Circled

by Anne McAneny

  The sheriff hadn’t been looking to bring Boyd back into custody. He’d wanted to make sure the conversation with the feds never took place. You think those government men are just gonna let you walk away, Boyd? Come on. You’re smarter than that. They’re expecting something big.

  And Boyd’s final accusation toward the sheriff: Mr. Quail, he checked with everyone. Told me everything was square . . . You’re just trying to get me where—”

  Were Boyd’s ultimate words going to be: where no one will see you shoot me?

  I wrenched up from my seat, cutting short the sheriff’s denials. “He was there to kill Boyd.”

  “No, Chloe,” the sheriff said.

  “I have it on tape!” I yelled, not really in control of my own actions anymore. “Boyd was going to turn all of them in. Quail posted bail and then sent the sheriff to kill him, but Old Bastard did the dirty work for them.”

  “But I changed my mind.” The sheriff’s voice couldn’t have been frailer. “I changed my mind.”

  I turned and locked eyes with Rafe. He was grinning at me, proud and amused. “The truth is freeing, isn’t it, Clover?” He swiped the inside of his forearm with his right hand, a swift, elegant gesture that would mean little to anyone else. “I do hope it breaks your chains.”

  I sat, weak-kneed and faint, not daring to witness Chad’s reaction to my outburst, and not ever wanting to see the sheriff again. I was teetering somewhere between denial and liberation. Liberation from what, I wasn’t sure, but if the percolating feeling within me reached a steady boil, I felt I could take on the world.

  Rafe returned to the stage while our much-feared but beloved sheriff had been knocked down for the count. Finally, the Lucky Four had been revealed for the deplorable lowlifes they were.

  Thank God Melanie LeGrange had fainted early on. The man who’d paid for her daughter’s funeral had only been assuaging his own guilt. The woman whose memorial she’d attended last night had been the first to drool over Macy’s winnings—and she’d then squandered those winnings on a shoddy house and a drunkard of a husband. The corporate bigwig who’d donated company profits in Macy’s name had only been making up for stolen seed money. Worst of all, the man who had surprised Melanie with his generosity had acted as the catalyst for her daughter’s death. He’d even convinced her to leave town in case her suspicions ever got the better of her.

  “It’s been a long night,” Rafe said, “and I don’t want to keep you much longer, but I’d like you all to meet the man behind the blog known as Abhor DeVore.” A huge, foggy image of his own face filled the stage. “On today’s final post, you’ll find all the evidence needed to topple DeVore Cosmetics. Simple math, really. If anyone had ever bothered to calculate the amount of rare plant serum in Ms. DeVore’s products and multiplied it by her sales volume, they’d have realized that DeVore Cosmetics would need to clear half a million acres’ worth of specific wildflowers and rare plants in Africa—or, put another way, more than exist in the world. Her company is as corrupt as she. So here’s an insider tip for you stockholders out there: sell now.” He squared off with Adeline in the audience. “On a positive note, Ms. DeVore, you pull off autumn colors very well, and with orange being the new black, you won’t look nearly as washed out as you do now.”

  The prison guard yanked Adeline DeVore to standing position and led her from the tent by way of the center aisle. Her handcuffed march of shame in front of the entire town promised to be but the first of many humiliations coming her way.

  I called out to her. “Miss DeVore?”

  She glanced over, her face showing the slightest hope for a reprieve from this hell.

  “I think I know who took that Botox picture now.”

  She sneered and jerked her head away.

  With Adeline gone, Richie Quail was finally allowed to burst to life. He shook off the men surrounding him, rose up, and looked downright threatening. “Listen to me, you swamp rat,” he shouted at Rafe, “I been around a lawsuit or two. You think you’re real clever with this 3-D bullcrap, forcing me to sit here in silence while you disparage my good name, but guess what? You done laid out all your cards now, and you got diddly-squat. You can’t prove a dang thing. Grace Elbee’s dead; Boyd’s in pieces; Adeline DeVore’s a convict; and the sheriff’s about to get his sorry ass arrested.” He smiled eerily and clapped slowly, three times. “Well done! Bravo! But I’ll see you in court—when I sue you for slander and take every penny you’ve got!”

  Rafe gazed calmly at Quail. “What follows,” he said to the audience, “I saw too late, but I do think you’ll enjoy it.” He bowed, his right hand trickling down in front of him from head to hip, his fingers dancing all the while, as he backed away from center stage with tiny steps before disappearing from view.

  The lights dimmed and the clickety buzzing of a traditional film projector filled the room. A movie screen lowered, and a new show began. The opening credits read: Starring Richard Quail; Shot on Location by Grace Elbee; and, Produced by R. O. Borose. The screen showed a grainy image of Richie Quail in the office where I’d interviewed him. He was leaning forward over his desk, his eyes glowering at whoever was holding the low-quality camera.

  “Now listen here, Grace, you been getting loonier by day. It’s got to stop before you get us all into trouble.”

  “I don’t care anymore,” Grace Elbee said.

  I suddenly realized we were watching footage filmed by Mrs. Elbee’s amulet—footage that Rafe must have uploaded at an earlier date.

  “Macy’s haunting me,” Mrs. Elbee continued, “and it’s time we told the truth. Today.” Her hand came into view as she slammed her palm on Quail’s desk.

  “And lose everything we’ve worked for?” Quail said. “You’d have nothing left. You’d have no way to help your son.”

  “I’ll just sell that cheap-ass house you built for me, Richie. That ought to bring in a couple hundred dollars.” Then her voice lost its acidity. “But don’t you see? I’ve been cursed from the moment I took that money. My husband became a different person, and my son started acting out. It’s not easy becoming the richest kid in town overnight, you know. And nothing has ever made me happy. We killed that little girl, Richie, and—”

  Quail flew out of his seat like an ejected pilot, his panicked face aquiver. “Don’t you ever say those words out loud, Grace! You want to go to prison? Besides, wasn’t us who killed her. Strike was at the wheel. Not our fault the man can’t drive.”

  Mrs. Elbee must have stood up, too, because the picture grew unsteady and the angle of the shot changed. “The devil was at the wheel, Richie! He wants us. He wants us bad. That’s why I have this.”

  Mrs. Elbee must have removed her amulet at that point and thrust it at him because we saw only a blob of darkness.

  “What the hell are you shaking at me?” Quail said.

  Muffled noise followed. The point of view changed to an angle below Quail’s face. He had grabbed the amulet from her and was examining it. Then he sneered at her. “Look at yourself, Grace! You think some stupid necklace is gonna save you from the devil?”

  “It’s been working. I’m here, aren’t I?”

  “You’re god-dang certifiable, you know that?”

  “Watch your mouth, Richie. He’s always listening.”

  “Who?”

  “The devil. And Macy listens, too. She’s been calling my house.”

  The audience saw nothing but the dirty ceiling of Quail’s office as he tossed the amulet onto his desk and let out a sigh. In the silence that followed, a faint bell rang out and the low murmur of voices could be heard. A lower-pitched voice exchanged pleasantries with a higher one. Had to be Chad, returning from his lunch date with Sarah in the outer part of the office. The amulet microphone was picking up their conversation.

  Back in the office, Quail’s voice grew softer and unexpectedly kinder. “Now listen here, Grace, I know things have been hard on you, and I apologize for my gruffness. Truth is, I think you’re right.”<
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  “You do?” Mrs. Elbee said.

  “Sure. It’s time to come clean, but you’ve got to do me a favor. I need a couple days to get my affairs in order. I got a wife and employees to think about. As I’m sure you can imagine, when we tell the truth, all holy hell is going to break loose and I need to be ready.”

  “Language, Richie. Please!”

  “You know what, Grace? I feel better already.”

  “You see? The devil’s loosening his grip. We’ll all feel better after clearing our consciences. Strike and Adeline will surely agree, don’t you think?”

  “I’ll talk to them first thing.”

  Richie then shooed her out. He could be heard saying a quick hello to Chad before closing his office door. But Mrs. Elbee must have left the amulet behind because we were still getting audio and visual from inside his office.

  “Goddamn whack job,” Richie mumbled as a phone was lifted from its receiver and dialed. He cleared his throat.

  “Zeke? Richie Quail here. We got a problem that I need silenced . . . Yeah, permanently . . . Well, take a break from that. I own the damn property, don’t I? . . . No, just you. Don’t need your brother for this loon . . . It’s Grace Elbee, but I need it to look like sui—”

  “Richie,” said Grace Elbee’s voice as the office door opened. “Silly me, I left my amulet on your desk.”

  The amulet’s point of view shifted. “Here you go, Grace. Wouldn’t want you to be without that, would we? Not with the threat of evil so nearby.”

  “Call me as soon as you take care of things,” she said.

  Quail came back into view as Grace must have clasped the amulet around her neck. He was holding the phone to his ear, smiling at her like a realtor about to close a deal.

  “I’m on the phone right now taking care of things, Grace.” And then he winked at the woman whose murder he’d just ordered.

  Chapter 56

  “This is crazy!” Quail shouted from the audience. “You think some half-assed, illegally recorded phone call is gonna hold up in court? I got the best lawyers in the country and they’re going to make mincemeat out of you, Hoop Whitaker or Clive Haverhill, or whatever you call yourself these days.”

  “It would behoove you to know,” Rafe said, “that Clive Haverhill makes Bernie Madoff look like a two-bit pickpocket. And you, Richie Quail, can no longer afford the best lawyers in the country.”

  Quail smirked. “You’re bluffing.”

  “Check your financial statements as of three hours ago. You can’t even afford the cheapest lawyer in a third world country.”

  “You think I put all my eggs in one basket?” Richie shouted, his face turning crimson. “I’m not stupid. At most, you managed one-third of my money.”

  “Then check with F. G. Investments and Firehoop Management. I’m sure they’ve done wonders with the other two-thirds.” Rafe smiled. “Oh, wait. All me.” Then his lightheartedness disappeared and he singed hatred upon Quail with his eyes. “It’s all gone, Richie. Every penny. Even the petty cash in that cigar box in the right-hand drawer of your desk, and the six dollars and eighty-two cents in your pocket when you entered here tonight.”

  Quail patted his pocket as the audience laughed. Empty. “What about—”

  “That ten million you invested two days ago?” Rafe threw his hands up in false despair. “All gone. And you’ll find that your coveted investment trusts grant you leases to nothing but contaminated, quarantined buildings. As for those hidden accounts you have around the world—not so hidden. They’ve all been legally transferred to a private account in the name of Melanie LeGrange.” Rafe almost glowed with joy. “As I once promised a friend, I own you, Richie Quail.”

  A gigantic, old-fashioned clock appeared as a hologram or projection behind Rafe. It struck midnight, and twelve beautiful chimes rang out.

  “Happy April Fools’ Day, everyone!” Rafe said. “Macy would have turned twenty-seven today.”

  I gasped. Of course, the timing made sense now.

  “Today would have been our wedding day,” he said.

  He swirled his hands above his head and the top of the tent opened, peeling outward from the center until a gaping black hole appeared. As the clock on the stage ticked to 12:03 a.m.—the precise moment of Macy’s birth—a boom roared out, followed by another, and another, as the inky sky lit up with a plume of pinks, yellows, oranges, and greens.

  Fireworks! Phenomenal, powerful, beautiful, and hopeful. After the grand finale, as the sky faded to black, a star-filled constellation came into view. It was in the shape of two circles—wait, no—two hoop snakes, each biting their own tail to represent the beginning and the end as one. They inched toward each other until they intertwined, linked in mutual eternity. Ouroboros.

  Rafe took center stage. A single, lustrous spotlight made him sparkle. As it widened, it showed a red ring encircling him—an actual ring made of translucent metallic tubes, like six giant hula hoops stacked together. Inside each tube were strands of light—red, gold, and violet. Rafe extended his arms and legs fully inside the hoop, resembling da Vinci’s Vitruvian man, until he became the spokes inside the stunning multicolored wheel. The entire apparatus rose to the tent’s opening above. Deus ex machina, indeed.

  The wheel exited the tent and seemed to hover in the sky, though wires were surely involved. But then Rafe, using the power of his body, rocked it into motion. It began to spin, slowly at first, until it got rolling. It fell to the portion of the tent that had not been peeled back. From the indentations in the cloth above, we could see it rolling along the sloped roof.

  Hoop had finally become the snake he’d always dreamed of.

  The audience rose and rushed out into the night just in time to see Hoop plunging down Dirt Hill in silent illumination, directly toward Black Swamp. I panicked until I remembered that Black Swamp never messed with its own. When the wheel reached the darkened edge of the swamp, a dozen or more searchlights flicked on simultaneously, turning night into day. The wheel—and Hoop—disappeared beneath the water. The lights shimmered across the surface and played against the widening rings where the wheel had submerged.

  The audience raced down to get a closer look—to search—but I couldn’t do it. It had all become too much. I remained rooted high on the hill, lost in thought and mourning, until I became aware of a looming presence next to me: none other than Richie Quail. He wore a mask of evil so untainted that I knew it wasn’t a mask at all. His face burned a purplish hue and his lips bubbled and spit as he growled to himself.

  My stomach constricted with worry. Quail was going to jail—he surely knew that much. He had nothing to lose by going after his accuser. Without thinking, I reached over and performed what I hoped was a slick, last-minute favor for Rafe. No sooner had I enacted my plan than Quail took off screaming, remarkably light on those feet again. He barreled down Dirt Hill with one hand on his hat, as if the important thing was to look fashionable while exacting his revenge.

  The crowd instinctively cleared a path as Quail rushed forth and stepped into the water, showing no fear—and no respect. The lights on the airboats remained motionless, as did their captains. Ten feet beyond, Rafe stepped out from behind a tree, casual as ever, looking more like teenage Hoop than ever. He’d shedded his jacket, and a shabby, green flannel now hung around his waist. The left sleeve, dangling in front of him, was missing a ragged strip of material—the very strip that Sherilyn had found days ago. Looking at the real Hoop now, down by the swamp, I knew that the man we’d watched on stage tonight had been the true illusion. This Hoop here, amused and elated, taunting and scheming, was the real deal if ever there was one. He grinned at Quail. “What a day, eh, Mr. Quail?”

  “It’s night, you idiot,” Quail said, whipping his hand to his pocket to retrieve his gun.

  He came up empty, though, and what a shame, because it was an awfully cute semi-automatic Boberg XR9-S, if I wasn’t mistaken. Nice platinum model that felt good in my hand. I shoved it in my purse.r />
  “What the hell?” Quail shouted.

  “Gonna have to fight fair?” Hoop said. “How dreadful.”

  “I had my own money before the lottery, boy, and I’ll make ten times that again! You’re nothing but a thief.”

  Quail quick-stepped in Hoop’s direction, his fist raised. He lurched a thick, swift arm at Hoop and nearly got hold of him, but Hoop swerved his lithe body back just in time to avoid the swipe.

  “You wanna go quietly with my men here, Mr. Quail?” He gestured to the boats. “Or do you wanna tussle?”

  “I’m taking you down, kid.”

  Hoop smiled and darted into the belly of the swamp. Quail shot after him.

  Bad move, Mr. Quail, because nobody but nobody knew that swamp better than Hoop Whitaker.

  Chapter 57

  The lights on half the boats followed Quail’s pursuit. Every minute or so, Hoop would yell out, “Yoo hoo! Over here, Mr. Quail!” Sounds of thrashing and splashing would follow.

  As Hoop’s voice grew farther away, he finally emerged near a swath of high grass two hundred yards away. All at once, with no verbal cue, every single light rotated and shined upon the light-haired, sure-footed swamp lover. Hoop was balancing precariously on a tree root. Nearby, at the edge of one light’s cone of illumination, three sets of alligator eyes floated just above the dark, liquid plane.

  “Mr. Quail,” Hoop shouted, “I recommend you don’t come any closer.”

  “Gotten this far in life without your recommendations, boy.”

  Quail appeared in the rays of light, a knife in his hand. Where had he gotten that? He walked toward Hoop, only a three-foot-wide patch of grass between them. Quail could cover that with one step and a single extension of his long arm.