the deputy was finished searching.
“I didn’t see anyone, didn’t find any tracks, nothing,” the deputy said but wrote his cell number on a card. We talked for a while longer, then he returned to his car.
I got Loretta in bed, checked to make sure the doors were locked behind me, then walked to the dock, undecided about what to do next. It was midnight. Should I wait until mother had quieted, then return to my office apartment? I dreaded the thought of that, but the option of sleeping in my old bedroom was even less inviting. I hadn’t had what you’d call an unhappy childhood, but my years in Loretta’s house hadn’t allowed me much freedom, nor had I enjoyed the confidence I now felt. At night, my old room brought back memories of self-doubt and nervousness I didn’t care to revisit. On the other hand, I had to be up before sunrise to catch bait for my charter. Only six hours between then and now.
On the dock, shepherd’s-crook lamps cast yellow pools along the decking and showed the silhouette of the boat that would be my new home. I had yet to spend a night in the snug little cabin. My first night aboard, I had decided, should be a celebration of sorts, so I wanted all the work to be finished, everything clean and tidy, and my personal things stored where they belonged. Tonight, however, it seemed okay to postpone the celebration and get some sleep. I found a sleeping bag in the house, a toothbrush, a robe and a towel, and carried all that, plus my bag, down to the boat. The Marlow had no running water, but there was a hose on the dock and an extension cord for electrical power from shore.
I was below in the cabin, getting the V-berth ready, when I remembered I hadn’t received a reply from Birdy. It was twelve-fifteen, but I sent a text anyway: Make it home? I finished making the bed, brushed my teeth, then switched off the dock lights, yet my phone remained silent.
• • •
THIRTY MINUTES LATER, I was still awake, fretting about my new friend among other things, when I heard what sounded like footsteps on the dock. I sat up in the darkness and listened. Uncle Jake had built the dock as solid as stone, but all decking vibrates beneath the weight of an adult even if that adult is taking slow, methodical steps, and that’s what I was hearing—no, what I was feeling. The steady thump-thump-thump of what might be someone walking toward me, being extra careful because the moon was covered by clouds and the deck was hard to see. From the mild vibration, I guessed it was either an average person already close to my boat or a large person who had just mounted the dock from the mangroves.
Dear lord, what if it was Levi, carrying a hammer—or worse!
I grabbed my robe and put it on while continuing to listen. The wind had freshened, and I began to wonder if the steady thumping might be caused by a bumper or a floating log banging against a piling. Or raccoons—they loved ambushing crabs from the dock at night. Whatever or whoever it was, I wasn’t going to sit there like a tethered goat and wait for something to happen. I had to unlock the cabin door and take a look.
> Rather than alert my visitor, I left the lights off and felt my way soundlessly toward the companionway steps. I’d done so much sanding, painting, and buffing inside the cabin, my feet knew the interior from memory. What I’d forgotten was a box of heavy plumbing hardware that was sticking out of the entrance to the shower. In midstride, I kicked the thing and stubbed my toe so hard that I wanted to cry. When the box banged off my other foot, I threw out my hands to catch myself but pulled down a tray of tools instead. Wrenches and ratchet heads made a thunderous clatter when they hit the teak deck below.
Shit! Son of a bitch! I couldn’t help myself from saying it because my toe was throbbing, and I had also probably damaged my polished flooring, too. No point in trying to surprise anyone now, not after so much noise. So I limped over and switched on the cabin lights, then the aft deck lights. Scattered near my bleeding toenail was a host of tools to choose from as a weapon. I selected a small pry bar, then unlocked the door and poked my head out, calling, “Who’s there!”
I’d been wrong about raccoons and floating logs. It was a person, a person walking toward me: a tall gray shape in the moonlight. It slowed when I called out, then stopped midway between the shore and my boat. I felt my breath catch. The person’s head was cloaked in something—a sun mask, possibly—and he was tall enough to convince me it was either Levi or the man who had come at me with an axe—or one in the same.
I yelled, “I’ve got a gun!” then ducked back into the cabin, intending to lock the door and arm the pistol before calling for help on my cell. I’d been uneasy about bringing the weapon aboard but was glad I had it now . . . or was until I heard the person reply.
“Redneck trash with a gun. Why am I not surprised?” It was a woman’s voice; a deep voice with an edge that threatened hysteria or rage, both extremes within easy reach if needed. It was Alice Candor, who then demanded, “Come out of there! I knew this was going to happen!”
I had been so scared, it took me a moment to stop hyperventilating and to understand the situation. My brain spun through the details, then latched onto the most important: a woman I had never met, trespassing on my dock after midnight, was calling me names and yelling orders as if I was some lowlife peon or one of her prison inmate patients.
I wasn’t scared now. I was mad. So mad, in fact, I didn’t trust myself with a pry bar, so I left it on the counter before I pushed open the cabin door and stepped out onto the deck. It wasn’t easy to disguise my limp, but I tried.
Candor was still yelling, “This area is trashy enough without people on boats polluting my view. This is the last warning you’re going to get!”
She had come a few steps closer, weaving a little as if drunk. The cloudy blue moon was above us, but I could see she was wearing one of her flowing caftans, plus a scarf or hood on this cool spring night—a woman who was as tall or taller than me, so it was no wonder I had feared the worst. I was furious but managed to sound in control when I replied, “Is this the way you behaved before they ran you out of Ohio? No wonder! If you’re going to call names, have the courage to do it face-to-face.”
“Ran me out of—?” The woman caught herself, stunned for a moment, but rallied fast. “Why, you pathetic little bitch! You don’t know what you’re talking about and you’re not smart enough to understand. I’ll tell you this, though: spread rumors about me, my attorneys will have you in court so fast, I’ll own that goddamn boat before you know what hit you. Then I’ll—”
“Making threats from a distance is as trashy as it gets,” I tried to interrupt, but Alice Candor talked over me, her voice suddenly shrill.
“Don’t you threaten me! I’ll take that shack your mother calls a house, too! The whole goddamn area needs to be leveled, that’s what I think. And I’ll start with you!”
I was losing control. “Get out of here. You’re trespassing!”
“Not for long!” the woman laughed. “You’ll see! Call the police, go ahead. It’s illegal to live on a boat. Once they radio in, you’re the one who’s leaving, not me. I’ve already filed papers against your mother—the old bitch needs to be committed. Dementia, senility, a threat to the public good—classic symptoms. A colleague of mine is willing to sign the papers. I know how the system works, sweetie!”
Why hadn’t I put on jeans and a blouse? Because of the robe, I couldn’t hop onto the dock in a way that was imposing. I had to use one hand to keep myself covered—way too dainty—but I got out of the boat and faced the woman. “Lady, unless you’re a good swimmer, I suggest you be on your way. You’re either drunk or just plain mean.”
“Mean?” Dr. Alice Candor was shaking her head in disbelief but already backing away. “You’re the people who butchered my dog! You just threatened me with a gun! I’ll have your head for that.”
Her tone was so suddenly theatrical, I wondered if she had an audience and was attempting to justify her behavior. I was right. A second person was approaching from the road. A man . . . her husband, I realized, when he called, “Alice, what are you doing out here?”
The woman lowered her voice, hoping only I could hear, and proved just how vicious she could be. “Your mother should be on psychotropic meds, sweetie, and I can make that happen. So don’t fuck with me!”
Raymond Candor had good ears or had been through similar confrontations. Seconds later, he was on the dock, trying to get an arm around a wife who was twice his size while also apologizing. “She had a couple of drinks tonight. No harm intended. I’m sure you understand.” Then whispered to his wife, “Alice, please don’t make another scene. Do you remember what happened last time?”
The woman shoved him away so forcefully, she nearly went into the water, but the man caught her. Even so, she yelled, “Go to hell, Ray! Get your hands off me, you . . .” Then she used a terrible word.
Dr. Candor wasn’t done. She continued to berate her husband as he led her away, calling him names so foul that I guessed he was either immune to the abuse or afraid of his own wife. The arguing didn’t stop until the heavy front door of their house banged shut, sealing off their voices with the abruptness of a stone slab.
• • •
SLAB-A-LOT—Birdy had suggested it as a name for the concrete house. It rhymed with Camelot, which struck me as a little too cute, so I experimented with others: the Dipped Crypt . . . Psycho Place . . . Mount Stucco.
No . . . naming a house wasn’t enough to keep my mind busy, so I gave up.
It was one-thirty in the morning. I was so upset, I was shaking. The untainted silence of stars and cloudy moonlight flooded down on me while I sat on the aft deck and tried to recover. It was too late for tea, too early for coffee, so I did what I always do when I can’t sleep: went looking for something to read. Because I hadn’t moved my things aboard, all the cabin contained were manuals on plumbing and wiring. During my search, the deceptive leather book fooled my eyes often enough that I carried it to the settee booth and switched on the lamp. It was a distraction, at least, and gave me something to think about.
NEGOTIATORS
I had puzzled over the title more than once; had even looked up the word: An agent who brokers conflicts between two or more parties, often through compromise but sometimes by issuing an ultimate ruling.
How had my Uncle Jake come to own such a weapon? It was such an ironic combination: violence in a benign case that was specially constructed to deceive. I had already done an Internet search, but there wasn’t much to find. Twenty-some years ago, a master gunsmith had produced a concealment weapon for a State Department agency, the name of which was still classified. Less than two hundred had been made. The gun was a shortened Smith & Wesson with a hooked trigger guard, a sleek fluted barrel, plus some other tweaks for fast shooting. On the transparent window grips, in red, was stamped DEVEL, which was an archaic Scottish word, a noun.
I sat looking at the pistol while my mind drifted back to Uncle Jake. Prior to his death, h
e had entrusted the weapon to a fishing client (who I had inherited), but the man knew nothing about Devel—didn’t even know what the book contained. The strange ensemble wasn’t something I could discuss with friends, either, even Ford—and why would I? They weren’t experts on weapons. Like Uncle Jake, who was a sweet man but also shielded in his ways, the book and its contents remained private and a mystery.
Finally, I took the pistol from the case and checked the chamber. It was empty. Two magazines, one loaded, lay secure in their places—and that’s where they would remain for the night.
Still restless, I closed the book, then returned to the deck in hopes of more comfort from the stars. Nearby, a school of mullet spooked; a family of dolphins sliced the moonlight, their blowholes ploofing like snorkels. Then, from the mound behind my childhood home, came the baritone boom-boom-boom of a great horned owl, who watched from the high shadows of an oak.
I stood, a silly attempt to feel the owl’s resonance on my face. When I did, for an instant—a single blink of my eyelids—I imagined the silhouette of a man standing near the tree. A large man with wide, familiar shoulders. One blink of the eyes later, though, the man was gone . . . or the illusion I had just experienced.
You’re upset and you’re lovesick, I reminded myself.
After watching the trees for another ten minutes, I went to bed.
With so many prime fishing spots between Sanibel Island and Punta Gorda, I’d had no need to make the tricky turns and cuts required to find the Helmses’ property by water until Joel Ransler arrived the next morning. He was ten minutes late and dressed for fishing but also carrying a briefcase in one hand, a small cooler in the other.
The first thing I asked was if there was any news from the medical examiner about Rosanna Helms.
“Heart attack,” he said, giving me a close look after he had stepped aboard my skiff. We talked about the woman awhile before he added, “You look tired. Up late?” Then offered a look of concern to assure me it wasn’t an insult.
Deceived (A Hannah Smith Novel) Page 12
