Randy White - Deceived

I was trying to eavesdrop when two shadows materialized near the road and floated toward us-two men who had seen our light and were closing the distance. At the same instant, a police car rocketed past, blue lights spinning but no siren, then braked hard at the clinic gate. Birdy saw the car, too.

“Sheriff’s department,” she said. “Good. I wonder if that trucker called.”

I listened to the woman say into the phone, “Answer, damn you,” before I told Birdy, “We’re not going to let those guys touch her. Are they orderlies, you think?”

Birdy turned to look. “Jesus, I didn’t notice. You have any ID on you?”

We were about to be caught trespassing, I realized, which didn’t worry me. Police would consider it a duty, not a crime, to check on the welfare of a pedestrian we’d almost killed, so I continued to eavesdrop, hearing the woman mutter a profanity when she got voice mail. Then she left a message, which I strained to hear, the woman saying, “It’s me! You gotta get me out tonight. Crystal… pick up the phone!”

Crystal? I edged closer, but there was nothing else to hear because a spotlight came on, panned the field briefly, then froze the woman in its beam.

“Brenita!” a man yelled. “When you gonna stop this silliness and come eat your dinner?” His voice mimicked kindness but actually taunted her. The woman, Brenita, stood rigid for a moment, then dropped my phone and ran toward the cypress strand where the pond created an emptiness in the trees.

The man hollered, “I’ve got your meds in my pocket!” talking as if he would reward her with ice cream, but Brenita continued running, so he said, “Shit!” then listened to his partner ask, “Who the hell are those two?” Meaning us. And then a second spotlight blinded us.

I turned my face away, worried that Brenita was unaware of the pond and of the animals that fed there, while Birdy went into full-on cop mode. She hollered back, “After you take that goddamn light out of our eyes, I’ll show you my badge! Then you can explain what you did to that woman-we heard her screaming, assholes!”

The lights went off, and I imagined the men stiffening to attention, before one of them replied, “How were we supposed to know you’re a cop?”

A minute later, I had retrieved my phone and was telling Birdy, “I think that woman knows Crystal Helms. How many felons you’ve heard of named Crystal?” The area code was local, and I was debating on whether to memorize the number or risk sharing my childhood friend’s number with police.

Birdy nodded, interested in the Helms connection, then added a link of her own. “The reason I didn’t see those guys coming was I was looking for more of these.” She switched on her flashlight and pointed it at a large conch shell nested in the earth.

“Look familiar?”

Yes, it did. The tip of the conch had been sawed cleanly, similar to the ceremonial shell horn we had found on Cushing Key.

Birdy had guessed right about where trucks had dumped the earth and artifacts taken from Sulfur Wells.

The next morning, from my SUV, I was about to dial what I hoped was Crystal Helms’s number for the third time when Tomlinson called with news. Ford’s retriever would be delivered by a van service around eight that evening, hopefully before sunset.

“Think you can handle the animal?” he asked.

Mindful of his comments to Birdy, I said, “As long as he doesn’t get too attached-I’d hate to hurt anyone’s feelings.”

“Won’t happen,” Tomlinson said. “That dog’s sensitivity chip wasn’t installed, and I sorta wonder about the way his brain’s wired, too. It’s a match made in heaven, now that I think about it. Him and Doc, I mean-not you.”

I had met the dog, who was a stubborn animal, but at least he didn’t yap or hump, and I replied that I was looking forward to spending the next few nights at Dinkin’s Bay. Then asked about Ford, saying, “Any news?”

Tomlinson replied with a Ho ho ho Santa laugh. “Doc never makes contact when he’s traveling. Like a sort of a religious thing with him-he doesn’t want to interrupt the flow of whatever bizarre experience he’s enjoying. Different planes of existence with that dude… or moral boundaries. I’ve never been whacked enough to inquire. Or had the balls.”

“There’s fighting going on in Venezuela,” I told him. “Almost a war, according to the Internet.”

“ Perfect. Then our boy’s happy as a pig in clover. Probably shopping for a beach time-share, hoping the kimchi really hits the fan.”

“It’s nothing to joke about,” I said.

Puzzled for a moment, Tomlinson replied, “Huh?” Then said, “ Oh. Well… back to the dog. The owner dude from Atlanta, he called about the delivery time. After a few minutes listening to that cyborg, I’ve decided to change his name.”

“Change the dog’s name?” I said.

“Of course! It would take a court battle to change the owner’s name. Where’s your head today?”

I was still confused. Ford had found the retriever starved and half wild in the Everglades but hadn’t named the animal during the week it took to locate the rightful owner, who lived in Atlanta. Tomlinson often said things that seemed absurd, however, so I listened patiently while he explained that the owner didn’t really care about the dog-why else would he sell him to Ford?-so this was a fresh start in the retriever’s life.

“What do you think about Largo?” he asked. “It came to me last night in a dream.”

I replied, “It’s a good name for an island, but shouldn’t you leave that up to Marion?”

“Why? You think Rex is better? Or maybe Ranger?”

I was thinking that Ranger sounded pretty good but didn’t say it because Tomlinson was implying that Ford and I both lacked creativity. Instead, I listened to him explain that the dog had been traveling south through the Everglades on his way to Florida Bay when he and Ford had interceded. “Next stop, Bogie and Bacall Land,” Tomlinson said. “Key Largo.”

I was on my way to Rosanna Helms’s funeral and had just spoken with Joel, then Loretta, and didn’t want to continue with a phone glued to my ear. So I tried to end the conversation, saying, “Lower Matecumbe might work just as well, then. Or Islamorada. How about we talk about it later when I get to Dinkin’s Bay?”

“I considered Matecumbe,” Tomlinson said, totally serious. “Cudjoe Key, too, which actually fits the dog’s personality, but only because of the movie. This is a whole new karma deal we’re trying to create, so the devil-dog thing’s out. Islamorada, however… hum. Kinda feminine, nice-but, hey! What about Ramrod-as in Ramrod Key?”

Thankfully, his phone beeped. A moment later, he told me, “It’s my pistol-packin’ yarmulke calling. Gotta run.”

Birdy Tupplemeyer, who had Mondays and Thursdays off, was spending the afternoon with Tomlinson but wasn’t going to stay late, she had told me. We had spoken only briefly. She was relieved that, according to Joel, Brenita had been found before midnight and returned peacefully to the clinic, where she was being treated for addiction and bipolar disorder. Because her symptoms included bouts of paranoia, it wasn’t surprising that we’d heard her screaming, although the two orderlies were still being questioned. For the same reason, the public defender had already asked the court to review Brenita’s case, which included several assault charges, along with prostitution.

Birdy had remarked on how unsavory a job in law enforcement can be, then asked, “You didn’t contact your archaeologist friends about last night, did you? When I go back there, if I find even a shard of human bone, the whole dynamic changes. That’s when we take it public.”