Randy White - Deceived

I had to get my hand free!

Spooner didn’t give me the chance to do that either. He kept the rope taut as he walked toward me, coiling the line with each step, taking care not to allow any slack now that he had outsmarted me and I was so near the shredder. Moving slower, too, doing things right, a man who didn’t mind letting his confidence show. No-not just confidence. Spooner was letting his mind settle, savoring the moment. It was in his mountainous swagger, his relaxed way of moving now that he had me cornered. Harris was already enjoying what came next.

What came next was him pulling a knife as I struggled to my feet and asking me, “Don’t that rope hurt your wrist? Let me cut ’er off for you!”

A joke. He had to holler over the noise, which only added a taunting quality that pleased him. The man’s ZZ Top beard parted, a wedge of dark teeth grinned. Knife in hand, he came toward me, adding another loop to the coil even though only a few yards separated us. I maintained that distance by backing away, working furiously the whole time at the knot, which was now loose enough to slide off my hand- if the man made the mistake of allowing me a foot of slack. I couldn’t count on that, so I was also prepared to run if Spooner charged.

But where?

Behind me, the shredder remained hitched to the van; the van’s lone headlight a dusty beacon to the road. To my right, the Coleman lantern showed red eyes waiting in the water, plus something else that was unexpected: Levi Thurloe had reappeared, still hooded like the Grim Reaper and carrying the axe.

I was debating which was a better risk-gators and an axe or a known woman killer?-when Spooner noticed Levi, too. It caused him to pause and yell, “Where the hell you been?”

It was the distraction I’d been waiting for. I dug the fingers of my left hand under the knot and pulled the loop wide… only to have the loop instantly reseal when Spooner snapped the rope tight.

The man’s eyes had never left me.

“Second thought, think I’ll feed her to my dog!” he called to Levi, then surprised me by giving the rope a mighty yank as if hauling in a cast net. No… it was a tug-of-war trick because when I planted my feet, he dropped the rope, which sent me backpedaling into the shredder. The noise of the machine was so loud, I felt nothing when I crashed against the metal sheeting and fell.

It didn’t matter. A slack rope meant freedom. I pulled another length toward me in reserve, slid the loop off my wrist, then got up-but too late. Nearby, the gas lantern illuminated every detail: Levi and Harris Spooner were converging on me, two huge men in monkish rain ponchos, both carrying cutting tools; to their left, red eyes aglow where steam tangled with shadows above the pond-a vision from hell.

I screamed, “Levi, you’ve got to help me!”

In reply, Walkin’ Levi shouldered the axe and kept coming.

Without looking, I backed myself against the shredder and took a quick look at the thing. I was hoping I could scramble under the machine, which sat on a frame braced with trailer tires. It was possible, but what if I got stuck? There was only a foot of clearance, and even the noise issued a lethal warning: the whine of worn gears, the chatter of cutting teeth fed by a spindle that augered relentlessly, indifferent to what might fall into the hopper.

I didn’t have to look to know the hopper was above me: a flanged open rectangle, Moline Industrial Shredder stenciled on the side. The memory of the tire Mica had fed into it was too graphic to forget.

Yes… crawling under the machine was my only escape. And that’s what I was preparing to do when the rope at my feet jogged a fresher memory: A slack rope means freedom.

Was that true now?

I had dropped to my knees to crawl under the trailer but risked a glance at Spooner, who smiled his yeti smile, confident he had me cornered. Definitely no need to hurry now that he was only a few steps away. Even if I did dive under the machine, he could wait there with his white-handled fillet knife-a cheap stainless knife he had probably used to stab Birdy Tupplemeyer. Levi, with his axe, could wait on the other side.

Spooner was right. For me, there was no escape. No wonder he was savoring the moment, not bothering to rush. But there was something else the man had not bothered to do, I noticed-the rope was still knotted around his waist.

Crawl under the shredder that would soon consume me? Or fight back by taking a risk?

Spooner made the decision for me when he stood alert for a moment, then hollered, “Levi, you see them blue lights? Cops out there on the highway! Shit! Let’s finish up here in case I’m right!”

Police? It was more likely a squad car had stopped some trucker, but I couldn’t wait even if help was on the way. I jumped to my feet, rope in hand, and began throwing loops over my arm while I kept my eyes on Spooner. He was close enough to grab me with one step and a lunge if he wanted. But he didn’t; just stood there, surprised, while his brain tried to explain my behavior.

Funny. That was the first expression that registered on the man’s face. But the smile faded gradually as his eyes moved from me… to the words Moline Industrial Shredder stenciled above my head… then finally, finally to the rope knotted around his waist, and that’s when Harris Spooner made the biggest mistake of his life. Instead of cutting the rope, he turned, knife in hand, to look at Walkin’ Levi, as if to say, No problem!

Levi misunderstood… or pretended to. He was standing the length of an axe handle away from Spooner and that’s what Walkin’ Levi used to break Spooner’s arm, an axe handle. He flipped the tool around and swung it like a baseball bat, hit his tormentor so hard that the knife and a tangled white blur of earbuds went spinning into the air.

The ZZ Top giant didn’t fall, only gave a woofing scream… grabbed his dead arm… then staggered a couple of steps while his crazy eyes searched for someone to blame.

Me , that’s who his eyes found, and I was ready when he came at me. Holding the rope, I jumped away, then tossed the whole coil high toward the stars. The hopper was the size of a bathtub and impossible to miss.

I didn’t miss… nor did I stop running even when Spooner screamed, “Somebody help me!” his voice piercing the percussion thump of his own body being tractored over sheet metal, then spun higher by an auger toward the feed chute above him. Alice Condor’s pleas for mercy were stuck in my mind, but my real fear was that Levi Thurloe was on my tail. If he caught me, the man I had protected from bullies in childhood might have spared my life a second time, possibly would have even murmured, You’re nice, but I wasn’t taking that chance. I had been lied to enough for one night.

Even minutes later, when I flagged down the sheriff’s cruiser bouncing toward me, I wasn’t convinced I was safe. My suffocating fear didn’t provide a clean breath until I recognized one of the two deputies who jumped out to reassure me. One was a man wearing a uniform, his gun belt shiny as plastic. The other deputy-a person I knew and trusted-was dressed in hospital scrubs and still groggy from drugs.

It was Birdy Tupplemeyer-a sight so shocking but also welcome that it dulled my guilt later when police told me the name of the woman I had left behind, wrapped in plastic.

From Venezuela, Marion Ford had written, Sorry, delayed. I miss you. When I get back, interested in buying a place together? We’ll need more room.