Deceived

27

Harris Spooner was in a rage but speaking to someone in authority so tried to sound respectful as he said into a phone, “I know… I know, but shit happens. If she hadn’t swung at me, she’d still be alive. And now Dr. Candor is having a reaction ’cause of them damn ant bites. Eyes all swollen-gezzus, a mess. So it’s not like she can give the woman a shot and bring her back to life.”

When he said that, I knew the body I had been placed next to was Birdy Tupplemeyer. Until then, I had only feared the possibility because she had been wrapped in plastic and covered by bags of trash, all thrown there in one heap by Spooner or Walkin’ Levi.

Either man was strong enough to do it, as I’d found out. When I tried to fight my way to my SUV, Spooner had grabbed me by the shoulders, lifted me off the ground, and shook me like a rag doll while screaming, “Cops searched my trailer ’cause of you! Now you’ve pissed off the doctor, so it’s not like I don’t have a reason.”

I stopped fighting then. It was smarter to pretend I was woozy, almost unconscious, from the drug Alice Candor had given me. The last time I’d seen the doctor, she was having trouble breathing but still coherent and mad enough to tell the men, “Get rid of that vicious bitch, too, or no more fentanyl! Either one of them could’ve ruined it all.”

Meaning, they should kill me, then put my body through the shredder along with Birdy. When I heard that, I was so shaken it had taken all my willpower not to struggle while Levi used what smelled like anchor line to tie me, then duct-taped my mouth. It was my hope he wouldn’t tie my wrists and ankles as tightly if I was passive.

I was right. Levi did as he was told-tied my hands behind my back, then lashed my legs-but he’d left the knots so loose I was now wondering if it was because I had defended him from bullies when we were younger. If that was true, maybe I had an ally. Levi hadn’t said a word to me-or anyone, for that matter-but had handled me gently while lifting me into the back of the van, which had no seats, and was empty but for a bunch of tools, and what might have been garbage sacks piled on the body of my dead friend.

Another point in my favor, I hoped, was that Harris Spooner was sporting white earbuds and Levi was still missing his. I had managed to knock the iPod from Levi’s shirt during our struggle, and Spooner had called Levi the foulest of names when Levi attempted to retrieve his favorite source of music.

But did any of that matter? Alice Candor had a hold on both men, as I found out when Spooner said into the phone, “I don’t give a shit what you say, she’s the one who fills our prescriptions. Levi’s jonesing so bad, he’s shaking-and I’m right there. So I hope you told the clinic to send something along when they come get her. No… a couple of vials, not just patches!”

There was a long silence. Finally, Spooner said, “Even if you get a judge to sign, she’s gonna be a problem,” which confused me. There was a third woman somehow involved in tonight’s events? It sparked a brief hope in me that it wasn’t Birdy they had killed-but that ended when he got back to Dr. Candor, saying, “She’s sitting in the goddamn BMW with the air-conditioning, what do you expect? Now I’ve got to get rid of that, too-as if I don’t have enough shit to deal with! Car’s gonna have to sit here ’till midnight unless you find Mica and he comes with the wrecker.”

When he said that, I wondered: Why didn’t he mention my SUV? Did the person he was speaking with know I was in the van? Spooner didn’t offer any clues when he told the person, “Damn it, at least four vials! After what we’re doing for that quack tonight?”

For several minutes, I had been lying in darkness, the van’s engine running, while the men waited for someone from the clinic to arrive with transportation and a shot of Benadryl, which Dr. Candor had ordered. Now another drug, fentanyl, had been added to the list.

Fentanyl. Was that what Candor had injected into my neck? It was addictive, obviously, and not long-acting because my sense of euphoria was long gone. No wonder Spooner and Levi were so desperate. No matter how many times I’d stood up to the bullies, I realized, Levi would do as he was told.

But what about the person Harris Spooner was talking to? It was someone Spooner had to at least pretend to respect, so maybe the person would help me. Only two possibilities came into my mind: Joel or Mr. Harney Chatham. Alice Candor had known I ignored the false texts from Birdy’s phone-probably last-minute information, so she’d had no choice but to be here waiting for me. I already suspected that Joel or Mr. Chatham had hidden a GPS on my vehicle, so only they could have warned her. But would either man allow me to be murdered, then put into a tire shredder?

No… Joel had a temper, but he liked me. Mr. Chatham’s tears for my mother had been real. It wasn’t possible.

I had been working at freeing myself from Levi’s knots but now concentrated on the duct tape, using a loose floor rivet as a cutting edge. Scrape the tape from my mouth and I could shout out Joel’s name, yell a reminder that Loretta’s daughter was about to be killed.

Too late-and pointless, it turned out.

“I’m not doin’ shit until you get here,” Spooner told Joel or Mr. Chatham. “If I go down for this, you’re going down, so get moving.” Then he said in a rush, “Guy from the clinic’s here,” and hung up the phone.

I was lying on my side. Car lights sailed across the roof of the van; a window opened to allow a muffled conversation. A minute later, I heard air bubbles being tapped from syringes, then the Awwwww sound of a man who felt relief.

“Let’s get ’er done!” Harris Spooner said, sounding optimistic for a change.

Walkin’ Levi replied, “Good.”

JOEL OR MR. CHATHAM would be there to witness my murder?

I still couldn’t believe it, but that’s what was going through my mind as I felt the van jolt onto pavement, turn right, and gain speed. Spooner had given one of them an ultimatum. I had heard him clearly enough. If I’m going down, you’re going down…

It was sickening to know I could have been so easily fooled. Me-the fourth Hannah Smith, in five generations of women, to die because of poor judgment when it came to men. I wanted to scream, throw myself against the walls and beg God for another chance. I had told Mr. Chatham the truth about church attendance. I went weekly because I believe in God’s mercy and in the power of prayer. After such devotion, why was He allowing this to happen? And why had He destined the women in our family to repeat the same fatal error? It wasn’t fair!

Life isn’t meant to be fair-so grow up and get on with it.

My Uncle Jake, who was not a churchgoer and who had killed three men in the line of duty, had often said that. Something else he often said was God helps those who help themselves. Both embraced a No excuses, keep fighting philosophy that had guided his life, so had guided mine, too, especially during my rough stretches. It was something to cling to now and calmed the panic that was overwhelming me.

You’re not going to let them do this to you, I decided. Get to work!

I did. It was hard enough to breathe after a needle in the throat, so I had finished nicking away at the duct tape. The tape hung from my face but no longer covered my mouth. Now I focused on freeing myself from the rope.

When Levi had tied me, he’d used what I was convinced was an anchor line. Good braided nylon that had the smell of copper bottom paint and saltwater. He hadn’t cut it-people who know boats seldom cut good anchor line-so the rope lay scattered beneath me like spaghetti. That made it difficult to judge which sections to deal with. My hands were behind my back so I had to make decisions based on touch. Levi had allowed my wrists enough room to move, but not enough to yank my hands free. He’d used what, so far, were good knots, except for an attempted bowline that had cinched down on itself and might require pliers to untie. Then he’d finished by connecting my hands and ankles with half hitches so I was trussed like a steer at a rodeo.

My fingers, though, had already solved the problem of the half hitches. I loosened a final hitch and kicked my legs free of my hands. My wrists and ankles were still bound, but I has halfway there. Next step was to pull my knees into a fetal position, then maneuver my feet through my hands-sort of like skipping rope. Once my hands were in front of me, I could free my ankles, no problem.

That’s what I was doing when I felt the van brake and heard Harris Spooner say, “Shit! I just thought of something. If the cops stop us, we’re meat. We’ve gotta stay closer to home.”

Just as suddenly, he yanked the van to the side of the road. Because I was balled up like a contortionist when he did it, I tumbled sideways while tools went clattering across the floor. When we were stopped, I realized I had been spared hitting the wall by a mound of trash and the body of Birdy Tupplemeyer.

Poor dead girl, I thought, pressing my cheek against the plastic. You’re still warm.

Through the screened bulkhead, I heard Spooner once again say, “Shit!” Then he sought counsel from Levi. “It’ll take forever to turn this sonuvabitch around. Think I should use the Hess station again?”

In a flat tone, Levi replied, “Good.”

Spooner said, “Good? Guess that’s what I deserve for asking a damn retard. We got a headlight out, dickweed. You ever hear of something called the po-lice? I’m gonna swing this wagon train around, then tell the man there’s a change in plans.”

The shredding machine, I realized, made turning difficult. I was also remembering the first time I had seen the van. It had disappeared north onto an unnoticed farm lane that might lead to tomatoes and citrus groves but also had to pass close to the cypress pond. Because of the bad headlight, Spooner was being smart and had chosen an alternative spot to get rid of our bodies.

The pond I’d seen last night, a black mirror of lily pads and glowing red eyes.

Alligators eat them all, I had joked to Birdy after she had asked about snakes on Cushing Key.

I pressed my check to the plastic again and whispered, “I will try…”