Randy White - Deceived

“Wait!” Joel said. “The appointment was for last Friday afternoon. Chatham was supposed to be at the Helms place an hour before you were attacked.” Then he said, “Hannah?” concerned by the silence that was my response.

I felt dazed. “I’m here,” I replied. “What are you telling me?”

“The truth,” Joel said.

“I… I can’t believe that Mr. Chatham tried to kill me. Is that what you mean? Today, he was so sweet. No one’s that good an actor.”

“That’s not what I’m saying. It doesn’t mean the old man came after you-although he’s still pretty spry. Could have been a coincidental robbery like we thought. Or he was the axe man’s target-Mrs. Helms was already dead by then, remember. What concerns me is, I told him about the attack and he intentionally withheld information. For christ’s sake, don’t say anything because tomorrow I’m going to question him formally.” Joel waited through another silence before asking, “Are you okay?”

No, I wasn’t. I felt like a fool. “He should have told me he’d been at the Helms place before I got there! But it’s my own fault. I’d never met the man, but I trusted him anyway.”

“Hannah, you don’t become a millionaire car dealer by sounding insincere. I intended to tell you in person, but, frankly, well… you’re so damn stubborn sometimes, I got pissed off.”

I couldn’t think straight. I was due at Dinkin’s Bay in ten minutes and also concerned about Birdy. Now this.

In a gentler voice, Joel said, “Give me a call later. Then how about dinner tomorrow night? Your friends at the marina don’t have to know.”

I wanted to end the conversation and regroup, so told him, “Sure, dinner,” and soon hung up, but sat there for several seconds before reading Birdy’s text.

Two texts, actually. The first had been sent half an hour earlier, but I’d somehow missed it, which was ironic. The message only added to the chaos in my head:

Spoke with G. R the Lance is poison, stay away.

G was Birdy’s friend Gail , who had, apparently, finally opened up about Rance the Lance.

Hard to imagine that her second text could be equally as disturbing but it was.

Am here but need help. Can’t T watch damn dog?

T for Tomlinson . Just as I’d feared, Birdy had returned to Carnicero to look for artifacts and bones. I started to type a reply but then called her instead. It wasn’t dark yet, so maybe she was still parked in the cemetery, waiting for the sun to go down.

This time, Birdy answered but wasn’t in her car because she spoke in a whisper, saying, “Can’t talk! Are you on your way?”

For no reason, I whispered, too, saying, “You promised you wouldn’t go there by yourself!”

“No, you told me to promise. Smithie, just listen! Today they dug holes and built a wood thingee around the spot. So I think they’re pouring cement tomorrow.”

“Footers,” I said. “Yeah, they’d have to frame it in first. Is that what you mean-a wooden thingee?”

“So you’ve got to come!” Birdy whispered. “Tonight’s our last chance.” Then I heard, “Oh shit, someone’s coming. I’ll text you.”

She hung up.

I slapped the steering wheel and started my SUV but was too agitated to drive. I had to do something. Calling 911 was too extreme, so I texted her a warning message: If I don’t hear from you in ten minutes, am calling police.

Birdy’s smartass reply arrived almost immediately: I am the police. Hurry up!

No smiley face this time.

I typed a reply- On my way- and hit Send because I felt sure Tomlinson would approve.

NOW I WAS DRIVING EAST,away from Sanibel Island, and listening to Tomlinson support my decision, saying, “No worries, the Creature from the Black Lagoon arrived an hour ago. The delivery van guy was in such a rush, I doubt if he stopped to whiz between Macon and Punta Gorda. Said something about the dog chewing through the bulkhead and eating his iPod.”

My cell was on Speaker , sitting on the dashboard, so I raised my voice a little to reply, “I should have been there but I’m worried about Birdy. Did she tell you what she had planned for tonight?”

“Birdy?” Tomlinson asked. “Oh- Bertie .” Then I heard yelling in the background, and he laughed, “God, I hope someone’s taking video.”

“Of what ?” I asked.

I heard Tomlinson holler, “Anyone have a camera?” before he told me, “The human comedy, Sister Hannah. Nothing can touch it.” And hollered again but this time covered the phone, yelling, “He’s going to need a bigger boat! Rhonda… Hey! I know you two have a camera.”

“Tomlinson, tell me what’s happening!” The temptation was to put the phone to my ear, but I wasn’t going to do it in traffic.

Finally, he returned, still laughing. “The dog was swimming out the channel, towing a canoe. You know, with the bowline in his teeth? So Jeth gets in one of the rental kayaks to chase him down. I didn’t see how it happened, but now Jeth’s in the water, the canoe’s swamped, and the dog’s got the kayak. You were right, Hannah, the name Largo sucks. We’ve got to pick out something better that fits.”

I asked, “Is Jeth okay?”

“Wait, I’m trying to get a better angle. It’ll be dark in twenty minutes, but I can make out the kayak. Yep… dog’s headed for Woodring Point, going like a bat out of hell. But like a ghost ship, you know? No one aboard. Hey-what about this? We call him Sinbad.”

I had been looking forward to staying in Dinkin’s Bay but now genuinely regretted my decision to drive to Carnicero, a place that was frightening, not fun. Hoping Tomlinson would change my mind, I said, “Maybe I should turn around and help find the dog.”

“Not if Bertie’s in trouble,” he said. “Tell me what’s going on.”

When I’d finished, he asked a few questions, then complimented Birdy, saying, “I love the way that woman’s mind works. Most cops are outlaws at heart, but, god, I never thought I’d get naked with one. Yeah… you can’t leave her hanging out there.”

As we talked, I caught a green light at the intersection of Gladiolus and Tamiami Trail, traffic a stream of headlights in the pearly dusk. I planned to take Interstate 75 north across the Caloosahatchee and Peace rivers, then exit near Glades City. Thinking about the route reminded me of Joel’s warning to stay out of Sematee County, which I shared with Tomlinson because the coward in me was still looking for an excuse.

“Did they arrest the guy?” he asked, meaning Harris Spooner.

I had to admit I’d forgotten to ask Joel and then added a lie to my cowardice, saying, “I’ll call and find out.” I wasn’t going to do it-and not just because Birdy’s friend thought he was poison. Joel had said something that was stuck in my subconscious, a few troubling words or a phrase. The harder I tried to recall what it was, though, the deeper the fragment sank, so I knew it was best to leave it alone until it resurfaced naturally.

Tomlinson asked, “Do you have an address for the shrink’s clinic or the cemetery?” Then jumped ahead, saying, “Screw it-I’ll meet you there. The crazy dog doesn’t listen to me anyway. The only reason he minds Doc is because they both have tunnel vision. To the dog, everyone else is just frivolous background noise. Uhh… speaking of Doc-”

I said, “Wait a second,” because I was merging into traffic on I-75 and his sudden change of tone told me I was about to hear something important. It seemed to take forever before I was in a free lane and could put the phone to my ear. “I’m back,” I said, and realized the damn thing was still on Speaker . So tapped the button and asked, “Is Doc okay?”