When the man appeared, I did not scream. Even when he shifted the axe to his other shoulder to slide into the kitchen, I didn’t scream, although I did back away. But when he slammed the door behind him, cloaking him in darkness, I couldn’t help myself. A whimpering sound escaped my lips, which I instantly retracted by calling, “If you hurt Mrs. Helms, mister, you’d better run while you have the chance!”
No reply. Instead, I heard the rattle of metal, then the thunk of a dead bolt burying itself in the doorframe. He had locked us in.
I stayed on the offensive. “Police are on their way! In fact, in fact”-I fumbled to retrieve the cell phone from my pocket, then held it up-“they’re listening to every word I say!”
The man turned to face me, his body as wide and shapeless as a raincoat. I couldn’t see details, just the bulk of his shoulders, the contour of his head, a momentary glint of something that mirrored a shard of light-the axe blade? Then he walked toward me, but so slowly that shadows swirled around him like displaced fog. Was it confidence or caution? The kitchen was dark, but, if he kept coming, I would soon get a better look at him. Or had my threats made him uncertain? The dogs were still at the kitchen door, their barking frenzied-another possibility.
I couldn’t just stand there, so I ran to put a table between us, then waited. Either direction, I was trapped. I looked at the window above the sink. It wasn’t much wider than my shoulders. I could wiggle through if I shattered the glass, but not fast enough to save my legs and lower torso from at least one blow from the axe. Just imagining the impact caused a numbness in me. It dulled my movements and my thinking. The coward in me was urging Be submissive, beg for your life. Earn his kindness!
Beneath the window, a floating ball of woman’s hair ridiculed that coward. The anger I’d felt toward the dogs returned, and it, too, ridiculed any display of weakness. Guarantee my humiliation by welcoming an assault? No-I wouldn’t do that.
“I warned you!” I yelled. Then put the phone to my ear and spoke too loudly, “That’s right, Officer! Send a couple of guys to the back door.” When my attacker appeared to stiffen, I added, “Yes, he’s armed! Shoot him, if you can-I don’t think you have a choice!”
In some quiet corner of my mind, questions formed: Is it smart to convince a crazy man he’s cornered? Or that you’ve just ordered him killed?
My doubts vanished when the man ducked backward for a moment and blended into the shadows, where he did… something. I couldn’t see. A moment later, though, I knew my bluff had failed. I heard a grunt of rage, and the axe reappeared near the ceiling. There was the sound of heavy footsteps, then the man was beneath the axe, holding it over his head and striding toward me.
I had opened several drawers while standing at the table-nothing but dish towels and plastic plates. Frantically, I turned toward the window-an impossible choice. Use a towel to shatter the glass? Even if I’d found a hammer, there wasn’t time.
The pit bulls had quieted but were scratching at the door-chewing at the wood, too, biting off chunks and growling-their eagerness probably fired by every word they’d heard me speak. Open the door, they’d be at my throat before I took a step. Unless I was willing to risk the worst on the chance of saving myself.
I pulled out a drawer and flung it into the man’s path. He stumbled but caught himself while I sprinted to the kitchen door, put my hand on the dead bolt, and turned to face him. There was enough light now to see that he was wearing a baggy raincoat. It hung to his ankles… rubber gloves, too, and what looked like a sun mask, the stretchy, tubular type that fishermen pull over their heads to prevent skin cancer. Two black eyes peered out; just a hint of design on the material, but the design was common enough for me to recognize.
I hammered my heel against the door and yelled, “Get out or I’ll loose these dogs on you!” which caused a renewed frenzy of barking. At the same instant, a terrible thought came into my mind: What if he owns the dogs?
It didn’t matter. My threat stopped the man, but he also drew the axe back as if to throw it, which left me no choice. I yanked the door open and jumped behind it, my back pressed flat against the wall, and I held the doorknob tight with both hands. For the next several seconds, only sounds and fear dominated my senses: a din of clattering claws, a slobbering growl, the thunder of a man running… furniture crashed-or was it the sound of an axe shattering a door? Then, from what might have been outside, floated a wild howl of pain. Animal or man, I couldn’t tell. I didn’t care.
I peeked around the door, then sprinted to my truck. Not until I was almost to Burnt Store Road did I use my cell to call 911-the whole time checking the mirror, afraid I was still being chased.
7
Standing amid a fireworks of flashing blue lights, I said to a detective, “I’ve already sat in the back of two squad cars and answered that very same question. I don’t feel like sitting. And don’t see the point of repeating myself.”
The most troubling question, out of the dozens I’d been asked, was, “Are you sure you saw something in the sink?” Two detectives and a sheriff’s deputy had varied the wording, of course. “Tell me again about that wig.” And, “In a dark room, what caused you to think the hair was human?” And, “How did you know the water was bloody if you couldn’t find a light switch?”
I hadn’t said bloody, I had said reddish-colored, so it had been an attempt to trick me. Not the first or last either.
The questions by themselves weren’t upsetting, but the fact I was being asked so delicately, and repeatedly, told me what the police would not: the sink had been empty when they arrived. Nor had the pit bulls returned, and maybe the wreckage in the living room had been removed, too. No way to guess specifics, but I was convinced that someone had returned to the house and neatened up the crime scene. They’d had time to do a good job, too, which was my fault. I had refused to park at the intersection of Pay Day Road and await help as the operator had insisted-sit there alone and risk the axe man having a fast truck or ATV? Nope. Instead, I’d driven straight to a Publix parking lot, six miles away, where there were bright lights and witnesses. Even police GPSes didn’t list the pot hauler’s nickname for what amounted to a long driveway, so thirty minutes or more had lapsed by the time I’d led police back to the old Helms place.
“It’s not that we don’t believe you, Mrs. Smith,” the detective was saying now. “It’s procedure. People under stress sometimes forget details. Sometimes even imagine details that-”
“It’s Ms. Smith,” I interrupted. “And I didn’t imagine a door beaten down with an axe. And I didn’t imagine the man who tried to kill me with that same axe.”
“The same axe?” the detective said, trying to draw me out by sounding intrigued.
I ignored him by offering advice. “As to the pit bulls, take a walk around the yard, then be sure to check your shoes before you step in a car. Detective? I don’t care if you believe me or not. Find Rosanna Helms, that’s all I care about. Someone broke into that poor woman’s house and there’s no telling what they did to her.”
The man frowned and started to say, “Ms. Smith, it’s not my job to believe-” but then stopped to concentrate on a radio message by touching a finger to his ear. I listened to him say, “Yeah… Yeah-if you say so.” Then, “Yeah, well, I’m not crazy about the idea, but-” Then, “Sheriff, if that’s what you want, no problem. She’s right here.” Then the detective stood taller, looking for landmarks, saying, “We’re by the house, the whole perimeter’s taped off, so we’re standing in the drive by the… Well, hell, if he knows the woman, he’ll recognize her, right?”