Randy White - Deceived

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!”