Randy White - Deceived

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, he 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.