The knot was beginning to loosen!
It was darker now that Delmont Chatham’s truck was gone—just the gas lantern and the van’s solitary headlight, but they created a basin of dusky visibility. I had no idea where Levi had gone. He had abandoned his station near the shredder, which offered some hope and caused me to risk angling toward the van. Back to plan A: jump inside, lock the doors, then my dead deputy friend and I would attempt our first carjacking.
But the anchor line seemed determined to have me killed—and so did Harris Spooner. Once again, he snagged the rope’s bitter end, which spun me and slammed me onto the ground. For Spooner, it had been a close call, apparently. He thought about it for a moment, then came up with a solution—he looped the rope around his waist again but this time knotted it, which made it impossible for me to run away—not as long as we were tied together.
I had to get my hand free!
Spooner didn’t give me the chance to do that either. He kept the rope taut as he walked toward me, coiling the line with each step, taking care not to allow any slack now that he had outsmarted me and I was so near the shredder. Moving slower, too, doing things right, a man who didn’t mind letting his confidence show. No—not just confidence. Spooner was letting his mind settle, savoring the moment. It was in his mountainous swagger, his relaxed way of moving now that he had me cornered. Harris was already enjoying what came next.
What came next was him pulling a knife as I struggled to my feet and asking me, “Don’t that rope hurt your wrist? Let me cut ’er off for you!”
A joke. He had to holler over the noise, which only added a taunting quality that pleased him. The man’s ZZ Top beard parted, a wedge of dark teeth grinned. Knife in hand, he came toward me, adding another loop to the coil even though only a few yards separated us. I maintained that distance by backing away, working furiously the whole time at the knot, which was now loose enough to slide off my hand—if the man made the mistake of allowing me a foot of slack. I couldn’t count on that, so I was also prepared to run if Spooner charged.
But where?
Behind me, the shredder remained hitched to the van; the van’s lone headlight a dusty beacon to the road. To my right, the Coleman lantern showed red eyes waiting in the water, plus something else that was unexpected: Levi Thurloe had reappeared, still hooded like the Grim Reaper and carrying the axe.
I was debating which was a better risk—gators and an axe or a known woman killer?—when Spooner noticed Levi, too. It caused him to pause and yell, “Where the hell you been?”
It was the distraction I’d been waiting for. I dug the fingers of my left hand under the knot and pulled the loop wide . . . only to have the loop instantly reseal when Spooner snapped the rope tight.
The man’s eyes had never left me.
“Second thought, think I’ll feed her to my dog!” he called to Levi, then surprised me by giving the rope a mighty yank as if hauling in a cast net. No . . . it was a tug-of-war trick because when I planted my feet, he dropped the rope, which sent me backpedaling into the shredder. The noise of the machine was so loud, I felt nothing when I crashed against the metal sheeting and fell.
It didn’t matter. A slack rope meant freedom. I pulled another length toward me in reserve, slid the loop off my wrist, then got up—but too late. Nearby, the gas lantern illuminated every detail: Levi and Harris Spooner were converging on me, two huge men in monkish rain ponchos, both carrying cutting tools; to their left, red eyes aglow where steam tangled with shadows above the pond—a vision from hell.
I screamed, “Levi, you’ve got to help me!”
In reply, Walkin’ Levi shouldered the axe and kept coming.
Without looking, I backed myself against the shredder and took a quick look at the thing. I was hoping I could scramble under the machine, which sat on a frame braced with trailer tires. It was possible, but what if I got stuck? There was only a foot of clearance, and even the noise issued a lethal warning: the whine of worn gears, the chatter of cutting teeth fed by a spindle that augered relentlessly, indifferent to what might fall into the hopper.
I didn’t have to look to know the hopper was above me: a flanged open rectangle, Moline Industrial Shredder stenciled on the side. The memory of the tire Mica had fed into it was too graphic to forget.
Yes . . . crawling under the machine was my only escape. And that’s what I was preparing to do when the rope at my feet jogged a fresher memory: A slack rope means freedom.
Was that true now?
I had dropped to my knees to crawl under the trailer but risked a glance at Spooner, who smiled his yeti smile, confident he had me cornered. Definitely no need to hurry now that he was only a few steps away. Even if I did dive under the machine, he could wait there with his white-handled fillet knife—a cheap stainless knife he had probably used to stab Birdy Tupplemeyer. Levi, with his axe, could wait on the other side.
Spooner was right. For me, there was no escape. No wonder he was savoring the moment, not bothering to rush. But there was something else the man had not bothered to do, I noticed—the rope was still knotted around his waist.
Crawl under the shredder that would soon consume me? Or fight back by taking a risk?
Spooner made the decision for me when he stood alert for a moment, then hollered, “Levi, you see them blue lights? Cops out there on the highway! Shit! Let’s finish up here in case I’m right!”
Police? It was more likely a squad car had stopped some trucker, but I couldn’t wait even if help was on the way. I jumped to my feet, rope in hand, and began throwing loops over my arm while I kept my eyes on Spooner. He was close enough to grab me with one step and a lunge if he wanted. But he didn’t; just stood there, surprised, while his brain tried to explain my behavior.
Funny. That was the first expression that registered on the man’s face. But the smile faded gradually as his eyes moved from me . . . to the words Moline Industrial Shredder stenciled above my head . . . then finally, finally to the rope knotted around his waist, and that’s when Harris Spooner made the biggest mistake of his life. Instead of cutting the rope, he turned, knife in hand, to look at Walkin’ Levi, as if to say, No problem!
Levi misunderstood . . . or pretended to. He was standing the length of an axe handle away from Spooner and that’s what Walkin’ Levi used to break Spooner’s arm, an axe handle. He flipped the tool around and swung it like a baseball bat, hit his tormentor so hard that the knife and a tangled white blur of earbuds went spinning into the air.
The ZZ Top giant didn’t fall, only gave a woofing scream . . . grabbed his dead arm . . . then staggered a couple of steps while his crazy eyes searched for someone to blame.
Me, that’s who his eyes found, and I was ready when he came at me. Holding the rope, I jumped away, then tossed the whole coil high toward the stars. The hopper was the size of a bathtub and impossible to miss.
I didn’t miss . . . nor did I stop running even when Spooner screamed, “Somebody help me!” his voice piercing the percussion thump of his own body being tractored over sheet metal, then spun higher by an auger toward the feed chute above him. Alice Condor’s pleas for mercy were stuck in my mind, but my real fear was that Levi Thurloe was on my tail. If he caught me, the man I had protected from bullies in childhood might have spared my life a second time, possibly would have even murmured, You’re nice, but I wasn’t taking that chance. I had been lied to enough for one night.
Even minutes later, when I flagged down the sheriff’s cruiser bouncing toward me, I wasn’t convinced I was safe. My suffocating fear didn’t provide a clean breath until I recognized one of the two deputies who jumped out to reassure me. One was a man wearing a uniform, his gun belt shiny as plastic. The other deputy—a person I knew and trusted—was dressed in hospital scrubs and still groggy from drugs.
It was Birdy Tupplemeyer—a sight so shocking but also welcome that it dulled my guilt later
when police told me the name of the woman I had left behind, wrapped in plastic.
From Venezuela, Marion Ford had written, Sorry, delayed. I miss you. When I get back, interested in buying a place together? We’ll need more room.
Ten days after opening the note, I was aboard my tidy floating home, dressing to see Ford for the first time since his return, when I heard the ting of an incoming text. It was from Joel:
Found the shark mask, I know who it was. NOW will you talk to me?
I had been ignoring the man, true, but I had also spent my nights worrying about the identity of the person who had attacked me at the old Helms place. It wasn’t paranoia, or the aftershock of minor needle wounds to my throat and abdomen that caused me to be afraid. My reasons were all based on mistrust, but my mistrust was grounded in fact.
Harris Spooner had survived the shredding machine by the grace of his own body weight and the limits of even good anchor line, so now he was only chained to a hospital bed, which was the fuel of nightmares. Walkin’ Levi had also been added to my fears when he was transferred to a psych ward for “observation.” Mica Helms was safely behind bars, but there was a fourth suspect, too, who police had yet to find, let alone arrest: Delmont Chatham, collector of antique fishing gear.
The special prosecutor’s text message, however, was a bait too powerful to resist. I called him.
“It wasn’t Spooner,” I said when Joel answered. “I was right about not killing his own dog, wasn’t I?”
He replied, “How are you feeling?” sounding like he cared.
“Busy,” I said, “but a little nervous at night. That’s why I’d like to skip the small talk. Where’d you find the sun mask?”
“It wasn’t Harris,” Joel said. “You were right about Levi Thurloe, too. The guy’s got the IQ of a butterfly, but his face does brighten a little when your name’s mentioned. He says he—”
“Levi likes me,” I interrupted, “which is flattering, I’m touched. But I’d prefer you answer my question, then explain why you haven’t arrested Delmont Chatham. That’s who it has to be. A drug addict who collects antiques just doesn’t disappear into thin air.” I had come close to saying arrested your Great-uncle Delmont but monitored my irritation.
Joel didn’t like my tone. “It might take a few days, but Delmont will show up. On the other hand, you’ve got nothing to worry about because the person who attacked you is dead. Her body was right beside you in the van.”
I was walking through my little boat’s galley but stopped when I heard that. He was referring to Crystal Helms, the childhood friend I had left behind in life and also in death.
I didn’t want to believe it. “If that’s where you found the sun mask, Mica could have planted it in her apartment—no, wait, you said Crystal lived in a trailer. A woman drug addict, that would make it even easier for someone to—”
“It was Crystal,” Joel said. “I know you grew up together, but—well, I’ll put it this way: children don’t recognize the signs of trauma in other kids. You believe that, don’t you?”
“Keep talking,” I said.
“Hannah, I’m telling you it was Crystal Helms. I had her medical files subpoenaed. Yesterday, I got a warrant and we searched her trailer. We found the mask, the one made by Patagonia, just like you described it. There were bloodstains. We got the results this morning. Remember when I didn’t want to discuss what seemed like an unrelated murder? It was an elderly man named Clayton Edwards. Crystal used a knife, then robbed him. But what ties her to the attack on you are bloodstains from the dog she killed.”
I felt a shudder while thinking, Then put his head in the freezer, but didn’t say it.
There was more to come.
Joel said, “Crystal had issues early on. She despised her mother and idolized her father. When Dwight Helms was murdered, Crystal told more than one prison counselor that she went off the deep end. Which could have been just an excuse—even the dumbest con is a genius at making excuses—but not in Crystal’s case. She had a thing for freezers. To her, it was a place homemakers used to preserve trophies. I’m not going to tell you what we found in her freezer, aside from one of her mother’s wigs. All I say is, thank god she’d been out of prison for only a few weeks.”
I asked Joel to repeat some of what he’d told me, then said, “It’s hard to grasp the idea of a daughter killing her own mother. Are you absolutely sure?”
The man hesitated for just an instant yet sounded confident when he explained, “No other reason for Crystal to be there wearing a mask. Rosanna had called Harney Chatham and asked him to come to the house but then canceled. The phone records mesh with what the old man told me. It’s a guess but, the day you were attacked, I think her brother, or Spooner, knew Crystal was having another spell and went looking for her. Brought the dogs along, too. Fortunately for you, they came by boat.”
We talked for a while longer. Joel wanted to use this opening to charm me and he did it by giving me credit for recent positive events and there were several. Courts had frozen all assets of Fisherfolk Inc. A local law firm, Carta, Smith, Taminoshan and Volz, had filed a class action suit seeking redress for commercial fishermen who had been bilked. An unknown party had fronted a multimillion-dollar offer for the twelve cottages of Munchkinville with guarantees to residents that were generous but vague—a car salesman’s finesse that Joel, as smart as he was, didn’t connect with his biological father. Something else Joel didn’t know was that same unknown party had entrusted me with monitoring financial emergencies in our community of aging fisherfolk.
After that, recent positive events became more iffy. Alice Candor might soon be indicted, but her team of attorneys had kept her out of jail thus far. The rehab clinics that she and her husband owned were under investigation, but the investigation would take months, even years.
“I wouldn’t get my hopes up,” Joel said. “The governor’s office is getting involved and, well . . . let’s just say the governor has a personal interest in who controls state medical contracts. The good news is, like I said, we found the shark mask. Mystery solved. How about we celebrate over dinner?”
I replied, “Even if I felt like celebrating, I don’t date clients.” After I hung up, I went forward to the master berth, where the note Ford had sent from Venezuela was lying open by the reading lamp. I sat and reread the note for the hundredth time, when, for no reason, an unsettling realization came into my mind—from the start, Joel had known my attacker was a woman. Early on, he had pressed me until I had admitted I wasn’t sure it was a man. Something else: Joel had no problem accepting the outrageousness of a daughter wanting to kill her own mother with an axe.
I picked up my cell, touched Redial, and before Joel could inquire about my health, I said, “You lied to me from day one, didn’t you! Why?”
“Christ,” he stammered, “I thought you’d changed your mind about dinner. Now what?”
“You suspected it was Crystal all along! That means you still haven’t told me everything. Answer my question: Why?”
There was a long, long silence that gathered a chilly edge before the special prosecutor replied, “Once you get your teeth in something, you don’t quit, do you? Did it ever cross your mind I might be trying to spare your feelings?”
“Spare yourself, more like it,” I responded. “Harney Chatham is your father, not mine.”
Seldom in my life had I said anything so cruel. Instantly, I regretted my words, but there was no taking them back. When Joel replied, it was in his attorney’s courtroom voice. “Let’s be perfectly clear, Hannah. This is what you want—not me.”
“I deserve to know,” I said, oblivious to the spider’s web that awaited.
“Okay—I warned you.” Joel cleared his throat, then made me a part of it all by saying, “The women who murdered Dwight Helms have one powerful protector left. You just mentioned his name. But think about your Uncle Jak
e. He didn’t want the women arrested, Hannah. Why would you?”
• • •
ROSANNA HELMS had endured one beating too many and had sent her husband to hell instead of prison . . .
Joel didn’t say that, nor had he divulged any names, but what else could explain his dark insinuation that more than one woman had played a role?
I finished dressing, put Ford’s note in my purse, then sat outside on a deck chair to think it through. It was early evening, the first week in May. Not dark enough for the automatic dock lights to come on yet late enough that across the street Loretta and her friends had gathered on the porch, awaiting the courtesy van that would take them to Friday-night bingo. The burble of their conversation filtered through the mangroves, interrupted by an occasional caw of laughter and the distant hooting of a great horned owl.
Four old friends—minus one—the women were still pressing ahead, enjoying their lives.
Sweet, perky Mrs. Helms killed her abusive husband with an axe, then one or more of her friends helped cover it up.
I had to repeat it several times in my mind just to establish the possibility. It was a difficult concept to grasp. Mrs. Helms had fussed over her clothing and wigs after surviving cancer; her dresses had shared the perfume of peach snuff when I, as a child, had sat on her lap in church. In the privacy of the mangrove homestead, however, the woman had lived in fear. Dwight Helms was a wife beater. So one long-ago night, young Rosanna Helms, mother of two, had fought back . . . was possibly fighting for her life when it happened and had grabbed the first weapon handy. Or she had been terrorized into insanity and had finally snapped.
In the scenario I was creating, what followed was easy enough to believe. Panicked and in shock, the woman had contacted her best friend, Loretta Smith, who then got Harney Chatham, the future lieutenant governor, involved, as well as my late uncle. For two decades, their secret had guarded the truth.
Deceived (A Hannah Smith Novel) Page 25
