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Sweet Deceit

By Sally Jo Pitts

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Chapter 1
Could things finally be looking up for Annie McAfee?
Driving from Tallahassee to Sugarville on Florida’s I-10, Annie settled in behind a truck pulling a horse trailer to pace her speed while mulling over her job interview at the governor’s office.
She had responded to all the questions for the public relations job with confidence. But had she answered too quickly? Or been too wordy? The interviewer had glanced at his watch twice. Her dad used to make the same furtive moves before announcing, “Annie, you’re prattling.”
Event ideas spun in her head. She wanted this job. She could do this job. But she also knew the game. A staff member quizzed a required number of applicants, and an insider, already earmarked, would be awarded the job.
She huffed a sigh. “Going through the process is still good experience.”
Talking out loud ensured she had a listener. She might as well get used to one-sided conversations, rattling around by herself in the Victorian parsonage overlooking the Sugarville Community Church, where her father had recently become pastor. The plan was to housesit for her parents who were on a mission trip in Brazil for the summer while waitressing and exploring employment options.
The horse trailer slowed and moved into the same exit she needed. Flicking on her turn signal, she glanced into the rearview mirror. The same white truck that had followed her since Tallahassee turned on his blinker.
All three vehicles proceeded down the off ramp and turned right onto the two-lane road toward Sweet County. The scenario was hardly unusual, but an odd feeling she’d learned to pay attention to tugged at her senses. This exit offered no gas stations or other conveniences, just a country highway bordered by trees and fields for miles in either direction.
The truck behind her sped up and closed the space between them. Annie moved further to the right to allow the truck to pass. The grill of the truck loomed large until all she could see was the top of the hood. Shoot. Was he going to run into her? She tapped her accelerator and gained on the horse trailer.
The truck suddenly roared past, then slammed on brakes. She braked as he squeezed in between her and the horse trailer. Strange. There was a broken center line on the road for passing and there was no oncoming traffic. If he was in a rush, why hadn’t he continued around the trailer?
The white truck braked again, slowing below 30mph. The terrain had changed into wooded pines with hills, making passing dangerous. Now she was stuck behind him. The horse trailer disappeared around a turn.
Creeping along, she stared at the red bumper sticker on the truck that said nothing, since only the bottom half remained. Was he playing a game? Having engine trouble? Looking for a side road?
At last, a broken line indicated safe passing. The driver of the truck stuck out his arm and motioned for her to pass. There was no traffic ahead.
Annie pulled into the oncoming lane, but when she came alongside the truck, he matched her speed. She accelerated but he inched closer to the center line.
Way too close.
She attempted to drop behind him, but he blocked her. Again, she sped up, but he matched her speed. The grill of the truck glared in the sunlight. What was he doing? He closed in with magnetic force. Her speed reached sixty. A sign ahead warned of a sharp turn.
Lord, this is Annie. E-mer-gen-cy!
The truck surged again, lining up with her passenger door. The driver wore a ball cap, mirrored sunglasses, and a smirk. He swerved, and steel met steel in a hard dull thud.
The car lurched.
“Are you crazy!” Annie screamed. With wheels squealing and the braking stench of burning rubber, her car careened from the road, tilting on two wheels. Struggling to gain control, the car slammed down on all fours.
The truck rammed her again from the rear, jolting her across weeds, rocks, and underbrush.
Focus. When in peril, suppress panic. Annie worked the brakes. The action whirled her around, impeding the forward trajectory. She finally ground to a halt perpendicular to the road.
A hazy dust cloud of dirt shrouded her vision. Gripping the steering wheel, a shudder rattled her frame and her heart hammered in her chest. The truck’s engine revved, and its tires sprayed an arch of dirt and roared away.
“Thank you, Lord, in heaven.” The words, like globs of glue, stuck in her throat.
Pushing the gearshift into park, her trembling fingers fumbled for the key to shut off the engine. A billboard nearby proclaimed, YOU JUST ENTERED SWEET COUNTY, FLORIDA. Underneath, scrawled in red paint, were the added words—at your own risk.
“Amen, brother,” Annie muttered and waved away fine sand particles, coating her nose and throat.
She unhooked her seatbelt. Climbing from the car, she clung to the door to steady her shaky legs.
Why did that man force her off the road? Was this some weird backwoods chicken game?
Her car had stopped against a small pine sapling that stood next to a drop off. She stepped closer, then shrunk back at the dizzying sight. A steep gorge, at least thirty feet deep, marked by gullies and craggy bushes stared back at her.
Circling her car, her dress shoes took on sand as she inspected the damage. Her taillight was cracked, the rear fender dented, the front fender scratched. Another small pine tree was stuck beneath her bumper, but she couldn’t get it to budge.
“Great.” She patted her pine-sapped hands in the sandy soil to cover the sticky residue then ran her fingers over the crumpled indention on the car door.
Things were not looking up for Annie McAfee after all.
***
Rookie Florida Department of Law Enforcement agent Will Brice, the lone inhabitant inside the Sweet County Sheriff’s Office, drummed impatient fingers on the front desk. By order of the governor, Sheriff Wayne Daly had been removed from office and Game and Fish Commission officer Ray Goutter was appointed as interim sheriff.
Because of Will’s prior experience working in a sheriff’s office, he’d been pulled from a FDLE team working on a high-profile murder case in south Florida to help the provisional sheriff for a few days. Twiddling his thumbs did not sit well with Will. So far, his mission had been to purchase notepads, pens, and toilet paper.
“Keep the receipt,” Sheriff Goutter had said. “When Governor Renfroe told Sheriff Daly to vacate, Daly and his men left nothing behind.”
On Will’s return from the store, Goutter met him at the door and plunked a small key in his hand. “This key fits the former sheriff’s top desk drawer. You handle the calls for a while. I’ve got business to tend to in Tallahassee.”
One of the two phone lines beeped and lit up. Will answered.
“I need to talk to Sheriff Daly. Is he in?”
“Sorry, but he’s been removed from office by the governor.”
“Maybe that governor should be booted out instead of our sheriff.”
He could sympathize with the citizen caller who didn’t want an outsider in the sheriff’s office. Even though Sheriff Daly had been involved in questionable activities, he seemed to have garnered loyalty.
In between answering calls, Will mapped out a crash course on sheriff’s office administration. All he needed was Sheriff Goutter to present it to.
Will tapped his fingers on his outlined notes, then noticed movement in his peripheral vision. A grasshopper bounced along the floor and landed on the entry door. Will pushed out of the hard oak desk chair and opened the door to let the critter out. “You don’t belong here, either.”
A man in uniform stood at the open door. “I didn’t expect door service.”
“An officer with a friendly face deserves door service.” Will held the door open for the man who climbed the short flight of stairs and stepped onto the worn linoleum floor. Adjusting his gun belt, he thrust a beefy hand out to grab Will’s. “I’m Sugarville Police Chief, Jim Woodham.”
“Will Brice, FDLE special agent, sent to assist Sheriff Goutter. How can I help you?”
“I came to ask that question. Is Sheriff Goutter here?”
“Gone to Tallahassee, but I expect him any time.”
Woodham nodded, looked around, then peered into the private office of the sheriff. “Looks pretty well cleaned out.”
“Yes sir. I had to purchase a few supplies. You wouldn’t have a spare radio operator, would you? I’m stuck if I get a call from someone needing assistance.”
“My patrolmen work inside the city limits and can help out if they aren’t tied up. But I hear you. The sheriff needs someone in this office he can rely on.” The chief made a sucking sound drawing air through his teeth. “I have a part-time operator I use if somebody’s sick or takes leave. I’ll call her and see if she’s free.”
“Hearing the voice of someone local might help callers accept an outsider taking over the sheriff’s office a bit better.”
Chief Woodham held up his hands in resignation. “Sweet Countians may be resistant, but they’re resilient. They’ll warm up to you.”
“Ray Goutter is the one they need to warm to. I’m just here long enough to help him with the transition.”
The chief hung his thumbs on his gun belt. “Appreciate you comin’. Anything else I can help with?”
Will requested incident report forms.
The minute the chief left, the phone rang, and the caller asked to speak to Sheriff Daly. Will tried a different approach, leaving off the part about the governor removing the sheriff.
“He’s no longer here.”
“What do you mean, he’s no longer here?”
“He was asked to step down for not carrying out his sworn duties. But I can offer help.”
“Only way you can help me is to put Sheriff Daly on the phone.” The caller’s don’t-tread-on-me attitude crackled in his ear before hanging up.
Will understood small county pride. Raised in rural neighboring Hill County, he’d experienced the sense of anger and helplessness that comes when someone you care for is taken from you.
He traced the outline of S. O. S. letters someone had carved into the top of the wood desk. Where was Sheriff Goutter?
 

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