Deceived (A Hannah Smith Novel) (5 page)

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 down the steps, but then hesitated, the green door to my right, the living room to the left. The door offered protection, but only temporary. The living room exited to the porch, then my truck, which was the only sure means of escape. Drive half a mile on Pay Day Road, I would have a cell signal again and could call the police. But the wild barking of the dogs was so close now—would they catch me as I crossed the yard?

Not if I hurried! So I turned left. Stumbled over the shovel, hesitated again before picking it up, then sprinted down the hall toward the living room. The pine floor was slick. A shovel is also an awkward tool to run with. I had to slap a hand on the wall to make my final turn, skidded on the broken glass, and then continued more cautiously. I kept my eyes on the open doorway. It was a beacon, an airy rectangle bright with daylight and freedom, that, oddly, had muted my own hearing as abruptly as the wide-screen TV, where, on the game show, a young woman was weeping, whether for joy or in despair I neither knew nor cared. Three strides from the door, though, I stopped, my head tilted, straining to hear.

The dogs—they had stopped barking.
Why?

I wasn’t deaf. I banged the shovel on the floor to prove it to myself. The thunk
of metal on wood registered in my ears, but my attention was already riveted to a more chilling sound: claws clattering on gravel; a heavy, wolfish breathing so close that the slap of a panting tongue was unmistakable. I took a step back when the panting stopped. It was replaced by the rumble of a dog growling.

No . . . two dogs. Their silhouettes trotted across the lighted doorway. Both pit bulls, their heads the size of concrete blocks, stubby horns for ears, on dwarfed bodies of brindle-yellow fur and muscle, drifted past unaware of my presence. I pressed my back against a wall and didn’t move, didn’t breathe. It didn’t save me. The odor of my skin, my clothing, the odor of my fear, was in the air, and one dog stopped, lifted his nose to taste my scent, then returned to the doorway and looked inside. Soon, he was joined by the other dog, both animals alert, intense, their tiny eyes now so focused on me that the flooring vibrated when they began to growl in unison.

I have been charged by dogs while jogging and know it’s best to take the offensive. I’ve backed down collies and retrievers and even a pit bull, who was so instantly sweet that he had begged me to scratch his ears, then followed me home.

It was a strategy worth trying. “Get out of here!” I yelled, and banged the shovel hard on the floor. I took a step toward the door and did it again. “Get!”

These dogs, however, were not sweet-natured. They looked half starved, all jaws and instinct, and they came at me when I moved. The lead dog—there’s always an alpha dog—came first, trotting toward me, then lunged, stiff-legged, and roared when I jabbed the shovel at it. She was female, judging from the absence of the testicles that hung so prominently from the second dog, who was larger and also slyer. He slunk into the room without barking, teeth bared, and disappeared behind the overturned recliner. When he reappeared, he was to my left, and moving toward the hall, an attempt to corner me, I realized—two dogs who hunted as a pack. I began to sidestep toward the bigger male because the hallway was my only escape.

When the female charged again, I swung the shovel too hard and the thing almost flew out of my hands. The near loss frightened me so badly, I felt an electric sensation between the ears. With it bloomed a horrible certainty that these animals, if they got me on the ground, would not just maul me, they would feed on me. I could not lose the shovel. I could not lose my footing. Turn my back on either pit bull, even for an instant, and that would be the beginning of an assault so horrible I couldn’t allow myself to contemplate it—nor would I tolerate the indignity these animals were forcing on me!

I was terrified, but I was also getting mad.

“Get the hell away!” I hollered, jabbing. The alpha dog grabbed at the shovel when I thrust it, teeth striking the blade with the metallic sound of flint striking sparks. At the same instant, the larger dog snaked his head at me, teeth clacking near my calf, then retreated to a safe distance. Twice that happened, which gave me an idea. I feinted at the female again to lure the male closer, then swung the shovel blindly to my left, hoping the larger dog would attack. He did. The shovel blade glanced off the animal’s head and spun him sideways, yelping. The alpha dog was in such a frenzy that a yelp of weakness invited attack and she did attack him, slashing her teeth at the larger dog’s flank before returning her attention to me.

Too late. I had jumped into the hallway and was already backing away, holding the shovel in both hands like a spear. The female stalked me but kept her distance. Behind me, the garish green door I had dreaded was now my rescuer—if I could get the thing open and closed before I was bitten. That was key. Once a pit bull locks its jaws into flesh, there is no breaking free. It could still happen. No matter how I used the shovel for protection, there would be a moment when I had to turn and leave my legs unprotected. If the dog buried her teeth in me, no matter how hard I fought, I would be dragged to the floor, and they would both have me.

The alpha dog seemed to sense her chance would soon come and was biding her time as the male rejoined her. She paused to award him with a quick sniff, then continued to follow, her throat rumbling, as I backed past the stairway where the floor lamp cast its milky light. I was within reach of the doorknob now. But I had to invent something to distract the dogs to allow me the free second needed to slip into the next room and slam the door.

What?

I risked a glance over my shoulder at the porcelain knob. It was threaded through a metal plate that had a keyhole. A terrifying thought flashed into my mind:
What if the door was locked?
If it was locked, the diversion I was considering would hinder me more than help. It fact, the decision would leave me disfigured for life, or worse.

Can’t be locked,
I told myself.
No one in their right mind would lock a door in a stairwell.

Well, I would soon find out.

I had been edging toward the staircase, an angle that gave me more protection but also put me in a corner next to the lamp. These pit bulls were hunters and instinctively saw their advantage, which they secured by separating a few feet to trap me. They were barking again, trying to back me against the wall with mock charges, working themselves into the frenzy that I knew prefaced a full-on attack. I had to do something—and did. The floor lamp was made of pot metal and heavier than expected when I grabbed it and slammed it toward the dogs. The twin glass globes shattered, but the pop of incandescent bulbs wasn’t as loud as I’d hoped.

Even so, both dogs yelped and jumped away. It gave me time to yank the door open and back into the next room, but I did it in such a rush I dropped the shovel after banging my wrist on something.

BOOM! . . . BOOM!
The pit bulls had recovered quickly and were already throwing themselves at the door, their barking a slathered garble that made it impossible to think. I put my shoulder against the wood, breathing hard, my heart pounding. To add to the chaos, the room I’d entered was a mystery of shadows and dark shapes, only two westward windows allowing light. I felt around until I found the dead bolt and latched the door tight but still kept my weight against it.

BOOM! . . . BOOM! . . . BOOM!
With each assault, the wood vibrated like a drum. The dogs weren’t giving up.

I was in the kitchen, I realized. I could tell from the odor of linoleum and Lysol and garbage that had begun to rot. Also, I could see the glint of pans hanging, the shape of a refrigerator. A sink, too, with twin faucets set beneath a window too small for the room. A lancet of light came through the glass, though not much. It was hot in here; a space built to fend off tropical summers but, instead, only denied sunlight.

Get to the truck,
I told myself.
Do it now before the dogs circle around back! Mrs. Helms, if she’s here, if she’s alive, will have to wait for the police.

I hadn’t given the woman a thought, of course, since the pit bulls had attacked. She came into my mind now, however, because my eyes were adjusting to the shadows and I recognized the shape and gleam of something near the sink, although it took me a second.

A wig?

Yes, a woman’s wig; silver hair cropped short and combed to a sheen, a style for business luncheons. Loretta had mentioned that a wig would be delivered today, which proved Mrs. Helms had been here, and probably still was.

No . . . I might be mistaken about that. Since her chemotherapy, the woman had bought several wigs, usually inexpensive brands made of nylon. This one, even from a distance, looked expensive, like natural human hair, and why would a woman as fussy as Pinky Helms leave a new wig by the sink? Someone else could have put it there. So it proved nothing, and I wasn’t sticking around even if it did.

Scratching and panting, the pit bulls were digging beneath the door now. Determined to get their teeth in me, but I felt secure enough to step away, then sag against the wall for a moment. After several deep breaths, I pushed off and hurried across the room in search of a light switch and an exit. On the way, I allowed myself to detour near the sink because the window provided a lighted footpath. Passed close enough to realize the wig wasn’t near the sink, it was
in
the sink.

I stopped; felt a chill that made me reluctant to step closer. Yes . . . the wig was sitting or floating in water on what might have been a Styrofoam base. Rust-stained water, copper red, beneath a window that boiled with late-afternoon sunlight. Bad pipes would explain the reddish color; a country well that blackened water with minerals, sulfur and iron, explained it, too. The village of Sulfur Wells had been named for that very reason and supported what I desperately wanted to believe. My nerves couldn’t handle another explanation. I had to get out of this place!

Dazed, I hurried toward the darkest corner of the kitchen, where reason told me there would be a door. There was. No doubt about it because the door cracked a few inches as I approached, filtering an expanding band of light. I felt the heat of the sun thatch my body, but what appeared within that band of daylight paralyzed me. A man was there—a wedge of face wrapped in a scarf, one dark eye staring. One black glove, too. His big hand braced something against his shoulder, a tool of some type on a hickory-thick handle.

An axe.

•   •   •

I AM NOT
a woman who screams when surprised. Even as a girl, Loretta, her friends, too, had commented on my stoic, tomboy ways. The accusations that were always hidden in their comments had been troubling to me until I was older. By then, I knew I was attracted to men, so I have accepted those early criticisms—along with many others voiced by Loretta—as proof I’ve inherited solid qualities that, despite my secret weaknesses, make a stronger woman and give me confidence.

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.