Enough with the Candors! Finish up and get to bed!
I returned to the computer but couldn’t make myself sit in the chair. The three new folders were the same size, but the label Helms Murder seemed to leap off the screen at me, so I took another thoughtful lap around the room, pausing at the door to the storage closet. My Uncle Jake hadn’t been a tidy man, so, after his death, it had taken me two weeks to sort through his personal files and belongings, which I had stored inside on shelves. Only yesterday I had unlocked this door, then traced my memory of Hoppe’s Gun Oil to Jake’s holster-an oddity that didn’t mesh with my knowledge of the bookish Dr. Marion Ford.
I stood there for a moment, telling myself my fears were imaginary, but unlocked the door and flicked on the light anyway. Two single overhead bulbs showed stacks of boxes and plastic containers, all labeled. There was also a gun safe bolted to the back wall, the inexpensive type made of sheet metal, painted brown. My fears might be imaginary, but the man who had chased me with an axe had been as real as real can be. It seemed reasonable to protect myself if it ever happened again.
I got the key to the gun safe and opened it. Jake’s empty shoulder holster was on the shelf above his old Mossberg shotgun and a.22 rifle, the first weapon I’d learned to shoot. I feel no warmth for firearms-who would?-but the memory of the days I’d spent with my sweet uncle, hiking the Everglades as a girl, created a brief nostalgia in me. But that vanished when I reached behind the holster and pulled out what appeared to be a large leather-bound book. It was the size of a family Bible and heavy; the holster made the pleasant sound of creaking leather when I looped it over my shoulder. There was a box of 9mm ammunition on the shelf, and I took that, too. I carried all three items to the desk, returned to lock the gun safe and the closet, then sat at the computer, my attention focused on the book.
NEGOTIATORS. The title was embossed in gold on the cover. A place marker made of red ribbon added to the illusion that this was just an old book. It wasn’t. I flipped open the cover. Inside, nested in black velvet, was a small, stainless semiauto pistol, its transparent handgrip showing it contained no magazine. That didn’t prove the chamber was empty, but I found myself reluctant when I reached to check. Months ago, this pistol had saved my life, yet the sight of it now caused a feeling of revulsion inside me-revulsion not for the pistol but for events associated with it. Joel Ransler had dropped a couple of hints, but Birdy Tupplemeyer hadn’t mentioned reading about the man I’d shot and wounded, although she surely knew-a courtesy I appreciated because even though the man had brutalized other women and would have probably killed me, shooting him wasn’t something I was proud of. I had blocked the details from that awful day, but now here I was, reaching for the same pistol again, a box of 9mm hollow-points nearby, ready to be loaded and do the job they were designed to do, which was kill.
I withdrew my hand and thought about it. Did I really want to carry a gun?
No… I did not. I had enjoyed target shooting as a girl, but putting a bullet through the hip of a human being, then witnessing my attacker’s rage and pain, had replaced my naïve notions with the ugly reality that a bullet scars from both ends. Never again did I want to shoot another human being, so why carry a gun?
I closed the cover of the phony book, pushed it aside, and positioned the computer screen closer. To prove my resolve, I opened the folder I most dreaded and found fifteen documents related to the murder of Dwight Helms. The most repellent had been labeled by the Sematee County Sheriff’s Department Homicide; Helms, D. W., Crime Scene Photos, followed by the date and the status, which was Active. In my current mood, it seemed required that I start there and I did.
It was a multiple PDF file. When I clicked it, sheets of thumbnail images appeared, then opened in such rapid-fire succession that I could only sit there dazed as the photographs stacked themselves on the screen. Old black-and-white shots that had been scanned into the system, each so graphic that my constant wincing soon mimicked the rhythm of a punching bag. The body of Dwight Helms had been found at night. Flashbulbs added a glossiness to the photos, turning pools of blood to silver, casting shadows that magnified each small, grisly detail.
Finally, I regained control of my eyes and managed to turn away. I stood, took a deep breath to stem my queasiness, then started toward the bathroom just in case. That’s when the phone rang. It would have been a relief to hear the voice of Birdy Tupplemeyer, so I grabbed for it but heard Loretta’s panicked voice instead.
“I called nine-one-one, but he’s still out there and I’m scared!” she began, then told me she’d seen a man outside, his shadow in the moonlight, moving from window to window.
I asked just enough questions to convince myself my mother wasn’t stoned or dreaming, and that she really had called police, before saying, “Make sure the doors are locked, I’m on my way.”
In a rush, I shut down the computer and threw a few things in a bag. At the door, though, I hesitated, my hand on the light switch, while I stared at the leather-bound book on the desk.
NEGOTIATORS.
Such a strange title for a box that contained a deadly weapon-a pistol that had already saved my life once and might save me again if a man armed with an axe was on our property. If the crime scene photos hadn’t been so fresh in my mind, I probably wouldn’t have reconsidered, but I did because of the terrible way Dwight Helms had died.
As I drove toward Sulfur Well, the book was on the seat next to me but slightly heavier. Along with the pistol, it now contained a loaded magazine.
13
The nice sheriff’s deputy, who said he’d seen Liberty Tupplemeyer but had never spoken to her, pulled away just before midnight. He had searched the area with a flashlight while I stayed inside and comforted my mother. Something else I’d done was use the house phone to fire the night sitter, who, Loretta claimed, had been drunk or high on crack, then pretended to be called away by a family emergency.
“I wouldn’t trust that girl with a potato peeler, let alone my life,” Loretta had sputtered. “Who hired her anyway? You should have better judgment, Hannah!”
“I just left a message for the agency,” I replied with patience. “You don’t have to worry about seeing her again.”
“Seeing that tramp’s not what I’m worried about. A man who peeps in windows isn’t after a woman’s money, if you know what I’m saying.”
I asked, “Are you sure you saw someone in the yard? Mullet fishermen break down late sometimes and have to walk to the marina.”
“Not just the yard,” Loretta insisted, “he was going from window to window. Didn’t I just say that? He wanted to get a look at me with my clothes off before he broke down the door. So don’t lecture me about not taking a bath! If you had any sense, you’d be finding us winter coats to wear instead of worrying about mullet fishermen and broke-down engines.”
I hadn’t mentioned bathing, but I had asked why Joel Ransler’s name and cell number were scribbled on the pad next to the phone. Now, once again, I asked for an explanation.
“I don’t pry into your personal business,” Loretta fired back, her gray eyes flaring. “At least there’s one person in this world who cares what happens to me. And he’s good-looking, too! Rance,” she added, using the special prosecutor’s nickname, “that’s who I should’ve called after nine-one-one. He’d know how to deal with a rapist.”