Randy White - Haunted

I said, “A person who makes snake vaccine probably knows more about permits than either one of us. Let’s go back and ask someone to drive us.”

She kept walking. “Then whoever owns the thing can, by god, show me the paperwork.”

I grabbed her arm, but Birdy remained focused on the gate. “Stay here, if you want. Tell me you didn’t read about the woman who had her face chewed off.”

“You are off duty. And what if the dog or whatever it is bites? Call your office and tell them about this once we’re safe and in the car. Let’s get a few deputies out here.” Another tug, but it was the wrong thing to say.

“I am a deputy sheriff,” she reasoned, but spoke to herself. “Off duty or not, I’m still an officer of the court. Let’s at least look for tracks.” She pulled away and walked toward the drive, pistol at her side.

I followed along. The sign posted at the driveway glittered with yellow reflective tape, oaks formed a cavern above. Cicadas buzzed a seesaw chorus until we were near the mouth of the drive, then suddenly went silent.

Birdy stopped. “That thing has to weigh a ton.” She was referring to the trash can. It was industrial-sized and stuffed with pruned tree limbs, pieces of furniture, and broken tile. “It would take both of us to lift it.”

“Seriously-let’s come back in a car.”

“Stop worrying. This is what I’m trained to do.” Pistol ready, she continued walking.

I didn’t share her confidence. In my pocket was an LED flashlight, small but dazzlingly bright. It was a gift from the biologist I had dated, a man who, I suspected, had traveled to many dark places and was particular about light. When I switched it on, Birdy said, “Wow, that helps,” but then crouched and said, “What the hell was that ?”

The light had spooked something in the bushes to our right. We heard the heavy crunch of breaking limbs. The noise started at ground level, then seemed to ascend higher into the trees.

I whispered, “Let’s get out of here.”

Instead, Birdy hollered toward the driveway, “Sheriff’s Department. Come out and identify yourself.” With the pistol pointed at the ground, she walked toward the whip and crackle of branches.

I couldn’t run off and leave her, so I used the flashlight-painted the tree canopy and tracked the sound-but was always a second behind. All we saw were moving branches and a cascade of falling leaves. I stabbed the beam ahead at a massive oak. I hoped to intercept whatever it was. When I did, the tree exploded with a thumping, squawking cloud of birds… birds the size of vultures.

Birdy, the cop, ducked and said, “Shit,” while I kept the light steady.

That’s what I thought they were-vultures-until one soared toward me, its clumsy wings struggling to stay airborne and follow the others, who also appeared too large for flight. The birds scattered overhead. The sound of falling rain pattered around us, then they regrouped and crash-dived toward the river while I chased them with the flashlight.

“What the hell!”

I responded, “My heart damn near stopped!”

“Are they pelicans?”

“Turkeys,” I said. “Wild turkeys. My lord, they scared the fire out of me.”

Birdy took a deep breath and made a whistling sound. “I hope you noticed not once did I point my weapon at them. That’s training-wait until you’ve identified your subject.”

My reply was equally off topic. “My uncle took me turkey hunting two or three times, but this is the first time I was ever close enough. There had to be at least a dozen. Wild turkeys, they’re very smart.”

We went back and forth like that-nervous talk-until I saw a glob of gray goo on my shoe that matched a streak of gray on my jeans. Birdy noticed something on her shoulder… then in her hair. She touched it and sniffed. “Bird shit.” She made a queasy noise.

“Turkey shit,” I amended, my vocabulary still out of control while my beating heart slowed.

“What a night. First, a scorpion bites me, then my hundred-dollar blouse gets turd-bombed. A foot of snow and Boston is sounding pretty good right now.” Birdy found hand wipes in her purse, then proved my instincts right by adding, “No way in hell am I going to bed without a shower. We either get a hotel or I’m following you home. What time is it?”

It was ten-twenty, which I told her while my brain settled and began to work again. I wanted to believe my flashlight had tracked turkeys clattering through the trees. But I didn’t believe it. The turkeys had been roosting. Something else bothered me: I had smelled fermenting fruit and garbage, not limbs and broken furniture. To confirm the incongruity, I swung my light to the trash container ten yards away. It was piled high with wood.

Birdy sobered. “Yeah… let’s check for tracks.”

“ Why? That’s not what I was looking for.”

“Stay here, if you want.”

I couldn’t do that, so only muttered, “Lucia must’ve slipped a crazy pill into your drink.”

I dreaded what we might find but felt better when Birdy knelt by the can and used her index finger to trace a deep impression in the sand. “It was a man wearing shoes,” she said. “See? He turned around here-the tracks aren’t as deep-and walked back to the vaccine place. Size seven or eight in ladies’ shoes, I’d say. Tiny for a man, so he’s short but wide and strong as hell.”

“Sandals,” I corrected her, “no heel prints.” I wanted to share my friend’s relief but couldn’t muster the conviction.

Birdy sensed it. “Chimps don’t wear sandals or heels. Let’s find a Holiday Inn.”

“After I get Captain Summerlin’s journal,” I replied.

WHAT WE FOUND was better, the River’s Edge Motel on Old County Road 78, just across the bridge from Labelle, a pretty little town with a friendly cowboy flavor. The motel had large, clean rooms that overlooked the Caloosahatchee River and a dock where three trawlers and a houseboat were moored among smaller boats.

“Screw sleeping with scorpions,” Birdy said after she had showered and joined me on the porch. “I like this place. How about we book two rooms for the week and bill my aunt? It’s only thirty minutes to the old house and no more than forty for me to get to work on Sunday morning. That way, I can stay tomorrow night.”

I agreed it was a nice motel but was in a foul, suspicious mood. “There’s less chance of being robbed, at least, or people snooping,” I said. I was referring to what I’d found after returning to the Cadence house. The door was still padlocked and Capt. Summerlin’s journal was on the mantel, but not exactly as I’d left it. I’m particular about how I place things. Right away, I knew. The box lid was sealed; I’d left it ajar so air could circulate. Further proof was a torn page and new cracks in the binding; the cracks could have been caused by flattening the book to photograph the contents.

Birdy, whose room was three doors down from mine, said, “We’re off duty. We’ve got clean sheets and bathrooms, so stop with the paranoia. What you need is a drink.”

There was no nearby bar to provide mojitos, so we’d bought a bottle of red wine at a 7-Eleven, a store not known for fine wines. That didn’t seem to matter at eleven-fifteen on a Friday night, the two of us eager for a shower and beds to sleep in.

I replied, “You said yourself that Theo disappeared long enough to break in. I don’t trust him. Was he still hitting on you?”

Birdy, fussing with her buttons, nodded. “He put his hand on my ass. I told him it was a little early in the game for heavy petting, but maybe after the doctor took his cast off.”