Deceived (A Hannah Smith Novel)

by White, Randy Wayne

  • • •

  PHONE TO HER EAR, Birdy turned north onto County Road 731, which skirted Glades City and the Brighton Indian Reservation, while I listened to a one-sided conversation with her friend Gail. The BMW smelled new, it had hands-free calling, but she had opted to keep the call private. Why?

  I wasn’t going to interrupt to ask.

  “Gailstrom, it’s me, Bertie!” she exclaimed when her friend answered. She had to say it twice due to the poor reception, enunciating so clearly I realized I’d been calling Tupplemeyer by the wrong nickname. Maybe I made a wincing noise because she covered the phone long enough to whisper, “Would you stop? Birdy’s cool!” then went back to Gail, first discussing a college friend, then Gail’s recent breakup, Birdy Tupplemeyer offering comfort by saying, “You just dodged the big Loser Bullet, sister. And Loser Bullets aren’t made out of silver, trust me.”

  It provided the opening she needed to ask about single men and then mention Joel by name. A moment later, an Oh my god look appeared on her face and she included me in the conversation long enough to say, “That’s what they call him!”

  Rance the Lance, I assumed she meant but didn’t want to provide another distraction—not at sixty-five on a bad two-lane road. Birdy returned to the phone, still grinning in the dash lights, but the grin faded as she listened and said things like, “Small towns, yeah, of course you do . . . Gail, I understand. Sure, sure . . . so when can we get together? Yes, I’m curious as hell now.”

  Several seconds after Birdy had put away the phone, I broke the silence, saying, “Is something wrong? Your friend probably has sense enough not to gossip about people she works with.”

  The deputy shook her head. “That was the excuse she used. But it wasn’t the reason.”

  “What did she say?”

  Tupplemeyer slowed to fifty and touched the Cruise Control button while her mind worked at something. Finally, she answered, “I think Gail’s scared.”

  “Of Joel?”

  “Maybe not him, exactly, but she’s afraid her phone’s bugged. I’d bet on it. And she’s a tough girl—grew up in some tenement shit factory with pimps and ghetto monsters. I wouldn’t think the local cowboys could scratch the paint on a girl like her.”

  Maybe she’s doing something illegal. That’s what I was thinking.

  “You said Ransler made those two rednecks apologize?” Birdy asked. “Were those his actual words? I mean, was it a suggestion or did he say, ‘You assholes, apologize,’ more like an order?”

  The question jogged the memory of the way Joel had spoken to Delmont Chatham on my boat, telling an older man, and a member of a wealthy family, Del, you’re going to apologize to Captain Smith. Not loud or bossy, but saying it in a way that left no doubt it was going to happen.

  “He didn’t call them assholes,” I said. “But he was firm.”

  “Two tough ex-cons,” she said, still puzzled, then had an idea. “What about the pit bull? Why didn’t Ransler call animal control and have the damn thing taken away?”

  “First thing in the morning, that’s what’s going to happen,” I said. “Joel’s going to have the sheriff’s department check on the meth lab, too. Because I was trespassing, who knows what animal control will do? But Joel’s taking care of it. I believe him. Why wouldn’t I?”

  While she thought about that, I decided to add, “Maybe there’s another reason Gail thinks someone is listening to her conversations. How much do you know about her?”

  We had come to a flashing yellow light, a plywood fruit stand on one corner, a Hess station straight ahead. The windows and gas pumps created a circle of neon in an area where citrus grew on both sides of the road, no streetlights for miles in either direction.

  “The local hangout,” Birdy said, referring to a couple of men talking across the bed of a pickup and kids sitting beneath a Florida Lottery sign, their bikes parked near a coil of air hose. She downshifted and turned east before answering, “I think Gail’s too smart to be dealing in bad shit when she’s working for the same people who would arrest her.”

  The GPS prompted me to say, “Maybe that’s something you should think about before we do any trespassing.” Our destination was less than a mile away, and it was only eight-thirty. Traffic was spotty—trucks hauling sugarcane and citrus, mostly—but still there were people around who might notice two women in a sporty white Beamer.

  The deputy was unfazed. “She sure clammed up when I mentioned Ransler’s name. Said we’d have to talk in private. You know . . . very careful about her wording. Scared? Yeah, I really think she is.”

  “But nothing bad about Joel personally,” I said.

  Tupplemeyer liked energy drinks—Lord knows why she would add fuel to the fire but she did—and had opened a fresh can when we’d stopped to put the car’s top up. She took a gulp now and glanced at me, her expression serious. “The dumbest thing two friends can do is pass along third-party information—especially when it comes from a mutual friend. It’s the sort of bullshit I hate.”

  I replied, “After you’ve told me what’s on your mind, we should discuss your caffeine intake.” The way the woman’s attention bounced around, I had no idea what she was talking about.

  Birdy took another drink and muttered, “Damn it,” as if chastising herself, then said, “There’s a reason I was pushing you to date this guy Ransler. Not just him—I meant it generally speaking. You’re not engaged, you should date. That’s all I meant.”

  At that instant, I realized the obvious: Birdy and Tomlinson had discussed Marion Ford during her night at Dinkin’s Bay yet she continued to dismiss him as if he were an object blocking my way to freedom. A warning light went off in my head. “Before we go any further,” I told her, “how drunk or stoned was Tomlinson? And what, exactly, did he say?”

  The deputy sighed. “Smithie, I’ll never do this again. Seriously, I feel like we could be really good friends and I don’t want that ruined because I stupidly—”

  “Just tell me what he said,” I interrupted. Unconsciously, I had stretched my legs out as if preparing myself for a crash.

  The crash came, but it wasn’t as bad as I feared.

  “Tomlinson raved about your guy. Respect, integrity, smart, and he’s nice to old ladies—all the things you want to hear about a man but almost never do, even from his friends. A little straitlaced, maybe, yet open-minded. But then he let something slip that I should have told you right off the bat. What Tomlinson said was, ‘Doc will never settle down with one woman.’ No . . .” Birdy touched a finger to her lips, trying to remember. “No, his almost exact words were, ‘Doc won’t let a woman get close enough to hurt herself. That’s why he’ll never settle down.’ Tomlinson says he’s got a bad case of Hannah fever. That’s how we got on the subject.”

  “Tomlinson said Doc’s got a bad case of me,” I repeated, wanting to hear it again but also to be sure of her meaning.

  “Of course. We’re lying there naked, you think Tomlinson’s going to ruin his shot at an encore by admitting he has a thing for another woman?”

  I’d been holding my breath, I realized. I let it out. “That’s it?”

  “The man’s best friend says he’s never going to settle down with one woman, how bad you want it to be? That’s the reason I was hinting around you should go out for dinner if you’re asked.”

  I felt around until I found the right button, lowered my window, then took Birdy’s energy drink from its holder.

  “Hey! What do you think you’re doing?”

  “Pouring it out,” I said, and I did. When the window was closed, I placed the can behind the seat. “We can stop and have a glass of wine later, but no more speed drinks for you. Doc’s been careful in his life about making a commitment? I don’t consider that bad news. He cares about a woman’s feelings. I think it’s sweet.”

  “Sweet? Well, if you say so. Anyhow, I w
on’t push you about the good-looking attorney—not after what Gail said.”

  I would have picked up on the remark, but was in the middle of explaining I’d expected her to say something shocking—that Ford had a terminal illness or he was living a secret life—when I saw a patch of cleared land flash by on our left. Was it the spot we had come to search? Yes, because ahead was a lighted sign so small, it encouraged anonymity rather than advertise the cluster of buildings inside the gate.

  Sematee Evaluation and Treatment Clinic

  “I didn’t see the church, but we had to have passed it,” Birdy said, checking the mirror. “We’ll do a U-ee at the next road.”

  It gave me time to ask what exactly had her friend Gail said about Joel.

  “What she told me was, ‘Don’t go out with the guy until you talk to me first.’ I didn’t get the impression it was because of his nickname. Something more serious. Doesn’t sound good, does it?”

  We had turned around and were passing the clinic again, but at seventy miles an hour the only notable details were a chain-link fence, an electronic gate, and security lights way back in the trees. Something else I noted was an eighteen-wheeler, its cab lit up like a Ferris wheel, coming from the opposite direction a quarter mile away.

  I had started to reassure my friend by saying, “I wouldn’t have gone out with Joel anyway unless—” And that’s as far as I got. From the corner of my eye, I saw something leap from the ditch and try to sprint across the road but then freeze as if surprised by the dazzling glare of the BMW’s headlights—or the headlights of the eighteen-wheeler.

  It was a person, I realized . . . a woman dressed in yellow, her eyes huge behind the two pale arms that she threw up to protect herself.

  Birdy jerked the wheel to the right, yelling, “Hang on!” then I felt a sickening thud as the woman hurled herself at the windshield and the car skidded off the asphalt.

  My fishing clients are amused when I tell them I’ve never seen snow but plan to one day visit a mountain resort where people wear sweaters and sit by the fire when they are not skiing S-turns down a snowy slope.

  Skiing down an asphalt straightaway—that was the sensation in my stomach when the BMW went into a skid after hitting loose gravel at the side of the road. I’m sure Birdy took her foot off the accelerator, yet the car seemed to go faster when she corrected the skid by yanking the wheel to the left, which only vaulted us into the path of the eighteen-wheeler. The truck protested with a diesel bellow and flooded our windshield with lights until Birdy fishtailed us to the right. We went off the road again and hit more gravel while the truck went speeding past, but Birdy didn’t overcorrect this time. She kept the steering wheel straight and allowed the shoulder of the road to punish the little sports car until we had banged to a stop.

  “Jesus Christ, that was close!” Birdy whispered, then put her face in her hands.

  I swung around in my seat and watched the eighteen-wheeler’s brakes flare as the driver slowed, probably using his mirrors to confirm we hadn’t crashed, and then went speeding on. To the west, a wafer of moon provided light, but all I saw was the truck and empty asphalt. No sign of the woman who had leaped in front of us.

  “Did we hit her?”

  “Jesus Christ!” Birdy said again, then sat up straight. “No. But, goddamn, that was close!”

  “I felt something,” I said. “Like a thud against the fender. Are you sure?”

  “Yeah . . . yes, I’m sure. I got a glimpse of her in the mirror when we went off the road. That’s what you heard, a sort of thump when we hit the berm. But I saw her. Standing there like a statue—what an idiot! Ran right out in front of us!”

  I said, “Let’s go back and check. What do you think?”

  “Yeah, I guess. I didn’t hit her, but she has to be in some sort of trouble. Or drunk. What was she wearing? A robe maybe. It wasn’t yellow, but it looked yellow because of the lights.”

  “Are you okay to drive?” I asked.

  “Stood there like a statue!” Birdy said again, then took a deep breath. “Probably some redneck who had a fight with her boyfriend, out here crazy drunk or high.” She opened the glove box and took out a flashlight. “Let’s go see.”

  We turned around on the empty road and retraced our path with the windows down, Birdy driving slowly, until we found the BMW’s first skid marks. The night air was dense with April moisture and vibrated with cicadas and trilling frogs. We shared the flashlight. Ditches on both sides of the road were a tangle of weeds and beer cans, but no sign of the woman.

  Ahead was the entrance to Sematee Evaluation and Treatment Clinic. I was already thinking it when Birdy said, “Hospital clothes, that’s what she was wearing. Or scrubs, something like that.” She looked toward the clinic’s security lights, way back in the trees, which showed a wedge of empty parking lot and a couple of low buildings that reminded me of government housing. “Think we should go find someone?”

  I still wasn’t convinced we hadn’t grazed the woman. What if she had wandered off into a field and was dying? “Let’s park and search on foot,” I said. “We need to make sure she’s okay before we waste time talking to people.”

  “I just got this car,” Birdy replied in a way that told me she wanted to check for damage, too. “Let’s find that church, we’ll get out.”

  We turned around again.

  • • •

  THE REASON we hadn’t noticed the church was because it wasn’t there. The building had collapsed beneath the weight of its own rotting frame or had been intentionally demolished—a tiny structure the size of a schoolhouse, if photographed from a satellite, that lay a quarter mile west of the clinic.

  We didn’t see the cemetery, either, until Birdy babied the BMW into the drive and hit her brights. That’s when the wreckage of the church appeared and headstones began emerging from the weeds, a dozen or fewer stones at the edge of the property where vines and cattails created a wall. From the satellite photos, I knew that a section of what might be swamp, and the lake that fed it, were nearby, then miles of sugarcane and citrus beyond that.

  “At least no one will see the car,” Birdy said, getting out, and I had to agree that the spot seemed hidden from the road. She inspected the Beamer for damage—there was none—then popped the trunk so I could get the flashlight and mosquito spray I’d brought. Soon she was telling me that her friend’s night vision equipment didn’t work the way she expected.

  “Maybe weak batteries,” Birdy said, holding a plastic scope to her eye. “It’s one of the cheapies—can’t see crap—but I’ll bring it along anyway.” She locked the car and listened to the chirring insects before saying, “Smithie, I’m sure I didn’t hit that woman. Not even a scratch on my fenders.”

  “The poor thing’s out here all by herself,” I said. “How about we jog along the road? You take one side, I’ll take the other.” I turned and started away.

  Birdy had the scope to her eye again and stopped me by saying, “What the hell’s that?” She was looking in the direction of the area we had planned to search, the quarter-acre lot the Candors had changed from wetlands by hauling in fill. There was no way she could see anything, though, even if the scope had worked, because vines and cypress trees separated us from the clearing.

  “You’re wasting time,” I said. “What if she’s hurt?”

  “Listen!” The woman deputy appeared to crouch into a shooting stance and began backing away.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Someone’s coming!” she said, and motioned for me to return to the car.

  I didn’t see or hear anything, so I switched on my flashlight—a small Fenix LED that Ford had given me. The light was blinding, and I used its beam to paint gravestones white as I probed among the weeds. Finally, the light spooked something. Bushes moved, branches crackled. I searched until I found the source: an armor-plated animal that made a squealing no
ise when the light found it, then bounced away in retreat.

  “Armadillo,” I said, smiling. “Good thing you didn’t bring your gun.”

  Birdy was explaining that animals sometimes sound like footsteps when a distant howl silenced her and caused the back of my neck to tingle. The howl climbed in pitch and became a shriek—the scream of a woman who was terrified or in pain.

  “It’s her!” I said, and took off running toward the road but then stopped because the screaming stopped. I hadn’t had time to pinpoint the woman’s location but Birdy had. She was already zigzagging through the cemetery, using her flashlight to take what she thought was a shorter route through the trees.

  “That might be swamp!” I yelled, but she kept going. So I followed. The cemetery had once been enclosed by a wrought-iron fence that had fallen and was hidden by weeds. Birdy stumbled over a section and went sprawling. It gave me time to catch up.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Shit,” she said, shining her light on a tombstone. The stone had been worn smooth by decades, and she looked at it for a second. “My ass just landed on someone’s grave. Good thing I’m not superstitious.”

  I said, “Check your clothes for fire ants,” because what her ass had almost landed on was an ant nest, a sandy mound the size of a pumpkin. Fire ants like rough ground and attack in mass when their nest is disturbed. The bites burn like hot coals, so I was making a thorough search of my friend’s clothes when we heard a woman scream again and then men shouting. The voices came from the other side of the trees.

  “Are they hurting her or trying to help?” I whispered.

  “Before I call my dispatcher, let’s make sure,” Birdy said, then motioned for me to take the lead and I did.

  • • •

  WHAT I HAD FEARED would be swamp was actually the remains of a cypress strand that had been drained by a pond. The ground was soft but not mushy, and the pond appeared in the beam of my flashlight as a sheen of black that was dotted with lily pads and stars. When we were closer, though, pairs of glowing red eyes floated to the surface.