Deceived (A Hannah Smith Novel) by Randy Wayne White Read Free Book Online

added for a door.
    From the truck, I could see that the front door was open now, hanging lopsided on its hinges—unusual in a place where mosquitoes swarmed.
    I considered getting out to check but was reluctant. Instead, I honked the horn to get attention, then honked again, expecting Mrs. Helms to appear in the doorway. She didn’t.
    After another minute, I hollered out the window, “Miz Helms? It’s Hannah Smith!”
    Overhead, an osprey whistled. A mosquito found my ear, whining the good news, while trees filtered a gust of wind, then clung to the silence that was my answer.
    It made no sense. Rosanna Helms’s car was parked beneath the plywood shed—an old Cadillac as swaybacked as a horse but still hinting at the wealth her family had enjoyed during the pot-hauling years. She was a competent driver—better than Loretta, anyway—and had no trouble getting around. Unless the car wouldn’t start, which was possible considering its age and the years of abuse dealt to it by Pay Day Road.
    I recalled the fresh tire tracks I’d seen on the way in. Maybe that explained the woman’s absence. Even so, the possibility didn’t excuse me from checking inside the house—but what about the pit bulls I remembered? They hadn’t come running at the sound of my truck, which suggested I had nothing to fear. On the other hand, the dogs could be a hundred yards away, where the shell road dead-ended, enjoying sunlight and water on the commercial-sized dock that had been rotting there since Dwight Helms had died—shot by drug dealers, most believed, even though the murder had never been solved.
    No . . . it was safer, I decided, to try dialing again from my cell and hope the woman answered. At the very least, I would hear her phone ringing through the open door, which would have been a comfort because my mother had used the absence of an answering machine as evidence her friend was in trouble.
    Twice I hit
Redial
before realizing the problem:
No service.
I moved the phone around, touched it to the windshield, even held it out the window, before finally giving up. No way around it, I had to go inside that house.
    Please, God, don’t let Loretta be right about this.
That’s what I was thinking when I slid out of the truck and hurried across the yard to the porch. Every step, my eyes were moving, worried about those dogs. When I got to the door, I had something new to worry about. The door was leaning on its hinges because someone had used a crowbar to shear the doorknob off, then rip the dead bolt free of the framing.
    No . . . not a crowbar, I saw when I looked closer. The door, which was plain but solid, had been split down the middle by a single blow, only weather stripping joining the two pieces.
    An axe,
I thought.
A strong man with an axe did this.
    I took a step back. Where was the man now? Where was the axe?
    “Miz Helms!
Pinky!
Are you there?” I had never used the woman’s nickname before and embraced the absurd hope it would shock her into responding. It did not.
    The house was as dark inside as it was outside, just as I remembered. Through the open doorway, in the shadows of the living room, I could see a mix of antique furniture and modern appliances, a wide-screen TV that was on but muted. A game show, one of my mother’s favorites, same with her bingo partners. A topic they squabbled about on the phone.
    Eyes scanning the trees to my left, to my right, I backed to the porch railing and checked my cell. Still no service—but why was the Helmses’ satellite dish working?
    Does it matter?
    No, it did not. My brain was avoiding the real question, which was:
Should I bolt for the truck and
get help or go inside the house to see if Mrs. Helms was hurt?
    What if it was Loretta in there?
my conscience argued.
Your own mother injured, maybe dying?
Then it asked a more painful question:
What if it was you thirty years from now? A helpless widow unable to cry out!
    My pounding heart urged
Run! Get out of here