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

of a pioneer woman stirring a cauldron. Below it was an architect’s drawing of a modern building—it appeared to be a museum.
    A charity project,
I thought. Had I seen the same pamphlet among my mother’s magazines? If not, there was something similar, which was no surprise. Elderly women were easy targets for solicitors seeking donations. Loretta, because she was lonely, took every automated phone call just to hear a human voice. Same when a solicitor came to the door. Pinky Helms would have been no different. I dropped the pamphlet and continued on through the house, flicking on lights as I went.
    In the hallway was a heavy metal floor lamp with twin globes, milky white, that came on when I hit the wall switch. The staircase to the second floor was there: wood beneath carpet worn bare by the passage of children and time. Crystal’s room was up there. Mica’s, too. Mica was three years younger but already taller than me when he entered middle school, and already smoking cigarettes and weed. By then, Crystal and I were strangers, separated by interests and school districts, since the village of Sulfur Wells was on the line that separated Sematee County from Lee County. I hadn’t been up those stairs in twenty years. I didn’t want to go up them now. Wasn’t it smarter to search Mrs. Helms’s bedroom first? A woman in her seventies, even if fleeing for her life, wasn’t likely to charge up the stairs.
    There was a door, though, that separated the stairs from the rest of the house—typical of old houses that had been pieced together before air-conditioning. I knew the woman’s bedroom was somewhere off the kitchen, which meant I would have to open the door before continuing: a cheap door, painted green, with a white ceramic knob. I stood staring at it for several seconds, aware that the dread I felt was irrational. A man with an axe would have bashed the thing to pieces; at the very least, would not have closed a door behind him. But an elderly woman on the run
might
have.
    A competent investigator searches buildings systematically, always clearing one room before proceeding to the next.
    Textbook training from the degree I had failed to complete. Competence, I realized, could also be a handy excuse for cowardice.
    I turned away from the door and went up the stairs, wood creaking beneath my weight with every slow step, my eyes focused on lace curtains white with sunlight at the top of the landing. They streamed with dust beams that pulled me forward as if on a tightrope while I used the shovel for balance. Even so, it was a clumsy weapon to carry. Halfway up, when I turned to glance behind me, the blade clunked against the banister so loudly, it startled me and I almost fell. Then I dropped the shovel, which made even more noise when it sledded down the stairs, banging each step like a cymbal.
    To steady myself, I leaned against the wall, my heart pounding again. Should I retrieve the shovel? Or continue without it?
    To postpone the decision, I used my voice again. “Anyone up there?” Then added a lie in case I had cornered an intruder. “The police are here! We’re worried about you, Miz Helms.”
    The silence I expected was jolted by a new sound coming from outside the house; a distant noise that touched my ears as the random snaring of a drum. Then the sound deepened and took form, and I thought,
Barking dogs!
Dogs coming toward the house at a run; a slathering chorus I recognized from hunting with my Uncle Jake in the Everglades as a girl. It was the bellow of catch dogs that had picked up the scent and were on the heels of game.
    Pit bulls. The Helms dogs had returned.
    Dear god,
I thought, remembering:
You left the front door open!
    The oversight had left me unprotected. Nothing at all to slow those animals if they struck my scent and came after me—me, a stranger, not only on their property but inside their owner’s home.
    Run!
    Because I panicked, that’s what I did. Hand on the banister, I vaulted