Haunted

by Randy Wayne White

  My anger got the best of me. “I don’t kill and eat children. I’d prefer not to guess about you.”

  He rocketed to his feet. “That’s disgusting. I won’t tolerate it. You don’t know what the word loyalty means, do you?” The subject seemed to flip a switch in his head. Tears began to well. “Ollie practically raised me after Mother died. Fed me with a spoon until I was old enough to feed him. Every day, we played together. Slept together, even swam and took baths together. Twenty-seven years we’ve been like brothers. Our father never gave a shit. Oliver was the first person ever to stand up to that old bastard—finally. Now you expect me to turn him over to the cops?”

  I didn’t trust myself to speak. Our father? But Theo’s tears scared me more than his craziness and threats. I didn’t look forward to dealing with Lucia but was hoping she would come into the room.

  “Think about it!” Theo yelled and began to pace. Soon his mood took another sharp turn. As he paced, he talked about how misunderstood he was and said abusive things about me and “Bertie.” If I really was a descendant of Sarah and Hannah Smith, they had to be white trash. Then he became a tour guide. I had to sit there while he went on and on about snakes and how important his work was to medical science.

  Finally he wheeled around as if to leave but had to stop one last time and say, “This is all your fault. Finding that canoe, then the girl—I didn’t ask you to come here. So don’t blame me for what happens next.”

  He left, slammed the door, fiddled with a padlock outside and jammed the dead bolt to seal me in.

  I felt like bawling. My hands were bound behind me with plastic-coated wire called a tie wrap. My ankles were joined with two loops of the stuff so, even if I managed to get to my feet, I would have to take short shuffling steps to walk. Theo had found my cell phone, too, while Carmelo went through my pockets—just thinking about the incident made me cringe. The way his hands had lingered, Carmelo’s sickening leer while his fingers explored my blouse. This was after he had slapped me, but it was the humiliation of his hands on me that had finally caused a meltdown of tears.

  I was too mad to cry now. Escape and contact the police—that’s what I had to do. Even so, my mind wandered to my stolen backpack.

  Who took it?

  Then moved on to the pistol, a chrome-plated weight in my imagination but steady in both hands when I squeezed the trigger.

  Three times I pictured myself firing yet couldn’t decide Who will I shoot first?

  As if wearing clogs, I shuffled around the room searching for a way out. Old 1960s fixtures dated the construction. On a desk was a modern touch: two large computer screens monitored a dozen cameras around the property.

  Every ten seconds the checkerboard images changed. The parking area, with the old Land Rover Theo had mentioned, a couple of other cars there, but no sign of the camper or my SUV. An interior shot of a withered little man sleeping in a rocker, a blanket tucked around his shoulders—Theo’s father, I assumed—sitting motionless as a painting while an antique TV set flickered. Next, three shots from what had to be Theo’s apartment. Theo hadn’t returned to his party yet, but I recognized some of the people. A voyeur’s view of the bathroom, where a girl sat on the toilet, her zebra-striped tights at her feet—it was Krissie’s friend, Gail, in her outlandish costume. In the kitchen, Lucia held a bamboo tube and tilted it toward the face of one of her witch friends.

  I had to wait for the images to cycle to see why: now Lucia had her lips on the tube and appeared to blow powder up the woman’s nose, the overweight witch reeling back as if stunned. Soundless laughter—no audio—which made it appear as if it was all happening underwater.

  I moved away and continued to search. All around me were terrariums and shelves of acrylic trays that contained snakes. More than a hundred pit vipers, Theo had bragged. Diamondbacks and pigmy rattlers, bushmasters, moccasins and copperheads. Banded kraits and cobras were spaced along the far wall. As I passed by, a cobra flattened its head in warning and watched me with satanic eyes.

  The prize specimens, though, were two dozen coral snakes that shared a terrarium in the center of the room. Nearby was a milking table. I shuffled over for a closer look, but not too close—if I fell, I would crash face-first because my hands were behind me. Mounted on the glass was a plaque. It bore an inscription which I had to scrunch down to read:

  In Memory of My Loving Mother

  Lydia Rom Slew

  Artist, Actress, Showman, Historian,

  &

  Descendant of Egyptian Queens

  Theo, even when not in the room, had something to say. The serpentarium had been named for his mother, who, before dying of snakebite, had passed down her interests to her son, along with her out-of-control ego.

  Egyptian royalty. Bizarre. But her middle name, Rom, tugged at a recent memory—something Birdy had said regarding Gypsies.

  It didn’t matter.

  My attention shifted to the coral snakes. Their bodies were slim, a couple of feet long, with skin as colorful as jelly beans—red and black segments separated by yellow in Life Savers bands. Under any other circumstances, I would have marveled at their beauty. Now, though, I only considered their possible usefulness.

  I’m not terrified of snakes, but I avoid them and have never had the desire to handle a venomous reptile. If I had to, though, I would choose a coral snake. Only once had I seen one in the wild—actually, it was under my mother’s house. The snake had been so docile, it was no surprise when I’d read that corals seldom coil and strike. The few people bitten usually made the mistake of surprising them or handling them roughly. A dangerous mistake because their tiny fangs inject a neurotoxin far more powerful than any snake in North America. Slow-acting—almost a full day before the human nervous system shuts down—but deadly.

  “It takes two years and fifty thousand milkings to produce a pint of venom,” Theo had claimed. “And if bite victims don’t get antivenom within twenty-four hours, they die. Any wonder why I’m a rich man?”

  A deranged egocentric, more like it. It was weird to be in this space while, at the same time, Theo appeared on one of the computer screens and reached for the bamboo tube Lucia had offered.

  Snorting more drugs, I thought. Good. More time to get my hands and ankles free before he comes back.

  Chin-high near the milking table, I noticed, was a shelf full of equipment: heavy gloves as long as my forearms, a catch pole with pincers hanging near an aluminum pole—a snake hook—and something Theo had forgotten about, a box cutter lying in plain sight.

  Did the box cutter contain a razor blade?

  I’m no stranger to the strengths and weaknesses of tie wraps. I keep a pack on my boat. They bind like steel under pressure, but a nick and sudden snap will pop them like string. Using my mouth, I dropped the box cutter on the table, then backed against it, hoping it had a razor. My fingers fumbled around until they became familiar with the case and sliding blade. Minutes later, my hands, then my legs, were free.

  The first thing I did was confirm that Theo was still at the party. Then I rushed to the sink and washed myself clean of Krissie’s blood. The sight and smell of the red swirl spinning down the drain almost caused me to retch.

  There’s no time for that. Weakness can wait, staying alive can’t.

  Talking to myself helped. I washed my face, too, while I wondered, How do I escape from a windowless room made of concrete? Well . . . maybe through the air-conditioning ducts.

  I took a look. I’m a large woman, with shoulders from years of swimming. The ducts weren’t wide enough. I had heard a dead bolt slam on the main entrance but tried the front door anyway. It was locked.

  The second door caught my attention—two doors, actually: an outer door of steel, the inner door all bars like a jail cell. The next room, possibly, was where valuable snake venom was stored. I wanted to believe that. But then remembered Theo sta
ring as he threatened to put me in a cage with the chimps. That worried me. Something else: what looked like a mail slot was actually a hinged pass-through large enough to fit a tray stacked with food.

  I didn’t want to believe that.

  Why house adult chimpanzees next to a room full of snakes? It makes no sense.

  It was a high-security room, I reasoned. Had to be. Probably refrigerated. I pictured a big stand-up safe inside, too. The prospect didn’t offer much hope as an escape route, but I went to the door and turned the latch anyway.

  Surprise. The bars swung open on rusty hinges. I caught the frame before it banged the wall. A brass lever controlled the next door, which would also open inward. I reached to try it but stopped myself. There was no dead bolt on my side. And no way of knowing if the internal lock was engaged. If I turned the lever, the door might open. But the same was true if someone, or some thing, opened the latch from the other side.

  The thought of what awaited me was unsettling. The image of Krissie’s mangled body appeared in memory: faceless, her flesh gnawed to the bone. Oliver and Savvy—one of the chimps was a monster, maybe both. What if they were on the other side of the door?

  I stood for several seconds. My eyes shifted from the lever . . . to a fist-sized dent above it . . . and finally focused on the pass-through. The opening was covered by a metal flap. Lift the flap, I could look through to confirm what was in the next room. Caution demanded that I do it. So I knelt and leaned one hand against the metal sheeting. When I did, the door settled into its frame with a soft click-click.

  Instantly, from the other side, I heard tap-tap . . . tap as if in reply.

  The space around me, already quiet, began to hum with a dense and dreadful silence. I’d been too overwhelmed to worry about paranoia or the effects of the drug. But now told myself, You’re imagining things. Open the flap and look.

  I did. Lifted the little metal lid, which was light and loose to the touch. I leaned my face to the opening . . . then exhaled, relieved. Almost smiled because in the next room all I saw was a wedge of tile flooring and a desk where books were stacked near a lamp that was on but not bright. A couple of dog toys, too—a retrieving bumper, a chunk of rope—and something else: a window. The window was closed, but it was a glass window. No bars. Force the door open, my freedom lay on the other side.

  I stood and caught my breath. Rather than act in haste, I decided to check on Theo one last time. As I stepped away, though, I heard it again: tap-tap . . . tap.

  Three distinct sounds. Like a fingernail signaling from the next room. I cocked my head and listened. Heard the compressor whine of air-conditioning . . . an October wind in the trees outside.

  Wind. That might explain the noise. Even so, I tiptoed to the door . . . knelt, and was again reaching for the metal flap when a more familiar sound stopped me—a dead bolt snap at the front door, the door yet to open because there was still a padlock to deal with.

  Theo had returned.

  I swung the bars closed, then moved in a rapid animated silence. I wanted the room to appear as if nothing had changed.

  • • •

  IT WAS LUCIA at the door, not Theo. When she entered, I was on a folding chair facing her, my hands behind my back. Tie wraps were looped around my ankles. Hopefully, she wouldn’t notice how precariously the ties hung there.

  Not to worry—the woman was too stoned to do anything but gloat, then get down to business. The bamboo tube she carried, though, was a constant worry. It was longer than expected, tipped with a wisp of a mouthpiece.

  “Hannah-Hannah, the man killer,” Lucia chided as she approached, voice syrupy. A shapeless black dress—no, it was a robe that caught air near her sandals. “You don’t really think I’ll let them hurt you, do you, dearie?”

  I said, “That’s a wise choice. Police will go easier if you don’t.”

  “Quite the tough little lady, aren’t we?” Her smile vanished. “That’s not the reason. I’m protecting you because we’re going to make a deal, just you and me . . . dearie.” She stopped several steps away and gripped the bamboo, her fingernails glossy red. “Theo’s a total nutcase, no argument. But he’s pretty good in bed. And I’ve got enough tapes and video to send him to the electric chair, if I want. Do you understand the power that gives me?” She reached to lean against the desk . . . misjudged the distance but finally found the desk with her hand.

  I asked, “What do you have in mind?” but was wondering, Where did she put the key? Lucia had locked the front door before crossing the room. No purse, no visible pockets, and she hadn’t left the key in the lock. It had to be on her somewhere.

  Stoned or not, the woman was shrewd. She noticed me eyeing her robe with its waist belt and hood, a white peasant blouse beneath. “What are you looking at?”

  I said, “Truthfully? I’m scared to death. But it’s the same thing I wondered about last night when we met: how a woman your age stays in such good shape. Weird to be thinking that now, I know, but you asked.”

  “A little manipulator,” she decided, but sounded pleased nonetheless. “What I’m telling you is, Theo is not going to jail over some little redneck tramp. What’s it matter that she died tonight instead of next year in some bar or truck stop? I don’t give a shit about his filthy monkeys either. Are you kidding? With their fleas and constant jacking off, and that female with her disgusting pink bows and collar. I’d love to see them dead. Hmm. Maybe we can work that into our deal.”

  I held my tongue while Lucia paused to realize, Yes, that’s a possibility. Then said, “Theo is useful. When I tell him to do something, he does it. And that includes favors that would make you blush—you’re such a pious little creature, aren’t you? What I would miss a lot more is the ten thousand a month he pays me not to turn him over to the law. Young cocks don’t grow on trees and I own his.”

  I said, “You don’t have to worry about me. I won’t—”

  “Shut up. Theo’s very upset that you and the old man found the boat or whatever it is. So you’re going to give him the journal, explain the code or whatever bullshit he keeps babbling on about. You see, honey, all men are just boys and boys like to hunt for treasure. Do that—and a few other favors—and he’ll have no reason to argue when I tell him not to kill you.”

  I wasn’t going to ask why a sunken canoe was important, yet she held up a hand to silence me anyway. When she did, I let my anger slip. “Sheriff’s deputies should be here any minute. Take your time.”

  “No, dearie, they won’t. I have your phone. Twenty minutes ago, you called nine-one-one and canceled the emergency call you made. Then you sent a text to our little friend, Liberty Tupple-meyer. Want to guess what you wrote? Oh—and I happen to know that Liberty works in the morning. Between now and tomorrow night, all sorts of ugly things could happen to you. Carmelo, for instance. Or the monkeys. Theo says you saw what his big bastard—Ollie, for christ’s sakes—what he did to the girl. Was it bad?”

  I felt my ears coloring.

  “Yes,” Lucia said, “I can see that it was. Lucky for her it wasn’t that disgusting female chimp—females, we’re always tougher on our own sex. I read a study. First thing a chimp does is bite off a woman’s nose, then her lips. The genitals go next. You know—eliminate the competition.” The woman sweetened her threat with a knowing smile while her fingers massaged the bamboo tube.

  Her superior tone was grating. It matched the expression on her face. I wanted to lunge from the chair and grab her. I might have done it, but then what? If she didn’t club me unconscious with the bamboo, I’d have to tie her before I searched for the key—or risk that the second door was unlocked.

  That was my excuse. But the real reason was fear. So far, I believed Lucia’s claims: Theo and Carmelo were under her control. She alone could spare my life. I didn’t want to die. It was wiser to listen.

  “What do you want me to do?”

&n
bsp; “Work with me. You’ll make more money than you ever imagined and here’s how.” Lucia checked the security screens—Theo was still in the kitchen—then moved closer. “Liberty’s aunt, Bunny Tupplemeyer—the old lady’s worth two hundred million dollars. Possibly more. And she’s very fond of you both.”

  My theory about Bunny’s astrologician had just been verified. Yet I had to ask an obvious question to appear confused. “Do you know her?”

  “I link paranormally to special people,” she reminded me, “and Bunny’s money makes her very special. She’s a sad old woman dying of lung cancer. Did you know? No . . . of course not. Well, here’s the thing: Bunny believes you came into her life for a reason. That you might be her rescuing star. The zodiacal term is a transect connection. It offers the hope of soul migration, which I don’t expect you to understand. Think of it this way: the old lady is hoping your spirits have so much in common that she’ll hitch a ride into your future.”

  “After she’s dead, you mean?” I asked the question well aware that Lucia, the witch, might also be Mrs. Tupplemeyer’s astrologician. “What happens to her soul isn’t up to me or our horoscopes. You believe what you want.”

  Lucia’s reaction: How sweet. “Offend your Sunday school convictions, did I? A star chart is just number crunching and numbers don’t lie. The trans connection thing is true. Bunny knows it’s true. She’s a self-important old bitch, but she’s not stupid. That’s where you come in, Hannah-Hannah. You’re going to convince Bunny not to back out of the real estate deal. Instead of putting her million dollars in escrow, she’s going to sign a check. And keep right on signing them.” Lucia’s green eyes brightened, she stood a little taller and fluffed her robe, while her attitude dared me to refuse.