Randy White - Deceived

“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 won’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 REASONwe 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.