by Anne McAneny
“Hoop!” I yelled, my anxiety overtaking me.
But Hoop put up a hand to silence the crowd. “You must know,” he said to Quail, “that I have a dozen men with guns trained on you. I had hoped our long-awaited encounter wouldn’t end violently.”
“If I’m going down, you’re going with me.” And with that, Quail launched himself forward into grass that rose higher than his head. It nearly camouflaged him, and I feared that Hoop’s men would lose sight of their target.
But all the lights zeroed in on Quail simultaneously, as if they’d known precisely where to aim all along. Their combined power made the enormous man shimmer. Oddly, he began to look shorter and didn’t seem to be going anywhere at all.
Hoop stood in place with a delighted grin on his face, not the least bit threatened. I hadn’t seen him look that content since he’d fallen asleep on Mr. Swanson’s canoe one late August evening.
Quail slashed at the air with his knife and finally looked down. He was sinking. By the time he peeked up again, the unforgiving pluff mud had sucked him down to his ample waist.
Hoop tilted his head like a curious dog and pursed his lips. “Surely you know you’ve got to float, Mr. Quail. You can’t possibly—”
“I can’t swim!” Quail shouted. “And I sure as hell can’t float! Get me out of here! Get me out!”
Quail had now descended to his neck and approximately his third chin. No one ventured forth to help, but really, who could tug a four-hundred pound man from the pluff? As the nutrient-rich mud filled Quail’s mouth, he flexed his head back, his face skyward, his expression frantic. The back of his hat rim touched the surface as the swamp slowly digested him, and he cried out a final, “Help me!” before melting entirely into the goo, leaving only his hat.
Hoop turned to the men in the air boats and rolled his eyes playfully. Then he peered behind him, thrust a single finger into the air and made a quick circular motion. A helicopter roared to life, rising up from Mrs. Elbee’s back yard. Within seconds, it hovered over Hoop, blowing his beautiful hair wildly. The pilot was the woman whose tent entrance I’d used. She lowered a thick cable with a hook on its end. Hoop leaped up, grabbed it with one arm and let his body dangle. With his free hand, he indicated down. The pilot let out more line, and Hoop gave himself willingly to the pluff.
An interminable fifteen seconds passed until the swamp, as if disgusted with the bitterness of its earlier meal, burped up a mud-coated, blubbering Richie Quail. The chopper’s hook was latched into the rear of his belt, giving him what must have been a seriously painful wedgie. As the craft rose up, Quail’s feet finally emerged, and when it rose even higher, it revealed a muck-covered, slimy boy-turned-man hanging onto Quail’s left ankle for dear life. A flash of white sparkled amidst the brown when Hoop broke out into a huge smile and waved to the cheering crowd.
Chapter 58
The stunned and exhausted residents of Beulah took their time recovering after the helicopter whisked Hoop and Quail away at high velocity, but they gradually took their leave and went home to rehash the evening. Chad passed me at a distance and wheeled his father away, a glance between us not saying nearly enough.
My phone rang and its ordinariness startled me. “Hey, Larry,” I said.
“I know all hell is breaking loose over there, and I’m sorry I couldn’t make it, but I have another scoop you might be interested in.”
“I can’t imagine.”
“State troopers just found Zeke Carver’s truck overturned off the 22 Bypass. Upside down in a watery ditch, and guess who was inside?”
“Zeke?”
“Yep. But here’s the thing. The accident happened yesterday. He’s been stuck in that truck for twenty-four hours.”
“That’s impossible. He shot the sheriff today. At Quail’s abandoned house. I . . .”
I watched the helicopter grow tiny in the distance, its chopping rotors barely audible anymore. Then I glanced at the parked cars still below. Quail’s blue Ford F-150 sat by itself in the far corner. Something told me that the fresh mud splattered on its undercarriage would hold traces of tobacco. Quail had no doubt instructed Sarah to make that call to the sheriff today, to lure him to the Victorian.
“Thanks, Larry. That actually makes sense. Zeke didn’t shoot the sheriff, after all.” We hung up.
Rafe was proven right once again: Betrayers betrayed. Boyd Sexton had been prepared to betray everyone. The sheriff, with a bullet from his personal gun, had planned to betray Boyd. Quail had betrayed Grace Elbee in the worst way—by instigating her murder—and then had turned around and tried to do the same to the sheriff. Adeline DeVore—well, surely at this point in her interrogation, she was betraying anyone and everyone to save herself. And poor Mrs. Elbee had betrayed herself from the beginning, believing that she could steal the happiness that had eluded her all her life.
Rafe had taken from each what they had gained from their original betrayal. From Boyd, his drug operation. From Mrs. Elbee, the life she’d so desperately craved. From Quail, his riches. From Adeline, respect and success, and from the sheriff, his dignity and reputation. I shook my head. Tenuous bonds formed on the basis of deception required but a single wobble to destroy them. Rafe had lit a single match—and sparked a final act of a tragedy.
I plopped myself down in the middle of Dirt Hill, the tent behind me dark, the swamp in front of me still and silent. I remained long enough for the crickets and frogs to resume their nightly chorus, until I finally lay back to gaze up at the sky, barely able to fathom the depths to which humanity had sunk here in Beulah.
“What a night, eh, Clover?”
The familiar voice didn’t faze me. I swiveled my head as Hoop plunked himself down, parallel to my body. He let out a relaxed sigh, looked upwards, and it felt oh-so-comfortable.
“Your flyer didn’t lie, Hoop. That show will leave Beulah on tenterhooks for quite some time.” I nudged him. “You gonna stop taking my calls now?”
“Absolutely,” he said, his voice grinning for him. “Might as well delete my number.”
I laughed but then turned more somber. “In the tent . . . That rendition . . . Is that how it really went down? The roles each of the Lucky Four played inside the store and in the car?”
“Some of it was conjecture. But you’ll recall that Mrs. Elbee answered her final call from M. LeGrange. We chatted for a while and she told me her version of events. Not so different from what I’d imagined.”
His hand crept over and rested on mine. I was momentarily back on a dock, baiting my hook with a fat worm. I was crouched on dusty turf, waiting for one of Ronnie Fields’s grounders. I was sneaking into a tree fort, spotting faces in roots, and flying free on my bike. But most of all, I was back in a lazy canoe, bobbing gently with a friend, immersed in the fantasy that life couldn’t get any better.
“Don’t let it do to you what it’s done to me, Clover. Don’t let it disenchant you.”
“How could it not?”
“There’s goodness in people. More than evil. It’s in the Forenzas and Galassos. It’s in your buddy, Chad, who still loves you, by the way.” He slowly rotated his head to me. “And it’s in you. As tough as you try to be, you’re still that girl on second base, a bit insecure, a bit awkward, but who was a treasured friend trying to make the best play for the team.”
“We’re so far from being those kids on second base, aren’t we, Hoop?”
He sighed. “Too true. But the essence is within us. Did you know, Clover, that if you cut out a small piece of a hologram—just the tiniest piece—that it still contains the whole image?”
“I did not.”
“Well, we’re kind of like that. No matter which version of each other we see, no matter what names we’re calling each other, there’s still a complete Hoop Whitaker in here”—he tapped his chest—“and a sweet Clever Clover in you. The same kids we were, but with a few more layers, a few more scars.”
My tattoo felt cool and I smiled. “If you don’t min
d me wearing a reporter hat for a moment, how did your bike end up in the swamp if you rode it to Boyd’s store that day?”
“Boyd must have thrown it in there sometime after. I suspect he never told anyone that he’d seen me that day, because then he would have been forced to confess that I knew everything—and that he’d let me get away.” With our hands still touching, I could feel him shrug. “It ended up being a favor because it made everyone think I was dead.”
“In that case, don’t do me any more favors. So tell me, what was it like being raised by circus folk? I can’t even imagine.”
“Pretty phenomenal. I traveled the world, learned the ins and outs of a gritty life and got a ridiculously cool education. It’s been a remarkable adventure so far.”
“What now? A life on the run? I’m guessing you committed fraud and a few other crimes along the way.”
He grunted with laughter. “I’m no saint, that’s for sure. But aside from that bit of arson, everything I did here was aboveboard. And because of my work for the government, I have highly disreputable friends in very high places. I’m more valuable to them outside of prison than in.”
“Good. I prefer you that way.”
He pointed to the sky, swiping the constellations with his hand. “It was all real, you know. At least the part about Macy and me, intertwined for eternity.”
“What will you do until you join her?”
“Lots of living left to do, Clover. Eternity’s a long time, and I don’t think Macy will mind if I have a little more fun here before meeting her on the other side.”
“Where will you go?”
“Everywhere. I’m breaking out of the snow globe.” He turned his head and faced me. “Can you?”
I sighed. “I’m not sure now. Beulah’s home to me. A place I don’t have to stay in anymore, but one I might choose to.”
“What a week, eh, Clover? What. A. Week.”
Chapter 59
Chad and I met for drinks. We hadn’t quite reached the stage where we were talking about dating again, but he wasn’t seeing Sarah anymore, and I was far from thinking about anyone else. He’d forgiven me for my role in his dad’s arrest, and I’d have forgiven him, too, if he’d done anything at all wrong. Which he hadn’t.
As for Strike, it would be a tedious process through the courts, sorting through the charges and weighing them against the good he’d done for forty years before the accident and the twelve years after. Chad and Jacqueline had committed to staying by his side through the whole ordeal, and I’d agreed to help however I could.
On this particular occasion, Chad and I toasted to me winning a few rounds of Dammit, Be Nice, Chloe during the last few weeks, and to the assignment of a public defender to Richie Quail. The formerly richest man in town had indeed proven unable to afford even the cheapest of private lawyers.
My tattoo rarely burned anymore, and when it did, I cooled it with a silent hush. Without grief hogging so much real estate in my heart, I’d begun to find room for other emotions. Spring cleaning had worked wonders on my psyche. I’d tossed out a rusty, blood-stained knife that had been lurking in my life for far too long, along with a pile of dust that used to be an alligator skin. There was even an old essay I got rid of by mailing it to a P.O. Box belonging to one Rafe Borose, current resident of Mali. Of course, I’d read the essay one more time before kissing it good-bye. The final paragraph would stay with me always:
“In the future, I may not carry a fancy title. I may not have kids, dogs, a beach house, or a three-car garage, but I will have love, family, knowledge, and most of all, adventure. Nothing will keep me down—not discouragement, disappointment, rejection, or betrayal. For I am Hoop Whitaker, and one way or the other, I plan to live forever.”
The End
Acknowledgments
Many wonderful people help me throughout the course of each book. I do, however, take plenty of liberties with the information provided, and my sources can only answer the questions I think to ask; any and all errors are mine. With apologies to true swampers out there, I did take minor poetic liberties with some swamp details in creating the specific features that Beulah needed, but I tried to be true to the nature of these phenomenal wetlands that bring so much richness to the earth. I also took license with current hologram technology, although my hope is that the hologram scenes in this book will be considered passé in the not-too-distant future.
Sincere thanks go to:
Cracker Larry Teuton for answering my swamp questions and for granting me permission to use some of his colorful, online pluff mud posts as dialogue for Hoop.
MJM and JQ for their swamp research, editing, and other invaluable services, not the least of which is encouragement.
Buff Ross for writing an incredible article called Odes to the Lowcountry: Pluff Mud.
Tyler Anderson for his beautiful, original cover art and technical know-how.
Steve Councill for legal terms and clever advice.
My two brothers for sharing corporate lingo and firearms descriptions.
The Bird for legal feedback and for sharing her sources.
Lezlie and Darby Anderson for their research on art.
The Galasso Family for enthusiastic support and the use of their name.
My friend, Jack Matosian, for his assistance throughout, from title to synopsis and everything in between.
My wonderful husband and children who never fail to support me and who tolerate many tasteless, last-minute dinners when I am writing (and when I’m not).
Most importantly, I thank you, the readers, for making this story more than just vaporous words dispersed into the digital realm.
NOTES
~Word-of-mouth is crucial for any author to succeed. If you enjoyed this book, please consider leaving a review on Amazon— CIRCLED Reviews—even if it’s only a word or two. Reviews are hard to come by and much appreciated.
~If you’d like to be among the first to get an email when Anne’s next book comes out, sign up here: Book Release Mailing List. Your email address will never be shared and you can unsubscribe at any time.
~Although this book mentions elephants being used in the circus, I am a strong supporter of humane treatment for all animals. I am thrilled to see that circuses are retiring their elephants and that cities are banning the use of painful bullhooks on these wonderful, intelligent creatures.
FUN NOTE
~To see footage of a possible hoop snake in action in 1968, check out this cool link: http://www.haxan.com/portfolio/freakylinks/WWWFRE~1.COM/FREAKO~1/FREAKY~1/HOOP_S~1.HTM
Please stay tuned after About the Author for a sample of RAVELED from Anne McAneny’s Crime After Time Collection.
About the Author
Anne McAneny honed her writing skills as a screenwriter for many years before turning to novels. She lives in Virginia with her family, a spoiled puggle, and an overfed cat. When she’s not writing, she enjoys biking and hiking balanced by ample chocolate and cake, a scale that often tips toward the latter. You can find her on her Facebook Fan Page, Books by Anne McAneny or on Twitter @AnneMcAneny. She relishes hearing from readers so feel free to say hello or leave a comment. Be warned . . . she usually responds.
CIRCLED is part of Anne McAneny’s Crime After Time Collection. This collection revolves around everyday people who feel compelled to investigate past crimes against loved ones. Their discoveries rewrite the past and reshape the future in exciting, twist-filled plots. All previous Crime After Time books have become Amazon Bestsellers. They include:
Skewed: A tantalizing thriller that opens with a bang. When a crime scene photographer receives two photos in the mail, they upend the narrative of her life and invoke the ire of a long-dormant serial killer.
Raveled: A fast-paced mystery thriller that sends a jaded daughter back to the town and the deadly night that ripped her young life apart.
Foreteller: A pulse-pounding mystery with a touch of the psychic that forces an archaeologist to dig through her own past in o
rder to ensure a future.
Additional books by this author include:
Chunneling Through Forty: (Amazon Best-Seller) The humorous and heartening story of a woman’s tumultuous journey through forty.
Our Eyes Met Over Cantaloupe: The uproarious tale of a cupcake shop and a female reporter’s exit from her half-baked state of existence.
SAMPLE OF RAVELED
Chapter 1
Allison… present
Sixteen years since my last trip to this park and not a tree had changed. Even the sidewalk jutted up in the same angry crevices that had worn out my childhood bicycle tires. Maybe the concrete walkway had reached its breaking point decades ago and decided to fight back, forcing the persistent roots down into the darkness to tangle amongst themselves. Determined to hold its own, the sidewalk put on a daily show for the humans above, pretending that everything below was peachy keen, thank you very much. Nothing to see here, folks. No seedy underbelly thrashing beneath. The citizens of Lavitte, North Carolina, kindly returned the favor. They traveled over the façade every day, smiling and waving and warning kids on training wheels to watch out for the bumps. They jogged over the fractured surface to the beat of their music, pretending that life offered up wishes and dreams, rainbows and sprinkles. No need to stick fingers into the cracks or peel back the surface to examine the source of the sour rumblings beneath. But everybody knew they were there.
If the old physics truism held, that every action was met with an equal and opposite reaction, then what kind of forces jumped back and forth between the man and the sidewalk on Maple Street sixteen years ago? Did the sidewalk absorb his depravity when he grabbed a young girl off her bike on that sweltering August evening, projecting it to the gnarled roots below, or did the evildoer absorb the pretense from the sly footpath that life was nothing but a grand cabaret?