Randy White - Deceived

“Maybe weak batteries,” Birdy said, holding a plastic scope to her eye. “It’s one of the cheapies-can’t see crap-but I’ll bring it along anyway.” She locked the car and listened to the chirring insects before saying, “Smithie, I’m sure I didn’t hit that woman. Not even a scratch on my fenders.”

“The poor thing’s out here all by herself,” I said. “How about we jog along the road? You take one side, I’ll take the other.” I turned and started away.

Birdy had the scope to her eye again and stopped me by saying, “What the hell’s that ?” She was looking in the direction of the area we had planned to search, the quarter-acre lot the Candors had changed from wetlands by hauling in fill. There was no way she could see anything, though, even if the scope had worked, because vines and cypress trees separated us from the clearing.

“You’re wasting time,” I said. “What if she’s hurt?”

“Listen!” The woman deputy appeared to crouch into a shooting stance and began backing away.

“What’s wrong?”

“Someone’s coming!” she said, and motioned for me to return to the car.

I didn’t see or hear anything, so I switched on my flashlight-a small Fenix LED that Ford had given me. The light was blinding, and I used its beam to paint gravestones white as I probed among the weeds. Finally, the light spooked something. Bushes moved, branches crackled. I searched until I found the source: an armor-plated animal that made a squealing noise when the light found it, then bounced away in retreat.

“Armadillo,” I said, smiling. “Good thing you didn’t bring your gun.”

Birdy was explaining that animals sometimes sound like footsteps when a distant howl silenced her and caused the back of my neck to tingle. The howl climbed in pitch and became a shriek-the scream of a woman who was terrified or in pain.

“It’s her!” I said, and took off running toward the road but then stopped because the screaming stopped. I hadn’t had time to pinpoint the woman’s location but Birdy had. She was already zigzagging through the cemetery, using her flashlight to take what she thought was a shorter route through the trees.

“That might be swamp!” I yelled, but she kept going. So I followed. The cemetery had once been enclosed by a wrought-iron fence that had fallen and was hidden by weeds. Birdy stumbled over a section and went sprawling. It gave me time to catch up.

“Are you okay?”

“Shit,” she said, shining her light on a tombstone. The stone had been worn smooth by decades, and she looked at it for a second. “My ass just landed on someone’s grave. Good thing I’m not superstitious.”

I said, “Check your clothes for fire ants,” because what her ass had almost landed on was an ant nest, a sandy mound the size of a pumpkin. Fire ants like rough ground and attack in mass when their nest is disturbed. The bites burn like hot coals, so I was making a thorough search of my friend’s clothes when we heard a woman scream again and then men shouting. The voices came from the other side of the trees.

“Are they hurting her or trying to help?” I whispered.

“Before I call my dispatcher, let’s make sure,” Birdy said, then motioned for me to take the lead and I did.

WHAT I HAD FEAREDwould be swamp was actually the remains of a cypress strand that had been drained by a pond. The ground was soft but not mushy, and the pond appeared in the beam of my flashlight as a sheen of black that was dotted with lily pads and stars. When we were closer, though, pairs of glowing red eyes floated to the surface.

“Gators,” I told Birdy. “Keep moving.”

She did. It took us only a minute or two to cross the strand, but the screaming had stopped by the time we exited the trees. We were at the edge of the clearing we had come to search, a building lot that had been elevated with fill, then tamped flat by heavy equipment. Beyond that were more trees, then the lights of the medical clinic-but no woman dressed in a hospital gown, no sign of the men we had heard yelling.

“Sound plays tricks at night,” I said. “Maybe they’re up on the road.”

Birdy switched off her flashlight and told me to do the same. “Even if they aren’t,” she said, putting the nightscope to her eye, “I’m not walking past that damn pond again. Gators, my ass!” A moment later, she handed the scope to me, saying, “This thing’s useless,” and stepped up onto the rectangle of packed earth, her short attention span now back on the subject of artifacts.

Looking through the night vision scope was like trying to see through a green marble. I fiddled with the focus without success but did decipher something moving near the highway. I lowered the scope and was about to use my flashlight when another eighteen-wheeler zoomed past and illuminated what I was seeing. It was a person running-a woman, which became apparent when she paused to catch her breath only fifty yards away. I called out, “Are you okay?”

It startled her-and startled Birdy, too, whose attention was elsewhere. “I’m not deaf!” she snapped, and switched on her flashlight. She was kicking at something on the ground.

“I’m going to talk to her ,” I said.

“Who?”

“The woman we almost hit,” I said. She was jogging toward us now, attracted by our voices or the light. Didn’t say a word until her last few wobbly strides, but then spoke to us in a rush, saying, “I need to use your phone! You gotta help me.” The accent was Caribbean, a singsong rhythm that didn’t fit her urgency.

Birdy swung the flashlight but was polite enough not to blind the woman. She was pale-skinned, tall, and so emaciated it suggested anorexia or illness. I also got the impression her arms were heavily tattooed, but that might have been an illusion. The harsh lighting had distorted the color of the scrubs she wore. They were prison orange, not yellow. Instantly, Birdy, the amateur archaeologist, became Deputy Liberty Tupplemeyer.

“Mind telling us your name?” Birdy switched off the flashlight to calm matters, but her hardass attitude scared the woman.

“Don’t let ’em take me,” she said. “Even if you’re cops, don’t let them no matter what they say. Please. ” Then backed away, taking nervous glances over her shoulder.

She was referring to the clinic, I assumed, or maybe she meant prison, but it didn’t matter. Her pleading tone was heartbreaking. The woman was exhausted, near tears, and out here all alone. I said, “No one’s taking you anywhere until we get this straightened out,” then walked toward her, moving slowly as if approaching a creature that had been wounded.

“You mean it?”

I told her, “I’m not a cop, but I want to help. Why were you screaming?”

The woman was still edging away and worried about someone surprising her from the road, which is where she was looking. She started to explain, “You’d scream, too, if they-” But then her breath caught as if she’d seen something, and she whispered, “Dear god.”

“What did those men do to you?” I asked. “We heard them yelling.” Then I told Birdy, “Call nine-one-one.”

The woman was focused on something in the distance and it took her a moment to react. “Not the police!” she said, then hurried toward me, pleading, “You have a car? Take me with you! At least let me use your phone!”

Birdy tried to get between us, saying, “Back off,” but I handed the woman my phone anyway, which surprised them both. Birdy’s body language showed disapproval but then softened when the woman hurried away to dial. “Poor thing looks half starved,” Birdy said. “If someone hurt her, I’ll have their ass.”