Deceived

19

That evening, just after sunset, I parked my SUV at the Lowe’s on Pine Island Road, and Birdy drove us inland toward Carnicero, a trip that took less than an hour but seemed longer because the woman enjoyed showing off her driving skills and the speed of her BMW convertible.

“We’ll keep the top down until we’re closer,” she told me, then pretended to respect traffic laws until we were on Route 17, a country road I didn’t remember as curvy, but it was curvy with Birdy Tupplemeyer at the wheel. As she drove, she questioned me about what had happened at the junkyard-especially Joel Ransler’s role-but often interrupted my answers to demonstrate driving advice, such as, “The trick is to maintain speed into a curve… then accelerate.” And, “You never want to surprise a drunk from behind, so I’ll flash my high beams before passing that asshole. Then downshift… always check your mirrors… then floor it!”

Finally, I had to ask, “Are we in a hurry? I thought the later we searched that field, the better.”

I was referring to our destination. It was a rectangular lot between the rehab clinic and a church the deputy had located on Google Earth. She had printed out copies for both of us. The photos suggested that cypress trees screened the field from the clinic, which made me more optimistic about trespassing on property owned by Dr. Alice Candor but no less nervous.

“I’d hardly call it a field,” Birdy said. “It’s less than a quarter acre. We hop out of the car, take a quick look, then we’re out of there. This far inland, even a few big conch shells will tell us we found the right place. After that, we’ll get serious.”

When I didn’t reply, she laughed, “You are so uptight! Next time Rance the Lance asks you out for dinner, you’d better say yes before you explode.”

Apparently, assigning nicknames to people she’d never met was something else the woman enjoyed. Even with the top down, the BMW was fairly quiet, but I still had to raise my voice to ask, “How’d you come up with that?”

“From the look on your face when you talk about him. He shows up out of nowhere, like a knight in shining armor, and saves your butt. Rance the Lance, see? Admit it. You’ve got the hots for the guy.”

“Oh,” I said, “that kind of lance. No… all we did was stop at Denny’s for iced tea. We talked, it was fun, sure. I figured I owed him at least that.”

“At the very least,” she scolded. “You said he scared the hell out of those rednecks. So he must be a pretty big guy, a hardass but classy, you said. The guy knows how to dress, how to behave around women, but you turned him down anyway. How many times you think he’ll ask before saying to hell with you?”

I said, “He’s tall, but not big compared to Harris Spooner. You’d have to see Spooner to understand. That man’s got something missing in his brain, and he’s a bully, too-until Joel showed up. I haven’t figured that part out yet.”

“One of the rednecks, yeah,” Birdy said. “That’s my point. The guy’s intimidating when he needs to be. But also an attorney, a man who’s made something of himself.”

I was reviewing the scene in my head, trying to understand why Mica and his uncle had reacted so meekly. “Joel didn’t wave the gun around or threaten to have them arrested. He even cracked a joke about them taking showers together-you know, after he sends them back to prison. I grew up around hard cases like Harris Spooner and I’ve never met a one who would tolerate being called a homosexual.”

“They just stood there and took it, huh?”

“Hardly said a word until Joel made them apologize.”

“Apologize?” Birdy slapped the steering wheel, delighted. “I’ve got to meet this Rance the Lance.”

“You mind not calling him that?” I said. “It wasn’t until we were at Denny’s that I mentioned there might be a meth lab on the property. Oh, and that Spooner supposedly cut his wife into pieces.”

“What?”

I said it again, and added, “Or put her in a tire shredder-I didn’t want the details.”

“You don’t really believe that?” she said.

“Maybe. I hope Mica was just trying to scare me, but Harris’s wife disappeared, that much is true. Joel told me a little bit, and I checked the records, too. Seven, almost eight years ago, Spooner went to prison for attempted murder, but it was a totally unrelated case. Hopefully, I’ll find out more when I get back to the office.”

“Thank god you’ve got this guy Rance looking out for you.”

“He’s good at his job,” I conceded. “That’s why I think he asked me out to dinner-you know, so I could give him more details. He’s especially interested in what Mica said about older property owners not paying taxes. You know, on illegal income, money they earned hauling marijuana. But I’d already made plans with you for tonight. And Marion’s dog arrives tomorrow, so I’ll be busy.”

Birdy smiled and said, “Pot hauling,” amused by the term, which I had used earlier. Then got serious. “What’s wrong with you? Turn down a dinner date to babysit a dog?”

“I’m already in a relationship,” I said patiently. “Even if I weren’t, Joel’s not my type.”

Birdy kept pushing, but in a friendly way that was more like a game. We traded a few barbs before she said, “You think Tomlinson is my type? It didn’t stop us from having a fun night, though, did it? Haven’t you noticed how much more relaxed I am?”

“Not from your driving,” I replied.

“You know what I mean. Basic female physiology, particularly in women our age-it’s total puritanical bullshit to deny ourselves. You’re not even engaged, right? So why act like you’re married?”

“The subject of marriage hasn’t come up,” I answered. “It’s more of an understanding.” I felt no obligation to add that I’d had only two dates with Ford unless counting the times we’d gone jogging together, which I did-apparently because I was full of puritanical bullshit. Why else would my conscience demand it?

Birdy said, “It’s your understanding, not his, Smithie, that’s what I’m telling you! If you meet a good-looking guy who’s single and not some kind of psych job or an ego freak, there’s no harm in having fun. Psychologically, it’s healthy. Tomlinson happens to agree, by the way.”

“Bless his philandering heart,” I said. “The man’s finally coming out of his shell.”

My deputy friend thought that was funny and called me smartass but kept her eyes focused on the road. “I’ll tell you a secret,” she offered, then proceeded to share information about Tomlinson that was in poor taste and much too personal, but I listened to every word. While I was laughing, I tilted my head up to enjoy the odor of a citrus grove we were traveling through. Rows of trees, their canopies black, streamed by, while, above, a waxing moon floated on a bubble of pollen-scented air. We drove in silence for a few minutes before Birdy added, “God, the scariest thing is, my mother would love Tomlinson. Talk about not my type. But he’s so sweet and perceptive, I wouldn’t mind getting to know him better. It’s not just about the sex.”

“Weird how it works,” I said. “I don’t know much about Ford, either-and it doesn’t matter. But Joel, I don’t know anything about him and it does matter. That’s what’s strange.”

As I spoke, the gray asphalt road changed, becoming black and uneven. At the same instant, the BMW’s headlights sparked off a sign that read Welcome to Sematee County.

“I know a clerk who works for the sheriff’s department,” Birdy said, referring to the sign. “We both went to BU-a total coincidence-but she’s a lot of fun and smart when it comes to men. If you want, I’ll call her right now and find out what she knows about Rance the”-she caught herself-“about Joel.”

“I couldn’t ask you to do that,” I said.

“You didn’t ask, I’m offering,” Birdy replied, meaning she was going to call her friend anyway.

My eyes moved to the car’s GPS screen. To make finding the spot easier, Tupplemeyer had entered the address of the rehab clinic as our destination, and I could see that we had only seven miles to go.

Birdy’s busy brain jumped ahead of me. “You’re right. We should pull over and put the top up before anyone sees us. Then I’ll call.”

PHONE TO HER EAR, Birdy turned north onto County Road 731, which skirted Glades City and the Brighton Indian Reservation, while I listened to a one-sided conversation with her friend Gail. The BMW smelled new, it had hands-free calling, but she had opted to keep the call private. Why?

I wasn’t going to interrupt to ask.

“Gailstrom, it’s me, Bertie!” she exclaimed when her friend answered. She had to say it twice due to the poor reception, enunciating so clearly I realized I’d been calling Tupplemeyer by the wrong nickname. Maybe I made a wincing noise because she covered the phone long enough to whisper, “Would you stop? Birdy’s cool!” then went back to Gail, first discussing a college friend, then Gail’s recent breakup, Birdy Tupplemeyer offering comfort by saying, “You just dodged the big Loser Bullet, sister. And Loser Bullets aren’t made out of silver, trust me.”

It provided the opening she needed to ask about single men and then mention Joel by name. A moment later, an Oh my god look appeared on her face and she included me in the conversation long enough to say, “That’s what they call him!”

Rance the Lance, I assumed she meant but didn’t want to provide another distraction-not at sixty-five on a bad two-lane road. Birdy returned to the phone, still grinning in the dash lights, but the grin faded as she listened and said things like, “Small towns, yeah, of course you do… Gail, I understand. Sure, sure… so when can we get together? Yes, I’m curious as hell now.”

Several seconds after Birdy had put away the phone, I broke the silence, saying, “Is something wrong? Your friend probably has sense enough not to gossip about people she works with.”

The deputy shook her head. “That was the excuse she used. But it wasn’t the reason.”

“What did she say?”

Tupplemeyer slowed to fifty and touched the Cruise Control button while her mind worked at something. Finally, she answered, “I think Gail’s scared.”

“Of Joel?”

“Maybe not him, exactly, but she’s afraid her phone’s bugged. I’d bet on it. And she’s a tough girl-grew up in some tenement shit factory with pimps and ghetto monsters. I wouldn’t think the local cowboys could scratch the paint on a girl like her.”

Maybe she’s doing something illegal. That’s what I was thinking.

“You said Ransler made those two rednecks apologize?” Birdy asked. “Were those his actual words? I mean, was it a suggestion or did he say, ‘You assholes, apologize,’ more like an order?”

The question jogged the memory of the way Joel had spoken to Delmont Chatham on my boat, telling an older man, and a member of a wealthy family, Del, you’re going to apologize to Captain Smith. Not loud or bossy, but saying it in a way that left no doubt it was going to happen.

“He didn’t call them assholes,” I said. “But he was firm.”

“Two tough ex-cons,” she said, still puzzled, then had an idea. “What about the pit bull? Why didn’t Ransler call animal control and have the damn thing taken away?”

“First thing in the morning, that’s what’s going to happen,” I said. “Joel’s going to have the sheriff’s department check on the meth lab, too. Because I was trespassing, who knows what animal control will do? But Joel’s taking care of it. I believe him. Why wouldn’t I?”

While she thought about that, I decided to add, “Maybe there’s another reason Gail thinks someone is listening to her conversations. How much do you know about her?”

We had come to a flashing yellow light, a plywood fruit stand on one corner, a Hess station straight ahead. The windows and gas pumps created a circle of neon in an area where citrus grew on both sides of the road, no streetlights for miles in either direction.

“The local hangout,” Birdy said, referring to a couple of men talking across the bed of a pickup and kids sitting beneath a Florida Lottery sign, their bikes parked near a coil of air hose. She downshifted and turned east before answering, “I think Gail’s too smart to be dealing in bad shit when she’s working for the same people who would arrest her.”

The GPS prompted me to say, “Maybe that’s something you should think about before we do any trespassing.” Our destination was less than a mile away, and it was only eight-thirty. Traffic was spotty-trucks hauling sugarcane and citrus, mostly-but still there were people around who might notice two women in a sporty white Beamer.

The deputy was unfazed. “She sure clammed up when I mentioned Ransler’s name. Said we’d have to talk in private. You know… very careful about her wording. Scared? Yeah, I really think she is.”

“But nothing bad about Joel personally,” I said.

Tupplemeyer liked energy drinks-Lord knows why she would add fuel to the fire but she did-and had opened a fresh can when we’d stopped to put the car’s top up. She took a gulp now and glanced at me, her expression serious. “The dumbest thing two friends can do is pass along third-party information-especially when it comes from a mutual friend. It’s the sort of bullshit I hate.”

I replied, “After you’ve told me what’s on your mind, we should discuss your caffeine intake.” The way the woman’s attention bounced around, I had no idea what she was talking about.

Birdy took another drink and muttered, “Damn it,” as if chastising herself, then said, “There’s a reason I was pushing you to date this guy Ransler. Not just him-I meant it generally speaking. You’re not engaged, you should date. That’s all I meant.”

At that instant, I realized the obvious: Birdy and Tomlinson had discussed Marion Ford during her night at Dinkin’s Bay yet she continued to dismiss him as if he were an object blocking my way to freedom. A warning light went off in my head. “Before we go any further,” I told her, “how drunk or stoned was Tomlinson? And what, exactly, did he say?”

The deputy sighed. “Smithie, I’ll never do this again. Seriously, I feel like we could be really good friends and I don’t want that ruined because I stupidly-”

“Just tell me what he said,” I interrupted. Unconsciously, I had stretched my legs out as if preparing myself for a crash.

The crash came, but it wasn’t as bad as I feared.

“Tomlinson raved about your guy. Respect, integrity, smart, and he’s nice to old ladies-all the things you want to hear about a man but almost never do, even from his friends. A little straitlaced, maybe, yet open-minded. But then he let something slip that I should have told you right off the bat. What Tomlinson said was, ‘Doc will never settle down with one woman.’ No…” Birdy touched a finger to her lips, trying to remember. “No, his almost exact words were, ‘Doc won’t let a woman get close enough to hurt herself. That’s why he’ll never settle down.’ Tomlinson says he’s got a bad case of Hannah fever. That’s how we got on the subject.”

“Tomlinson said Doc’s got a bad case of me,” I repeated, wanting to hear it again but also to be sure of her meaning.

“Of course. We’re lying there naked, you think Tomlinson’s going to ruin his shot at an encore by admitting he has a thing for another woman?”

I’d been holding my breath, I realized. I let it out. “That’s it?”

“The man’s best friend says he’s never going to settle down with one woman, how bad you want it to be? That’s the reason I was hinting around you should go out for dinner if you’re asked.”

I felt around until I found the right button, lowered my window, then took Birdy’s energy drink from its holder.

“Hey! What do you think you’re doing?”

“Pouring it out,” I said, and I did. When the window was closed, I placed the can behind the seat. “We can stop and have a glass of wine later, but no more speed drinks for you. Doc’s been careful in his life about making a commitment? I don’t consider that bad news. He cares about a woman’s feelings. I think it’s sweet.”

“Sweet? Well, if you say so. Anyhow, I won’t push you about the good-looking attorney-not after what Gail said.”

I would have picked up on the remark, but was in the middle of explaining I’d expected her to say something shocking-that Ford had a terminal illness or he was living a secret life-when I saw a patch of cleared land flash by on our left. Was it the spot we had come to search? Yes, because ahead was a lighted sign so small, it encouraged anonymity rather than advertise the cluster of buildings inside the gate.

Sematee Evaluation and Treatment Clinic

“I didn’t see the church, but we had to have passed it,” Birdy said, checking the mirror. “We’ll do a U-ee at the next road.”

It gave me time to ask what exactly had her friend Gail said about Joel.

“What she told me was, ‘Don’t go out with the guy until you talk to me first.’ I didn’t get the impression it was because of his nickname. Something more serious. Doesn’t sound good, does it?”

We had turned around and were passing the clinic again, but at seventy miles an hour the only notable details were a chain-link fence, an electronic gate, and security lights way back in the trees. Something else I noted was an eighteen-wheeler, its cab lit up like a Ferris wheel, coming from the opposite direction a quarter mile away.

I had started to reassure my friend by saying, “I wouldn’t have gone out with Joel anyway unless-” And that’s as far as I got. From the corner of my eye, I saw something leap from the ditch and try to sprint across the road but then freeze as if surprised by the dazzling glare of the BMW’s headlights-or the headlights of the eighteen-wheeler.

It was a person, I realized… a woman dressed in yellow, her eyes huge behind the two pale arms that she threw up to protect herself.

Birdy jerked the wheel to the right, yelling, “Hang on!” then I felt a sickening thud as the woman hurled herself at the windshield and the car skidded off the asphalt.