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

now!
but I couldn’t do that. Why is the most difficult choice almost always the right choice in a tough situation? The good and decent person in me ignored a final reproach—
You have only yourself to blame!—
then took charge of the situation. I had to find a weapon. Something I could swing or throw to fend off a strong man carrying an axe.
    Propped against the porch steps was a shovel I hadn’t noticed until now. It seemed a handy discovery until I hefted it and saw that the blade was soiled with dog feces. Which caused me to notice other unseen details in the yard: a bucket nearly empty of water; a galvanized chain clipped to a tree where the earth had been trotted into a circle; a second tree and another chain where there were mounds of dog spore fresh enough to draw bluebottle flies. Midway between the two dog runs was a cushion that had been shredded and a bone the size of a steer’s leg that had been gnawed in two.
    My hands began to shake. I held the shovel tighter to steady them, then cleaned the blade by jamming it in the sand.
Pit bulls.
Mrs. Helms still owned pit bulls. She had lost her husband, Dwight, to drug dealers, and her children to drug dealing, but the progeny of the family’s dogs had survived it all.
    Where were they?
    Not in the house. I was certain of that—they would have charged me by now. Suddenly, the house seemed a safer choice than standing alone on the porch.
    I slipped past the door and went inside.
    •   •   •
    MRS. HELMS used snuff, Peach Blend,
which wasn’t uncommon for women her age. “Rubbing snuff,” Loretta calls the practice, and believes it relieves menstrual cramps and gives energy, which is why the odor was familiar when I entered the living room. But why so strong?
    The muted television darkened the room, so I flicked the wall switch and my question was answered. A can of Peach Blend
lay open on the floor, the sweet tobacco spread on a shattered coffee table. Within easy reach was the woman’s vinyl recliner. The recliner had tumbled over backward hard enough to crack the wood floor, landing amid a litter of what looked like pamphlets. Glass from a china closet crunched beneath my feet—its walnut facing showed the divot from a single blow of an axe. Mrs. Helms had used a frozen orange juice can as a spittoon. It was there, too. Or was that sticky black mess beneath the can blood? I couldn’t be sure, and the possibility caused me to freeze for a moment.
    A crime scene,
I thought.
Don’t touch anything.
    I had finished three semesters toward my A.S. degree in law enforcement before Loretta’s stroke and had at least learned the basics. But then I ignored my own counsel by hurrying across the room to retrieve the telephone, which was also on the floor.
    Nine-one-one. I hammered the buttons with an index finger. The signal tones suggested the phone was working, but it was dead when I put it to my ear. My god, Loretta had been right about the significance of no answering machine! I was already frightened, but this realization pushed me close to panic.
    Pinky’s hurt, maybe dying!
my mother had said, or something similar. I couldn’t escape to the truck; not now, I couldn’t, because what my mother had feared might be true. I had to continue searching the house.
    “Miz Helms! You here?” How unnerving it was to hear my own voice tainted by the coward that is in me. It caused me to take stock. I am an oversized woman, fitter and stronger than most. Poor, tiny Mrs. Helms was in her seventies, had survived family tragedies and cancer yet continued to live her life with a woman’s energy, still fussing over clothes and her looks. If an intruder was in this house, Mrs. Helms was the one who had a right to be frightened, not me!
    I picked up the shovel, noticing the pamphlets when I knelt. Dozens of the things on glossy paper, all the same:
    PRESERVE OUR HERITAGE
JOIN FISHERFOLK of SOUTH FLORIDA, Inc.
    The words were printed in white over an old-timey photo