THE BACKWOODS

BY

EDWARD LEE

i LEISURE BOOKS

$6.99 US

$8.99 CAN

Ł5.99 UK

$14.95 AUS

cti:

O:

LTl Tf

F* °;o

ii HIGH PRAISE FOR EDWARD LEE!

"The living legend of literary mayhem. Read him if you dare!"

--Richard Laymon, author of Into the Fire

"Edward Lee's writing is fast and mean as a chain saw revved to
full-tilt boogie."

--Jack Ketchum, author of The Girl Next Door

?Lee pulls no punches."

-Fangoria

"The hardest of the hardcore horror writers."

--Cemetery Dance

"Lee excels with his creativity and almost trademark depictions of
violence and gruesomeness."

--Horror World

iii IT CAN'T BE REAL

The coroner nodded curtly. "It's just kind of odd, and it's difficult to
explain in any way that makes sense. But every now and then any medical
examiner's office will get a cause of death that simply can never be
determined."

Patricia frowned at the sheet. This was much less than she'd hoped for.
"How was his head cut off, is what I want to be able to tell the family.
Was it cut off, shot off? Was it knocked off in some sort of freak
accident?"

Another curt look from the pretty coroner. "It was...none of those
things, and that's about the only thing we do know. No blade striations,
no evidence of severe impact to the body, no evidence of firearm discharge."

"But the head was never recovered--that's what I heard from the locals,
anyway. Is that true?"

"Quite true, ma'am."

This was frustrating. "I'm sorry, but I just don't get it."

"Look on the next page, Mrs. White."

Patricia followed the instruction and immediately fell silent.

What she looked at now was the most macabre photograph she had ever seen
in her life. ...

iv Other Leisure books by Edward Lee:

FLESH GOTHIC MESSENGER INFERNAL ANGEL

v THE BACKWOODS

EDWARD

LEE

LEISURE BOOKS

NEW YORK CITY

vi This book is for Pam Herbster.

A LEISURE BOOKŽ

October 2005

Published by

Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.

200 Madison Avenue New York, NY 10016

If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this
book is stolen property. It was reported as "unsold and destroyed" to
the publisher and neither the author nor the publisher has received any
payment for this "stripped book."

Copyright Š2005 by Edward Lee

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or
transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means,
including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and
retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher,
except where permitted by law.

ISBN 0-8439-5413-2

The name "Leisure Books" and the stylized "L" with design are trademarks
of Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.

Printed in the United States of America.

Visit us on the web at www.dorchesterpub.com.

vii ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I'm grateful to have so many people to thank for their friendship,
inspiration, and support: Tim McGinnis, Dave Barnett, Rich Chizmar, Doug
and Matt, Don D'Auria, Jack Ketchum, Tom Pic, Michael Slade. Cooper,
Keene, Mike R., and all the Horrorfinders. The proofing committee: Pam
(whose blood on the print-out exponentially increased its value!), Bob
Strauss, and Ben Ricciardi. Special thanks to David Graham and Lord
Gore, and, next, to outstanding friends: Christy and Bill, Darren, RJ.
Myers, Kathy, Sarah S., Karyn Valentine & Patti Beller, and Jeff Walton,
and of course Charlie Meitz and Tim Shannon--for international
crustaceans, particularly Portunus habatus.

1

The moon smeared in his eyes. He'd been staring as he waited, staring
across the gulf of night to the other side of the river. He smiled. Soon ...

The moonlight revealed sleeping bulldozers, stacks of foundation molds,
and telltale trailers erected as construction offices. It's progress,
his benefactor had said not too long ago. Progress equates to more jobs,
more satisfaction, and more money. In your pocket and mine. It's
exponential.

Dwayne's command of the English language excluded that particular
adjective--but he got the idea. He was going to help speed progress
along, and that was a good thing, wasn't it?

The voice grated out of the dark: "Do a good job." "I always do, don't
I?" Dwayne Parker said. Huffy redneck that he was, he felt mildly
insulted by the other man's comment.

"You do, yes. I'm not denying that."

"Ain't none been found, right?" Dwayne challenged.

2 Edward Lee

"Right."

Workboots came forward, crunching softly. In the moonlight Dwayne could
see leaves and moss stuck to the tops of the boots, but no mud like
Dwayne's. Here was what Dwayne guessed was the real difference between
white collar and blue collar, the brains and the brawn. Big fuckin'
deal, he thought. Bet I get laid twice as much as he does. ... It seemed
a fair recompense for brawn.

"Sounds like you don't trust me to get the job done," Dwayne finally got
out. "The tone of your voice 'n' all. Like maybe just 'cos I ain't no
big college graduate like your cronies."

"Don't be insecure." Now there was something else to the tone. Dwayne
didn't like it, yet he didn't push it. The boots crunched forward
another few steps, twigs crackling. Moonlight flowed through the trees,
bars of shadows from branches splayed across the other man's face. "I
have the utmost confidence in you," he told Dwayne, and passed him an
envelope.

That's better. ...

The envelope contained five crisp hundred-dollar bills.

The other man's voice seemed to resonate, a dark flutter from the face
barely visible. "You won't have to do this too many more times before
they all leave."

"What happens then?" Dwayne asked.

"Your wife sells the land to me. She'll be rich and so will you."

Dwayne pocketed the money. Yeah, that's right. And until then, I'm gonna
have a lot of fun.

The cicadas were thrumming, a nearly electric drone that issued out from
the woods in all directions. If a

3

sound could be cloying, this was it. It pressed down on him like the
sickly sweet humidity of the marsh.

"Here's fine," Dwayne said.

The girl seemed surprised. "Here?" she questioned. "Don't'cha wanna go
back to my shack?"

Dwayne frowned. He'd seen where the Squatters lived: mostly sheet-metal
huts on the bayside of the Point. He hesitated, "Well, uh--"

"Oh, it's nice," the girl promised. "Not like lots of 'em. My brothers
built it for me, and I got it all to myself now that I'm eighteen."

Dwayne repressed a grin. Eighteen? Shit, this girl looks fourteen, if
that. She was a twig of a thing, ninety pounds maybe, but then all the
Squatters seemed small--Stanherd's clan. The tallest males stood
five-seven if they were lucky, and the girls? They were all like this
one: four-eleven, five feet tops. Must be something hereditary, in the
ancestral blood. Stanherd's Squatters were small people.

But what had she been saying? Don't want to turn her trick in the woods,
he remembered. Wants me to go back to her shack--well, fuck that.
Someone might see him.

"Naw, here's fine," he repeated. "All I got time for is a quick one."

The girl was the sleekest shadow in the dark. "Oh, right," she said.
"It's gettin' late, and I guess yer wife'd wanna know where you been."

"Just you let me worry about my wife," Dwayne said, annoyed. "I don't
answer to her."

"Don't she ever get suspicious of ya?" The girl had asked the question
calmly and, unabashed, kicked off her flip-flops and took off her
shorts. "We all love her so much, generous as she is to us."

Minimum wage to pick fuckin' crabs, Dwayne thought

4

with another hidden smile. And these pinheads think that's a lot of
money. Shit. Of course, Dwayne had done the same thing quite a bit in
his life, or any other menial job where employers weren't
discriminating. Dumpster cleaning, refuse removal, oil-change jockey,
and the like--any job his parole officer could land him. Dwayne was
almost forty now, and he'd done three jolts with the Russell County
Department of Corrections, totaling seven years in stir. After the last
one (two years, assault with a baseball bat), he'd landed here for a job
picking crabmeat at the Agan's Point Shellfish Company. Not the best job
he'd ever had. After a while he'd begun to smell like crab guts; no
matter how many showers he took, the dank fishy stink emanated from him.
But then he'd met Judy and his life had truly changed. She owned the
company, which her sister up in D.C. had helped her revamp, a small-time
operation that turned secretly lucrative. When Dwayne had pulled enough
wool over Judy's eyes, she'd practically been begging him to marry her.
And now?

Made in the shade, he thought.

Dwayne wasn't picking the crabs anymore; he was the supervisor of the
Squatters and other lowlifes who did.

But there was never enough, was there?

The five hundred dollars in his pocket reminded him of that.

When the girl turned in the wedge of moonlight, Dwayne saw that she was
fully naked now. Bitch don't waste time, he mused. He also saw something
else: evidence that she was indeed at least eighteen. Full, fresh
breasts, dark nippled; very feminine lines from shoulders to waist to
hips; a plush outgrowth of untrimmed pubic hair. Not that Dwayne
would've been worried

5 about statutory rape... No. Not with this one, he thought. Or those
six others.

"Still can't believe you wanna just do it here instead'a my shack," she
was saying. In the dark she was bending over, a gesture like someone
putting on stockings. But why would she do that? In the woods?

"And like I was saying," she went on, "what with your wife bein' so kind
to us, givin' us good work." She looked up, looked right at him with
dark sparkles for eyes. "I don't feel too good 'bout doing this, you
bein' Miss Judy's husband and all."

Dwayne cut a frown. "Hey, a buck's a buck, right? You don't want to do
me because of my wife? Then one of your other little friends will. In a
heartbeat."

"I know. ..."

"Besides, the twenty bucks I'm payin' you for five minutes of your time,
you'd have to work three hours pickin' crabs."

"I know," she repeated.

That said it all. The Squatters were poor, and they weren't even on the
books as citizens. Invisible, like illegal aliens. They worked hard for
their low wages, and the better-looking gals--like this one--utilized
other resources for increased income. The way of the world since humans
came out of the caves.

Dwayne squinted in the dark. What's she doing? She bent over again,
which replayed his notion that she was putting on stockings or garters
or something. Yes. She'd slipped something up high on her bare thighs.

"What's that you're puttin' on yourself?" he finally asked her.

"Wheat bands," she said. "Has to be a special kinda wheat, though, and
they're hard to make. Hard to get

6

the kernels to stay together when you sew 'em on the band."

The hell? he thought. But suddenly he felt distracted by a number of
things. For one, the endless chorus of cicadas, these being the
three-year variety. This part of Virginia, Agan's Point got them
all--the three-year, the seven-year, the thirteen-year, and the
seventeen-year. As a kid, Dwayne had always found these waves and waves
of insect sounds to be mysterious and captivating. But now--as an ex-con
pushing forty--he found them annoying. The girl's voice distracted him
too, the accent. All the Squatters had it, at least those from Everd
Stanherd's clan. No one could ever quite place it. Part backwoods
hillbilly drawl mixed with something that didn't even sound American.
There was something rich and swoony about the way they talked. When they
spoke, their lips didn't seem to move enough.

And then this new distraction. What the fuck? Dwayne thought. Wheat
bands, she said?

Now she stood more directly in the moonlight, her fresh young body
nearly luminous, breasts jutting, her belly button a perfect black
shadow. She'd pulled a band up on each thigh, like corroded garters.

"Those bands are made of wheat?"

"Um-hmm. It's middling wheat, and it ain't from around here. The clan
mother makes 'em, and every girl gets a pair soon as she gits her
period. The magic goes back a long way."

"Magic," Dwayne said.

"Yeah. It's for when you're gettin' with a fella. If ya wanna baby boy,
ya put it on the left thigh, and if ya wanna girl, ya put it on the
right." She adjusted the

7

strange bands daintily with her finger. "And if ya don't want nothin',
ya put 'em on both."

Dwayne shook his head. Squatters. Jesus. He knew there was a lot of
weird superstition with them, but this was one he'd never heard before.
Deep down he laughed to himself. Stupid cracker. The last thing she
needs to be worryin' about is gettin' knocked up.

It was getting late. "Time to get down to business," he said next, and
walked right over to her. He dropped a twenty-dollar bill down on her
clothes, then turned her brusquely around, her bare back to him, and
reached around to slide his calloused hands over the soft skin of her
breasts and abdomen. He rubbed his groin against her buttocks, feeling
that forbidden charge. Her skin seemed to rise in temperature as he
maintained his rough caresses, and she began to breathe harder. Dwayne
thought with an inner chuckle, Look at that, I'm turnin' the bitch on,
gettin' a whore all hot 'n' bothered. Guess them dirty little clan boys
don't do the job for her. Dwayne to the rescue...

He figured it was the least he could do, considering. ...

He sucked her neck, playing intently with her breasts. The nipples felt
pebble-firm now, and when he gave them a hard squeeze with his fingers,
she squealed delightedly, rising on her tiptoes.

"I always had a big thing fer you," came her strange accented whisper.
"Just somethin' about you ..."

The evidence of that was plain when he delved his fingers through her
thatch into her sex. Dwayne felt electrified below the belt. "I've had
my eye on you, too, for a while."

"Ya have not!" she playfully challenged.

8

"Sure, I have. You're about the prettiest of all the clan girls-"

"I am?"

"--and I've seen you on the line a lot. One of the hardest workers at
the picking den. That's what I told my wife."

"Bet'cher just sayin' that," she toyed. "Why, I bet ya don't even know
my name, even though you do the pay envelopes every week."

"Of course I remember your name," Dwayne insisted, still cossetting her
breasts, but then he thought, Fuck? What's this hosebag's name? "Uh..."
He paused. "Sunny, right?"

"Close," she told him, seeming at least pleased by that. "It's Cindy.
Least, that's what I'm called mostly."

Dwayne didn't really give a flying shit what her name was ... yet the
comment nagged him. "What'cha mean, mostly? It's either your name or it
ain't."

"It ain't my clan name. It's awful."

He worked her breasts harder, with more focus. "What's your clan name,
then?"

"I ain't tellin'!" She seemed ashamed. "You'd laugh!"

"No, I wouldn't."

"Everd says when we're 'round local folks, we use our other names; we
only use our clan names around ourselves. Everd says it's easier for us
to fit in. We all know we don't fit in with ya all."

Dwayne was only worried about one thing fitting in, and it had nothing
to do with names. But the man she referred to--Everd Stanherd--was a
strange coot indeed. He was the clan's elder, the wise man, so to speak,
for all the Squatters. The fucker claimed to be sixty but he looked
eighty... except for his hair. Not a gray hair on his head anywhere,
just jet-black. All the clan had

9

weird shiny jet-black hair, even the older women. Dwayne couldn't see
folks like this using hair dye.

"You feel really good ... Cindy," he guttered. As his own arousal
steepened, the dense chorus of cicadas seemed nearly deafening. Now his
hands roamed all over--she felt tiny in them, the lithe frame, the
reed-thin physique almost disproportionate to breasts firm and full as
the popovers Judy made on holidays--and just as warm.

Playtime was over; Dwayne was more than ready behind the zipper. He
urged her through trees hanging with mops of Spanish moss, sort of
pushing her along with his groin, and his fingers slid back up to her
nipples. She was panting when he got her to the clearing.

"Yeah, right here," he said. He turned her around, placing her hands on
his belt, telegraphing that it was time for her to take off his pants.

Now her words sounded parched from desire. "You sure you don't wanna go
back to my shack?" she almost pleaded.

His jeans fell down. "Naw."

"It'd be lots more comfortable. What's so special about this place?"

Dwayne dragged her down into the dirt, and as he pushed her knees to her
ears, his thoughts answered her question: This place? It's only about
ten feet from where I dug the hole last night. ...

10

One

(I)

I wonder how he died, came the spontaneous thought. Even as a lawyer,
Patricia White never imagined herself to be capable of such mental ill
will, but here it was, secretly staring her in the face. Her promotion
couldn't have been farther from her mind, nor the idea of so much extra
income via the profit sharing. No, there were only these fleeting
thoughts of darkness and morbidity. Judy said he'd been murdered but she
didn't say how. The next question bloomed as she gazed numbly at a
series of Ming Dynasty-styled statues:

I wonder ... how ....

Yes. Exactly how had her sister's husband been murdered? What
circumstances? And what modus? Gun? Knife? Bludgeoning?

Then: I'd better get my head back on straight, before my own husband
thinks I've completely flaked out.

Byron sat across the table from her, trying not to look like he noticed
her distraction. His first tack--when he

11

knew something was bothering her--was to get her talking from any
tangent available. "I'm not yet sure if this is the best Chinese
restaurant in town," he said, "but I'm prepared to proclaim even at this
early interval that it's the best-smelling Chinese restaurant in town."

So deep was Patricia White's distraction that she hadn't noticed until
he'd mentioned it, but when she did, her eyes widened. Slim Asian
waitresses scurried back and forth, bearing huge trays of food that
seemed to draw aromatic banners throughout the restaurant. "Oh, Byron,
wow. You're right. The aromas here are almost..."

His broad face widened as he grinned. "Erotic."

"You would say that, Mr. Perverted Food Critic."

He splayed his hands over the soup bowl that had until a moment ago been
filled with shark-fin soup. "Good food is supposed to involve a sensual
reaction; it has since early man began cooking. I see nothing perverted
about it."

She couldn't help it, leaning over to whisper, "Except for maybe the
time when we were in L.A., and you insisted on bringing the slice of
Chocolate Martini Cheesecake home from Spago's and eating it off my
stomach when we got back to the Beverly Hills Hotel."

"Um-hmm. And I think I can honestly describe your reaction to that as
particularly sensual. And don't forget, Mrs. Perverted Power Attorney,
what you did with the whipped cream first."

Patricia blushed immediately. How had she forgotten that part? More
wonderful aromas rose to her face when their own entrees arrived: tangy
sauces and elaborate spices and herbs carried upward in steam.

12

"So before we dig into our northern-China feast," Byron said, "why don't
you tell me what's bothering you?"

Why not just say it? "I feel bad," Patricia admitted, "for not feeling
... bad." Her eyes glanced up from the exorbitant plate of seared
langoustines in shallot sprouts. Her normally stable gaze was confused
now. "Does that make any sense?" she asked.

Byron's chopsticks stalled as he would have plucked up a strip of
flash-fired abalone, his broad face contemplative in candlelight.
"Honey, in this case it makes perfect sense. It's hard to put into words
because we're not supposed to speak badly of the dead. That's what
you're talking about, right?"

"Yes..." She set down her own chopsticks on the porcelain prop. The
circumstances were obviously killing both their appetites, which was a
shame in such an upscale restaurant known for such exotic cuisine. "Part
of me feels so bad for Judy, but most of me feels ... Oh, damn it. I
feel like such a shit heel for even thinking it."

"Let me finish for you; tell me if I'm on track. Most of you feels good
for Judy, because she's too good a person to be married to a guy like
Dwayne. Dwayne was a pretty crappy person. He was a liar and a criminal
and a con man, and now he's dead. And some part of you is glad he's
dead. And you feel guilty about that. I do too a little, but I'm also
glad he's dead. Nobody ever liked that guy. I only met him that one
time, and I could tell at a glance that he was a shifty redneck who only
married your sister to make his own life better. He was causing her
great grief that she didn't deserve. He used to slap her around, for
God's sake. Well, now he can't do that anymore. All in all, Dwayne's
getting killed was

13 a good thing. The world's a better place without him, and Judy is
better off."

"I know," Patricia confessed, "but--"

"But she's your sister," Byron continued, "and you love her and you know
that you're not supposed to feel happy that her husband is dead. A
situation like this can never be simple."

"She was always convinced that he'd change eventually, that it was just
his background that kept him down--"

"Of course, because that was the only thing she could think to ever have
hope. The truth is, guys like Dwayne don't change. They're predators
till the day they die. You can blame environment or upbringing or bad
education or whatever, and sometimes those really are factors that need
to be considered. And sometimes they're not. Dwayne was simply a bad
person, and always would have been."

Patricia shook her head. "But she loved him so much."

"Sometimes love is blind and very illogical," Byron added. "Your
sister's always been a bit insecure. She bought into Dwayne's phony
charm and that rugged, tough-guy look, and she wound up getting screwed.
She should've sent him packing a year after they got married, but that's
when the insecurity kicks in. Happens a lot with women her age; after
forty, they look at whoever they're with like it's a last stand."

"A woman her age?" Patricia questioned, but it was more as a joke.
"She's forty-two; I'm forty-three."

"Yes, but the difference is, she was married to a brawny redneck; you're
married to a bald gourmand. I'm the insecure one in this marriage. Most
men my age

14

have beer bellies." Byron patted the girth in his lap. "I have a
foie-gras-and-chateaubriand belly."

They both shared a laugh, which was more than welcome in the midst of
the bad scene. Byron was a food critic for the Washington Post. He made
a good living eating at the best restaurants in the D.C. metropolitan
area, yet he was constantly poking fun at himself. Patricia's salary was
five times what he earned, and now that she'd made partner, it would be
even more. And she wore her middle age quite deceptively, looking more
along the lines of a woman in her early thirties. In spite of her
workload, she still managed to make it to the gym three times a week,
and nature or God had been kind enough to keep the wrinkles at bay. The
wall by their table, just beyond an elegant, white-brickbordered fish
pond, was a mirror that doubled the restaurant's proportions, and when
Patricia stole a glance at herself, she remained quite satisfied with
the image that reflected back. Her silken, straight red hair shone about
her face, long bangs pushed back. She'd just had it cut a few days ago,
collarbone length, straight as a bezel. The sleek black jersey skirt
only highlighted her slim physique, made even sexier by a bosom ample
enough to leave most of Byron's friends convinced that she had implants
when in fact she didn't. She looked exactly like the in-shape,
attractive D.C. businesswoman that she was. Byron, on the other hand,
incarnated the word jolly, and he knew it, which was just another reason
why she loved him. He was overweight but he was genuine, and in the
Washington power circles such men were rare indeed. She truly had
married her best friend, and she knew she'd be at a loss without him. I
lucked out, Patricia thought in a grateful calm. I wish Judy had. ...

15

The restaurant busied itself around them, soft chat haunted by barely
audible Oriental harps, and soft accents explaining tonight's specials:
Thai-style cuttlefish in three spices, Peking duck, and Szechuan beef
proper.

More seriously now, Byron said, "I'm sorry this other matter's darkened
your celebration dinner. I wanted this to be special."

She squeezed his hand under the table. "It's very special. It could be
McDonald's and it would be special, as long as you were here."

Byron smiled meekly. "Anyway, a toast. To your promotion."

They tinked tiny glasses of rich plum wine. Patricia was a real estate
lawyer whose firm had just officially elevated from number two to the
number one spot in the field. For the last ten years the realty market
in the entire Washington and northern Virginia area had been going nuts,
and it had never been nuttier than now, which meant prime business for
attorneys such as she. Making partner gave her a share of company net
earnings, and their Georgetown brownstone was already paid off and worth
five times what they paid. She and Byron had always had a good life
together, but now it was going to be a great life.

"I don't like it, though. It seems sexist." Byron returned to some
levity, expertly chopsticking a piece of rumaki. "Your firm, McGinnis,
Myers, and Morakis. You're a partner now. Shouldn't it be McGinnis,
Myers, Morakis, and White?"

"Bad aesthetics, Byron," she answered. "That would screw up the
marketable ring--the three Ms. Besides, I don't need my name on the
door. First thing I do with my signing bonus is take my wonderful
husband to Hong Kong so you can finish your fine-dining book."

16

"It may sound like a foolish indulgence for me to have this gluttonous
dream, but what you must understand is that a preeminent critic such as
myself needs to experience tao fu fa smoked bean curd and fish-head soup
at the best Cantonese restaurant in the world--"

She smiled, looking at him. "Whatever turns you on, honey. I admire your
passion. Me, I love good food too, but I don't have the same
appreciation." She gestured at her plate. "This, for instance. It's
great; it's even probably the best shrimp I've ever had--"

Byron winced automatically. "Honey, they're not shrimp; they're
langoustines from Morton Bay in Australia. Not shrimp at all, but
actually a genus of crevice lobster--"

Patricia nodded it off. "Fine. But to an unsophisticated taste like mine
it's shrimp, and it's great, but I just don't have your knack for
communicating that to other people. I don't have your love for that.
You'd probably describe this as--"

Before she could finish, Byron plucked a langoustine off her plate,
savored it in his mouth, and said, "A mysterious conspiracy of
authenticated spice work, punctuating the sweetness of this distant and
very exotic crustacean. The wild bite of tender shallot sprouts has been
sufficiently tamed by just the right heat, all to impart a magnificent
delectability rarely available to American palates. In all, the dish
equates to culinary poetics."

"Exactly," she said, and laughed. "Hong Kong will definitely be your
element, and I can't wait to see you in it." And it was true. They'd
been together for twenty years, and it was Byron who'd worked so many
extra hours while Patricia had been in law school and doing associate
work. "You helped make my dream come

17

true," she said more quietly, "and I know a lot of the time it seems
like I've forgotten about that."

"Nonsense, it's our dream, and we get to live it together," Byron said.

She wondered, feeling even more guilty now. Most of the time she was too
busy writing interrogatories for pretrial hearings to remind herself
that she was a part of his life. I'll make it all up to him, starting
now, she promised, hoping it wasn't just another excuse. He'd always
wanted to go to Hong Kong--for the restaurants--and in twenty years,
she'd never had time. She'd always been too busy. Well, not anymore, she
thought. I'm one of the bosses now. "So like I said, the first thing I
do as partner is take you to Hong Kong." But then a troubling thought
intervened. "Well, I mean ... the second thing."

"Of course, the funeral," Byron said more soberly. "Why don't you let me
go with you? It's a long drive by yourself."

"It's only three hours or so."

"Well, that's not what I mean. You won't want to be alone in that crowd
and that situation."

She knew what he meant. She'd never felt in place down there in Agan's
Point, because she simply wasn't in place. They all think I'm a
conceited cosmopolite... which I guess I am. "Judy's fine with me," she
assured him, "and as far as the others go, to hell with them." It was a
strange sentiment. Only ingrates left their birthplace for the city,
people who thought they were better than everyone else. "I won't lie to
you: I don't want to go, and if you want to know the truth, they can
drop Dwayne's body in a trench and cover it over with dirt and not even
have a funeral service ... but--"

Byron nodded. "But you need to be there for Judy. Of course you do.
That's how any real person would feel."

18

But her own thoughts, and what Byron had finished for her, made her feel
awkward. I was never therefor her when she really needed me, was I?
Family loyalty and careers often warred with each other--a trademark of
modern nuclear families--and in Patricia's case, the family loyalty had
lost out. Deep down Judy never forgave me for not staying in town to go
to a closer college not too many years after Mom and Dad died. ...

More war, between her life as it was now, and however familial
responsibility might be interpreted. Instead, she changed the subject.
"I also want to look at the company records, see what kind of damage
Dwayne may have done behind her back. The deal was, she did the
accounting and Dwayne supervised the personnel, but I have my doubts. I
wouldn't be the least bit surprised if he was skimming some kickbacks
off the crabbers."

"Don't change the subject. I still think I should go with you," Byron
prodded.

She sighed. It was out of the question. His family crises had never
interfered with her; hence, she was determined not to allow the
opposite. "You can't take off work just for that," she deflected.

"My monthly column's already finished--the piece on local caviar
lounges--and I could zip out this week's feature review tonight. Going
back to Agan's Point under these circumstances will be pretty damn
uncomfortable for you. Let me go--even if it's only for the first few
days. It might keep some of the stress at bay."

Patricia dearly wished she could say yes--she wanted to so much. But
it's not fair to him. That backwoods place is just as weird and awkward
for him as it is for me. "No," she declared. "You stay here and do your job.

19

You're the best culinary critic on that whole paper. I can't have you
slipping because of me."

"But--"

"No," she repeated. Then she leaned over and whispered, "Just give me
some great sex before I leave."

Byron's rotund face seemed to brace for a moment. Then he shrugged and
said, "No problem."

The dim morning light seemed to make the street feel more desolate. Just
this moment, it looked like anything but summer in the city. Only the
faintest tinges of sunlight began to filter through the smog, which
would only get worse when rush hour commenced. At least she wouldn't
have to drive through any of that this morning.

Patricia felt disconnected as Byron placed her suitcases in the trunk of
the sporty Cadillac SRX. In the meager light, the car's sumptuous
burgundy paint job looked black.

Byron glanced up a moment, puzzled. "If you drive with the ragtop down,
you'll cause multiple wrecks, you know."

She returned his expression, just as puzzled. "What?"

"But I have to admit, I like the idea of all those Virginia rednecks
envying me."

"Byron, what are you talking about?"

"Your bra, or I should say lack thereof."

She briefly touched her bosom and then stifled her shock. She almost
always wore a bra, yet at that moment she didn't consciously recall
deciding not to this morning when she'd dressed. Her sizable bosom in
addition to the plain white blouse would likely incite any

20

gawkers on the highway. "I'd keep the top up to avoid sunburn anyway,
Byron, so the jealous male sexual animal in you can relax. The only
person I'll probably come in contact with today will be my sister."

"I'm relieved," he joked. "Believe me, this convertible plus that blouse
plus your set of boobs would definitely cause a ten-mile pileup."

"See? I'm thinking solely of public safety."

The condo building loomed behind them. Byron smiled, the little bit of
hair he had left disarrayed in spikes, stubble dark on his face. "Last
chance. I could change real quick and go with you."

She hugged him a bit too desperately. "No, honey. I'll do this by myself
while you hold down the fort. With any luck, I'll be back in a week."

"Give your sister my condolences. I'll order flowers today and have them
delivered. Oh, and not to sound too insensitive but... could you bring
back a few of her crab cakes?"

Patricia chuckled. Crabmeat packaging seemed about as obscure a business
as anyone could imagine, but Judy had done very well vamping up the old
family business since Patricia's investment of some venture capital.
She'd paid back all the cash with interest, and the company was still
growing. Judy had found her green thumb. Something rare and ideal about
the waters of Agan's Point produced unusually large blue crabs in
abundance, and the meat was so uniquely sweet that the restaurants in
the county outbid other crabmeat suppliers simply due to the quality.
Hence, the long-shot business had succeeded tremendously. Even Byron,,
with his persnickety attitudes toward food, admitted that the best crab
cakes he'd ever eaten

21

were those made by Patricia's sister. "I'll bring you a box of them,"
she promised.

The empty street sucked up the muffled echo when Byron closed the car
trunk. But Patricia caught herself: "I'm such an airhead. I forgot my
laptop--"

"You hope to do legal work in Agan's Point?" her husband asked in amusement.

"Just to keep in touch with my associates on e-mail; plus I need my
records with me in case there's an emergency at the office," she said,
and scurried back into the condo.

It was an old, homey stone building, six large units total, and the
equity had skyrocketed in the ten years they'd lived there. Patricia
took the elevator up, listening to the drone that cleared her head and
helped her feel solid about going "home" today. As for the condo's
interior decor, she'd deferred to Byron's more modern, urbanized
tastes--something that might be called post-art deco. It didn't bother
her, considering how little time she actually spent here; too often, for
most city lawyers, the office felt more like the homestead. She brushed
through the stark, light-toned living room, into the bedroom--the only
room in the unit that she'd decorated to her own taste. Heavy paneling,
dark hardwood furniture, and a plush four-poster bed. Colonial styles,
though essentially passe in the modern city, had always appealed to her.
She supposed it did remind her of her childhood on Agan's Point, which
seemed odd, since she never thought fondly of either her childhood or
the town, a repressed, poor community in which she and her sister had
been raised by dour, insensitive parents. God rest their souls, she
paused enough to think. Their creaky old house on the hill, though, had been

22

decorated similarly in the Colonial style. When she passed the dresser
to grab her laptop and case, something made her pause, flicking her eyes
to the framed picture of her and her sister smiling on the wide, heavily
railed front porch of the house she was about to return to today. She'd
been fifteen at the time the picture had been taken, Judy fourteen, both
dressed in the modest sundresses they wore so frequently during the hot,
southern Virginia summers. They were both freckleless in spite of
inherent fair skin and bright red hair, and something about the photo
made them appear even younger than they were. A glance back into youth
gone by. Behind them both stood the oversized front door whose threshold
Patricia would be crossing again in three or four hours. She wondered
what memories would be waiting.

The next picture on the dresser showed her mother and father standing in
the backyard. They'd begun parenthood in their late thirties--a late
start that made Patricia wonder if she and Judy hadn't really been
accidents. Hard work in the crabbing business added still more years to
her parents. Her father's eyes looked back hard from the old photo,
while her mother's seemed bored. Both had grayed early, and just as
neither of them smiled in the photograph, they'd seldom smiled in life.
A mundane traffic accident had taken their lives the year Patricia would
graduate from college. One thing she regretted was that they hadn't
lived long enough to see their daughters succeed, but not living long
enough to see Judy marry Dwayne was something Patricia clearly didn't
regret.

Without thinking she turned the photo to face the wall. Her honesty
about the matter had always bothered her, plaguing her with guilt.
Patricia may have loved her parents, but she'd never really liked them

23

very much. Her upbringing was an endless, unpleasant memory.

But there was one memory that hooked her right there when she was about
to turn and go back out. You bad, greedy girl, she thought. The high,
veiled bed she shared with Byron remained in disorder from last night's
gluttonous frolic. Maybe it was that plum wine from the restaurant? she
wondered. It was definitely something, though, something that lit all
her fuses at once. Byron wasn't the greatest-looking man in the world,
but Patricia knew that at their age, being sexually comfortable with a
person was much more of a turn-on than muscles, a chiseled jaw, and
other images of virility. She blushed at more recollections: He'd sensed
her need all night, hauling her dress up to her waistline, dragging her
panties off, and bullying her to the bed. He knew what she liked best,
and he'd wasted no time in providing it, not even bothering to take his
own clothes off before beginning an oral excursion of her body that
lasted for over an hour, so delicately and featherlight at first, but
graduating to animalistic fervor. Patricia came in multiples, biting her
own knees like apples. Several times her shrieks of pleasure
reverberated throughout the condo. We're lucky the neighbors didn't call
the police, she thought now. A cruder thought occurred to her,
maximizing her guilt: Last night I practically used my husband's face
for a bicycle seat, and I didn't even do anything for him afterward. Her
orgasms had so worn her out that she fell sound asleep immediately
afterward. ...

I keep telling him that I'm going to make things up to him now that I'm
a partner. She frowned to herself. Great start, Patricia. You're a
selfish bitch.

She gave herself a final checkover in the mirror, happy that faded
jeans, sneakers, and an old blouse

24

wouldn't be overdoing it for returning home. True, her bralessness left
little to the imagination, but she hardly cared. Maybe I skipped the bra
on purpose and just didn't realize it? she wondered. Her breasts
stretching the blouse and her nipples ghosting through it would leave
her husband with a final sexy image of her when she left.

Ready, she thought. She took a breath and turned out the light. Then she
went back outside, kissed her loving husband good-bye, and embarked on
the three-hour drive that would take her back into the heart of her
childhood memories--

--and the unbidden recollection of the awful thing that had happened to
her so long ago.

(II)

Sometimes you just can't win. The thought occurred to him when he opened
his wallet and saw but four single dollar bills in there just after he'd
walked in to the Donut King at the edge of town. A dozen doughnuts, by
the way, cost $4.69, and he didn't dare ask Trey for the extra.

That would be humiliating. After all, Sutter was the chief.

So he bought one doughnut and a cup of coffee and walked out.

"Cuttin' back?" Trey asked. "Usually ya git yourself a dozen."

"Yeah," he lied. "Doc said to lose weight if I wanna live to collect my
Social fuckin' Security. I've been payin' into the bitch for damn near
fifty years, so I ain't gonna let myself get ripped off."

25

It would be just his luck, wouldn't it?

Chief Sutter wasn't generally prone to cynicism, an attitude he was
inclined to regard as unhealthy. He was a levelheaded man, a fair one
and probably more goodhearted than most police chiefs nearing
retirement. Father Darren at church reminded them every Sunday that
taking for granted what one had was a sin, sort of a slap to the face of
God, Who'd made this world and everything in it as a gift to mankind.
Every day above ground was a good day, a blessing and another
opportunity to celebrate the joy of life, and most would probably agree.

Fuck me and the horse I rode in on, came the sour thought.

Even good men had bad days, and that was what Chief Sutter woke up to
this morning, his three hundred-pound frame smothered in a swelter, and
his wife, who weighed not much less, snoring like a mountain gorilla.
The air conditioner had crapped out overnight--what a splendid thing to
happen in the South, during summer's tightest squeeze.

It would probably cost him two grand to replace, and with the two
mortgages, property taxes going up, and a wife who'd maxed out the
credit cards, Chief Sutter didn't know what he was going to do.

Just ain't right, he thought later, on his way to the station. I've
worked my ass off my whole damn life helping other people, and what have
I got to show for it?

Not much, right now. Just a lot of debt, and damn little satisfaction.

"Still bothered about your money problems?" Trey asked from the
passenger seat. Sgt. William Trey was Sutter's second in charge and
officially the department's deputy chief. Second in charge didn't mean a

26

whole lot on a two-man police department, but Sutter figured he deserved
the acknowledgment. Trey was fifty now but tended to still act like the
brazen, feisty cockhound he'd been when Sutter'd hired him almost three
decades ago. A local boy with good intentions, and who respected his
home. He sort of looked like Tom Cruise, if Tom Cruise had never made
it. But he was still agile and fairly fit, which--considering his
weight--Sutter sadly was not. When he needed someone to jump over a
fence to run down some punks, Sutter was glad for such a deputy. And he
had a way of painting a bad situation with a happier color. "Look at it
this way, Chief. All married men got money problems. Take us, for
example. We both got wives the size of a coupla full-grown Berkshire
hogs, and the only difference is they eat more than a coupla full-grown
Berkshire hogs. That costs money, Chief, and it's the husband's job to
provide it. A fat wife is a sign that a man is providin' for her, which
is what God wants."

Chief Sutter appreciated the spin but wasn't sure if it was working.

"We'se both married in the eyes of the Lord; that's how it's supposed to
be," Trey went on. "You're not seein' my point now, are ya?"

"Well..."

"Here's what Father Darren would say. Why is it you think you ain't got
enough money?"

"Well, 'cos--"

" 'Cos yer wife spends half the money you work your ass off for on food,
and you spend the other half on keepin' a roof over her head and her big
ass in a car, right?"

Sutter gave him an alarmed glance. "Yeah, and it's a right pain in the
ass and it's pissin' me off."

27

Trey nodded knowingly. "And here's what Father Darren would say. He'd
say that a wife who's fat 'n' happy is the wife of a God-lovin' man, a
man who's doin' his best to live by His laws."

Sutter blinked. "That what he'd say?"

"You can roger that, Chief, and here's why. 'Cos if yer fine wife, June,
was bone-skinny and didn't have no cable TV, or no car a' her own, and
had ta live in a shit little house, then that'd mean that you weren't
livin' by His laws."

Sutter sighed. "I hope you're right, Trey, but what ya don't understand
is I'm chokin' on a right shitload of debt, and now I somehow gotta find
me two grand for a new air conditioner. I'm real happy that I'm livin'
by God's laws, but I sure don't see God buyin' me a new air conditioner."

Trey pointed. "But don't ya see? He will. All you gotta do is ask Him.
God provides to those who rightly deserve His provisions. Do it right
now, in yer head. Ask God ta forgive ya for not managin' your finances
proper, and ask Him to help ya out. Go on. Do it. Remember what Father
Darren says: A man should never be embarrassed to talk to God."

Sutter slumped behind the wheel of the cruiser. Can't hurt, I guess. He
closed his eyes and prayed: God, what I'm askin' ya to do is to forgive
me for bein' selfish 'n' ungrateful 'n' for takin your gifts for
granted. Forgive me for not lookin' hard enough to see how you want
things to be, and forgive me for not managin' my finances proper and for
lettin' things get outta hand. I need your help, God, and I mean I
really, really need the scratch for a new air conditioner, 'cos if I
can't dig it up, June'll be whinin' worse than a truckload of weasels. ...

When Chief Sutter opened his eyes again, he felt

28

better. He didn't feel any richer, but he definitely felt better.

"Good man, Chief. When you talk, God listens." Trey sipped his coffee in
some seeming assurance. "He listens to me, I can tell ya that. I ain't
braggin', but let me show ya something." He slipped out his wallet and
withdrew two slips of paper. "Now, I make less than you, and if anything
my wife, Marcy, eats even more than your wife, but look at this."

He passed the slips of paper to Sutter.

Holy ... shit! They were bank balance receipts. "Trey, I say you sure do
manage your money proper. Jiminy Christmas." Trey had five grand in his
checking and eight in his savings.

Trey took back the papers, nodding. "It's 'cos God listens when I talk
to him. God looks at me and ya know what He sees? He sees a man who's
had plenty of chances to go astray but chose not to. He sees a cop, same
as He sees you. He sees a man bustin' his ass to uphold the law and
maintain peace and decency. So God don't leave a man like that out to
dry. Instead, He helps him out every so often. Just like He's gonna help
you."

Sutter reflected on the words. He remembered Trey back in his younger
days, before marriage, before typical social and domestic
responsibilities had come into his life. The man had been an absolute
nutcase, a hard-drinkin', hard-partyin' character. Gals would follow
that boy down the street, Sutter thought. Spent mos a' his money on
bar-hoppin', hot rods, and women. ... But life had changed Sgt. William
Trey--a change for the good. He'd used the force of his will to change
himself into a good man, and now good things were befalling him.

Would the same good things befall Sutter?

He needed some good things now.

29

It was almost as if Trey were reading his mind when he said, "Good
things, Chief."

"What's that?"

"Good things happen to men who put their trust in God."

Sutter stared out the window. What Trey was telling him just made him
feel better and better. He shook his head. "Trey, I known you for goin'
on thirty years, and in all that time I had no idea you had so much
religion in ya."

"Ain't no secret; ain't no big deal." Trey calmly sipped more coffee.
"Live by God's laws, and He will grant blessings upon you." But in that
same moment, Trey's eyes shot wide out the window at a figure at the
side of the road. It was a woman, a woman flagging them down, and that
was when the very God-fearing Sergeant Trey exclaimed, "Holy sufferin'
shit, Chief! Would you get a load of the tits on that piece of ass?"

30

Two

a)

Patricia, of course, had forgotten. It had been five years, hadn't it?

Five years since her return to Agan's Point.

The Cadillac cruised silently, comfortingly, but as the city had faded
behind her, and the interstate highways had eventually given over to
long, winding, and very rural county roads, the words began to haunt her:

Oh, my God, girl. How could you let something like that happen?

They were her father's words, less than a week after her sixteenth
birthday. ...

The look in his eye, and the words he'd chosen. Like I let it happen,
she thought now in an overwhelming mental darkness. Like I wanted it to
happen ...

She'd never been more hurt in her life.

She'd felt good, hadn't she? Her wonderful, if selfish, love session
with Byron last night might have had something to do with it, but when
she pulled away from the

31

condo, knowing full well where she was going, she felt good, and that
was something she didn't expect. Watching the sun bloom as she drove,
opening the Cadillac up on Interstate 95, and moving forward... It
seemed to clear her head of all the city's stresses and the endless
intricacies of work. Indeed, Patricia felt clean, new; she felt purged.
Until...

Her mood began to wilt in increments. She knew what she was doing.
Putting it off. But I can't put it off. All I can do is dawdle,
procrastinate. She wound up driving through the historic district in
Richmond, and blowing an hour looking for a place to have breakfast.
Same thing through Norfolk, for lunch. She was turning the three-hour
drive into an all-day journey, as if getting to Agan's Point later would
ease some of her distress. But she knew it wouldn't. I'm torturing
myself, she thought.

Hours later familiar road signs began to pop up, signals that she wasn't
so much driving away from her exhausting lifestyle in Washington, but
instead driving to something much more stressful. The far less traveled
Route 10 seemed to throw the signs in her face as she raced past, towns
with names like Benn's Church, Rescue, and Chuckatuck. More and more of
her frame of mind began to melt. Then a sign flashed by:

DISMAL SWAMP--10 MILES.

And more signs, with stranger names:

LUNTVILLE--6 MILES. CRICK CITY--11 MILES. MOYOCK--30 MILES.

Oh, God, Patricia thought.

She was beginning to feel sick, and with the sickness came a
resurfacing. She hadn't thought of the psychologist in a long time, a
keen, incisive bald man named

32

Dr. Sallee. And she'd seen him only once, just after her return from her
last trip to Agan's Point five years ago, when her despair seemed
insurmountable.

"We bury traumas," he'd told her. "In a variety of different ways, but
the effect remains the same. Some people deal with their traumas by
confronting them immediately, and then forgetting about them, while
others deal best by forgetting about them first and then never
confronting them because there's no apparent need. That's what you're
doing, Patricia, and there's nothing wrong with that. There's no
apparent need because you relocated yourself from the premises of the
trauma."

The premises of the trauma. She thought over the odd choice of words.
But he'd been right. I moved away as fast as I could. ...

"What happened to you will always be there," he continued, fingering a
paperweight shaped like a blue pill that read stelazine. "I'm a
behavioral psychologist; I'm not so liberal in my manner of interpreting
human psychology. Other professionals would tell you that it's unhealthy
to leave your traumas because they remain in your psyche whether you
know it or not. That's not true with regard to how we must function in
our lives, in our society, and in the world. If not living in Agan's
Point restores you to that kind of functionality, then you've done the
right thing. Your trauma becomes neutered, ineffectual--it becomes a
thing that can't affect you anymore. It no longer has any bearing on
your life, and never will... unless you let it. You don't need a regimen
of antidepressant drugs and costly psychotherapy to deal with your
trauma; all you need is to be away from the area of the occurrence. Your

33

life right now is validation. You're a fabulously successful attorney
enjoying a fulfilling career and a wonderful marriage. Am I right?"

Patricia splayed her hands on the couch. "Yes."

"You aren't traumatized by what happened to you when you were sixteen,
are you? You aren't a psychological basket case; this event in your past
hasn't ruined you. You can't tell me that this twenty-five-year-old
tragedy still rears its head and exerts a negative force in your
existence, can you? Can you tell me that?"

Patricia almost laughed. What he was forcing her to admit to herself was
now replacing a creeping despair with a frivolous joy. "No, Doctor, I
can't tell you that at all."

He looked at her with a blank expression. "So your problem is... ?"

She conceded to him. "You're right. I don't have a problem anymore."

He raised a finger. "Proximity to the scene of the trauma is your only
problem. Whenever you return to Agan's Point, your despair recommences.
When you're away from Agan's Point, your mind functions as though the
trauma never occurred. We know I'm correct about this because every
aspect of your life verifies it. Let me put it in the most
sophisticated, clinical terminology I can, Patricia. Fuck Agan's Point.
Shit on Agan's Point. To hell with Agan's Point. How's that?"

Now Patricia was laughing outright.

And he finished, "Your despair is activated only when you return to
Agan's Point, so my professional advice is never to go back there. You
don't have to. You don't have to do anything you don't want. If you want
to see your relatives, then they can come to you. You

34

don't have to go to them. Agan's Point is a bowel movement that you
flushed down the toilet years ago. Solution? Don't go back to the sewer."

And that was that. Not only had Patricia gotten a great laugh from Dr.
Sallee's acumen, she'd needed to see him only that one time for all to
be set back to rights. When she'd gone home from her sister's wedding,
it all returned to her--indeed, like a toilet backing up. Now that I'm
away from that hellhole... I feel great. ...

And she continued to feel great... until she'd received the call from
Judy reporting her husband's murder.

I'm going back to the sewer, she recalled the doctor's metaphor as the
Caddy brought her closer and closer. I don't know what else to do. She's
my sister. ...

This was all she could do, and she knew it. "And I'll just have to make
the best of it," she said to herself. "It was so long ago anyway. I'm
acting like a baby." Admitting that to herself was easier than admitting
her optimism was forced.

She let more of the road take her, the Cadillac almost too quiet and
smooth as more roads turned rural, and more turnoffs took her farther
away from her metropolitan world. The wilds of southern Virginia were an
opposite world--farms instead of skyscrapers, old pickup trucks and
tractors lumbering along quiet, treelined roads, quite unlike the manic
traffic streams of the city. She knew that home grew ever closer by
still more telltale signs: agan's point crab cakes, boasted a roadside
restaurant. Then a market: we sell agan's point crabmeat. Her sister's
crabmeat was locally renowned. Eventually the scenery began to calm
Patricia's nerves, and she actually smiled. Would she really be able to
forget about her trauma of decades ago? Maybe it's all just worn off,
she hoped.

35

Then another sign swept by:

AGAN'S POINT--3 MILES.

She steeled herself behind the wheel. It's no big deal, no big deal. I'm
over it!

And then the awful words came back to haunt her just as effectively as
she was being haunted by her past:

Yes, her own father's words ...

How could you let something like that happen?

Patricia's eyes suddenly flooded with tears. She couldn't control
herself; she couldn't even remember what she was doing, her
sensibilities jerking away from her like something being stolen. Without
even realizing it, she pulled the Cadillac to the shoulder and got out,
her heart hammering, sweat pasting her red bangs to her forehead. A
passerby would've dismissed her as a crazy woman about to run amok into
the woods. Tears blurred her vision. Her feet took her in a blind run
away from the car. When she fell to her knees several minutes later, she
looked up, choking through sobs, and then saw a smaller sign just before
the turn onto a narrow country road. She had to squint through her tears
to focus until she could finally read the sign, a right-turn arrow and
the words:

bowen's field.

Patricia shrieked, vomited into the grass, and passed out.

(II)

"It just seemed weird to me, Mr. Chief," the slim, curvy girl with
tousled black hair was relating into the driver's-side window of the
Agan's Point police patrol car.

36

The strange accent was more of a giveaway than the pale skin and black
hair, not to mention the "Mr. Chief." One of Stanford's Squatters, Chief
Sutter realized. They always called him Mr. Chief. He didn't recall
seeing this one around, but then he didn't typically pay much attention
to the Squatters--he didn't have to. They kept to themselves, stayed out
of trouble, and worked hard, most of them taking minimum-wage jobs at
the crab company. Chief Sutter was a reasonable man. Work your job, pay
your taxes, and obey the law, and you'll have no problem with me. Right
now, however, Chief Sutter was having a problem of his own, with this
girl who'd flagged them down on Point Road. As she leaned over the
window, to convey some mishap at the Qwik-Mart, her breasts stared him
bold in the face. The homemade tomato-red jumper top restrained a pair
of breasts that might be getting close to D-cup territory. The hand-set
stitches of the top, in fact, were stretching enough to show lines of
flesh in their seams. She also wore an equally tight threadbare skirt
hemmed uncomfortably high on the thigh. The Squatters made their own
clothes from fabric scraps they bought at Goodwill, and this little
thing was obviously still growing into her getup. A heat wave flashed in
Sutter's groin when, as he listened, his eyes shot a quick glance down
the front of her abdomen and hips. Oh, lord, he commiserated. Her right
foot crossed over the back ankle of her left, a dollar-store flip-flop
hanging off the sleek, voluptuous foot. Jiminy Christmas, even her
fucking feet are hot... Hence Chief Sutter's "problem." The images
distracted him, such that he found himself nodding as if in attention
but hearing almost nothing of what she said.

"--and they was kinda grinnin' and lookin' me over," she went on, "the
way fellas'll do, makin' me

37

really uncomfortable, and when I told 'em I didn't wanna buy none, they
said somethin' like, 'Well, that's all right, we'll give ya some fer
free if ya come and party with us.'"

The Squatter girls weren't much above the neck, sort of wide faces and
flat noses, not the best teeth, and that ratty black hair. But below the
neck?

Jitniny Christmas, Sutter repeated the thought. They all had bodies that
would make a calendar girl feel insecure.

"What's that you were sayin' there, hon?" Trey asked. Sutter could tell
by Trey's squint and the tone of his query that he too was experiencing
a problem with distraction. Any officer's job was to get all the facts,
and that wasn't working well here, not with this Squatter bombshell's
pair of absolutely state-of-the-art breasts practically falling out of
that top in front of them.

"What was it you say these fellas were tryin' ta sell you?" Trey blinked
hard enough to get out.

Her hip cocked, which caused her bosom to sway delectably in the
hand-stitched top, and she explained in that weird accent that all the
Squatters seemed to have, "Ice! Can ya believe that? They asked me if I
wanted to buy some ice! Sure, it's hot 'n' all, but we got a bunch a'
ice trays in our freezer just like dang near everyone, and even if we
didn't, I could walk right in the QwikMart and buy me a bag. Dumbest
thing I ever heard anyone tryin' ta sell right out front of a
convenience store. Who sells ice out of a truck, Mr. Chief? So's that's
why I flagged ya down, just 'cos that whole thing seemed really weird
and so did them fellas. Thought the police'd wanna know."

Sutter and Trey exchanged glances. At least now they had some police
business, which was good,

38

because if Sutter had to spend another minute looking at this girl's
outrageous body he might have a heart attack right there in the cruiser.

"That was right of you to flag us down, missy," Sutter said, "because
fellas like that are definitely not the type we want in Agan's Point.
You see which way they went?"

Now she stood on both feet, legs parted, and leaned back with hands on
hips. More distraction: she was so short--all the Squatters were--and as
she leaned back like that, she nearly appeared unreal, like something
manufactured at a scaled-down size. When she pointed across the
windshield, Sutter's eyes bugged as one immaculate breast rose in the
top, and in that little gap underneath he could see the bare bottom of
it in all of its orbicular glory. "They ain't went nowhere yet, Mr.
Chief, 'cos see? They're still there. That's them in that orange
boxy-looking truck parked right out front of the Qwik-Mart, and that's
one of 'em standin' right there talkin' on the pay phone."

Trey's expression revved up. "Well, ain't that grand, yes, sir!"

"You got that right," Sutter agreed, then back to the girl: "You've done
a fine civic duty today, missy, and we appreciate it."

She seemed delighted by Sutter's response, and then her not-so-comely
face lit up with a big smile--not that Sutter nor Trey, was focused on
her face. "You have a fine day, Mr. Chief, and... and ... and Mr.
Chief's partner."

Sutter paused to himself. Shit. I gotta know. "By the way, missy, if you
don't mind my asking ... how old are you?"

39

Her eyes beamed. "Why, it's funny you should ask, but I just turnt
fifteen yesterday!"

Trey spit out a mouthful of coffee while Sutter thought in a long, low
groan: Oh, my great God in heaven. ...

The girl waved giddily as the cruiser backed up and began to turn.
"Jimmy Christmas," Sutter muttered like a man with a bad bellyache.
"That dizzy brick shithouse was almost the death of me just lookin' at her."

"Damn near busted my pants, Chief. And did'ja see how little she was?
Bet she wasn't five feet. And who cares about the butt-ugly face? Them
Squatter chicks got bods on 'em that make me wanna howl at the fuckin'
moon." Trey may have momentarily rubbed his crotch when Sutter wasn't
looking. "I got myself a leapin' lizard down here."

"Tell me about it."

He slapped his thigh. "And she's only fifteen!"

"Tell me about it," Sutter repeated, pulling around.

Trey was shaking his head. "But just as they got bodies from hell they
ain't got but shit fer brains." He let out a hick laugh. "She thinks
those guys are selling ice cubes! How's that for- a dumb shit?"

"Aw, give her a break. She's had a shit life, no proper schooling, and
works her ass off at the crab plant."

Trey belted out another laugh. "Shit, Chief, with that bod, she can work
my ass off anytime she likes!"

Sutter shot him a reproving glare.

"Er, I mean, once she turns eighteen," Trey added in haste.

"That's what I thought you meant. Christ, ten minutes ago you were
runnin' your mouth all about how God helps us out if we obey His laws."
Sutter chuckled.

40

"You sure lost your religion quick enough, lustin' after that Squatter."

Trey roused to object. "I was just speakin' figurative, Chief," he said,
pronouncing the word as figgur-tive, "as men will do when they're
amongst themselves, but in my heart--and I say this 'cos I know it's in
your heart too--men married in the eyes of the Lord wouldn't even think
of havin' any carnal knowledge with no gal other than his lawful wife,
no matter what age she is. I asked Father Darren about it once."

"About what?"

"About lust in the heart, and he said that since all men was born in
original sin, we're all guilty of lust-- can't help but be--'cos it's
all in our genes. So it's okay to eyeball a hot gal now and again, 'cos
it's a manner of appreciatin' the beauty God gave to women."

Sutter's eyes narrowed. "Father Darren said it's okay to eyeball other
women?"

Trey raised a finger to finish his point. "As long as you know in your
heart that ya wouldn't really have sex with her once it got down to
brass tacks. I know you'd never cheat on yer fine wife, June, and I sure
as shit'd never cheat on Marcy. Don't matter that they both gone to fat
and got tits hangin' down to their thighs. That's 'cos God blesses us in
our love."

Sutter sighed.

"Anyway, Chief, that's what Father Darren means in a nutshell. It's okay
by Him that you look at other chicks every once in a while as long as
ya'd never really hobnob with 'em."

Well, that's sure good to hear, 'cos I still got half a hard-on in my
pants from lookin' at that little thing, Sutter thought sourly.

Trey grinned. "And look at it this way, Chief. That

41

little piece a' eye candy got your mind off your money problems, huh?"

The recollection of those breasts, those curves, and those legs waylaid
him. "It got my mind off 'em, but I still got 'em, Trey."

"Patience is a virtue, Chief. Says so in the Bible. God smiles upon a
patient man. ..."

Sutter shook off the after-imagery as he pulled into the convenience
store, where a gleaming, brand-new Humvee occupied one of the parking
spots, tangerine orange and ten coats of lacquer. A shifty-looking black
guy in his mid-twenties, in baggy pants and gold chains, had just hung
up the pay phone and was coming back to the car, giving them the eye.

"Fucker's got more gold chains than Mr. T.," Trey observed with a smirk.
"And look at the watch on the son of a bitch. Looks like a Rolex."

"We know where he gets that kind of money," Sutter remarked. His own
watch cost $7.95 at the drugstore. "And look at those rings on him, too.
Fucker's all decked out like a Harlem pimp."

In the Hummer's driver's seat sat a long-haired white kid with scruff on
his chin, and similar gold chains and watch.

"We know what these scumbags are all about, so keep on your toes,"
Sutter said. "I'll take the rapper and you take the white guy."

"Gotcha, Chief. Thumb snap's off." He grinned at his boss and released
the snap on his holster. "We ain't had a tussle in a spell. I'm ready."

"You keep your dander down unless ya need it." Sutter hit his own thumb
snap; then he added, "And it can't hurt for us to mitt up."

"Roger that," Trey assented. They each slipped on

42

their pair of Bianchi elastic-stretch sand mitts with nude trigger
fingers and heavy-duty leather sand pouches reinforcing the knuckles and
palms. Ideal for punching through doors or busting a scumbag's face
without consequently busting one's own knuckles.

Sutter moved his own considerable bulk out of the car. He blocked off
the black guy before he could get back to the Hummer, while Trey leaned
against the driver's door, arms crossed.

"Is there a problem, Officer?" the black guy asked a bit haughtily. His
T-shirt read, rappin' and cappin', and he had a tattoo of an AK-47 inked
over one apple-sized bicep.

"Oh, there's a problem," Sutter confirmed. "Turn around, hands flat out
on the roof, and spread 'em. No sudden movements. Don't fuck with me."

"The fuck?" the white guy complained.

"Pipe down, Kid Rock," Trey said, "or I'll pipe ya down."

The black guy glared. "I haven't done anything wrong! You're just
shaking me down 'cos I'm black!"

"Don't give me that racist jive," Sutter said back. "I don't give a shit
what color a man's face is. The only kind of black man I call a nigger
is a black man trying to sell crystal meth to kids."

That was all the black guy needed to hear--"crystal meth"--before he
realized he could either run his ass off or do three-to-five for
possession and distro of Class II narcotics with another five tacked on
for attempted distro to a minor. He chose to run his ass off.

Shit!

He bolted off the car. Sutter, since he was not exactly dextrous nor
physically fit, being obese and close to sixty, managed to get a handful
of T-shirt, which

43

sufficed only to slow the guy down around the corner of the car,
whereupon the T-shirt tore away.

As for Trey, he didn't appear to even break a single bead of sweat when
in some impressive synchrony he--

Whap!

--landed a solid fist right smack-dab into Kid Rock's forehead, then--

"Holy Jesus, man, that hurts like a motherfucking motherfucker!"

--emptied half a can of GOEC-brand chemical spray into his eyes and
bleeding, split-open face.

"Got ya covered, Chief," Trey said next, sidestepping forward. He moved
fast enough to cut off the black guy before he could get clear. Then--

Thud.

--palm-heeled him once in the solar plexus.

Which sufficed to circumvent the attempt to flee.

"Getcha a case of beer for that one, Trey," Sutter said approvingly,
then lumbered over. "You simmer down the long-hair while I read this
suspect his rights." The black guy was sprawled out belly-down on the
pavement, bug-eyed, barely able to move. He was sucking wind. Sutter
promptly stepped on the back of his head, treating his face to a little
dermabrasion the hard way. The guy flip-flopped on the pavement,
shrieking like a little girl who'd just been scared out of a carny house
of horrors.

Kid Rock had managed to stop screaming long enough to make the very
unwise decision to attempt to drive off. Hair hanging in blood-drenched
strings, he jerked his hand forward, touched the keys in the ignition,
was about to start the car, when--

"Holy Jesus, mother of God, you gotta be fuckin' shitting me!"

44

--Trey emptied the rest of the GOEC into his eyes.

Sutter dragged a dozenish bags of crystal methamphetamine, aka "ice,"
out of the black guy's pockets, not to mention a pipe, and--of all
things--a 1964 Topps Mickey Mantle baseball card. Sutter pocketed the
card, then allowed the point of his steel-toed black oxford to come into
direct proximity with the area of space that was occupied by the black
guy's scrotum. That took the rest of the zing out of him.

Finally got me another Mantle card for my collection ...

The cowbell on the door clanged. Pappy Halm, a well-known Agan's Point
local and the store's proprietor, hobbled out front, aghast. He clacked
toward the scene on his cane and objected in his typical loud rail,
"What the hell ya doin' Chief? I seen ya in the winder! All that fella
done is make a blamed phone call! What right ya got to beat him down
like that?"

Sutter showed him a handful of ice. "This walkin' piece a' shit here and
his hippie buddy are selling these hard drugs to kids. Just tried to
sell some to a fifteenyear-old not five minutes ago."

"Oh, yeah?" Halm replied, then cracked the end of his cane hard up into
the black guy's crotch. Now the guy was gasping, screaming, and
blubbering all at the same time.

"Want me to cuff Kid Rock, Chief?" Trey asked.

"Naw." Sutter dragged the black guy up. "If we write this one up and
take 'em to county detent, I'll miss dinner. And you know how fierce the
wife bitches at me when I miss dinner. Fuckers'll be out on bail in the
time it takes me to fart."

"Roger that."

"But we better look the vehicle over. Check that guy's

45

pockets and under the seat." Sutter opened the Humvee's back door for a
quick search. Jesus... He found a tackle box full of more ice. "Bet
there's a thousand bucks' worth of dope in here," he said.

Trey peeked between the front seats. "More'n that, by the looks of it.
Just think of all the kids they'd be selling it to. And look at what the
hippie was carryin'." He held up a small pistol.

"Jesus. These guys."

Sutter shoved the dizzy black guy back into the front seat, but before
he closed the door--

Crack!

--he raised his fiberglass nightstick high over his head and whacked it
down across the guy's thigh. The thighbone snapped like a stout bough.

Trey whipped out his own billy. "A limp to remember us by. The same for
this one?"

"Naw. He's gotta drive. But I think a Southern-style haircut might do
him justice. Fucker must think he's in Lynyrd Skynyrd."

Trey twirled a finger around a lock of Kid Rock's hair, pressed his
other hand against his head, and yanked as though starting a lawn mower.
The kid barked a righteous yelp when a clump of hair popped out of his
head along with a square inch of scalp.

Sutter's temples pounded in sudden disgust as he looked at the shining
vehicle and the gold chains on the wheezing black man. "It ain't fuckin'
fair, ya know? I ain't an ungrateful man, and I ain't greedy either. But
I got my problems just like any hardworkin' man. Them two mortgages I
was telling you about are bleedin' me dry, car insurance just gone up
again and so did county property taxes, not to mention the

46

damned Ay-rabs keep jacking the price a' gas. Got a wife that eats more
than the Redskins defensive line, God love her, and who runs my credit
cards up like she's Bill fuckin' Gates's wife insteada the wife of a
small-town police chief, and now the blasted AC up 'n' broke, so that's
gonna cost me out the ass ... so I am pinched to the max. I'm so broke I
can barely pay fuckin' attention, and then look what we got here." He
glared intensely at the shuddering black guy and his accomplice. "We got
two piles of walkin,' talkin' garbage wearing gold jewelry and drivin' a
brand-new Hummer, and how'd they get the kind of bread for all that?" He
looked at the bags of crystal meth. "By sellin' this shit. Yes, sir,
these pieces a' shit live large and got enough cash to choke a fuckin'
horse, and what do I got? Enough debt to choke a fuckin' horse." He
slammed the Humvee door, made a fist of his right sand mitt, and said
directly to the black guy, "We don't take kindly to people sellin' drugs
in our town, so listen up."

He pinched the guy's cheeks together. "You 'n' your buddy are gonna turn
this jalopy around and drive outta here, and you ain't gonna stop till
you're plumb out of this county, and you're never, and I mean never,
gonna come back here again, and if we ever, and I mean ever, see you
anywhere near Agan's Point in the future--"

Whap!

He rammed his sand mitt right into the guy's mouth.

"--we might have to rough ya up a little."

The black guy was spitting out teeth. Kid Rock convulsed behind the
wheel, backing the Hummer up and spinning wheels out of the lot.

47

Trey rubbed his hands together. "All in a day's work, huh, Chief?"

"Damn straight. And I snagged myself one hell of a Mantle card. Pisses
me off, though."

"What's that, Chief?"

Sutter dropped the tackle box and rest of the drugs into the garbage. "A
small fortune worth of dope, and those punks probably sell that much
shit to kids every damn day."

"Sure they do."

"Driving around in a brand-new fifty-grand Hummer--"

"That tricked-up model? Sixty, sixty-five at least."

"Yeah, and we drive clunkers. Gold chains, too. Shit. Only thing I can
afford to wear around my neck is a line of sweat. Ain't right."

"No, it ain't, Chief." Trey crossed his arms with a look of concern.
"But I'd say we done a lotta good today. Ain't no drugs gonna be sold by
them fellas fer a while. And..." Trey paused to reflect on something.
"Let me ask you somethin', Chief."

Sutter scratched his belly, trying to shake off the irritation. "Go ahead."

"Is stealin' from a thief really stealin'?"

"Huh?"

"If a fella breaks the letter of the law but the only person he
victimizes is a lawbreaker himself, is that really a crime?"

Sutter didn't get where this was coming from. "Well, you told me Father
Darren said lusting after another woman ain't really lust so long as you
wouldn't really get it on with her. So I guess ... no, it ain't."

"I didn't think so neither, 'cos, see..." Trey reached

48

in his pockets. "While you were checkin' the backseat, I took the
liberty of lightening up those boys' wrists--"

"The Rolexes?" Sutter queried with some excitement.

"Yeah, Chief, the Rolexes." Off of two fingers, Trey dangled two genuine
Rolex Submariners. He passed one to Sutter. "No doubt it was drug money
those guys used to buy these."

Sutter inspected the watch with a gleam in his eye. "No doubt."

"So we could sell these fine watches and give the money to the charity
of our choice, or we could even--"

"We could even wear the fuckin' things ourselves," Sutter finished, and
put the watch on. Perfect fit. "It's legitimate for officers of the law
to own accurate timepieces."

"Roger that." Trey put his on too, admiring it. "And one more thing.
Since we agree that lustin' after a chick you wouldn't bone ain't lust,
and stealin' from a criminal ain't stealin'..."

Sutter's eyes widened.

"Look what my fingers found in Kid Rock's pocket." Now Trey held a wad
of bills. Mostly hundreds showed when he fanned the stack. "A little
more than two grand here, Chief, and tell me if I'm wrong, but this here
pile of cash is pure drug profits. It ain't money those fellas earned
mowin' lawns."

"It's ill-gotten gains procured during a critical police procedure,
Trey," Sutter embellished. "We'll split it."

Trey handed over the whole wad. "Nope. You take it, Chief. You buy you
'n' your wife the brand-new air conditioner you need. You asked God fer
help, and He just answered your prayer. Me? I'm fine. When I need some
help, I'll ask the Lord myself."

This shitty day just turned really fine, really fast. Sutter

49

pocketed the money with some haste. "I'll remember this, Trey. Thanks."

Trey grinned. "Don't thank me. Thank the Lord."

I damn straight will. ... "We'll drop the gun off next time we go up to
county. And right now?" Sutter looked at the Qwik-Mart. "Coffee and
doughnuts on me."

"Make way fer the law!" Pappy Halm celebrated behind the counter. "Our
fine boys in blue! Agan's Point is damn proud to have such brave
officers protectin' us!"

"Proud enough to slide us free coffee and doughnuts?" Trey asked.

"Hell, no! What do I look like? Fuckin' Santa Claus?" Halm winked. "But
refills are half-price."

"You're all class, Pappy."

Sutter wended to the doughnut display and began to tong out a box of
cream-filled and glazed. "Guess that poor black fella'll have to sell
some of his gold to cover his dental bill."

Trey guffawed. "Yeah, and Kid Rock'll have to comb his hair funny to
cover up the permanent bald spot."

Pappy Halm slapped his thighs. "They picked the wrong guys to fuck with
today!"

"Never seen a worse pair of scumbags in my life," Trey added, eyes
cruising over the mag rack full of Hustler, Penthouse, and Playboy.

"Speaking of scumbags ..." Sutter noticed a copy of the town's weekly
paper, the Agan's Point Messenger, and the blaring headlines: local man
murdered. He picked it up and scanned over the short article about the
mysterious death of Dwayne Parker. "Damn near forgot about this. Feel so
bad for Judy--the poor dumb girl don't even realize that Dwayne wasn't
no good for her.

"Wasn't no good for anyone or anything," Trey pitched in. "There's a bad
seed in every crowd."

50

Sutter read more of the article. "This came out the day after they found
the body; it don't say when the funeral is. Hey, Pappy? You know when
they're holdin' services for Dwayne Parker?"

The name seemed to slap Halm's age-lined faced. His eyes lit up in a
furor. "Dwayne Parker! That no-good, low-down rat bastard! Ya ask me,
they can't bury that fucker deep enough. He ain't worth the lumber it
takes to build the coffin! Ain't worth the elbow grease it takes to dig
the hole, nor the fuckin' air ya gotta breathe whiles yer gettin' the
job done."

"They ain't buryin' him," Trey said, skirting the point. "Crematin' him
is what I heard."

"Then fuck it! That cracker ain't worth the gas it takes to burn him.
Ain't worth the effort it takes me to grunt out a whiskey-piss into his
urn. Cryin' shame the way that prick treated Judy, broke her damn heart,
slappin' her around like that. You ask me, any man who beats his wife
should have his own ass beat twice as hard."

Sutter nodded, chewing a cream-filled. "We're not in disagreement there,
Pappy. But I wanna show my face and offer my condolences to Judy. When's
the funeral?"

"You ask me, they shouldn't even have a funeral for that worthless piece
a' shit. He pulled up here one night all pissy drunk, and I could see in
the car he had a woman with him, and that woman sure as shit wasn't
Judy, and he walks in all stinkin' a' beer and talkin' loud, grabs
himself a twelve-pack and just looks at me 'n' says Put it on my wife's
tab, ya old fuck,' and then walks back out. Hocks a big looger on my
front winder ta boot. That son of a fuckin' dirty mutt. I ever tell you
about the time he--"

51

Trey slapped a hand down on the counter. "Pappy! Chief wants to know
when the services are!"

Halm blinked. "Oh, yeah. Saturday noon, at the Schoenfeld Funeral
Parlor. I'll be there, fer Judy a' course--but not fer that rat bastard."

Sutter rolled his eyes. Gee, I guess he didn't think much ofDwayne.

"Hearin' some damn funny stuff, since we're on the topic," Trey said in
an aside.

Sutter put the paper down, listening.

"Funny ain't the word," Halm said. "Nonstop fucked-up is more like it,
since the day they found that fucker dead."

Shit... Sutter asked with some hesitation, "What's fucked-up, Pappy?"

"The talk about Dwayne is what. You fellas are the cops, fer Christ's
sake. Ya musta seen the body."

"We didn't get the call; Luntville EMTs did," Sutter said quickly.

"Well, ya musta heard that somebody cut his head off."

"Aw, we all heard that, Pappy," Trey stepped in. "That ain't the half of
it. I know some of Luntville's EMTs--they're buddies of mine--and they
said there was something really fucked-up about the way he lost his
head... but they didn't say exactly what. Something really screwy, though."

Sutter frowned through an uncomfortable tremor in his belly. "Don't
listen to every rumor you hear, 'specially in a hick burg like this.
Stuff gets all blown out of proportion."

"I don't know, Chief. I went down to the county morgue to take a look
myself and they wouldn't even

52

let me in. Why's that? I'm a police officer in the jurisdiction of the
murder. It was our crime scene. Ain't our fault we weren't the first
responders."

"Trey, it ain't even positive yet that it was a murder. Could've been an
accident. See? Folks start talkin' without knowin' all the facts and
they jump to conclusions. County didn't let you in 'cos I'd already been
there to ID the body."

Trey stalled at the information. "Shit, Chief, you didn't tell me that."

"Right, I didn't tell no one except Judy, because she's the official
next of kin. She wasn't up to seein' the body, so I went in there on her
behalf."

Halm and Trey both looked at him.

"So?" Halm asked.

"Was his head really gone?" Trey finished.

Sutter sighed. "Yeah, Trey."

"And they never found the head," Halm added. "Somebody cut off his head
and run off with it. That ain't murder?"

"We still get gators," Sutter hedged. "It coulda been a gator. He
could've fallen down the bluff and lost his head on the rocks. Fuckin'
truck could've been barrelin' around the bend and knocked his head off
with the rearview. It could've been anything. So relax 'n' stop talkin'
shit, 'cos that just makes the rumors worse. We don't want all this
weird talk getting back to Judy. She's bent out of shape enough as it is."

Trey and Halm quieted but only for a moment.

Trey began, "Was there anything screwed-up about the neck wound?"

"No, Trey," Sutter replied, aggravated. "His head got cut off. Simple.
It happens. It was a decapitation. Said so in the autopsy report."

53

This was Chief Sutter's first lie.

Pappy popped some chaw in his mouth: Red Man. "They're also sayin' it
was Squatters who killed him. Everd Stanherd's people. Makes sense."

Jesus, Sutter griped. These boys won't get off it. He couldn't tell the
truth about it, could he? He didn't even understand the truth himself.
"It makes no sense, Pappy. Ain't no reason for Squatters to kill Dwayne
Parker. You don't kill the husband of the woman who keeps your ass out
of the welfare line. And you seen these people. I'll bet the biggest of
the men don't even stand five-six. Dwayne was six-three and was still
packin' all them muscles from working out in the joint all those years.
Shit, there ain't ten Squatters who could take down Dwayne Parker."

"There are if one of 'em had a machete in his paw," Trey pointed out.

I just can't win here, Sutter thought.

Pappy spit brown juice into a Yoo-Hoo bottle. "And ain't it funny 'bout
how Dwayne gets his ticket punched right in the middle of all this talk
about some Squatters disappearin'. Like maybe he had somethin' to do
with it."

"Or done it himself," Trey said.

Now Sutter was grinding his teeth. "Done what himself, Trey?"

"Offed some Squatters. Dwayne hated the Squatters; everyone knows that."

"Listen to me, both of you." Sutter's voice hardened. "There ain't no
Squatters who disappeared. It's bullshit."

"Nearly a dozen's what I heard," Pappy offered.

"Here one day, gone the next," Trey said.

This was getting hairy. "You two boneheads listen up. Ain't nobody's
disappeared 'round here. It's a free

54

country. Some of these people think they can do better somewheres else
than here... and that's their right. There ain't nothing wrong with
Squatters just 'cos they're a little funny-lookin' in the face. They're
just as smart as anyone else and just as able to work. Some of 'em get
tired of crabbing, so they move on. Like anywhere."

Sutter's sensible explanation didn't seem to convince the others. It was
true that an unusual number of Stanherd's Squatters had left their abode
on the Point, some quite suddenly. Stanherd himself had reported it
several times, but even he admitted that they probably did just leave
town of their own accord. Sutter did know of the anomaly regarding
Dwayne Parker's death, but of missing Squatters? He knew nothing, nor
did he believe any foul play was involved. I swear to God. Gossip
mouthpieces like Trey and Pappy Halm just make my job harder. ...

"So I don't want to hear no more crap about Squatters disappearing into
the night and Dwayne's fuckin' head never being found," he finished.

All three heads turned when the cowbell clanged, and in walked a lean,
fortyish man with short blond hair, blue eyes, and an expression that
could be deemed somber. He wore a beige windbreaker in spite of the
heat, work pants and boots without a speck of dirt on them.

"Howdy, Mr. Felps," Pappy said.

"Mr. Halm, Chief Sutter, Sergeant Trey," the man said in return. His
voice was light yet somehow edged, sibilant. "Things are going well for
you all, I trust?"

"Yes, sir, Mr. Felps," Sutter replied. Felps's presence always affected
Sutter and most townspeople as something close to regal, for some
disjointed reason. He wasn't necessarily the town's savior, because Agan's

55

Point had always been self-sufficient--but just barely. Instead, Felps
was the bearer of some energetic new blood that was sorely needed. His
Riverside Estates luxury condo complexes would siphon upper-income
families out of the state's overpopulated big cities. There were already
several hundred preconstruction sales, along with pricey television ads
throughout Virginia. This transplantation would divest Agan's Point of
some of its natural beauty but deliver a much-needed economic shot in
the arm. Sutter saw it as the progress he'd waited for all his life, and
he saw Felps as its herald. "Things are just dandy 'round here."

"And they'll be getting even better soon," Felps said, picking up a
coffee and Danish. "You've probably noticed that the foundations have
already been laid. Things will change around here fast. You'll all be
very pleased." The man's enthusiasm, however, seemed dulled, lost in his
businessman's veneer. Sutter supposed any successful construction
magnate carried the same air. And what did it matter, anyway? All our
lives will improve because of this fella, Sutter realized.

Felps's stay was brief, to the point. He paid up, bade them a good day,
and left.

"Not the friendliest fella in the land," Pappy said, "but do you think I
give a flying fuck? My business'll triple the first year those condos
start opening."

"He's a big-city builder, Pappy," Sutter reminded him. "Guys like that
are no-nonsense and all business. That's why they're millionaires."

Trey shrugged, leaning on the counter. "He ain't such a poker face once
ya get to know him. Matter of fact, I had a few beers with him at the
bar the other night."

Sutter felt secretly jealous. "You're kidding me?"

56

"Naw. He and a few of his managers walked in. They asked me to join 'em
and we all sat there for an hour shootin' the shit and pounding a few.
When Felps is off the clock, he's a regular guy just like you and me."

Sutter's jealousy remained. If there was one man he wanted to be pals
with, it was Felps. I'll have to work on that. ...

"Later, Pappy," he said. "We're out of here."

"You boys take it easy the rest of the day." Pappy cackled. "Don't wanna
wear yourselves out kickin' scumbag ass."

"Just another day in the lives of two hardworkin' cops," Trey said,
casting a final glance at the men's mags.

Back outside, Sutter didn't even have time to grab his keys before a
shadow moved behind him. He hadn't heard a sound. Had those drug dealers
come back for revenge? Impossible, he thought. They're lucky if they
made it to the nearest hospital on their own. ... Sutter spun, instinct
charging his gun hand, but then found himself looking into the face of a
gaunt old man.

"Hey, there, Everd," Trey greeted.

Everd Stanherd stood like a meticulously dressed scarecrow, neat as a
pin in his typical faded black suit and tie. Short jet-black hair didn't
look right atop the old, waxen, and deeply lined face, yet the
deep-socketed eyes appeared vibrant, the eyes of a twentyyear-old set in
an old man's skull. The only detail that might tell him apart from any
elderly man was the pendant around his neck: a black silk cord connected
to a small black silk sack.

Everd lived with his wife, Marthe, in the only house at the end of the
point, a decrepit slat-wood mansion built a hundred years ago. Judy
Parker let him live

57

there, and he shared the house with other elders of his Squatter clan.
The rest of the Squatters lived all about the property surrounding the
house, in surprisingly well built tin huts erected in the midst of the
heavy woods--Squatterville, most people called the area. Judy let them
all live there rent-free as a benefit of their employment with the crab
company. In all, the Squatters were respectful, law-abiding, and
industrious in their own simple way, and this frail yet vibrant man
standing before them was their leader.

"It's good to see you, Everd," Sutter said. "Any word on those couple of
folks in your clan who can't be accounted for?"

"No, sir," Everd replied. They all spoke so strangely, yet Everd's tone
and diction were the strangest of all. His thin lips barely moved around
the words, almost as though they were being projected from elsewhere.
And that indefinable dialect. "As a matter of fact, two left for Roanoke
last week, quite verifiably. I suspect the same can be said of the
others, as you suggested. It's just uncharacteristic for members of our
clan to leave without notice."

"Everd, when I was a kid, I ran away a bunch of times, and never told my
parents where I was headed," Sutter pointed out. "There's over a hundred
Squatters you got livin' on the Point. You can't keep tabs on them all."

"You're correct, sir," Everd returned. He stood absolutely motionless as
he spoke, save for one crabbed hand fingering the black pouch about his
neck. "However, a third member seems to have disappeared--a young girl
named Cynabelle--Cindy, to you. But I must confess that she may have
fallen with a bad crowd and vacated, too, for more adventurous exploits
in the city." Everd paused, as if about to say something

58

difficult. "She lacked the standard of morality that my clan lives by,
and I'm afraid several of the girls have fallen by the same wayside in
the past. Not many, but a few. I feel it's my failing ultimately."

'Trickin' herself out, you mean." Trey got the gist. "Everd, your
Squatters have a lower crime rate than the general population. From a
police officer's point a' view, they're about as low-maintenance as you
can get."

"Don't kick yourself in the tail," Sutter added some consolation. He was
actually relieved by the extent to which Everd was reasonable about
things. "You run a tight ship with your people, and we're grateful. But
you can't go blamin' yourself because a few girls go bad. They're ain't
nothing you can do about it. In any community, there's always gonna be a
few girls who decide they can make more money with their bodies than
workin' a proper job. Been that way for thousands of years. And there's
always gonna be a few fellas who go bad too. Don't worry about it."

"Nevertheless, I apologize for such mishaps," the man intoned. "I will
try to keep a closer rein on it. But I've also come to thank you."

"For what?"

"Just earlier," Everd said. He kept touching the pouch. "Some ruffians
from the city attempted to corrupt one of our young girls. She came
immediately and told me. She said that you and your deputy repelled
these two criminals convincingly."

"Oh, yeah," Trey said. "Couple drug dealers tryin' to sell their crap in
our town. We sent 'em packin', didn't we, Chief?"

"You won't have to worry about them boys anymore, Everd," Sutter
guaranteed. Every so often, he'd cast a

59

glance to the pendant, at first paying it no mind, but gradually growing
more curious.

Everd looked him right in the eye, his own eyes green as emeralds,
flecked with blue--another trademark of Squatter heredity. "You men have
the utmost gratitude of my clan. This I cannot emphasize enough. I'd
like to invite you both to my home tonight for a meal prepared in the
tradition of our ancestors. Marthe will be serving an andouille-style
sausage made with slow-smoked muskrat, crab-and-chickpea bisque, cattail
cakes, and the seasonal delicacy this year, something we call custa."

"Custa? What's that?" Trey inquired.

"Cicadas roasted in wild mint and cracked white peppercorns."

Yow! Sutter's doughnut-filled stomach lurched as if kicked. "That's, uh,
mighty generous of ya, Everd, and we definitely will take you up on that
kind offer down the road. But, see, Trey and I have some important
police work to do for the next few weeks."

Everd nodded. "In the future, then, when it's more convenient to your
busy schedule. You're always welcome at my home. And remember the clan
cookout next week."

"We'll be there for sure," Trey said.

"So until we meet again, gentlemen, I bid you a pleasant day." But
before Everd turned to leave, Sutter couldn't resist: "Everd, tell me
somethin', will ya? What is that thing around your neck?"

The old man seemed unfazed by the question, untying the sack. "It's
called a tok." He removed something stiff and twisted.

What in shit's name!

60

It was a chicken head.

"It's the severed head of a black cock--not an ordinary chicken, mind
you," Everd explained. "Upside down in the pouch. It preserves wisdom."
He started to take it off. "Here, I'd like you to have it, as my gift."

Yow! Sutter held up his hand. "Aw, no, Everd, I couldn't. But thanks
just the same."

"Very well. But it's been a pleasure to be in your company these few
minutes. I look forward to our next meeting." And then Everd slipped
away, silent as a shadow.

"How do you like that funky shit?" Trey chuckled. "With all the shit he
said he was servin' for dinner, I'm surprised there ain't no chicken on
the menu. Ain't that some weird superstitious jive they got goin' on?"

"You got that right," Sutter said. "And I'll definitely pass on the
muskrat and cicadas."

"Roger that."

"Hey, Chief, why don't ya hang a chicken head from the cruiser rearview?
Maybe it'll give us wisdom!"

Sutter looked after the old man, who'd already made it halfway up the
road. "The Squatters are tough to figure. They're kind of like Indians,
but they don't look it. All those charms they're into."

"Or like Gypsies," Trey compared. "But they don't look like Gypsies,
either. They don't even look European."

"The accent's weird too. One time I asked Everd where he and his people
were from, and you know what he said? He said 'the Old World.' Then I
asked him what the hell that meant, and he told me Agan's Point is where
they're from. That his ancestors've always been here." Sutter pinched
his chin. "I wonder where they're really from. ..."

61 "Yeah, then there's always the one question that's more important
than that," Trey posed.

"What's that?"

"Who gives a flying rat's ass?"

Sutter was inclined to agree. He looked down the road again and saw no
sign of Everd Stanherd. Trey had his back to him, looking off in the
opposite direction. "Ooo-eee, Chief! Would you look at that Caddy!"

"Yeah. Nice set of wheels."

A snappy, late-model Cadillac coup was cruising along past them, a
ragtop, with a deep, rich paint job the color of red wine. The driver
obviously spotted the two police watching her, and slowed down a bit.

Trey squinted. "Looks like some dandy tail drivin' it, too. Looks
hiiiiiigh-class."

"Yeah, too high-class for this town, now that ya mention it," Sutter
considered. "Bet that car runs eighty grand outta the showroom, Trey.
What the hell's a rich gal like that doin' in Agan's Point?"

"Red-hairt, too," Trey could see. "Ah-oooooo-gah! Bet she's got red
carpet to match those red drapes." He elbowed Sutter. "Looks like she's
doin' about five over the limit, Chief. What say we pull her over, see
what she's got to gander?"

Sutter frowned. "Git your mind outta the sewer, Trey." But it wasn't
that bad an idea. Cops worked hard. They needed a perk now and again.

Then, as the car flashed by, the driver waved and honked.

Both men looked behind them. Trey scratched his head. "She wavin' at us?"

That was when the red hair and upscale look clicked. "Ah, I know who
that is, and so do you."

"Huh?"

62

"Patricia, Judy Parker's sister."

Trey stared off after the vanishing car. "Ya don't say? Ain't seen her
around here in--"

"About five years. Looks different 'cos she cut her hair. Came back for
Judy's marriage to that scumbag Dwayne, and now it looks like she's here
again--"

"--for the scumbag's funeral."

A silence passed between them. The Cadillac disappeared around the
road's bend.

"Too bad about her, ya know?" Trey said.

Sutter nodded at the words. "I remember Patricia since she was
tiny--shit, I wasn't but twelve or thirteen myself when she was born.
Fiery, chatty little kid, she was. Full a' life, always happy."

"Yeah. Then she just turned cold. Bet I didn't hear her say two words
before she ran off to college and law school."

Sutter jingled his keys. He remembered. "Poor girl never was the same,"
he said, "after the rape. ..."

63

Three

a)

An instant reminder: the odd knocker on the center stile of the front
door. I've always hated the knocker, Patricia thought. She had parked
the Caddy in the cul-desac, and had sat a while looking up at the house
she grew up in. The great wooden edifice went back to pre-Civil War
days, and had been refurbished incrementally over the decades. It looked
the part: a Virginia plantation house with a high, sloping roof and
awnings, and a screened porch that defined the entire circumference of
the lower level. A grand house. There were plenty of ghost stories
dating back to the days of slavery, when previous owners often executed
unruly workers and buried them around the foundation to fertilize the
hedges and flower beds. It made for excited talk, but in the eighteen
years Patricia had lived here, she'd never seen a ghost.

She did now, though.

The door knocker. It was an eyesore and it was just

64

plain peculiar: an oval of tarnished bronze depicting a morose
half-formed face. Just two eyes, no mouth, no other features. In those
last two years here before college, the knocker's expression had
reflected her own.

In truth, however, she had to admit that Judy had kept the place up
beautifully, and were it not for the bad memories, Patricia would see
the house as a gorgeous abode.

It was just getting dark. I forgot, she thought. Another cicada season.
They had so many varieties down here; there were more seasons with them
than without. The unique sound in the dark, surrounding her on the
porch. She'd looked forward to that sound as a child, but now the
throbbing drone served only as another jolting memory.

The summer she'd been raped had been a cicada season, too.

Soft lights lit the front bay windows, but there was only Judy's car in
the court. She shouldn't be alone. ... It was too soon. Patricia's
younger sister was a Rock of Gibraltar when in her element, but she was
also terribly codependent. With Dwayne gone--abusive as he'd been--Judy
would be unstable, flighty, and off-track. She knows I'm coming today,
Patricia thought. Knowing her sister as she did, it was surprising that
Judy wasn't pacing the foyer with the front door open.

Can't stand on the porch all night... Patricia winced, raising her hand
to the unsightly knocker, but then saw that the door stood open a crack.
The house is half-mine, she reminded herself, and stepped in.

The pendulum clock ticked to her left, and to her right stood a long
walnut table containing knickknacks and candles, centered by an old
framed photo of their parents as newlyweds. For a moment she imagined her

65

father frowning in the frame, as though he disapproved of her arrival.
"Judy?" she called out. Only silence returned her call. The interior
seemed smaller than she remembered, cramped. Pictures on the walls
seemed to hang lower, and had the wallpaper been changed? Everything
looks different, but I know Judy would never change a thing.

She turned into the sitting room and stopped cold. A breath caught in
her chest and wouldn't come out.

Judy lay slumped on the old scroll-footed sofa.

"Judy? It's me."

Her head tilted aside, her mouth agape. She looked pallid and years
older. Patricia's heart tightened up when she noticed an open bottle of
pills on the old tea table next to the couch. She rushed forward, then
sighed in relief.

Just a bottle of vitamins ...

But there was an irreducible instant when she'd believed that her sister
was dead. She certainly looked it, lying there as if dropped amongst the
tasseled pillows.

Judy stirred in her sleep, mouthing something unintelligible, but then
real words formed:

"His head," she whispered. "My God, his head ..."

Patricia leaned over and gave several firm nudges. "Judy, wake up, wake
up. I'm here."

It was like looking at a countrified clone of herself; Patricia and Judy
had near-identical faces, possessed similar figures and the same
plenteous bosom. But Judy's hair lacked the bright red fire of
Patricia's, and instead of being short and straight, it lay long and
thick, with high bangs that their mother always called "kitchen-curtain
hair." Five stress-laden years with Dwayne as a husband had streaked her
hair with some gray and had blanched the once-vibrant color from her cheeks.

66

"Judy? Wake up."

The crow's-feet at the corners of Judy's eyes began to twitch. Her
breasts rose quickly once; then she gasped herself out of sleep and was
finally looking up at Patricia.

"Hi, Judy."

No recognition at first, just a puzzled stare; then Judy's arms shot
forward and she hugged her sister for dear life. "Oh, God, thank God. I
thought... Oh, Jesus, I was dreaming--a terrible dream."

Patricia sat down and put her arm around Judy's shoulder. "It was just a
dream, and it's over now. Everything's fine."

Judy actually shuddered in her sister's arms. "Thank you for coming.
I've just... I feel like I'm falling apart. I sleep all the time; I've
just been so tired. The house is a mess; I haven't even had the energy
to pick up."

"The house looks fine, Judy," Patricia assured her. "You've been under a
lot of stress, but things will get better."

"I hope so. ..."

Patricia could smell alcohol; whenever Judy got depressed, she drank,
which only worsened matters. "Come on; you're exhausted. Let's get you
up to bed."

Judy offered no objection. She trudged up the carpeted stairs, clinging
to her sister. She's lost weight, too, Patricia observed. She felt thin,
bony. Patricia helped her down the dark hall, passing more framed
pictures that should seem familiar but somehow didn't. The house was too
quiet, save for when floorboards creaked, then the keening hinge of the
bedroom door.

"I'm sorry I'm so out of it," Judy finally said. "I shouldn't have had
that wine. I'm just so lonely now. ... Doesn't that sound pathetic?"

67

"Of course it doesn't. You've suffered a loss. It takes time to work
through it. But what you need more than anything tonight is a good
night's sleep."

An exhausted nod. Patricia got Judy out of her housedress, then saw just
how thin her sister had grown in her despair. Her ribs showed beneath
the bra. She looked like she'd lost a cup size, too. She also had tears
in her eyes. This is going to take a while, Patricia realized. She's
falling apart. She got her into bed and under the covers, then sat down
beside her and held her hand. "You want me to get you something, some
warm milk, water?"

Judy looked back at her very wanly, but she finally managed a smile.
"No, I'm fine now that you're here. I guess I'm not dealing well with
being alone."

You never did. "But where's Ernie?" Patricia asked after the family
yardman and housekeeper. "Don't tell me he's not working for you
anymore. I can't imagine him anywhere else."

"He just keeps the yard in order now. Dwayne never liked him, so since
the wedding Ernie's stayed outside, never does anything in the house
anymore."

"Well, that can change now, can't it? This is a big place, Judy. You
can't keep it up on the inside all by yourself, not with the crab
company too."

"I know, and it will change." The tired smile even brightened then. "But
when I saw Ernie this morning, I told him to make sure the yard was cut,
'cos I didn't want it all shaggy for you comin'. You shoulda seen the
way his face lit up when I told him you'd be comin' back for a spell."

Patricia nearly blushed. Ernie Gooder had been her "boyfriend," back in
seventh grade. They'd stuck together like glue all through childhood,
but as

68

middle-school years faded--and her body ripened early-- she'd lost
interest in Ernie and potential sweetheart romances. Ernie was a
tried-and-true local, would never think of leaving Agan's Point, and,
like most of the men in these rural areas, he was also a tried-andtrue
hayseed. He'd dropped out of school early to work his father's farm and
stagnate like so many who'd grown up here. They don't know they can move
somewhere else and make their lives better, she thought, but maybe she
was being pretentious. There was nothing wrong with staying close to
one's roots and working the land, but it just seemed so shallow to
Patricia, that or maybe she was just more adventuresome than everyone
else. At any rate, Ernie's crush on Patricia had never died, and he'd
been disheartened when she'd left for college.

"He's still got that torch burnin' for you," Judy said. "And he's still
as handsome as ever."

"I'm sure he is," Patricia played along, "but my husband's still got all
my bases covered."

"Oh, I know, and I'm so glad you're happy with Byron. How is he, by the
way?"

"He's fine ... and you're exhausted, so ..." Patricia snapped off the
bedside lamp. "You go to sleep, and we'll have a big breakfast together
in the morning." She kissed her sister's forehead, then stood back up.
Judy wouldn't let go of her hand.

"Oh, Patricia," came the whisper. "You don't know how much it means to
me that you come all this way to be with me."

"You're my sister and I love you. Now go to sleep!"

But Judy's eyes kept staring up. "I-I never told you..."

"Never told me what?"

69

"How ... Dwayne died."

"Of course you did." Patricia bent the truth. Actually, her sister had
never elaborated. "An accident, you said."

Judy's voice piped up like a child's. "His head was cut off, and nobody
knows how it happened."

Patricia stood in a silent shock. She's serious. ... She had no idea
what to say in response.

"And the head was never found," Judy groaned out the rest.

Murder, not an accident. What condolence could she add now? But when
Patricia looked again, Judy had already fallen asleep.

My God...

The windows stood open at the end of the hall, letting in the cicada
sounds, and the house's deep, old Colonial decor made her feel a
thousand miles away from her condo in D.C. She stepped into her bedroom,
felt odd at once, then backed out. Sleeping there would just remind her
of more childhood memories, but she couldn't stay in her parents' old
room, either--that would just be worse. One of the guest rooms
downstairs, she decided, then drifted back down the stairs to go out and
get her bags from the Caddy. The macabre distraction was sidetracking
her: Dwayne's head. Did she mean that somebody cut off Dwayne's head?

She stopped midway down the step. How the heck did--

Her suitcases sat neatly stacked at the bottom of the steps.

"Didn't know where ya'd wanna be sleepin' "

Ernie Gooder stepped from behind her baggage, looking up.

"We was expectin' ya much earlier," he said next,

70

"like about noon." He glanced to the window. "'Looks like ya barely beat
sundown."

Patricia felt a shock: Judy wasn't kidding. ... Ernie had always been
attractive: well contoured, strong arms, broad-backed. Dark eyes
glittered in an appearance of youth that should've disappeared a decade
ago. If anything he looked late twenties instead of mid-forties. The
only difference, now, was his hair. For all the years she'd known him,
Ernie had had a nearly military cut, but now he'd grown it out
shoulder-length. When she finally found words, she blurted, "Your hair!"

He looked sheepish. "Yeah, I growed it out fer the hell of it; now
everybody likes it, so I guess it's here to stay."

She came down the stairs and gave him a hug. "Ernie, did you find the
fountain of youth somewhere out in the woods?"

"Huh?"

"You look the same as you did years ago. You look great."

The remark embarrassed him; he almost blushed. "Aw, well, thanks,
Patricia. You look really fantastic your own self. I like your hair
shorter that way; ain't never seen ya with it like that."

"It makes me look more like a lawyer, I guess." Then she remembered his
first comments. "And, yeah, I did plan on getting here this afternoon,
but I wound up dillydallying. Had breakfast in Richmond, lunch in
Norfolk. I burned the whole day driving around."

He seemed instantly uncomfortable. "Well, yeah, that sure is
understandable--that you wouldn't be in any hurry to get here. This old
backwards town's gotta remind ya of... well... you know."

His stilted compassion was sweet, the way he

71

awkwardly talked around her obvious motive. Naturally she hadn't been in
any hurry to get back to the place that made for the worst memory of her
life. It didn't bother her, though, which seemed strange. Nor was she
bothered by the obvious difficulty that Ernie was having in keeping his
eyes from roaming her obviously braless bosom. He'd always had a thing
for her. Always. The silliest thought occurred to her then: Maybe I
subconsciously didn't wear a bra because I knew it would rile Ernie up. ...

But that was ridiculous.

If anything, his darting eyes flattered her, even caused her to want to
tease him a little. No harm in that. The poor lug is probably still nuts
about me.

"So how's yer, uh, yer husband?"

"Oh, he's fine, Ernie. He was going to come down with me but he's busy
with his job. What about you? You must be married by now."

More embarrassment. "Aw, no, never did tie the knot with no one. One day
maybe." But as he spoke he kept looking down. Still as shy as ever,
Patricia thought. Like a little boy.

"Anyway, it's good to see ya, Patricia," he went on, shuffling his feet
in place. "Well, not like this, a' course, but... you know what I mean."

"Sure I do, Ernie. A funeral is always the worst occasion to see old
friends."

"We all know you don't like to come down to Agan's Point much, but
what'cha gotta know is that it really means a lot to Judy"

"She looks really shaken up," Patricia said. "It'll take time for her to
jump back to normal."

"I hope she can jump back to normal." Ernie shook his head. "She sure
was crazy in love with Dwayne. No

72

one could ever figure it out. Enough of that, though. You want me to put
your bags in your old bedroom, or would ya rather--"

"The guest room down here would be better, if that's okay."

He seemed visibly enthused. "It's bigger and catches the sunlight in the
morning. Plus it's right down the hall from my room, in case ya need
anything."

No wonder... "It'll be fine."

He picked up her bags and led her through the back of the house. I feel
good all of a sudden--hell, I feel great, she admitted to herself. All
day long during the drive, and even the first few minutes back in the
house, a heavy oppression seemed to be hunting her. Now it was all gone.
Maybe this trip won't be as bad as I thought. ...

"Really bad about Dwayne," Ernie made conversation.

Patricia couldn't take her eyes off the strong, tapered back as they
moved on. "Oh, yes."

"He wasn't a good man by any stretch, but no man deserves to die like
that. I believe that ya get what's comin' to ya in this life. What goes
around, comes around. But that? Jesus."

Patricia touched his arm, urging him to stop and turn. The contours of
his silhouette opposed her, the strong legs in tight jeans, the bulging
biceps. She frowned at herself. "I didn't know the details until just
now--she told me when I put her to bed. He was decapitated?"

"Somebody cut his head clean off, I guess."

Strange way to say it. "You guess?"

"That's what Chief Sutter told Judy. Judy wasn't up to seein' the body,
so he did it for her, for proper ID 'n' all. But there's all this talk now."

"What kind of talk?"

73

"Rumors about somethin' really wrong about Dwayne's body, and I mean...
somethin' more than just losin' his head."

Patricia couldn't imagine. What could be more wrong than losing your
head? It was something she could look into, though. As a lawyer, she was
an expert at expediting Freedom of Information Act requests. There must
be a death certificate and an autopsy report. ...

"But that's probably all it is when ya get right down to it--just talk.
You know what this place is like. People got nothin' better to do than
run their mouths 'bout every little thing that ain't their business."

One rumor generates more rumors, she knew too well, and at the end of
the line there's no truth left at all, just distortions. "It's really
odd, though, and Judy does have a right to know all the details
concerning her husband's death."

"I went down to the county morgue myself and tried to see the body, but
it had already been cremated. Then I asked to see the autopsy report and
they told me it was confidential," Ernie said, pronouncing the last word
confer-din-shul.

We'll see about that confidential part, Patricia vowed.

The guest room was cozily decorated and large, with fat, tapestried
throw rugs and tasseled drapes. It felt unlived-in, which was what she
wanted. French doors, closed now, showed a charming little porch over
looking backyard flower beds. In the moonlight she could see the flowers
swaying in a night breeze: pansies, baby breath, daisies.

"Will this do ya?" Ernie asked. "There's a smaller room on the east wing."

"No, this is perfect, Ernie."

"And you can open the windows if ya want, catch

74

the breeze off the bay most of the night. It comes right through the
pine trees, brings that scent right into the room."

"I just might do that." She sat down on the high bed, testing the
mattress. Suddenly the day's long drive caught up to her, and she
couldn't wait to fall asleep on the comfy bed with the moon on her face.
"What time are the services tomorrow?"

"Noon. I'll be fixin' breakfast at eight."

"That sounds great. See you in the morning."

"Night."

She leaned over to untie her sneakers, and in the fringes of her vision
noticed his shadow still there. Before she even looked back up, she
could guess the reason. I'm leaning over... and I've got no bra on.
Ernie was getting an eyeful.

Then she looked back up at him with the thinnest smile. "Was there
something else you wanted to tell me, Ernie?"

His eyes darted out of her cleavage. He quickly cleared his throat and
said, "Oh, yeah, just that it's great to have you back in town for a
while." And then he rushed out of the room and closed the door.

Men. But some would say she was asking for it, wasn't she? Wearing no
bra, with her bosom? But then part of the tease in her returned. I guess
it's not that big a deal. At least I gave the poor guy something to
think about.

Alone now, she switched off the bedside lamp, undressed, and shouldered
into her typical nightwear, a soft spearmint-colored lounger, which she
quickly zipped up the front. Without thinking, next she took Ernie's
advice: she opened the window. Warm air and cicada sounds instantly
flooded the room; she felt tranquilized. And Ernie was right--soon the
moonlit room

75

began to flux between sultry summer heat and a fresh, pine-scented
coolness from the bay breeze filtering in through the woods.

As if they were a lover's hands, the dark air and pulsing sounds pushed
her down to the mattress. Her fatigue left her dopily giddy as she
stretched out, flexing her toes, arching her back. An impulse from out
of the dark brought her hands to her thighs, slipped them up under the
lounger. When she closed her eyes, she imagined that it was the darkness
feeling her up, exciting her nerves. Her hips squirmed around in
unbidden horniness, and when her fingers walked up her belly and
threatened to slip beneath her panties, her conscience dragged them
away. What are you doing? she scolded herself. You're exhausted. Go to
sleep. What am I all hot and bothered about? I'm going to a funeral
tomorrow. ...

The dark thickened around her, broken only by the wedge of moonlight
that lay right beside her, a pearlescent bedmate. The cicadas thrummed
and thrummed, rocking her in a strange and primitive lullaby. Then she
faded off, but--

Oh, my God ...

--at once, her sleep dropped her into a dream gushing with sex. She lay
cringing, raw, and naked on her living room floor, her ankles locked
desperately around the back of a faceless man. Patricia knew it was her
living room back in D.C. because she saw her business dress, high heels,
and blouse flung over her litigation bag, which she always set down
right next to their coffee table. The Rothko print that she'd bought for
Byron for a past birthday hung just above the faux fireplace, and on the
mantel sat the crystal carriage clock he'd bought her years ago for an
early anniversary. These were familiar things, things that rooted her to

76

her life with Byron, and she loved these things. But through her
cringing sexual angst--as she was being fastidiously penetrated on the
floor--she noticed the clock's glass dome bore a crack, and the Rothko
hung upside down.

A climax clenched her up--she couldn't breathe for a moment--and then
she looked up at her aggressive lover's face. She fully expected it to
be Byron's, but she could see no face, and it wasn't his rotund body
atop her but a lean, muscle-rippled physique. Oh, my God, do it harder,
harder, she thought, teething her lower lip, and then the desires of her
mind were answered. The rigid penis boring in and out of her stepped up
its delicious tempo, pile driving her loins into the bed. Another orgasm
rippled through her as her lover withdrew and released himself across
her belly and breasts. He knelt between her legs now, looking down at
her; then he grabbed her hand and glided it over the lines of warm
sperm--an earthy love lotion.

Patricia lay quivering, heaving in breath. Who is he? Who is he? The
question reeled around and around in her head. She could see every
detail of his chiseled body shellacked in sweat, but his face still
remained shrouded, as if by smoke.

The smoke moved downward; he was lying beside her, his mouth sucking
pink marks on her neck, and his fingers playing lower. Just the touch of
his hand riled her up; she was just about to come again, but then her
eyes darted off a moment and she saw Byron sitting fat and naked on the
couch, his face forlorn as he watched this other man electrify her.

Patricia didn't even care.

She lay back, tensing more, begging for this strange mystery lover to
take her again right there in front of

77

her husband, the rough hand expertly gentle with her most private parts,
and then her legs shot upward, toes straining toward her living room
ceiling when she recognized Ernie Gooder's face on the man who was
burying her in the most wanton ecstasy--

Patricia shrieked in the throes of another climax ... and--

--then awoke naked and clenching in her sister's guest room.

Oh, jeez...

There was no one beside her, of course, no Ernie finishing up, and the
only hand between her legs was her own.

What's gotten into me? she thought. Her confusion melted into a drowsy
disorientation. It frustrated her, even half-asleep as she was, because
it made her feel unaware of herself. The cicada sounds seemed twice as
loud now, the moonlight dimmer yet somehow edgier. During the fitful
dream she'd kicked the covers off the bed and cast her cotton lounger to
the floor, and now she didn't even bother putting it back on. The
moonlight made the sweat on her breasts, belly, and thighs appear frostlike.

She let her confusion fade away behind her fatigue, then curled up into
a nude ball. Her sex still tingled as she drifted back to sleep,
completely incognizant of the face peering in at her naked body through
the window.

(II)

Wilfrud and Ethel Hild were the clan's dowsers. But it wasn't water they
sought; nor did they hold any forked branches for divining rods.

78

They'd shed their handmade clothes--for nakedness better solicited the
spirits of the Earth--and stood now as pale stick figures painted
ghostly white by the moon. Wilfrud's gut looked sucked-in beneath the
ribs, Ethel's breasts losing some plumpness. Divining required a
three-day fast, and they'd been divining a lot lately--hence the
emaciation. Their eyes looked huge in thin faces--huge in the trance
they put upon themselves.

"A minute or two more," Everd Stanherd intoned from the side. "It takes
time for the ashes to reach their blood."

Wilfrud and Ethel had been dowsers since early childhood, and now, fifty
years later, they'd honed their skills--which some would call
sorceries--to expertise.

No, no forked branches. Instead they'd slit the belly of a newborn
snake, eviscerated it, and then burned its threadlike innards in a brass
censer, along with dried coneflower petals, sweetbriar oil, and some
fabric from one of the girls' tops--something well-worn and close to the
heart.

The others watched from moonlit trees as Wilfrud and Ethel then ate the
ashes out of the censer to begin the trance. Some wore stone pendants
about their necks, while others wore lao pouches, and still more wore
crude crosses fashioned from animal bones or dried vine cuttings. They
all looked on silently in their inexplicable faith.

They walked nude through the woods. The others followed. No one spoke.

A while later, they stopped in a small clearing near the river and
pointed down.

Everd was the sawon, the keeper of the clan's heritage--and its magic.
His voice croaked in the dark,

79

his wife, Marthe, beside him. "Dig here, men. You can see the upturned
earth."

It was obviously a makeshift grave they all surrounded now. The younger
men quickly wielded their shovels, routed and emptied the sad mound.
Their women watched from the trees, some sobbing. It didn't take long
before the pallid body was hauled out.

Marthe clutched her husband's arm and burst into tears. The monster
didn't even kill her first, Everd thought, shielding his wife's eyes.
The young girl's fingers were locked in an upward clench. She'd been
trying to unearth herself when she'd finally smothered. A monster, yes,
a monster. The wheat bands around both death-white thighs confirmed what
she'd been doing. Another one had gone astray, prostituting herself for
extra money instead of living by the clean, honest way of the clan. And
Cynabelle's dead. Another one dead. Murdered by that monster.

"At least it'll stop now." Wilfrud's sorrowful words crept through the
dark. "Now that you've taken care of the soulless bastard."

"I pray so, my friend."

They hadn't found all of the others who'd gone missing over the past few
months, and perhaps Chief Sutter was right in his suggestion that they'd
simply left town for a chance at a better life. But not all of them. The
dowsers had found four others buried like this. The men murdered, and
women raped and murdered. Everd would not leave them to graves like
this. They'd rebury them on clan land, in earth consecrated by Everd
himself.

"I pray so," he repeated, "but I fear not."

"I won't hear it, Everd!" Ethel nearly cried out at the remark. She was
coming out of the trance. "Dwayne's

80

dead now. He hated us, but now he's dead! There's no reason for more of
us to wind up"--she shivered when she looked at poor Cindy's body--"like
this."

"We fear there is, dear." Marthe spoke up in her smoke-light voice.
"It's that Felps man. Everd has foreseen this."

The sawon nodded. They all paused in a moment of silence as the others
lifted Cindy's body and began to take it back to the property. "He wants
this land, so he's having us killed. People are doing this for him, for
money."

"For what purpose? Miss Judy would never sell the land out from under us."

"She would if we weren't here. She would if we all left. If more of us
continue to disappear, if more of us are found murdered, then our people
will get scared. And they will leave."

No one argued with that.

"We must tell the constable."

"That violates our own laws, and he wouldn't do much to help us anyway.
I haven't even let on to Chief Sutter what I know. I let him believe
that I think the missing ones left on their own accord. We take care of
our own, Wilfrud; it's our law, and it has been since longer than we can
conceive. We will never go to outsiders. We will always take care of our
own."

At least Wilfrud seemed satisfied with what he said next. "And we can
thank heaven and earth that you took care of Dwayne."

81

It appeared to be the makings of a great dream--no, a fantastic dream.
Chief Sutter, behind the wheel of the town cruiser, was on routine
patrol, ever diligent in his oath to protect and serve. The cruiser
prowled through dark, Agan's Point backstreets as the moon followed over
treetops and the cicadas thrummed. Ever vigilant, he kept his eyes
peeled for suspicious persons and signs of foul play. Police work was a
thankless job, but Sutter was proud to have it. Who knew, for instance,
that he was out here on the job right now? As Agan's Point residents
slept soundly in their beds, they could sleep ever more soundly with
Chief Sutter maintaining watch over their safety in these wee hours of
the night.

Even at this early juncture, the dream was proving to be damn good. Why?
Because as he drove, his right hand regularly reached over to the
passenger seat to withdraw a piece of his wife's homemade fried chicken,
which, as he recalled, was the best he'd ever eaten. She hadn't actually
prepared this favorite of his for many years, electing instead to tell
him, "I feel like fried chicken tonight, honey, so why don't you bring
home a twenty-piece bucket from KFC on your way home from work?" But
that was irrelevant here. This was a dream. This was not reality.

He ate the drumsticks first, peeling away the crunchy, delectable skin,
then sucking the meat off the bone.

That was when he saw the girl.

Looks like a woman in distress, he noted, and properly switched on his
flashing Visibar. She emerged from the darkness at the bend in the road
ahead, a short woman

82

with a curvaceous figure, raven-haired. Looks like she's wearin'a white
bikini, Chief Sutter reasoned. And ...

His eyes widened.

And she looks to be quite possibly the best-lookin' gal I have set my
eyes on in quite a spell!

Deeply tanned legs, belly, and arms. And a bosom...

Jiminy fuckin' Christmas...

The bosom satcheled high in the big white bra looked about big enough to
lay Thanksgiving dinner out on.

At the end of the headlights, she began to wave.

That was when Chief Sutter became aware of a serious discrepancy in his
previous assumption as to her apparel. Was that really a white bikini
she was wearing, or ...

He squinted harder.

An exciting darkness seemed to lay triangularly at the crotch of the
white bottoms, and as for the top: large, dark circles were centered ...

And the final realization:

That ain't no fuckin' bikini! Those are tan lines!

The approaching woman wore no bikini at all. In fact, she wore nothing
whatsoever.

What to do now? the chief asked himself. An errant rub to his crotch
alerted him to a rising turgidity. The woman was obviously a Squatter;
he could tell by the short stature and mussy black hair, and, of course,
that--

Jiminy Christmas, Sutter thought again.

--and that jaw-dropping, one hundred percent perfect body.

Sutter was thrown for a disturbing loop. Looks like I'll have to arrest
this gal for public nek-it-ness, I suppose. What the hell's she doin'
walkin' 'round here at this time of night bare-assed?

83

His libido and human sexual responses in general didn't ponder an answer
to his question. She traipsed around the car, the headlights glaring
over every perfect detail, breasts gently jogging, and then she--

Oh, Mother of God!

--she leaned over the passenger-side window and shot Chief Sutter a
giant, sultry smile.

"Evenin', there, Mr. Chief!"

"Huh-huh-howdy," he stammered.

"What'cha doin'?"

"Ruh-ruh-ruh-routine patrol, miss."

The Southern twang blended with that indefinable Squatter accent
enriched her voice to something dark and syrupy and most definitely
sexual. "Well, me, I'se just out fer a walk."

Without being asked, then, she opened the passenger door and plopped her
exquisite rump right on the seat. Chief Sutter did not raise an objection.

She grinned shyly at him in the dash lights. "Can I tell ya something,
Mr. Chief?"

Sutter's mouth opened but no response seemed possible. The mere sight of
her body choked him up, circumventing any possibility of reply.

Her eyes looked dreamy, green gems filled with bright-blue chips that
seemed to glow. "Just somethin' about officers a' the law, and the
uniform 'n' all..." She sighed. "Just gets me all flustered. Cain't
really even say why."

More proof that this was a dream. In Sutter's forty years of police
work--and forty years of obesity--no woman had ever voiced this cliche
to him. And no woman this attractive had ever given him any kind of
notice as overt as this. Still speechless, he felt his eyes struggle to
stay in one place: her crotch, her tight belly,

84

her bodacious breasts. Eventually the breasts won out as those dark pink
jutting nipples bigger than silver dollars began to hypnotize him as
surely as a mesmerist's pendulum.

The voice oozed further. "Yeah, Mr. Chief. You fellas in uniform ...
'specially big, strong ones like you ... git me so hot I cain't rightly
sit still. ..."

Current as fierce as electricity speared through him when her hand--soft
as a little bird but unduly hot-- found his knee, then began to inch up
higher on his leg. The humid night air hanging in the car drew the sweat
out of her skin; soon her nakedness was shining, her breasts and belly
aglaze. This pinpoint image of glimmering flesh, compounded by the
sensation of her hand creeping toward his groin, made Chief Sutter feel
as though his small and almost always flaccid penis had magically
transformed into something the size and stiffness of a summer squash. It
strained against his police trousers in an absolutely thrilling agony.

Now her voice seemed desperate with need. "Mr. Chief, ya turn me on so
much I'se just goin' crazy! Let's git'cher pants hitched down--" She was
almost in tears now. "If I don't have ya right now, I swear I'll just
die!" And then her hands slipped up to his belt, her slick breasts
bobbing, sweat visibly dripping off the points of the nipples.

Sexual malfeasance be damned! Chief Sutter made no effort to stop her.

"You can do me right in this here car." She was panting. I'se about to
git off just thinkin' about it!"

Oh, my, Chief Sutter thought as he ground his teeth.

His pants were down, his knees quivering. The girl

85

came very close to gasping when she looked down, and when Chief Sutter
looked down himself, he, too, came very close to gasping.

Where did that fuckin' log come from? he asked either the universe, God,
or fate. The knobbed baton of flesh that throbbed up in his lap was at
least three times larger than the actual member nature had tacked onto
him. And then he remembered, with a cunning smile: That's right. This is
a dream.

And what a grand dream it was, when the girl crawled forward in the seat.

She spoke quickly now, in words that were scalded by desire. "Guess ya
don't remember me, huh, Mr. Chief? Just a bit ago?"

"Huh?"

"Them bad men in the funny truck who wanted ta do bad things ta me? You
mussed 'em up right fierce."

Then somehow, through her words, an awareness snapped. The Squatter gal
in the road today. The chick that black guy and the hippie were try in'
to sell crystal meth to...

"I'se so grateful to you fer protectin' me, Mr. Chief, and I'se gonna
show you just how grateful right now," she promised, and began to lift
her leg over, to bring herself crotch-to-crotch with him in the front seat--

Oh, yeah, he thought, what a great fuckin' dream!

Then she froze. Her excited expression wilted. A second later she
withdrew and sat back on the passenger side.

"What's wrong?" Sutter nearly bellowed.

Her breasts and shoulders slumped when she let out a long, frustrated
breath. "Dang it, Mr. Chief! I'se forgot "

86

"Forgot what?" Chief Sutter shouted.

"We cain't do this."

"Why?"

" 'Cos I'se only fifteen years old, like I told ya today. You're a
police officer 'n' I'm a minor." She shook her head, smiling innocently.
"It was silly a' me ta even think this." And then she opened the door
and began to get out of the car.

Sutter's lips twisted up into queer shape as he tried to form words for
his objection. Finally, he managed to bark out, "Wait a minute, honey!
We can! It don't matter that you're a minor because this is just a dream!"

She looked back into the car, magnificent breasts swaying. "Aw, no, Mr.
Chief. It'd still be immoral 'cos you'd feel really bad about it once ya
woke up."

"No, I wouldn't!" he assured her.

"Oh, yeah, I'm sure ya would, 'n' I cain't have that. It'd make me feel
guilty."

Sutter shouted again, "You can't feel guilty! You're just an image in a
dream! My dream!"

"Naw, naw, still wouldn't be right," she said. Her face perked up. "But
I'll tell ya what! You just wait three years when I'm eighteen and then
have this dream again! We'll have a fine time! I promise!"

And then she closed the door.

Sutter lay back in the seat, on the verge of tears. What afuckin'
ripoff. ...

She came around the other side for one last tease. Perfect legs parted,
her perfect elbows planted on the edge of his open window, perfect
breasts still swaying, still shining from all that desiring sweat. "But
lemme give ya a peck on the cheek, okay?" she said. "I'se pretty dang
sure that ain't against the law."

87

Well, it was better than nothing, wasn't it?

She leaned over further, bringing her head into the car, and just as she
would kiss him on the cheek--

Whup...

--her head fell off her shoulders and landed in Chief Sutter's lap.

A sound screamed through his head like a jet turbine, and suddenly he
was falling through darkness, and after what seemed hours of falling,
falling, falling--

--he awoke in a tumult on his bed.

Oh God ...

His heart thunked in his chest; he thought of an old engine trying to
restart. His eyes hurt as he stared after the nightmare, and the inside
of his mouth tasted rancid. What a ripoff, he thought again. Why should
his subconscious produce such a dream, such intense erotic images, only
to leave him unfulfilled?

He winced.

Unfulfilled and with a severed head in his lap.

The entirety of his bulk flinched at a hideous noise. He rolled over in
bed and noticed the even larger bulk lying beside him. June always slept
naked. Her blubbery belly and breasts vibrated through each cycle of
that awful noise--her snoring. Sutter looked at her aghast in the
moonlight. Is that my wife or did someone dump three hundred pounds of
vanilla pudding in my bed and put a wig on it? This new image only
doubled the cruelty of the dream: first the Squatter girl and her
perfect image of sexual beauty, then this pale pile of human lard that
he would spend the rest of his life with.

Suddenly all the unfulfillment of his life landed on him at once.
Over-the-hill, up to my neck in debt, and married to that, he realized.

88

This was it. This was his life, staring him in the face in all its
irrevocable truth.

He actually could've cried. The bed jostled like a small earthquake when
he slid off and stood up, pasty, belly sticking out under hairy
man-tits, forty-eight-waist boxer shorts bunched up his ass. Comfort
food was the only ticket to cure this grim hour of the wolf, so he
trudged out of the noisy bedroom to the kitchen.

He clumped through the darkness, and finally a smile found his mouth.
Nice and cool, he reminded himself. At least I have air-conditioning,
and yesterday I didn't. The brand-new unit was doing its job on the
summer heat, purring away. He'd thought about it and thought about it,
and he'd finally come to the honest decision that taking that dope money
off those scumbags represented no infringement on his sense of
professional ethics. It was just drug money. If I'd turned it into the
county sheriff's, they would've confiscated it. One thing to feel good
about was better than nothing. He'd done his job beyond the call of
duty, and ...

And I got a little perk, he rationalized. Ain't no harm in that.

The refrigerator light flooded the kitchen when he opened the door. A
little less dejected than before, he pulled out a fat Boston cream pie
that June had picked up at the grocery store and cut himself a sizable
slice, but before he could take his first sloppy bite...

He smirked in the dark.

Snippets of the dream swept around his mind's eyes like a flock of
birds. The girl's stunning, earthy, sweat-glistening beauty unfolding
before him and then--

Whup...

Her head falling off right into his lap.

I must be really fucked-up in the head to have a dream like

89

that, he considered. Why in God's name would I dream something like that?

Her head falling off.

Her head ...

Heads, he thought.

It couldn't help but remind him: Dwayne Parker's funeral was tomorrow.
The most bizarre death his little town had ever seen.

He knew about the rumors. The EMTs had run their mouths, and probably so
had some folks down at the county morgue. Can't say that I blame them.
Who could see something like that and not mention it to anyone?

At least they were just rumors at this point, and he hoped they'd fade
away after Dwayne's ashes were cast to the four winds. Even minus the
head--which still had not been found--there'd been no doubt as to
positive identity. The tattoos were right, the clothes were right, and
the ID in the wallet was right. Two days later the fingerprints came
back from NCIC, and they were Dwayne Parker's. The death certificate had
read: Anomalous death--COD: Decapitation via smooth transection of
levator scapulae muscular process and #5 & 6 cervical vertebrae. Mode of
transection as yet undetermined and curious.

That was the tech talk. Sutter himself had been one of the few to see
the body. The coroner's remarks-- undetermined and curious--were
understatement. Sutter had never seen anything so strange, nor inexplicable.

He'd never forget the sight of the body when the attendant had opened
the body bag.

Jesus...

It seemed less like his head had been cut off and more like it had
vanished off his body. There was no telltale "stump." No cut marks or
blade striations. Dwayne Parker's skin, in fact, seemed to cover the area

90

of space between his collarbones as though the skin had impossibly grown
over the decapitation wound.

Sutter sighed, his appetite lost. He put the pie back in the refrigerator.

Goddamn Dwayne, he thought, wincing the vision out of his mind as he
headed back to the bedroom. Almost like he'd never had a head in the
first place.

91

Four

(I)

When Patricia opened her eyes, the bedroom was shimmering in sunlight.
She felt warm and rested, ready for the day in spite of its
circumstances. The funeral, she thought. She'd dreaded it, hadn't she?
Because she'd dreaded coming back here, but so far her return had
provided the opposite of what she'd expected. I feel great, she
realized, and then she hopped up from the big bed and looked at herself
in the dresser mirror. And I look great, too. Her skin shimmered like
the light in the room. Her eyes looked back at her, vibrant, bright. Her
naked body had never appeared healthier, her breasts heavy yet high, her
waist tight, bereft of even a trace of middle-age flab. And I'm
starving, she reminded herself. The aromas of coffee and bacon drifted
into the room, seducing her. She quickly pulled her robe over her
shoulders and rushed into the hall toward the shower. She grabbed a
towel from the linen closet, then opened the bathroom door--

92

A blue-jeaned and shirtless Ernie looked at her, a toothbrush sticking
out of his mouth. His eyes widened, and he flinched at the sight of her.
"Jesus, Patricia," he mumbled through lips foamy with toothpaste.

Patricia stalled, blinked; then a shock bolted through her brain. My
God, I'm practically naked! It had taken her a second to realize that
her robe hung wide open, affording Ernie a complete full-frontal
glimpse. Then her face must've turned nearly as red as her hair. She
pulled the robe closed and sprinted back to her room, squealing in
embarrassment.

She slammed the door shut and leaned against it, bug-eyed. What in God's
name is wrong with me? What kind of a complete airhead am I? Was she
that distracted by coming here? She didn't feel distracted at all; in
fact, until she'd opened the bathroom door, she'd been marveling at how
good she felt, and how together. Ernie's going to think I'm an
exhibitionist!

Then she reflected further: Maybe I did it on purpose. ...

Something in her subconscious. She even admitted to herself that she'd
been sort of teasing him last night, when she'd bent over braless to
untie her shoes. She knew he'd been looking down her blouse ... and she
didn't mind.

And now this.

He just saw everything. ...

More reflections spun around her head. Something weird's happening to
me. Since the minute I got back to town, I've been horny as hell. Then
last night I dream about having sex with another man right in front of
my husband-- the lewdest dream of my life. I took my nightgown off in my
sleep, and I even had orgasms during the dream, and then ... then I wake
up masturbating. And to top it all off,

93

the first thing I do after I wake up is expose myself to Ernie! What is
going on in my head?

Patricia was a very logical woman, but she could find no logic in this.
Agon's Point is the town where I was raped. I should feel very unsexual.

So why the opposite?

The good feelings she had wakened with were ruined. She waited till
Ernie was finished in the bathroom, then showered quickly. She made a
point to wear a bra this time, an old baggy crewneck T-shirt and a
cotton ankle skirt. The frumpy clothes made her feel very unsexy.

Now for the hard part... She couldn't sit here all day. What am I going
to say to Ernie? A worse consideration: Did he tell Judy what I did?

And what might he say to any male friends? She knew how guys talked
amongst themselves, and in her mind she could hear it now: Yeah, guys, I
swear to God, she just walked right in with her robe hangin' wide open
showin' the whole package! Tits stickin' out--damn near poked me in the
eye! And that red-hairt beaver? Yeah, man! "Oh, please," she muttered.

She summoned her courage and walked straight to the kitchen.

"Good mornin', my sweet big sister!" Judy greeted her. She smiled
brightly as she was pouring the orange juice at the table.

"Hi, Judy," Patricia said dolefully.

"Sleep well, I hope?"

"Yes, fine ..."

Ernie stood at the stove, flipping eggs. He glanced over with half a
smile. "Mornin', Patricia."

She let out a frustrated breath. "Ernie, I don't know what to say."

"Aw, don't worry 'bout it," he dismissed. "Probably

94 -*Sfe

groggy when ya got up and forgot you weren't in yer own house. No biggie."

"What are you two talkin' about?" Judy asked.

"Ain't nothin', Judy," he said fast, then severed the subject. "How ya
want your eggs, Patricia? Judy likes hers sunny-side down, 'n' I take
mine up."

Thank God he didn't tell her what a ditz I am. "I'll take mine up, too."

"Ernie makes the best eggs," Judy bragged. "He kind of floats 'em in
butter and bacon grease."

"See, Patricia, out here in the country we don't worry 'bout none of
that citified hogwash like cloresterhall're whatever the hail it's called."

"Fine with me. Mine's always been low." Patricia sat next to her sister.
"How are you holding up?"

Judy crunched into a piece of buttered toast. "Honestly, I feel much
better than I thought I would, and I know it's because you're here. I
can't thank you enough for makin' the trip--"

"I won't hear talk like that."

"And I'm so, so sorry for bein' so out of it last night--"

"It's all right, Judy--"

"All drunk and weepy and sleepin' most of the day. I'm just ashamed to
be like that for your arrival."

"Quiet, I said," Patricia ordered. But Judy's mood was actually
encouraging. Today she's going to scatter her husband's ashes. I'd
expect her to be a wreck right now, but... so far, so good.

The three of them chatted casually during breakfast, mostly Judy talking
about her business, which locals had died, gotten married, or left town,
etc. Eventually Ernie excused himself for some outside chores he needed
to get done before the funeral services.

95

Patricia found it almost impossible to keep her eyes off him as he
walked out the door.

"Oh, yes, I'm afraid Ernie never quite got over you," Judy was saying
over her coffee.

Patricia smirked, more at herself than at the comment.

"But I'm glad you found the life you truly wanted with Byron." Judy
chuckled. "Ernie's quite a goodlooking man, but not your type at all."

"He'll find his Miss Right one of these days," Patricia said for lack of
anything else. "I'm totally in love with Byron, and I'm sure I always
will be." But she continued in thought. If I'm so in love with Byron,
why am I having sex dreams about Ernie? She wondered what her old
psychologist, Dr. Sallee, would say. Midlife crisis, I guess...

Later, they walked out back in the garden, which glowed resplendently in
sun and flower blooms. Every so often a cicada would fly cumbersomely
across their path, in search of a tree to hide in. Judy seemed more
circumspect now, her mind mulling things as she ambled along over the
fieldstone trail that snaked through the back property.

"I know what everyone thinks," she said, plucking yellow petals off a
small touch-me-not.

"What do you mean?"

"Everybody's glad Dwayne is dead."

Patricia's train of thought stalled. You've got that right, she thought,
but said, "Don't be ridiculous." She struggled to say something positive
without sounding fake. "Dwayne was a difficult person to read. He was
misunderstood and..." Careful! she thought. "He had a pretty bad
upbringing. When you grow up around a lot of negativity ... it has a
negative effect on a person."

"Oh, no. Everybody thinks Dwayne was a bad

96

person and full well wanted to be." Judy grabbed her sister's arm. "But
he wasn't. He was a good man. He helped me so much. He loved me."

He loved the free roof you put over his head, Patricia thought. He loved
eating your food and spending your money. "I know, Judy. I'm sure he was
a good man."

"And those two or three times he cheated on me?" Judy's eyes were wide.
"That was all my fault."

Patricia ground her teeth. "Judy, how can that be your--"

"I gave him no choice. A wife has more responsibilities to her husband
than just to run a business. I never made time for him. I was so busy
with the company, I'd neglect my duties to him as a lover."

Patricia wanted to wail. Dwayne had likely engaged in sexual
infidelities more than two or three times. "Don't stress yourself over
it now," was all she said.

"And those times he hit me?" Judy vigorously shook her head. "I had it
coming."

At that Patricia had to object. "Judy, no woman ever has it coming. No
woman should ever be hit by a husband."

"You don't know, Patricia. I'm sure I frustrated him, and then when I
get to drinkin'... I can understand why he done what he done."

This was going nowhere. Be a lawyer, Patricia ordered herself. Judy is
the claimant and she's just lost her case in litigation. Offer your
summation, Counselor. ... "It may be true that a lot of people here
didn't like Dwayne, but that's only because nobody really knew him. Only
you knew the real Dwayne, Judy. You know he was a good man. You know he
was a good husband. He's gone now, in a terrible accident, so the best
thing you can do is honor his memory by not caring about what other

97

people might think. Remember Dwayne to yourself as the positive force he
was in your life and all the happiness he gave you."

Patricia nearly gagged on her words, yet they seemed to do the trick.
Judy's angst was quelled now, and she quieted into contentedness, a
sedate smile on her face.

Patricia held her hand as they continued their walk through high ranks
of flowers and hedges. She felt awful at her next thought. My God, I'm
so glad that ex-con -prick is dead. Maybe now my sister will find a man
who'll be good for her for a change. ...

They sat down on a stone bench at the end of the path. Sparrows
frolicked in a birdbath. The air around them hung still in the sun, and
through the trees Patricia could see the glint of the river that emptied
into the bay around the other side of the Point. It really is beautiful
here, she realized. The thrum of the cicadas pulsed.

"It's going to be hard to keep on... without Dwayne," Judy said. "The
business 'n' all, I mean."

Patricia smirked. "Any loss takes a while to get over, but you'll be
fine." Her words hardened with insistence. "Your company is turning ten
times the profit that Mom and Dad got out of it. You're a very
successful, self-made businesswoman."

"Oh, that's silly. The only reason the business thrives now is because
of the new boats and equipment that you loaned me the money for."

She's just feeling sorry for herself, Patricia knew. She supposed that
was to be expected. The future of the company might seem overwhelming
right now. "Judy, you paid that money back twice as fast as you ever
needed to, with interest. The company's success comes from your brains
and your hard work. You'll do just fine."

98

Judy seemed reluctant. "Without Dwayne it'll be so much harder.
Sometimes I get to thinkin'..."

"What?"

"Oh, I guess I never told ya. You saw the construction on the other side
a' the river, right?"

Patricia remembered from her drive in. "Yeah, waterfront condos, it
looks like. Judy, that's just the way things are. Everything gets
bigger. It's social growth. All those condos'll do is bring in more
people--rich people, by the way--who'll spend more money here. More
growth for you, too, and your business."

"Oh, I know, but I never told ya about the offer, 'cos it's so recent."

"Offer? Someone offered to buy the crab company?"

"No, the land, the entire Point. The construction man. His name is
Gordon Felps. He wants to turn the entire Point into a waterfront
residential community. He offered a million dollars for everything, and
remember, half of that land is yours, from Daddy's will. You'd get half
the money. That's a lot of money."

Patricia rolled her eyes. My poor sister is such a hayseed. "Judy, a
million dollars for your company and all this land isn't nearly enough.
Try three or four million, and you'd still be foolish to sell. Where
would you go; what would you do? I know you enjoy running the business;
you've told me that too many times."

Judy seemed doubtful. "I know, but I'm getting old for this."

"You're only forty-two!" Patricia exclaimed. "What, you want to sell
everything now and retire? That's ridiculous. Wait till you're
sixty-two, when you can sell everything for twenty million. That's when
you retire,

99

little sister." Patricia wanted to object further, but then she took a
moment to consider the reality. She's still in mourning. She'll be a
little kooky for a few weeks, but then she'll come to her senses. "And
besides," Patricia went on, "What about the Squatters? You've had offers
before and didn't sell. Remember the last time when you called me about
it? You'd said you'd never sell the land because the Squatters would be
kicked out and have no place to go. Those people adore you; they're like
your children. Don't tell me you've changed your mind about them."

"I don't know. Things are changing. I keep hearin' things, and it makes
me think."

Patricia just kept frowning. "You keep hearing what things?"

"Well, that the Squatters are startin' to turn bad. Some of 'em are
startin' to get into the drugs, and some a' the gals are sellin'
themselves 'n' all."

Patricia could've laughed. "Judy, the only difference between the
Squatters and the Pennsylvania Dutch is that the Squatters are even more
puritanical. They make the Amish look like party animals."

"I don't know," her sister repeated. "I get to thinkin' that maybe
they're startin' to turn bad 'cos of me."

Patricia was getting close to wringing her sister's neck. "Okay, let me
see. You give them work. You give them a free place to live, free
electricity, and free water. So how are they turning bad because of you?
You're the best thing they've got going for themselves."

Judy dismissed the notion with a wave of her hand. "I feel like a
welfare lord. I give 'em work, sure, but it ain't nothin' but
minimum-wage work. The men go out 'n' catch the crabs and the women pick
the meat. It's

100

sweatshop work, and most of 'em got nothin' but tin shacks to live in.
Don't matter that I don't charge 'em rent for the land. It ain't much
more than ghetto life, and I'm the one danglin' the bait. Lot of 'em
think there ain't nothin' else, nothin' that might be better for them
out in the world."

Patricia shrugged. "For people like that there probably isn't. The
Squatters exist in their own little society. They're self-sufficient,
living off the land. They're pretty much uneducated and unskilled. The
world can't save everyone. All that matters is they're making the best
of what they've got and they're very happy. They practically worship
you--you're like their queen. I'm not saying that you have an obligation
not to sell the land if you really want to. It's just that there's no
reason to do that. And for God's sake, Judy, you're not keeping them
from greener pastures by giving them full-time employment. If they
weren't here, they'd be standing in breadlines, living in homeless
shelters. If they think they can better themselves somewhere else, then
they're free to leave. But they don't, because they know they probably
can't. They're simple people who live a simple, hardworking life. Same
as the Amish, same as the Quakers, same as a lot of the Appalachians.
You're not keeping them down by keeping them employed."

Patricia felt winded after the philosophical exchange, and she felt
frustrated as well. Where is she getting these nonsensical ideas?

Judy mulled it over in the silence, then said, "You're probably right.
Guess I'm just in a mood."

"You've got a lot on your mind. Just focus on today."

It was about the only advice Patricia could think of.

This guy Felps, she thought next. Maybe he's the one filling

101

her head up with this crap. "So tell me about this construction man who
made the offer."

"Oh, yes, Gordon Felps. He's very successful, been buildin' luxury homes
all up 'n' down the East Coast for a long time. And he's very nice."
Judy blushed, looking down at her knees. "He even asked me out when he
first come to town. Didn't know I was married, a' course, till I told
him. But he really is a nice man."

By now, Patricia thought she'd develop permanent wrinkles from frowning
so much. She is so friggin' naive I can't believe it! "Judy, you own a
lot of valuable property. You have to be very careful with people who
seem 'nice' if they have an ulterior motive. You know, like wanting to
buy your land for several times less than what's it worth!"

Judy didn't even hear her. "And I'm sure you'll meet him today at the
funeral. I think he 'n' Dwayne were even friends. I saw 'em talkin'
several times, gettin' on real fine."

Naive, naive, naive! "I will definitely look forward to meeting Mr.
Felps," she said. Oh, you can bet on that.

She was relieved at the break now in the conversation, Judy keeping any
further thoughts to herself. Patricia just relaxed in the sun, peering
around at the spacious yard's beauty. The cicada sounds seemed more
distant, lulling her. A wine cooler would be nice right about now, she
considered, but then looked at the time. In another hour they'd have to
start getting ready for the services.

In the distance, she could hear ... something.

What is that?

A sharp thwack, thwack, thwack!

The noise persisted, drawing closer.

"Here comes Ernie," Judy said.

102

Patricia glanced around, then at the edge of the yard noticed a
shirtless Ernie going at the blocks of hackberry bushes with a pair of
hedge clippers.

Thwack, thwack, thwack!

"He does such a wonderful job with the yard," Judy commented through a
drowsy smile.

The image caught Patricia off guard. "Oh ... yes. Yes, he does." But her
focus was elsewhere--not on Ernie's hedge work; it was on Ernie himself.

On Ernie's body.

His toned back muscles flexed with each thwack of the clippers. Then his
angle changed; she could see his chest, the well-defined pectorals
tensing, his six-pack abdomen running with lines of sweat. He paused for
a moment, wiped sweat off his brow with a toned bicep. Then he got back
to work.

Oh, for pity's sake, Patricia thought.

She couldn't take her eyes off him, off the magnificent physique, and
her mind dragged her back to last night's dream.

The terrific sex.

Patricia could only shake her head at herself. Her eyes stayed fixed on
Ernie's sweat-drenched chest. I'm turning into a sex-obsessed floozy!

She knew it was going to be a long day.

(II)

"Hey, Pappy Halm!" Trey called out just as he stepped out of his cruiser
in front of the Qwik-Mart. "Whatchoo think you're doin'?"

The old proprietor stopped, cane in one hand, dragging the large front
garbage can with the other. "I'm

103

takin' out the fuckin' garbage, ya moe-ron. What's it look like?"

"Looks like an old codger tryin' ta pull twice what he weighs. Let me
take care a' that for ya."

"Aw, fuck you, ya young fuck!" the old man railed. "I was bustin' beaver
when you was a tadpole in yer daddy's sack. Back in my day I could haul
ten of these, with you on my back."

"I'm sure ya could, Pappy. But that was back when Roosevelt was in
office. Teddy Roosevelt. So why don't ya let me take that?"

Old man Halm jerked on the big can a few more times, grunted, then gave
up. "Fuck it! My taxes pay your salary, so you empty the sucker!"

"My pleasure, Pappy. You can gimme a free coffee once I'm done."

Halm waved his cane in the air. "Yeah! I got'cher free coffee for ya
right here, so you come 'n' get it!" And then he grabbed his crotch and
hobbled back into the store.

Sergeant Trey laughed at the old man's spunk. A tightwad pain in the
ass, but Trey liked him. Pappy Halm was a black-and-white, common-sense
kind of fella, and Trey felt that he himself was too.

What he was doing right now, for instance... it made sense, and no, it
had nothing to do with giving the old man a hand taking out the store
garbage.

The point was the contents of the garbage can.

If I don't do it, someone else will.

Trey knew he was a lousy cop deep down, but he felt confident that that
didn't mean he was a lousy person. It's all give and take. Dog eat dog.
Shit, I'm a decent guy mostly. I pay my bills, provide for my wife, even
go to church at least twice a year. ... Perception was interpretive and

104

abstract. Trey arrested bad people, so that was good, right? He helped
make the world a little bit safer by submitting to an ungratifying and
often sordid job. He and Marcy never had kids--because, after knocking
up a good dozen gals before tying the knot and paying mightily for
abortions, he got a vasectomy. See, one thing was for sure: he sure as
shit didn't want kids. Marcy wanted kids bad, but he never told her
about his trip to the doctor, because if he had she never would've
married him, and back in her day she was one hot number. Trey wouldn't
stand for her marrying anyone else, especially as good in bed as she
was. So that was the short version. He lied. He let her marry him
believing he would give her children when in fact he was shooting
big-time blanks.

Which was beside the point.

The point, relative to the true nature of Trey, was that if he did have
kids, he'd be a decent father. He knew that. He wouldn't neglect his
kids, wouldn't beat 'em, and would make sure they always had food in
their bellies. Period. And as far as husbanding went? The same. I'm a
good husband, damn it, he felt sure. He kept a roof over Marcy's head,
kept food in the fridge, and never slapped her around, even when she
mouthed off. Five years after they got married, her looks went to shit
in a handbasket, legs turned to cellulite tubes, tits dropped down to
her belly like a couple of limp sacks full of flour, but even with all
that, Trey never cheated on her. Oral sex on the side wasn't cheating
(it was a Southern law: "Eatin' ain't cheatin'," and by God, Trey was a
Southern man) because it lacked the intimacy of intercourse, that
parameter of closeness that coupled the body and soul, so a few blow
jobs per week from hookers and bar tramps hardly constituted a breach of

105

the covenant of matrimony. So, yeah, Trey was a faithful husband to boot.

And as for certain private activities that he might engage in on
occasion... did that make him a bad person?

No, he felt determined. No way.

He had some connections--all cops did. Ain't no force on earth can stop
the drug trade. Better me makin' some cash than a dealer. After all,
he'd spend the money more responsibly, wouldn't he? Once he dragged that
big garbage can around to the back of the store, it didn't take too much
plowing around before he came up with the tackle box full of crystal
meth that Chief Sutter had dropped in there yesterday.

Yes, sir, Trey thought.

He tossed the box in the patrol car, emptied the garbage, and brought
the can back around. Fifteen more minutes, he thought, looking at his
watch, and I gotta go pick up the chief. He was about to go in the store
for a quick coffee, just when his cell phone rang.

"Sergeant Trey here."

"You recognize my voice? Just say yes or no."

"Sure do."

"Good. Don't say my name." A pause. "You recall our previous
conversation? About the backup plan?"

"Sure do," Trey said.

"Things aren't working as well as I'd like. So I'm going to implement
that plan. Are you up for it?"

Trey smiled. "Sure am." Then he remembered what he'd tossed into the
patrol car a moment ago. "And you ain't gonna believe what I just pulled
out of the trash. ..."

106

Five

(I)

"... and so whoever believeth in me shall never die.'" The loud voice
reached across the field. Father Darren stood tall, broad-shouldered,
with brown hair sweeping past his shoulders--an imposing figure. His
gentle expression and blazing eyes seemed to maximize the effect of the
words he was saying.

Patricia struggled not to shield her eyes. All dressed in black like
that, the congregation appeared as stark shadows in blazing sun. The
moment felt odd, the thrumming of the cicadas adulterating the silences
between the service intercessions.

And it was stiflingly hot.

Judy stood next to her, holding her hand and sobbing very quietly.
Patricia's eyes darted around as the minister read on. There were a
number of townspeople gathered around, but she didn't remember their
names. Chief Sutter and his deputy--Trey, she thought his name
was--stood off to the side, and then she spotted

107

old Mr. Halm, who ran the local convenience store. Angling off in
another direction stood a dozen or so Squatters, all dressed in austere
black clothes. The oldest face there she recognized at once--Everd
Stanherd. This elder of the clan looked deceptive, black, black hair
belying the lined face. The short hair was so dark it could've been a
badly chosen wig. Next to him stood his wife, Marthe, graceful, swanlike
in some aura of backwoods stature; Patricia remembered her too, still
slim and attractive in her sixties, black hair lustrous around the set
face. Both of them wore odd pendants about their necks, pouchlike
things, which Patricia couldn't identify until she thought back. The
Squatters are so superstitious, she remembered. All those trinkets and
charms they wear. A number of the other Squatters in attendance wore
similar items, either pendants or bracelets, and to confuse her more,
several others wore crosses.

But something was bothering her--not her sudden recollection of the
Squatters' superstitious totems but... something else. Something seemed
to nag at her. ...

A moment later she sensed more than saw a presence behind her.

More of Father Darren's words resounded around them: " 'So we fix our
eyes not on what is seen but what is unseen. For what is seen is
temporary, but what is unseen is eternal.'"

Patricia had a hard time paying attention. She'd never been particularly
religious; to her funerals as well as weddings were just fancy words in
a ceremonial show. It was the figure behind her that distracted her.

She finally stole a glance to her rear, then, and saw Ernie standing
solemn-faced, hands clasped in front.

108

Seeing him in a suit seemed jarring, but with him dressed as he was, and
with his long hair pulled back, Patricia had to admit that he looked ...

Really good ...

She smiled briefly, then turned back around. Yeah, he looks really good,
all right. ... The delayed reaction smacked her consciousness like a
slap, an edgy sense of shame. There I go again--my God. I'm standing
here at the funeral of my sister's husband and I'm checking out the
handyman's bod. That bizarre sexual flux she'd noticed since she arrived
had never felt more apparent. Then she yelled at herself. Jesus,
Patricia! What is wrong with you? You're lusting after other men at a
friggin' funeral while your loving and very faithful husband is sitting
back at your home paying the bills!

She chewed her lower lip, hoping the tingling in her nipples would pass. ...

" 'We brought nothing into this world, and it is certain that we can
carry nothing out-" Father Darren continued, this time quoting the Book
of Job. "'The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away. Blessed be the name
of the Lord.'"

The minister's hands were outspread before them all, his sedate smile
exuberant. He held up the urn. "Blessed Lord, we sing praise and thanks
to your name! And we beg you to commend the eternal soul of our brother
Dwayne unto the kingdom of Heaven--all unworthy servants that we are."
Then Father Darren broke from his portable podium and approached Judy.
He handed her the urn full of her husband's ashes.

Ricky and Junior Caudill were twin brothers, Junior being so named due
to the fact that he emerged from

109

his mother's womb six minutes after Ricky. The Caudill name carried some
infamy throughout southern Virginia, which perhaps lent credence to some
recent scientific research that suggested antisocial, psychosexual, and
overall criminal activity were indeed genetically inherent. Both were
stocky, fat-faced, sizably bellied, and both had short, dung-colored
hair always sticking up as though they'd just climbed out of bed.
Ordinarily their everyday apparel consisted of jeans, boots, and dingy
T-shirts, but today they'd dressed up in dark suits each a bit too
small, yet suits just the same. Even disrespectful fellows such as these
needed at least to look respectful on select occasions.

Ricky spit a loogie between his shoes, but he did so very quietly. See?
Even a shiftless sociopath knew some facsimile of ceremony. "Gettin'
boring," he muttered.

Junior watched as a tearful Judy Parker took the urn from Father Darren.
He elbowed his brother with a chuckle. "Bet'cha that urn weighs less
than most, huh?"

Ricky didn't get the joke for a moment, but then he pondered the remark
further. "Yeah. Shit, I wonder ... I wonder how much the ashes of a head
weigh?"

Deep thinking for this pair. Ricky scratched his ass as Judy Parker
began to toss plumes of ash into the open air.

"You think he wants us to do like he was talkin' the other day?" Junior
asked.

"Hope so. Been a pretty borin' summer. Somethin' to jazz it up'd be just
fine."

Junior picked his ear. "Oh, yeah, that'd jazz it up, all right."

Ricky's eyes scanned the crowd. "Lotta Squatters here. Shit, ain't that
a laugh. Dwayne hated the Squatters.'

110

"Yeah, but they practically worship Judy. Only reason they got work is
'cos of her."

"You really think it was Squatters who kilt Dwayne? That's the story."

Junior's chubby face pulled into a smirk of doubt. "Naw. One a' the
construction crew's what I heard. Dwayne was fuckin' the dude's
girlfriend, so the dude showed him what trouble really was."

Now Ricky was squinting. "Check out the trim standin' in front of Ernie.
I swear I seen her before."

Junior squinted too. "Never seen her before, and I'd remember a rack
like that. Fuck. She got a pair a' milk wagons or what?"

"Oh, now I remember!" Ricky cited with some whispered enthusiasm.
"That's Judy's sister. She moved to the city a long time ago, married
some rich, fat fella. Don't'cha remember? Patricia's her name. She was
the biggest talk a' Agan's Point 'bout twenty-five years ago."

Junior crudely calculated in his head. "Twenty-five years ago? Shit,
I'se pretty sure I was doin' my last stint in juvie hall."

"Yeah, yeah, I remember tellin' ya 'bout it when I come to visit ya."
Ricky's face turned up in a big pumpkin grin. "She's the chick who got
raped out at Bowen's Field. Weren't but fifteen or sixteen. She was
skinnydippin' by herself one night at the pond and someone hauled her
out and put the blocks to her right there in the dirt. Staked her to the
fuckin' ground, too, while he was doin' her."

Junior popped a brow. "Shit, brother, don't'cha be talkin' like that.
You're gettin' my willy jumpin'." Then he shot his brother a suspicious
glance. "Bet it was you who raped her and you just ain't tellin'."

"Naw, boy, if I'd ever carved me a piece of box that

111

fine, you'd be the first I'd tell." Ricky rubbed his hands together,
still staring at the attractive redhead. "I'd be proud to have a cutie
like that screamin' under me. ..."

The highly intellectualized discussion faded now, as Judy was finished
dispersing her husband's ashes. Father Darren, ever smiling, spread his
hands to them all and said, " 'I know that my Redeemer liveth, and that
he shalt stand at the latter day upon the earth.' Go in peace, to love
and serve the Lord!"

The congregation's reply strayed across the field: "Amen."

"It's about time," Junior said. "I'm tired a' standin' around."

Ricky's eyes roamed the crowd as a line formed, townsfolk waiting to
convey their condolences to Judy. "Where is he?"

"Here they come. Shit. Sutter's coming too."

Sutter and Trey approached the two brothers, neither looking happy.
"What'choo boys doin' here?" Chief Sutter demanded.

The brothers shrugged. "Just payin' our last respects to Dwayne," Junior
told him.

"You boys didn't give a shit about Dwayne," Trey said, standing right up
to them.

Ricky frowned. "We knew Dwayne, all right. Didn't always get along, but
now that he's dead... like my brother said, it's only right fer us to
pay some respect."

"Bullshit," the chief said. "You're about the two biggest lowlifes in
all of Agan's Point--"

"You ain't got no right to say that!" Junior said back.

"--and neither of ya got any respect for no one. I told you two last
time after Harriet Farmer got all that jewelry stole out of her house--I
don't wanna even see either

112

of you nowheres around me. You see me walkin' down the street, you turn
around and walk the other way."

Ricky glared back. "We didn't have nothin' to do with that break-in,
Chief," he lied, "and it ain't proper for you to hassle us just 'cos you
don't like us."

"You guys busted into that old lady's house and ya know it," Trey told
them, jabbing a finger hard against Ricky's chest. "Oh, you don't like
me pokin' ya? Do something about it."

Ricky's eyes lowered, and under his breath he said, "This is bullshit."

Next, Chief Sutter bellied right up into his face. "And I know it was
you two peepin' on the Chester girls and their babysitter. Truck just
like yours was seen leavin' the street. What a pair a' scumbags."

Now Junior tried to get right back in Sutter's face. "We didn't peep on
nobody," he lied just as well as his brother. In fact, they'd been doing
the same since adolescence. Junior's voice increased in volume. "And
that's downright shitty a' you to say we'd do somethin' like that. The
Chester girls ain't even in high school yet."

"That's what I mean," the chief countered, and then he jabbed a hard
finger. "And you better keep your lyin' voice down, 'cos if you disturb
this service with your bullshit, I'm kickin' both your asses."

Junior's face began to twitch, as it often did when he was riled. But
was he stupid enough to assault the chief of police?

Junior opened his hand, prepared to give Sutter a good, hard shove.

Trey jumped in front of him, pushing him back. Even Ricky, the slightly
wiser one, grabbed his brother by the arm to stave off the blow.

113

"Forget it, Junior," he ordered. "Don't give 'em an excuse to bust us."

Trey kept pushing Junior away from the chief. "Grow a brain for a change
and listen to your brother, you asswipe." He leveled his gaze on both of
them. "Get your deadbeat asses out of here while you still can. We will
not allow a scene here. You fuck this up for Judy, me 'n' the chief are
gonna fuck you boys up but good."

Junior's eyes were red with rage. He shook off his brother's hand, then
turned and stalked off. Ricky followed him.

When they were back at the road where everyone had parked, Ricky slapped
Junior's shoulder. "Shit, man! I thought you were really gonna shove
Sutter!"

"Damn well had a mind to. I'd love to roust that fat fuck."

"So'd Trey slip ya the contact?"

Junior reached into the back pocket of his slacks. "Fucker should be a
pickpocket. Slippery, ya know? I didn't even feel it." He slipped out a
small piece of paper.

The paper read: The Hilds. Tonight. Glove compartment.

"Hmm," Junior said.

They both lumbered to their pickup truck, a dented hulk. Ricky excitedly
flung open the door, then popped down the door to the glove box.

"The man came through!"

Junior eyed the contents of the envelope. "Yeah, and he ain't foolin'
around."

A thousand dollars in cash filled the envelope.

114

Later, the house sprawled with friends, neighbors, and other
well-wishers. This is definitely a Southern-style funeral reception,
Patricia observed. The gathering began quietly but soon unwound into
something close to a party. Local women had all brought food--cakes,
salads, cold cuts--but it didn't take long before the banquet table took
a backseat to alcohol. This is how they do it. ... Younger Squatter
women silently aided Ernie in dispensing the drinks, yet Patricia didn't
see any of the Squatters actually drinking themselves. Oh, that's right,
she remembered. They're teetotalers. Just about everyone else, though,
was proving the opposite.

But Patricia was surprised by how well composed her sister remained
during the service. There were tears, of course, but nothing close to
the breakdown Patricia foresaw. Again, it seemed that Patricia's mere
presence was her sister's main source of comfort.

As late afternoon became evening, Patricia began to feel more at ease
herself. At first she'd felt a bit like an outcast in this crowd of
seeming strangers, but eventually many of the faces sparked her memories
of when she'd last lived here; she was greeted cordially time and time
again, even by some whom she didn't remember until names were mentioned.
The entirety of the affair was rich with sentimental talk, like, "Dwayne
surely will be missed," "What a tragic passing," "We'll really miss
him," and on and on--things Patricia knew were being said only for Judy
to overhear. In the parlor, some older local men spoke more along the
lines of the truth: "Judy's so much better off without that lyin',
cheatin' prick," and "Good riddance to the bastard." Patricia's
city-born cynicism forced a smile.

115

She kept her own drinking on the light side--she wasn't in the mood, and
she didn't want to make a bad impression by getting too tipsy in front
of the others. I'm here for my sister, so I don't need to be getting
pie-eyed.

But every so often--she couldn't help it--she cast a glance toward Ernie.

Not this again...

He had his suit jacket and tie off now, the sleeves of his white dress
shirt rolled up over toned, tanned forearms. He'd unbuttoned the shirt a
few notches, and she could see his pectorals flexing when he lifted a
tray of sandwiches.

Her eyes raked down his body, and suddenly she was imagining him naked,
on top of her. ...

I have to stop this! This is crazy!

"You must be Patricia, Judy's sister from Washington."

The sudden voice hawked down on her; she flinched as a child might when
caught doing something naughty. A very well dressed blond man stood
beside her, hard blue eyes, a flirting smile. She'd been so caught off
guard musing about Ernie, she was nearly annoyed.

"Yes, I'm Patricia," she said when she recovered. "And you are?"

"Gordon Felps," the man replied. His hand felt cool, strong. His
complexion seemed blanched, which only intensified the blue eyes. "I've
heard quite a bit about you from your sister. My only regret is the
circumstance I've finally gotten to meet you under."

Felps, Felps. Patricia struggled. Then she remembered. "Oh, you're the
construction magnate."

The man chuckled. "I wouldn't call myself a magnate by any means, but I
am a builder, yes."

116

"The luxury condos that are going on up on the river side of the Point."
Her lawyer's instincts instantly engaged. "And you'd like to continue
building on this side of the Point. My sister mentioned that you'd
already made an offer for her property, so you'll need to know that I'm
Judy's acting legal counsel for all personal and business matters." A
cordial smile as she handed him her business card. "Please feel free to
contact me in the future for any inquiries regarding my sister."

Felps wasn't fazed by her polite show of force; if anything he was
impressed. He pocketed the card. "I will, thank you--not that I suspect
it will be necessary, not at this point. Judy's made her desires clear
to me. She doesn't want to sell the family land, and I respect that.
Actually I've made several offers, but anything more than five million
wouldn't be practical from my standpoint."

Five million? I thought she said one million. ...

"I fully understand her loyalty to Everd Stanherd and his people. She
doesn't want to put them out; regrettably, if I took over the property,
I'd have no choice. I'd build an entire community where they're living now."

"The Squatters have always been sort of a surrogate family--they worked
for my mother and father when they started the crabbing business in the
fifties." But in the back of Patricia's mind, she kept thinking, Five
million? Wow...

"Of course. I'll have to keep my project on the river side, but I'm sure
it will still stimulate the town's growth." He looked around the
reception. "Anyway, it's uncouth of me even to be discussing it at such
a time--sorry."

117

"Oh, I'm so glad you two could meet." Judy emerged from the crowd and
squeezed between Patricia and Felps, draping an arm around each of their
shoulders. "Mr. Felps is the man I was telling you about, the
construction man."

"Yes. We were just having a chat," Patricia said.

Judy was obviously in her cups, stooping over a little. But at least the
tears had dried. She hugged Patricia harder. "Oh, and it was Gordon who
supplied all the liquor for Dwayne's reception. Wasn't that kind of him?"

"Yes, it was." But then Patricia thought, Probably hoping you'd get
drunk and sign a bad purchase agreement.

"It was nothing, Judy," Felps said. "For the short time I've been here,
you and Dwayne have been good friends, and my heart goes out to you now
in this sad time. I hope it goes without saying, but if you need
anything--anything at all--just ask."

"Thank you, Gordon." Another tear now; then she looked glitter-eyed to
Patricia. "He's such a sweet man."

He may be a con man, but I don't know how sweet he is, Patricia thought.
She was just being protective, of course. Felps was probably a fine
person and a legitimate businessman, but since lawyers tended to despise
businessmen, and vice versa, she supposed her guarded reaction was normal.

Felps stood his ground in spite of the sudden discomfort. Judy was close
to drunk now, and she was a sloppy drunk. Was she clutching Felps so
hard on purpose? Was she deliberately pressing her left breast against
him, or was she just unaware of it in her inebriation? The stooped pose
lowered the vee of her black

118

dress, showing a depth of cleavage. Could my sister possibly have a
crush on this guy? came Patricia's off-key thought. Judy's bosom was
almost as formidable as Patricia's. She watched Felps's eyes, hoping to
catch them straying to the cleavage ... but it never happened.

Then Patricia berated herself. My head has been in the gutter since the
minute I came back here. I'd better straighten up.

"I've got to visit the ladies' room, but you two keep chatting," Judy
slurred next. She gave Patricia a kiss on the cheek, then a squeezy hug
to Felps, and she was gone.

"I'd better get going myself," Felps said, glancing at his watch. "Early
day tomorrow. But it was very nice meeting you."

"You, too."

Interesting, she thought after he'd left. He could be the greatest guy
in the world, but... I don't think I like him.

It was just more attorney cynicism, but what did it matter? When she
looked back into the dining room to see if Ernie was still there, all
she caught a glimpse of was his back as he disappeared into the kitchen.

Was she suddenly obsessed with him? Had returning here sparked some
until-recently-dormant middle-aged biological clock? We weren't even
high school sweethearts, she reminded herself. He wanted to be but I
didn't. Was some fossil of regret inching out of her soul?

Ridiculous, she dismissed the thought. Even in her darkest and most
personal hours, she knew she'd found total happiness--as well as sexual
satisfaction--with Byron. When she'd called him on her cell phone just
before the services, simply hearing his voice had sparked a few sexual
wires. Her nipples had hardened even as

119

she related her very dull goings-on thus far. I don't know what this
Ernie thing is, but it's stupid and nonsensical, so I'm going to put it
out of my mind, she determined.

"Howdy, Patricia. My condolences, a' course. Sorry it took me so long to
welcome ya back to town."

Another startlement as she'd been musing. It was Chief Sutter who'd
approached her. She'd always thought of him as a cliched
country-bumpkin-type chief, complete with the suspenders and big belly,
but she'd always remembered him as a considerate man who very much cared
about the residents he was employed to protect. She remembered how
gentle, how caring he'd been in the aftermath of the rape, as well as
the delicacy with which he'd handled her during the grueling but
necessary questioning.

She smiled warmly, shaking his hand. "Chief Sutter. I'm happy to see
you. In fact, I waved yesterday when I was coming into town."

He winked. "The Qwik-Mart. Yeah, Trey 'n' I caught a glimpse of ya in
that shiny new car of yours. Judy's always tellin' me how well things
are going for you 'n' your husband up in D.C. We're all so happy for ya."

It was just small talk, but Patricia appreciated it, and it truly was
good to see him. "Thanks, Chief, and I hope things are going well for
you, too." She quickly glanced around. "Where is your deputy, by the
way? I know I saw him at the service."

"He had to go back out on patrol, but he sends his condolences as well."
Suddenly something like concern touched the chief's face, and she
noticed that he was holding a dark plastic bag with some officiallooking
seal on it. "But if I could trouble ya for just a minute? Could you take
this and see that Judy gets it

120

when the time is right?" He held up the bag. "It's from the country
police lab, and they're done with it now."

"What is it?"

"Dwayne's personal effects, stuff he had on him when his body was found.
They released it to me today, but it ain't really appropriate to give it
to Judy just yet."

"Oh, of course."

"Just his wedding band, watch, wallet 'n' all."

Patricia opened the bag and looked inside. "Did the crime lab find
anything in the way of evidence?"

"Unfortunately, no. And there's some cash in there too, just so ya know.
A goodly amount."

Watch, wallet, gold wedding band? Patricia thought, thinking it odd. She
opened the wallet, saw some cash, but also noted five hundred-dollar
bills in the bottom of the bag. "That's strange, isn't it, Chief?"

"You mean that whoever killed him didn't take his valuables and the
cash? Yes, it is. A' course, anyone's first guess is that Dwayne was
murdered, ya know, on account..."

"On account of him losing his head, sure," she finished.

"Right. But, uh, the cause of the decapitation itself was officially
labeled as 'undetermined.' In other words, the coroner wasn't convinced
it was a murder. Could've been a fluke accident, who knows?"

Patricia withheld an overt frown. Instead she asked, "Is it true that no
one ever found ..."

"Dwayne's head? Yeah, that is true, I'm afraid."

Patricia doubted it was an accident, but the point wasn't worth
belaboring. Oh, well. An "undetermined" decapitation. "I'll put this in
a safe place, Chief," she assured him, "and show it to Judy when the
time is right."

121

"Thanks much, Patricia. And thanks for comin' all this way. It means an
awful lot to Judy." He shook her hand again. "But I'd best get along
now. I'm sure I'll be seein' ya again before you leave."

"I hope so, Chief. Good-bye for now."

Chief Sutter wended off through the crowd. I guess I'll put this in the
den, Patricia concluded of the bag, but in her mind it kept occurring to
her that the only thing stranger than the notion of the decapitation's
being an accident was Chief Sutter's sudden uneasiness when talking
about it at all.

Like something bothered him more than the obvious facts. Dwayne's death
was indeed a mystery, but...

It's almost like the chief knows more than he's telling, she thought.

She looked into the living room and was content to see Judy on the
couch, surrounded by friends. She's getting drunk again, but she's more
than entitled to do that today. Then she slipped off down the hall and
switched on the light in the small den that Judy used for an office.

The room seemed sterile with its wall of file cabinets. Company records,
I'm sure. On the wall over the desk hung Judy's very first incorporation
certificate and her business license that had been changed over since
their parents' deaths.

A picture on the other wall left her morose--a shot of her father, long
ago, hauling bushels of crabs off a small trawler. I'll bet that was
taken before I was born. Her father, though spry and muscular in the
photo, still had the same cold, humorless look in his eyes she'd always
known him for. Ť

Then something else on the wall--an old poster-- utterly depressed her.

122

COME JOIN US ALL!

THE FIRST ANNUAL AGAN's POINT CRAB FESTIVAL!

MONDAY SEPTEMBER 6.

NOON TIL EIGHT AT BOWEN'S FIELD!

Patricia turned away, a lump in her throat and a knot in her stomach.
Bowen's Field, my God ...

And suddenly that everlasting look in her father's eyes seemed more
accusory and disgusted than cold.

Next thing she knew she was standing in a daze. The images in her mind
began to tumble backward, pulling at her. ...

She'd been thinking about it all day at school. It didn't seem like her.
She didn't know why. Skinny-dipping?

It was a big deal back in eleventh grade, and Agan's Point and some
other nearby towns hosted a number of suitable ponds and small lakes.
Patricia was constantly being invited by her friends, yet the
invitations had never threatened her sexually because it was only her
circle of female friends always asking her to go. Boys went too
sometimes, but from what she'd heard nothing much ever went on. Safety
in numbers. She supposed it was all harmless and normal. It was
something sixteenyear-olds did on Saturday nights.

But Patricia never went.

She wasn't inhibited, nor self-conscious about her body. If anything she
felt the opposite. Not only had good grades allowed her to skip a grade,
it seemed that her body had all but skipped adolescence and hastened
toward womanhood faster than the others'. Many times, in the showers
after gym class, she felt certain some of the other girls spied her
naked body and full bare bosom with strained envy. It was fine with her.
"What are you afraid of?" one girl had asked in objection,

123

"Patti, in Agan's Point we skinny-dip every weekend, so don't be a
prude. If I had your body, I'd show it off every chance I could!"

But Patricia would have none of that. Showing off wasn't her nature. She
hadn't even come close to having sex yet--it was something she'd save
for the right man. Most of the other girls seemed a lot less choosy, and
even this young, Patricia saw that as a pitfall. She wanted to go to
college, forge a career, while most of the local girls rushed to get
married right after high school and start having kids. Not me, she
resolved. These girls would wind up living here their whole lives and
never even know what opportunities might be waiting for them out in the
rest of the world. Patricia was determined not to miss out on what was
out there simply to have a routine life in the place she was born.

As for sex ...

She'd never had it, nor had she ever noticed in herself any trace of the
sex drive that seemed to propel everyone else. She'd dated a few boys,
but only once got past French-kissing. One twelfth grader she'd kind of
liked from her geography class had gotten her bra off one night at the
old Palmer's drive-in, but the film-- something about killer worms--had
grossed her out more than scared her. He'd clumsily groped her breasts
and sucked her nipples for a few minutes, then evidently spent himself
in his pants. He'd also tried to rub between her legs but was only
rubbing just below her navel. She hoped he did better in high school
geography than he did in female geography. In other words, this
excursion left her uninterested. The local boy she'd most been expected
to date seriously was Ernie, but when she was asked about the prospect,
her response was always akin to: "Ernie's been my friend since first

124

grade! He's like a brother! I could never date him!" Only later, just
before she graduated, had she learned how badly he'd pined for a
romance. She simply wasn't interested in Ernie--or in any boy, for that
matter. Even when friends described their experiences "doing it" (and
the fabulous multiple orgasms that always resulted), her response was
typically a frown. Masturbation seemed ridiculous, at least from the
descriptions she'd heard. What if someone saw me? And what could
possibly be that great about it anyway? When she'd been
younger--fourteen or so--she remembered leaving volleyball practice--and
being late--so she'd cut home through the woods, where she'd
accidentally happened upon a boy from Hodge's Hardware Store coupling
naked with one of the Squatter girls. So that's what sex is, she
presumed, unshocked and unimpressed. The boy's fastidious performance of
lovemaking had lasted about three minutes, whereupon he'd re-dressed
quickly and left. But the Squatter girl remained, one hand alternately
kneading her breasts, the other playing with her sex. Her body had
flexed, her back curling backward in a noisy finish that only left
Patricia amused and absolutely convinced she had no need to do this to
herself. Why? If I made all that noise, my parents would hear!

Ultimately, by the end of the eleventh grade she found all the talk of
boys and dating and junior proms and sock hops--and sex--to be annoying.
I guess I'm just different from everyone else, she concluded, and didn't
feel at all unusual about it. In not being sexual, she never once
thought she might be missing out on anything. But what she wouldn't miss
out on was life, her career, the future. Sex would have to wait.

It was right before school would let out for

125

summer--for some reason she remembered that--and she recalled nothing
sexual about her motive, the business about skinny-dipping. She and Judy
had gone to a late double feature at the town theater. She'd asked
several friends to join them, but, alas, they were all going on to
another skinny-dipping party. She and Judy had both passed on the
invite--electing instead to go see Star Wars, which everyone was talking
about--but regrettably they were forced to sit through some grueling
first feature about an Egyptian cannibal in the catering business.
Patricia found the schlocky farce hilarious in its bad production, but
Judy had left halfway through, too revolted by the hokey violence and
fake blood that looked like house paint. Star Wars was fun, though, and
exciting. However, while walking home ...

... Patricia got to thinking.

Maybe I'll try it, she dared herself. In case I ever decide to do it
with my friends, I'll know what it's like. It wasn't sex she was
considering; it was merely skinny-dipping.

I'll try it alone first, see if I like it.

But where? Everyone else was out at the lake in Luntville. I know, she
thought. She saw the sign right there as she walked along Point Road:

bowen's field.

There was a pond there, and the field itself was almost entirely
surrounded by woods.

Perfect.

Her parents were at the fire hall tonight--bingo--and would be home
late. The heat and humidity were skyrocketing as the summer deepened;
Patricia was sticky with sweat just minutes after leaving the cool movie
theater. A late-night dip in the pond is just what I need.

She cut through more woods, her sandals snapping twigs. Peepers cheeped
like parrots, and she had to

126

walk slowly, keeping her eyes on the ground for toads. Then the woods
broke, and there she was

The clearing opened, ringed by tall trees. The moon was just edging over
the tallest oaks. Bowen's Field was a little-used municipal lot: mainly
county softball games and holiday gatherings. Picnic grounds with tables
and grills dotted the area, and off to one side was the pond.

Patricia looked around guardedly. No one around. She felt satisfied. She
walked off to the trees, then thought nothing of skimming out of her
shorts and top. A moment of hesitation; then the rest came off, panties
and bra dropped atop the sandals. And one last look around...

Everyone else is skinny-dipping in Luntville, and I'm skinny-dipping
here. ... Simple. There was no need to be self-conscious or
embarrassed--she was a logical girl. So she shrugged her bare shoulders,
then, and walked nude across the field. See? No big deal. She giggled.
When she looked down at herself, the only shock was how white she was.
She was fair-skinned; she didn't tan well. Her natural hue touched over
by the moonlight made her look ghostly.

The warm air caressed her skin as she moved on. Another giggle: I'm
walking naked in public! The night's heat licked up and down her body.

Cicadas buzzed in their unique drone. The pond lay flat and still before
her, a solid black mirror with the moon's reflection floating on top.
Mud squished up through her toes when she stepped in, first to her
ankles, then to her knees. She lifted her foot and took the next step,
which should've brought her hip-deep, but--

Splunk!

--she dropped into a surprise gully deeper than she

127

was tall. She sprang back to the surface, laughing, then began to
dog-paddle around. Where the night's heat had felt heavy on her skin,
the cool water felt absolutely luxurious. A sudden liberty swept her as
she let the water devour her: No one knows I'm here; I'm totally alone.
She liked that feeling, a forbidden independence--being naked and by
herself, as though the world existed solely for her, and she were its
only inhabitant. The moon looked down, a luminous voyeur. Her flesh felt
buoyant; cool water rushed between her legs and over her stomach and
breasts. She smiled to herself, kicking out farther, totally tranquil in
the water.

Patricia was at peace. ...

It was some sort of a sack, canvas, or maybe several layers of burlap;
she'd never figured out what it was exactly. And she never saw it coming.

He must've been in the water the whole time. Waiting? But that was
impossible, because no one knew she was out here. She'd told no one
she'd be skinnydipping tonight; in fact, she hadn't even made the
decision until after leaving the theater. Nevertheless, as she'd turned
to come back closer to the pond's edge, a heavy, wet sack was pulled
over her head from behind and tightened immediately by a drawstring. It
couldn't have been more effective. ...

It smothered her scream.

A strong arm girded her neck. Her attacker was breaststroking back to
shore, Patricia in tow, but as he did so his hand plowed into her most
private area as though it were a squeeze ball. Fingers tried to wriggle
in. Each time she attempted to suck in a breath and bolt out a scream,
the wet sack sucked against her lips, and all she could do was wheeze.
And when they reached

128

the edge and her ankles began to kick through mud--

Thwack!

--a fist hard as a stone knocked her unconscious.

Deathlike blackness filled her mind. Was she dead? No, but as her
consciousness began to trickle back, her previous terror had been
supplanted by an all-encompassing nausea. She opened her eyes but
couldn't see. It wasn't the sack; instead, the only thing she could
figure was that a wide strip of tape had been pasted over her eyes. When
she tried to move, her wrists and ankles rose ... but only an inch.

She'd been tied down.

More of her senses began to fall back into place. Her eyes had been
taped but her mouth hadn't, and just as she sucked in a deep, deep
breath to try another scream, a palm slapped across her lips.

Then something very sharp and very pointed pricked the side of her neck.

"Feel this?"

A coarse whisper.

"It's a knife. If you make any noise at all, I'll cut your throat.
Understand?"

She felt burning hot yet immobile, as if frozen solid. At first the
terrified paralysis wouldn't even allow her neck muscles to work.

The knife point pricked a little harder.

Patricia nodded.

Next: "If ya bite, I'll cut'cher tongue out 'n' slice yer big tits off
and leave 'em on yer mama's doorstep. Understand?"

Patricia nodded.

The clammy palm left her mouth, only to be replaced by a slavering
mouth. At least her rapist was passionate--he wanted to kiss first. The
dirty mouth

129

sucked her lips, a tongue pushing through. Reflex caused Patricia to
squeeze her eyes shut in spite of the blindfold, and from there ...

Her mind went blank.

More reflex, more defensive instinct. Earlier it was the moon, but now,
blinded and lashed to the ground, she became her own voyeur, sight
replaced by sense. It was as though she were watching herself with her
mind. Her mouth fell open and she simply let him do it--Don't fight your
rapist, she'd read in a women's column once--so she admitted his tongue,
tasting liquor and bad breath. The tongue continued to slaver, his drool
falling into her mouth. Then the strange mouth sucked her own tongue
out, sucked it hard, and that was when she noticed the gap.

His two front teeth were missing.

Eventually the abominable kiss ended; the mouth lifted, then fell right
back to her breasts. Wet, ugly suction drew each nipple between the gap
in his teeth, and the tongue began to whirl furiously. She could feel
that he was naked himself--that hot, hard weight pressing down. All the
sensations and mental images collided with revulsion, but Patricia now
was disengaged, her own self not part of what was happening.

He never said another word.

She simply lay there and let him molest her, her belly sucked in, her
arms and legs pinned out straight as steel rods. Her nipples buzzed now
from the furious tendings of his tongue and the way the gap in his teeth
isolated the dark areolae. A moment later he sat upright as though her
stomach were a seat. His scrotum lay like a hot bag of pudding on her
belly, his manhood no doubt inflamed by his own demented desires. His
hands opened and closed over her breasts, intent,

129

130

as if he expected to wring out milk. The sensations hurt; she imagined
handprints bruised into her flesh. Next, his fingertips closed on her
nipples, tweaking at first, then grinding. Patricia's hips squirmed
beneath his weight as he twisted her nipples as if turning screws into a
wall.

The weight began to shift. He kneed himself backward, off of her. Was he
done? A foolish question. Of course he wasn't done--he was just
beginning. Only now did she realize how widely her legs had been parted.
Hands gripped her upper thighs, and then the mouth lowered.

Oh God...

Her revulsion collapsed on her like a brick wall against the fiercest
wind. The most secret and personal part of her body was brazenly invaded
by the detestable tongue. First the tip traced around the opening of her
vagina, stimulating the outer ridges, then delving up and down the
groove. It was a long tongue, too, evidenced by how deeply it delved
inside after each revolution. These ministrations lasted for a long
time, until she thought the body she was perceiving so distantly would
go nuts and simultaneously choke on vomit.

Could she actually feel the moonlight on her skin even with taped-shut
eyes? Patricia could almost see herself writhing, half in arousal and
half in utter repugnance.

The mouth rose and its new target was no surprise

Now the wicked suction drew over the assailant's true target in a
variety of movements: back and forth, up and down, then hard circles.
And all the while it continued to suck, drawing the nugget of her sex
through the gap in the front teeth--a macabre inversion of fellatio.

131

The sensations rose and rose. Loops of rope abraded her ankles and
wrists, and every muscle in her body began to clench up; a feeling she'd
never experienced seemed to sear into her, something scalding hot but
delicious. Then that detached kernel of her consciousness-- that seemed
to be spectating the crime from afar--snapped back into her brain like
something yanked inward off a cord, and at last the thing that all those
sensations had been building up to ...

... broke.

Patricia went out of her mind, and that was all she remembered.

Some early risers found her at sunup. When the duct tape was peeled off
her eyes--taking quite a bit off her brows--she dizzily saw that she'd
been staked to the ground. She felt humiliated and insensible, naked and
laid out for all to see. A man who'd been walking his dog gave her a
light jacket to wear until the police came.

Of course her assailant had raped her after his oral invasion, yet she
remembered none of it. She could feel her virginity ruptured between her
legs, but at least there was little blood, and she recalled no pain. But
she could feel the sperm deep in her like some devilish slime. Her mind
spun in rings of disgust; she couldn't have felt dirtier than if she'd
been defecated on. Worse were the pitying looks in the eyes of the
people who'd found her, as though she were crippled, an elderly invalid
who could no longer control her bowels. "Poor girl," a woman said. "Like
to kill the sick animal that did this," said a man. But Patricia could
barely even cogitate. Eventually a much younger Chief Sutter arrived to
take her home. Her mother and Judy were aghast, Judy breaking into tears
when she'd heard what happened. Chief Sutter couldn't have been more

132

considerate in dealing with the sensitive aftermath of physical
examinations and questioning. There'd been no DNA profiling back in
those days, no way to type her assailant with technology, just a vaginal
smear for rudimentary disease screening. And Patricia supposed-- even
now, after the passage of over two decades--that if anything could be
worse for her than the rape itself, it was her father's reaction when
he'd learned of the details.

"Skinny-dipping!" he bellowed, red in the face when he'd gotten home
from the crabbing docks. "Runnin' around with no clothes on like a
common tramp! Life's hard enough, and now I got a daughter shitting on
our good family's name, makin' us look like trash!" He slapped her in
the face with a sound like wet leather snapping. "How could you let
something like that happen?"

The words were worse even than the blow; Patricia felt as though she'd
been shot with a gun. Tears flooded her eyes, and when she looked to her
mother for support... her mother just looked back with a face set in stone.

So long ago, she thought now, looking at the poster on the wall. I'd
forgotten all about it, until I came back here.

Enough of this ...

She shook off the flash of despair, focusing instead on the bag that
Chief Sutter had given her. I guess the desk is as good as anyplace, she
thought, and tucked it back in the bottom drawer. The recollection of
her father--and Bowen's Field--seemed to hasten her out of the cramped
room, but before she would leave, she made an abrupt decision.

She tore the poster down and crunched it up in her hands. The gesture
provided little satisfaction, but that

133

was better than nothing. She was about to drop it in the small
wastebasket by the desk when something caught her eye.

Something inside.

An envelope and a crumpled letter.

Perhaps the only reason she'd noticed them at all was because the items
were the only things in the basket.

She picked them out, focusing. ...

The envelope was addressed to Dwayne, handwritten, not typed. There was
no return address; the local postmark was dated one day before Dwayne's
death. Junk mail wouldn't be handwritten, but it was obviously something
Dwayne had opened, looked at, and immediately discarded.

Her curiosity pecked at her, though she couldn't imagine why; Patricia
wasn't ordinarily nosy. The bastard's dead, so it's not like I'm
invading his privacy, she reasoned.

Paper crinkled as she uncrumpled what she could only guess was a letter,
but she saw in a moment that it was not really a letter at all.

Just a sheet of paper with one word inscribed neatly at the top.

Wenden.

(III)

It's heavenly, he thought. He stared up in wonder, drinking up the sight
of the stars. My whole life is heavenly. ... The night couldn't have
been more beautiful, nor could his love. The God that he believed in was
much more nebulous than the God of most people, but just as real.
Wilfrud knew, in fact, that they were all essentially

134

the same, and it was to that great ethereal and omnipresent being that
he now offered his unbounded thanks.

Ethel, his wife, puttered in the woods, focused on their task. It was
Wilfrud who was the dreamer of the pair, the introspective one, which
she often, in her loving way, dismissed as laziness. But it's only my
love that makes me a dreamer, he thought, and she knew that, of course.

Besides, she was the better diviner.

Divination could be very effective in obtaining knowledge of that which
one desired, so long as the practitioners were faithful people. Faith
was in the heart, in the soul. Wilfrud and Ethel had been the clan's
diviners for decades, since their late teens. They solicited the spirits
of nature tonight for nothing more complex than finding honey morels for
the weekend's clan banquet. Ethel made a delectable mushroom roux that
specifically depended on this rare edible fungus, but they were very
difficult to find.

Diviners, however, could find them a little easier than others.

Earlier they'd both prayed over the boiled pig knuckle, and now Ethel
meandered about the woods, holding the clean bone in a cupped hand. It
was not with anything like tactility by which she read the telltale
signal--it would be more like a vibration in her head. She was naked, of
course, to further appease the spirits, and Wilfrud's eyes couldn't
resist that raw beauty of hers as she stepped through the brambles,
sensing the air. Her bare skin shone so white in the moonlight; it
looked so perfect. No, neither of them was young anymore, but looking at
her now, in the quiet night's glow, Wilfrud got short of breath. He

135

couldn't be more grateful to God for giving him so beautiful a wife.

The decades had blessed her body; she didn't look at all like a woman in
her mid-fifties, and the gray had barely touched her long, raven-black
hair. Even her bosom barely sagged; her breasts glowed like lambent orbs
in the moon's light, centered with large, dark nipples. About her neck
hung the pendant he'd made for her when they'd gotten married, a deep
blue-andscarlet pontica stone that diviners and mediums often wore, to
maximize their visions. The stone hung between her breasts and seemed to
change color when her own passions inflamed. Wilfrud himself wore the
cross she'd given him just as long ago: two meticulously carved shavings
from an eddo root.

For a moment Wilfrud felt bolted to the ground; he couldn't move; he
could only swallow up this nighttime image of her. Oh, heaven, he
thought. I am such a lucky man. ...

She pivoted on her bare feet, not looking down but staring out into the
night, listening for the secrets it would tell her, and then in a second
she quickly got down on her knees and bent over. Wilfrud almost
collapsed now, his desires reeling. This alternate glimpse of
her--kneeling, naked, buttocks jutting--was the last thing Wilfrud
needed to see just then. He was supposed to be helping her. ...

"Oooh, Wilfrud, look!" she nearly squealed in excitement. Her free hand
tilled the soft earth between the vee of a tree's roots. "We're finding
so many tonight!"

Only a woman after my own heart could be so enthused over finding
morels, he realized absurdly. He walked over with his collection bag,
tried to focus, but only remained dizzy in the fugue of his passion. Her
breasts

136

bobbed when she jerked upright, grinning. She extended her earth-smudged
hand, which was full of morels.

"Five more!"

He smiled back, so distracted, and put the morels in the bag, then ...

He dropped the bag.

"What are you doing?" she exclaimed.

"You know," he whispered, embracing her. He urged her back against the
tree, his groin pushing into hers. His voice was parched in his need.
"Let me make love to you--right here. In the forest, with the moon and
stars watching." His hands ran up her bare sides; sweat misted her skin
from the warm night. She felt so soft. ...

He was tasting her neck, breathing hard already. The jasmine essence in
her hair stiffened him at once.

Ethel giggled. Her fingers slipped around his back. She pressed her
breasts more urgently against his chest, then raised one leg and half
wrapped it around him. "Hmm," she breathed into his ear. "So you want to
take me right here, on the ground?"

"Yes, yes!"

"Hmm, let me think about that. ..."

Her thigh slid up and down his leg. Her hand squeezed his buttocks; then
it came back around, dawdled over his chest, then began to pop open his
shirt buttons.

"Let me think," she repeated.

Wilfrud was going nuts in his passion now. He kept trying to kiss her,
but each time their lips met she jerked away, smiling. Eventually her
fingers spidered down his unbuttoned chest, lingered a moment, then
proceeded to his crotch, which she slowly--and excruciatingly--began to
caress.

137

"My love, my love, my love," he kept murmuring into her neck. "Please! Now!"

"Hmm, yes, let me think..." As her fingers were toying with the top
button of his trousers, were just about to open them--

"On second thought," she said abruptly, "no."

Her hand pulled away, and she gently began to push him back.

"Don't torment me!" he pleaded.

"Wilfrud, you're so much fun to tease!" She was grinning at him in the
moonlight, her bare breasts standing right out. Then she picked up the
collection bag and gave it back to him. "We've got to get back to our
gathering." The grin sharpened. "We'll make love later. When we get back
home."

Wilfrud groaned, his eyes rolling in agony.

"Thinking about me more will make you want me more," she cooed at him.

"No, it won't! I want you now!"

"Oh, Wilfrud. You're a wonderful husband, but honestly, sometimes you're
just like a goat. You can wait a bit longer." And then she disappeared
around a stout tree to continue her search.

Wilfrud stood like a horny fool. Women, he thought uselessly. Oh, how
they love to make idiots of men.

He shuffled after her into thicker woods. Denser networks of boughs
overhead drained off the moonlight-- he could barely see. After a time
he wanted to call out but thought better of it: he mustn't distract her
while she was divining. Instead, then, he filled his mind back up with
images of her nakedness, her breasts and the pebble-hard nipples, all
that smooth, warm, white skin that he could indulge in, the nest of down
between her legs soft as kitten fur. ...

138

Minutes more, and he still hadn't found her. He stood and listened ...
and heard no traces of her footfalls.

"Sweetheart?" he finally called out.

Ethel didn't answer.

"Ethel?"

Another step, then--

"Oof!"

He stumbled and fell.

What a clumsy clod. ... He must've tripped on a downed limb. But when he
put his hand out to push himself up it landed on a bare foot. Alarmed,
he patted upward, up a bare leg. ...

In slivers of moonlight coming through the trees, he saw Ethel lying
prone on the forest floor.

"Ethel! Are you all right?" He slid up to her, got an arm around her
back to lean her up.

But her head just lolled on her shoulders.

And he noticed blood on her forehead.

No!

Wilfrud felt crazed in the sudden fear. "Ethel! Ethel!" He shook her.
"Please be all right!"

A voice snapped behind him. "Don't worry, Squatter. She ain't dead.
All's I done is conk her lights out."

In the dimmest darkness, he spotted the figure standing over him.
Enraged, Wilfrud attempted to jump up, to fight.

"Yes, sir. Conked the bitch's lights right out with this here beer bottle."

Conk!

The unseen swipe knocked Wilfrud out cold.

It was a harsh gagging sound that Wilfrud regained consciousness to.
Grainy, sooty vision began to fire in his eyes; each time his heart
beat, a heavy thud of pain

139

throbbed in his head. In a few more moments, he could see. ...

Ethel lay naked on her back in some deep, moonlit clearing. A beefy man
humped vigorously between her sprawled legs, his overalls pulled down to
show pasty buttocks.

The atrocity raged but for a split second before Wilfrud's mind managed
to separate the horror from logic. What happened to me? The pain in his
head felt like a nail had been driven into his brain. He and Ethel had
been gathering morels, hadn't they? Yes, the clan cookout was coming up.
And she'd dashed off into darker woods with her divining bone. That's
when I found her, he remembered. I tripped over her and--

That figure... All Wilfrud recalled was the stocky shadow before he'd
been hit in the head with something, and now he was waking up ... to this.

Wilfrud realized now that he'd been tied to a tree, his wrists bound
behind the trunk with rope, and a shorter length of rope had been tied
around his head--between his teeth--to gag him. In horrid glimpses, he
noticed that Ethel had been gagged similarly. All either of them could
do was croak out some feeble noises, nothing even close to a scream that
could be heard by others.

The man raping his wife looked over his shoulder while his fornication
didn't miss a beat. "Oh, looky there, sweetie. Your husband's finally
woked his old ass up." A chunky face grinned back. "Hey, Wilfrud? You
don't mind me raping the holy ever-livin' shit outta this old bag you
got fer a wife, do ya?"

Wilfrud's eyes bugged in rage; he recognized the portly face at once:
Junior, one of the Caudill boys. Wilfrud struggled uselessly against his
bonds, the rope digging into his wrists, and when he tried to shout, the

140

only vocal objection he could muster was more of the same croaking.

Worse were Ethel's croaks. Junior was choking her with the leather cord
of the pontica stone around her neck. He'd twist the cord down tight
till her face darkened and her tongue began to protrude, but just before
she'd either pass out or die, he'd release it--to rape her harder. He
wanted her alive for the entire ordeal.

But why was he doing this?

And what would happen when he was done?

Junior began to grunt, twisting the pontica cord harder, and then his
pelvic thrusts slowed and stopped.

He straggled to his feet, hitched up the overalls, and dusted himself
off. "Ain't exactly the best piece a' ass I've had, but not bad fer an
old box. What is this bitch, Wilfrud? About sixty? Me, I prefer 'em a
tad younger, like about ten, but in a pinch? Any piece a' ass is better
than none, huh?"

Junior belted out a piglike noise that sufficed for a laugh, but then
his eyes darted back down to Ethel, who now lay utterly still. "Aw,
shit! Don't tell me she's fuckin' dead! I need her still kickin' for the
rest a' the party!" He dropped to his knees, slapped her face several
times, then put an ear to her bare chest to listen for a heartbeat.
"Whew!" he said next. "Ya lucked out, Wilfrud. Her ticker's still
tickin'." He stood back up. "Let's give her a splash or two a' water in
the face, to spark her up. ..."

Wilfrud roared in his throat through the gag, surging against the bonds.
Junior had opened his fly and was now urinating liberally into Ethel's
face. The revolting process did indeed revive her, soaking her.

"Well, there goes another six-pack!"

By now Wilfrud was oblivious to the pain of the flesh around his wrists
grinding away. He brokenly barked

141

out through his gag, "Cut me loose! Cut me loose!"

Junior zipped back up. "What's that, Wilfrud? Cain't rightly understand
ya, what with the gag. Oh! You want me to cut ya loose?" Another piglike
guffaw. "Come on! Why in tarnation would I wanna do that?"

Now Junior leaned against a tree, arms casually crossed. "You don't even
know this, Wilfrud, but in yer own little way you n' this creepy old
tramp are playin' a part in a big plan that'll make things around here a
damn sight better fer everybody." He scratched his belly. "Well, I
should say almost everybody, 'cos things just got a damn sight worse fer
you and the little missus." Junior looked up at the moon in the sky.
"And I'm afraid it's gettin' late. Time for this party to end, don't ya
think?"

Ethel shuddered in the dirt, hacking up urine through the gag. Without a
moment's hesitation, Junior reached behind the tree and pulled out an
inordinately large fire ax, then stepped up, parted his legs, hoisted it
up over his head in a great arc--

"Nooo!" Wilfrud gagged.

--and--

Thhhhwunk!

--dropped the massive blade into Ethel's belly. Then--

Thhhwunk! Thhhzuunk!

--two more downward plunges of the blade cut her naked body in half in a
straight line just above her hips.

Her bare heels thunked in the soil, white legs quivering. The upper half
convulsed, back trying to arch reflexively

Wilfrud was choking on his tongue, straining ever harder against his
bonds, but all for nothing. He choked out some final, faulty bellows as
the whites of his eyes hemorrhaged red in outrage.

142

Junior grinned, his own eyes beaming down. He set the ax aside. "How's
that for a piece a' work?"

Ethel's legs finally fell still, while the upper half of her body
remained miraculously alive. She actually managed to flip herself over
and began to crawl toward Junior.

"Bitch's got some spunk; I'll give her that," Junior remarked. He
grabbed the pendant cord, hoisted her up, then looped the cord over the
crook of a broken branch. He stood back to watch as Ethel slowly
strangled against the tree, innards uncoiling.

"God, that was fun "

By now Wilfrud's horror and exertion left him limp. Junior unsheathed a
buck knife and approached. "Her ticket's punched, so I guess it's time
to punch yours too, Wilfrud."

"Uuugh!" went Wilfrud.

Junior pigstuck him low with the knife, one deep jab just below the navel.

"But I got tell ya," Junior went on, "all this choppin' and chokin' and
stabbin's got my dog barkin' again, if you know what I mean." He
chuckled, showing brown teeth. "And there ain't exactly anyone around
who's gonna call me a pervert, huh?"

Wilfrud groaned in the lowest agony, blood and bile eddying from his wound.

Junior shrugged and approached the sprawled legs on the ground. "So I
just say ... what the hell!"

He lowered his overalls again, then crawled between the legs, and this
was what Wilfrud Hild got to watch for the remaining ten minutes it took
him to die.

143

Six

(I)

Looks like she's sleeping in, Patricia realized. It seemed
understandable. Patricia had risen early to the sound of cicadas and
chirping finches. She'd left her window open last night, a luxury she
was beginning to enjoy-- the fresh night air flowing over her as she
slept, and no police sirens and ambulances, like at home. And unlike
yesterday morning, she didn't waken feeling guilty and embarrassed. She
recalled snippets of intense sexual dreams, but this time her frolics
didn't involve making love to Ernie in front of her husband. Simply
strangers this time, and dreaming of strangers didn't constitute
infidelity. Just a bunch of silly, dirty dreams, she dismissed them.
Everybody has them. Byron has them. I'm not going to feel guilty. It was
a solid resolve to begin the day with.

But at one point during the night, had she awakened and imagined herself
being watched by a peeper

144

through the window? She even recalled masturbating again, to a delicious
climax, but that had to have been a dream too.

And dreams are harmless, so I'm not going to stress over it.

After she'd dressed for the day, she noticed Ernie's door open, and when
she peeked inside she found it empty. That was when she went upstairs to
check on Judy--to find her still heavily asleep. Last night she'd
eventually passed out, but maybe now that Dwayne's ashes were officially
scattered, Judy could put her despair behind her and focus on pursuing
the positive things in her life. I can only hope, Patricia thought, and
gently closed the door.

Back downstairs, she rejected the idea of making herself breakfast, and
instead headed out to the backyard. Something she couldn't identify
seemed to be pushing her out of the house, and she could only suppose
she was ignoring what "home" had always reminded her of, and, in place
of that, she was enjoying the beautiful natural environment here. This
was opposite of the city; this was refreshingly different from what
she'd grown so used to looking at every day in D.C. She stepped out onto
the fieldstone path and stood stunned for a moment. A cloudless sky hung
overhead, the clearest blue, which only made the sun seem more vibrant.
The patches of grass between the flower beds almost glowed, they were so
green, and the flowers themselves were explosions of razor-sharp reds,
yellows, and violets. Yeah, I guess coming back home this time isn't
going to be as bad as I thought. ... Perhaps she was evolving past her
trauma, and was proving Dr. Sallee wrong in his insistence that she
should avoid Agan's Point at all costs. Racy dreams, an inexplicable
burst of sexual awareness, masturbating far more than usual?

145 This was so unlike her, but today she was feeling better and better
about it.

She kicked her sandals off to stride barefoot across the more expansive
tracts of grass farther off in the backyard. I don't know where I'm
going and ... I don't need to know, she realized. Finally a day without
an agenda.

Then she thought: The Point.

Why not? She'd spend the morning walking around the Point.

More stretches of deliriously green grass took her away from the house.
Stands of high trees seemed to funnel her down. If anything the Point
appeared more beautiful than she could ever remember it, and it seemed
much larger. Agan's Point could be described as a wedge of verdant land
that shoved itself out into Virginia's widest estuary off the Chesapeake
Bay, while the other edge of the wedge was determined by a sprawling
river. She hopped over several meager creeks, noticing salamanders and
toads, then found herself wandering the path that marked the river side
of the Point. Across the water, next, she could see several office
trailers and what appeared to be foundation molds for the construction
project that would hopefully instill the local economy with more money
from a new, well-heeled community of residents. Nothing seemed to be
going on at the project today, though: cement mixers sat static,
tractors and backhoes unmanned. When a door on one of the office
trailers opened, a man walked out toward a parked pickup truck, and
Patricia could tell by the short, bright-blond hair and purposeful gait
that it was the man she'd met last night at the reception, Gordon Felps,
the executive of the entire construction endeavor. Not quite sure what
to make of him, she thought. Her sister clearly found

146

him enlivening, but Patricia's own first impression was one of
suspicion. He's a businessman trying to throw money at Judy, to get her
land, she reminded herself. I don't care how much money he's got... I
don't trust him. She half frowned and half smiled at herself. But then
again, I'm a lawyer. I'm not supposed to trust anybody, because nobody
trusts me. Across the river the distant form of Gordon Felps paused at
the open truck door, spotted her, and waved. Patricia put on her best
fake smile and waved back.

A flock of crows squawked overhead, and at the crest of the riverbed she
noticed butterflies sitting idly atop tall blades of grass. Down here
near the water the always-heard but seldom-seen cicadas flew to and fro
in dramatic numbers. Patricia felt staggered by this outburst of raw
nature that she'd banished from her mind long ago. But then she frowned
at the dichotomy. Nature untouched right here ... and another condo
project over there. It was the way of the world, she supposed, and as a
real estate attorney she was as much a culprit as Felps.

She dawdled on, the sun in her face. A half mile of ambling through the
woods eventually brought her to the widest spur of the
Point--Squatterville was the area's nickname. There, surrounded by
trees, was their little plantation, so to speak, a crude but close-knit
community of shacks, tin sheds, and age-old trailers. Set in the
background stood the Stanherd house; it was the oldest dwelling on the
Point, and it looked it, dating back to the original plantation days
when Virginia broke from the Union. A rickety wraparound porch defined
the home's shape of sloping angles and high, peaked rooftops. A century
of periodic whitewash left its wood plank walls more gray than white,
shingles blown off in storms had been replaced with cedar slats

147

and tar, and most of the functional shutters had long since been nailed
shut. Judy had no use for the house, so she let Everd Stanherd and his
wife live there for nothing, along with several other elder couples of
the clan. Judy, in fact, charged no rent of any kind to any of the
Squatters; nor did she charge for electricity--which was wired to every
dwelling--nor water or sewage, which was provided by the communal
washhouse where Squatters could shower, get water for their homes, and
go to the bathroom. It wasn't much, but it was better than welfare, and
the Squatters themselves couldn't have seemed more content with their
lives here, however unsophisticated those lives were.

Looks like happy simplicity to me, she mused, looking down at the
ramshackle community. Women were taking laundry out to hang on myriad
clotheslines, chatting, laughing amongst themselves as they worked.
Patricia thought a moment then. Was it really happy simplicity, or
ignorance and oblivion that milled before her? It was easy for an
elitist attitude to dismiss the Squatters as subcitizens with no
education and unable to achieve anything more in life. Maybe this happy
simplicity is just holding them back, blocking them from any real
achievement.

It was an idealistic concern, to say the least. You're a metropolitan
lawyer, Patricia, she told herself. Don't pretend to be a sociologist.

She saw no men down among the quiet network of trailers and shacks, but
of course she wouldn't. Most of the male Squatters would be out on the
water right now, hauling in today's take on the crabbing boats Judy
provided. Maybe it's just like anything else, she considered. Give and
take. Judy gives them a free place to live, and they work to keep her
company profitable. Judy owned the

148

boats, the land, the processing plant and warehouse and delivery
trucks--everything. And the Squatters worked it all for her.

A closer look showed children prancing around their mothers and/or
grandmothers, squealing with innocent exuberance as they played tag amid
the sheet-flapping labyrinth of clotheslines. Older children emerged
from the woods with armfuls of wild berries, edible greens, duck eggs,
and even rabbits and squirrels they'd caught in traps handmade by their
fathers. Other children returned with stray firewood they'd culled from
the forest; though the shacks and trailers all had electricity, the
Squatters often preferred to cook their family meals outside in
cauldrons braced over communal fires and long barbecue pits. What
Patricia was looking at now seemed like a hidden Crosshatch commune that
gladly let the modern world slide over them without notice. Primitive
yet undeniably efficient, tribal yet organized. It was a system that worked.

She traipsed down the hillock toward an outer footpath, and when she
turned the corner around the washhouse, several Squatter boys--ten to
twelve years old, they appeared--broke off in the opposite direction the
instant they noticed her. What was that all about? she wondered without
much interest. It was as though she'd surprised them; they ran off the
way children did when caught doing something bad. But what? She made her
way along the white-painted brick wall that formed the rear of the
washhouse. The long, clean wall stood unblemished, except...

Hmm...

A squint showed her there was a blemish of sorts. She walked up closer.
What is that? The wall seemed to bear

149

a single pock; the closer she got, the more she thought she heard
something. A steady hiss.

And voices?

Patricia wasn't sure.

She looked right at the "blemish." It was a hole, not even a half inch
wide, drilled into the mortar between two of the wall's cinder blocks.

And she realized the hiss was a running shower.

A peephole, she knew. She put her eye to the hole and looked in. Three
hardy Squatter girls in their late teens stood in the long shower room,
sudsing themselves with soap, and chatting and giggling obliviously.
This would explain the fleeing youngsters; Patricia had caught them
spying on the older girls inside, and though she didn't know the boys at
all, she was certain they knew who she was: the sister of the woman who
gave them a place to live and provided jobs for their parents.

No doubt this peephole had been used for some time for such shenanigans;
she couldn't help but notice what could only be tracks of dried semen
streaking the wall beneath the hole. She smiled to herself then, amused.
Boys will be boys, she realized.

She walked on, but for some reason felt distracted now. By what? The
thrumming cicada trills seemed to wash in and out of her head, and in
some strange way urged her to recall the hiss of the shower.

Peepholes. Peeping. Voyeurs.

It was harmless enough, sure--just a few boys about to enter puberty,
following their hormonal curiosities. So what was bothering her?

My dream, she remembered then.

Last night she'd dreamed of being spied on herself,

150

hadn't she? Only slivers of the dream seemed vivid, while most of it had
turned to fog by now. I dreamed that someone was watching me from the
window, she remembered, while I was touching myself. The more she
thought about it, the more clearly it came to mind. She remembered being
even more turned on when she'd realized someone was watching; her voyeur
remained unidentified, yet the longer she knew he was watching, the more
aroused she became, and it hadn't taken long for her climax to overwhelm
her.

The only thing that remained unclear was the sequence of events. Was I
masturbating in the dream, she asked herself, or was I masturbating for
real, after I woke up from the dream?

Probably the latter, she suspected now. The spate of dirty dreams? Sex
with Ernie while her husband watched (more exhibitionism)? Sex with
strangers? The sudden flux of heightened sexual moods since she'd
arrived? To the most secret part of herself, she admitted it all now.
She couldn't recall a time when she'd felt so sexually stoked than over
the last two days, and it only reminded her of the senselessness of it
all. Agan's Point symbolized her rape--the ugliest and most unarousing
thing to ever happen to her. So why don't I feel unaroused now that I'm
back?

Her musings stretched. She couldn't help it; she couldn't get it out of
her head. Now she imagined herself in the Squatters' shower room, alone,
and somehow knowing she was being watched from the peephole. That
knowledge made her desire burn harder. The fantasy cocooned her; she
could not only see herself standing naked in the stark-white,
brick-walled room, she could feel her hand gliding the bar of soap between

151

and around her breasts, then down her belly and up between her legs.
Soon she was dressed in a suit of lather, her pink nipples and the tuft
of soft red pubic hair the only things breaking the surface of the
soap's white froth. She stared fast at the hole in the wall; some
ethereal force seemed to emanate from it like a wizard's totem. Now her
hands were sliding all over herself--she was no longer washing; she was
making love to herself, her nerves winding up, her nipples engorging.
Then she stepped back into the cool spray, the lather sloughing off her
skin down into the drain between her feet.

In the hole she could see the unblinking eye. ...

Come in here, she panted to the hole. She parted her legs. Her hands
splayed her sex. Whoever you are, come in here. ...

She closed her eyes, waiting, her fingers teasing herself. She was
almost there already. Her breasts felt hot, twice their normal size. The
bladelike sensations between her legs nearly toppled her over, and then
from behind the large calloused hands of her unseen voyeur slipped
around under her arms to her breasts, and when they squeezed she began to--

"Howdy, Patricia. You're sure up early."

The fantasy snapped like a broomstick across someone's knee. Patricia
spun in place, bristling in stifled shock. Ernie was striding across the
grass, jeaned and workbooted, a toolbox in tow.

"Ernie. I didn't see you coming," she faltered.

He hoisted the box. "I was just cuttin' across. Judy wanted me to go to
Squatterville to turn the electricity off on a few of the shacks."

Patricia had barely recovered from her startlement.

152

That was the most vivid daydream of my life! She brought a stray hand to
the bottom of her throat. I hope I'm not blushing. ... The fantasy
hadn't lasted long enough for her to see the face of her imaginary
peeping tom.

Had she hoped it was Ernie?

He chuckled, looking cockeyed at her. "You okay?"

"Daydreaming," she muttered back. "What were you saying? You had to turn
off the electricity?"

"Just to three of the Squatter shacks. No point in electricity going
into an empty place."

"What do you mean?"

He set the toolbox down and crossed his arms. "Well, things ain't
changed much since you moved outta the Point. Back then, a' course,
there weren't quite as many Squatters. But unlike back then, it seems
that a lot of 'em are leavin'."

"Leaving--as in leaving the Point?" she asked.

Ernie nodded. Somehow the streak of sweat going down the center of his
tight T-shirt struck her as sexy, and the way his long hair was slightly
disheveled, like he'd just gotten out of bed. "Three of 'em have left
just in the past week, and eight or ten more since the beginning of the
month. Kinda strange ... or maybe not, really. Just 'cos I love livin'
on the Point don't mean everyone does. Look at you."

"But where did these Squatters go?" she asked the logical question.

Ernie shrugged his strong shoulders. "They didn't leave forwardin'
addresses, if that's what you mean. Most a' the folks who left was
younger Squats, late teens, early twenties. Growin' pains and all that,
I guess. It ain't unusual for kids to wanna leave home to check other
pastures."

153

No, it's not, she realized.

"But me?" Ernie continued. His long hair gusted in a sudden breeze. "I
love it here. Cain't see myself ever leavin'. The city ain't for me. I
went to Roanoke once, couldn't believe it. The air stank, the traffic
was awful, everything was expensive. I don't know how you stand it in D.C."

"It has its ups and downs," she said. "But I'm actually liking it a lot
here this time. I didn't last time I was back."

"Oh, yeah. When Judy 'n' Dwayne got married. Well, that's all over 'n'
done with. I'm hopin' Judy gets out of her funk soon."

"Me, too."

"She got drunk as a skunk last night, but you could tell--even as
heartbroke as she was--there was a lot of worries and hassles gone from
her life."

That was good to hear.

"You just out for a mornin' walk?" he asked her.

"Yes. It's been so long since I've had a good look at the Point. It's
much more beautiful than I remember."

"I gotta head down to the pier to check 'n' see if the new crab traps
got delivered. Why don't'cha come with me?"

"Sure," she said, and followed him down the trail. They went in and out
of several stands of pine trees. Around them the fields behind
Squatterville blazed green in the sun. The scenery lulled Patricia, but
not enough to take away all of that irritating sexual edge left over
from the daydream. As she walked behind Ernie, she had to consciously
force herself not to look at him: the toned, tan arms, the tapered back,
the strong legs. This damn place is becoming an aphrodisiac, she

154

thought, and there's no reason why. She tried to clear her head,
following on.

"I love that smell off the bay," he observed. "Salty, clean."

"Mmm," she replied, taking a breath herself.

"No pollution, like everywhere else on the bay. Christ, most other
places think the bay's just a place to dump their garbage."

Yeah, like D.C., Patricia had to agree in her thoughts. Now, through
breaks in the trees, she could see the mirrorlike shine off the water,
and, high in the sky, the finches and crows were replaced by seagulls
and pipers. Another few minutes of walking took them down to the town
dock, where a dozen piers jutted out into the water. Some wooden
buildings stood up front, where several Squatter men looked up, nodded
briefly, then resumed their tasks of sorting rigging ropes and stacking
bushel baskets. Ernie briefly walked to one of the dock buildings,
grabbed a clipboard, and began counting what looked to be several dozen
brand-new crab traps that had been stacked there: simple chickenwire
boxes dipped in black latex to prevent rust. A cylindrical compartment
inside each trap held the bait, and then each trap was dropped out in
the bay, marked by a floating buoy. The boats would all go out as early
as four in the morning, drop their traps, then dredge oysters and clams
for a few hours, after which they'd haul up their traps, empty them, and
size the crabs. Almost all of the boats were gone now, but Patricia did
notice a few moored to the piers--long, wide, shallow dingies with
little motors at the back.

She walked over to Ernie, who was still busy counting traps. "I'm always
reading in the papers about how

155

bad the crab harvest is in the bay. What's so special about Agan's Point?"

Ernie pointed outward, where the bay stretched several miles across.
"Out there? The current's too strong, not many crabs." Then he pointed
to a series of sand berms that could be seen just breaking the surface a
mile or so out. "But those berms cut the current way down in the Point,
which is ideal for blue crabs. Then there's the freshwater runoff, keeps
the water cooler and lowers the salinity. That's why Agan's Point crabs
are bigger 'n' heavier than crabs anywhere else. The perfect environment."

"So why don't the big commercial crabbers come out here?"

"It's not worth their time or money. They have to come too far, and
their boats are too big. Agan's Point waters are too rocky 'n' shallow
for their big rigs. So they all go south 'n' leave us alone. The
Squatters use flatboats to get around these shallow waters, and they
always bring in the same number of bushels a day, and not one more than
that, ever. The rest of the bay's been fished out, but not Agan's Point.
The Squatters stick to their daily haul limit and never break it; that
way there'll always be plenty a' crabs. We only sell our meat to the
better restaurants and markets in the county, and that's it, and because
Agan's Point crabs taste so much better than the other stuff, our buyers
pay more per pound."

"What makes them better?" Patricia asked. Now she was sitting at the
edge of the pier, waggling her feet in the cool water.

"The meat's sweeter 'cos the salinity's perfect anŁthe water's cooler
'n' cleaner. It's that simple." Ernie hung up his clipboard, apparently
satisfied with the

156

trap delivery. "And another reason the company's got a higher profit
margin per pound is 'cos of the lower overhead." He pointed to another
pier, where several men sat down at tables next to some large
picnic-type coolers. "Most crabbers use chicken necks fer bait, but what
ya need to know about the Squatters is that they don't waste anything."

Patricia didn't get his meaning; she leaned up higher from where she
sat, squinting at the men. Now she heard a continuous series of
thwacking sounds. ... "What are they doing?"

"Like what I was sayin'," Ernie went on, leaning against a stack of
traps. "The Squatters live off the land like nobody's business; they
don't spend a dime on food unless they need to."

Patricia's bosom jutted as she leaned more urgently to see what the men
at the tables were doing. "I still don't--"

"It ain't just crabs the Squatters trap; it's everything. Rabbit,
possum, muskrat, squirrel. When they're done guttin' and trimmin' what
they catch to eat, they chop up what's left. Scraps, guts, feet, 'n'
tails. And that's what they use fer crab bait."

Patricia shuddered a moment when she finally realized what the men were
doing: chopping up animal scraps and innards with butcher knives and
then depositing the portions into plastic jars punctured by holes. Each
jar was then put into a cooler.

"Them jars there?" Ernie explained. "When the boats go out tomorrow,
they put one a' them jars in each trap. Best crab bait ya can get. And
it's free."

It sounded very practical--but grisly. "I can understand rabbits and
squirrels--I ate plenty of that when I

157

was growing up," Patricia noted. "But you said the Squatters even eat
muskrat and possum?"

"Oh, sure. I do, too. Muskrat's tough to dress, but it tastes like ham,
and on a possum the only thing ya eat is the back strap. Tastes like the
best pork tenderloin ya ever had if ya marinate it right, and the
Squatters know how to do it." He tapped her on the shoulder, looking
down. "You'll be able to try some. This weekend is the Squatters'
celebration feast. You'll think you walked into the county fair, and
they'll be cookin' up everything. These people know how to cook."

Her feet in the water relaxed her. She looked up at him, frowning.
"Ernie, I don't mind eating a little squirrel and rabbit, and crabs are
fine too, but now possum and muskrat? That's roadkill, if you ask me."

"You'll try some," he assured her. "One thing I remember about you from
way back is that you were always adventurous."

"Not that adventurous," she declared. It occurred to her in the briefest
moment that her position--sitting down at the pier's edge as he stood
over her--afforded Ernie a considerable view of her cleavage and
possibly even her nipples, given the leeway of her loose ivory blouse.
Again, she hadn't put a bra on, and she'd been oblivious to that fact
until just this second. But when she glanced back up at him to say
something, he was looking out at the water, not at her. What the hell is
my brain up to now? she asked herself. It's almost like I want him to be
looking at me ... but if he's not, I'm disappointed. I'm so screwed-up!
Then her original question resurfaced. "You said they're having a
celebration feast?"

"Yeah. Every month--every half-moon, whatever that means. They got some
weird ways."

158

The Squatters were notoriously superstitious but... Half-moons? she
wondered. "So what are they celebrating?"

"Life, I guess--in their own way. Nature, the crab harvest, the food
they get from the woods. But when ya think about it, it's the same thing
as our Thanksgiving."

Patricia supposed so. All societies, even today, seemed to have some
ritual of giving thanks for the abundance of the land. "What religion
are they, though?" she asked next. "I never quite got it."

"I asked Everd once, and he said they're worshipers of nature and love,
or some such, and left it at that. But then ya see a lot of 'em wearin'
crosses along with all those knickknacks and stones around their necks.
Their own kind of Christianity, I think it is, mixed with other stuff."

How interesting. Like Cuban Santeria and the obia of the Caribbean,
these religions amalgamated old African folk magic with traces of Roman
Catholicism and Protestantism. Even Haitian voodoo borrowed patron
saintdom and idolatry from Christianity. And now that Ernie had
mentioned it, she looked back at the men chopping up the crab bait and
noticed that one of them wore around his neck what appeared to be a
cross made from small animal bones.

"See, right out there," Ernie said, and pointed out to the bay.

Patricia focused out on the water. At the end of the berm, near the
inlet's mouth, she spotted a wide plank sticking up out of the water; on
its face someone had painted a cross.

"Everd supposedly blesses the Point every morning," Ernie said.

But Patricia was still looking out. There were actually two planks, she
noticed now, the second sunk directly

159

into the sand berm. But it wasn't a cross painted on it; it was some
sort of a squiggly design. "What's that second one there?"

"Some kind of clan good-luck sign," Ernie said. "Don't rightly know
exactly."

More superstition, Patricia realized.

One of the Squatters approached them, a knobby-kneed man in his fifties,
with a sun-weathered face and the trademark coarse, jet-black hair of
the Squatters. He seemed to be bearing the lid of a bushel basket as a
waitress would with a serving tray.

"Howdy, Regert," Ernie greeted him.

Regert, Patricia thought. What a strange name.

The man kept his eyes downcast, the way servants wouldn't look directly
at their masters, another thing that had always struck Patricia as
strange. "Miss Patricia, Mr. Ernie." He returned the greeting with a
curt nod. He set the basket lid down on a dock table. "We made ya both a
clan breakfast. Hope you like it. It's a blessing from the land."

"That's mighty nice of ya, Regert," Ernie said, then to Patricia: "This
is great; come 'n' have some."

Patricia got back up to look. Two tin tumblers of liquid sat on the
tray, along with a plate of shucked oysters and a bowl of...

What are those? she wondered. Prunes? Figs?

"Try our home-brewed aid, miss," Regert said, passing her one of the
tumblers.

"Thank you, Regert," she said, mystified. Ice cubes floated in the
tumbler full of a thin pink liquid.

Ernie took a glass for himself. "You could almost call it a Squatter
highball."

Patricia rolled her eyes. "I'm not going to have a cocktail at nine in
the morning!"

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But Regert sternly responded, "The clan do not imbibe, miss. Our bodies
are gifts from on high, temples of the spirit. Everd the sawon says so,
and we follow his word. The clan will not disgrace our bodies with
alcohol, the elixir of the devil."

Patricia was amused. This guy sounds more like a Southern Baptist.

"There ain't no booze in it," Ernie assured her. "It's stuff they make
from roots 'n' bark, stuff like that."

It didn't look terribly appetizing. "Well, you're the one who said I was
adventurous," she dismissed, and took a sip.

Her lips pursed at once. It doesn't look good, and guess what? It tastes
like it looks.

Ernie laughed and downed his in one swig. Patricia elected not to offend
Regert's hospitality, so she just said, "It's ... very interesting."

"Tastes like chalk at first, but give it a minute."

Patricia would give it more than that. Then she noticed that Regert,
like some of the others, also wore a cross pendant, which appeared to be
made from tiny vine twistings, and a dark stone hung from a second
pendant. By now she had to ask, "That's an interesting cross, Regert. So
you're a Christian?"

Regert nodded, still not making eye contact. "Yes, miss, the clan
believe in God's only Son, and in the earth that He has bestowed and in
the deliverance that He has promised, and in the earth and in the water
and in the holy universe."

Now that's a mouthful, Patricia thought, nearly bidden to laugh. The
holy universe?

"And earlier you referred to Everd as--what did you say? A sawon? That
means he's, like, the governor of the clan, right?"

161 "No, miss. Only God is our governor. Everd is our seer."

The comment piqued her. "You mean like a psychic person, a visionary? He
sees the future?"

Regert seemed on guard for some reason, less enthused to answer. "No,
miss. The sawon sees the paths that God wants us to travel in life, and
he shows us those paths."

Patricia was about to ask him to elaborate, but he quickly nodded again
with the same downcast eyes, and excused himself. "Good graces be with
you both, but I must return to my work, which is a gift from on high."

And then he was walking away.

"Thanks, Regert," Ernie said after him.

Patricia watched the man amble back to one of the dock sheds.

"Yeah, they definitely got their own ways," Ernie commented.

Patricia agreed. "They're very gracious people, but..." She slid her
tumbler away. "I can not drink any more of this."

"You'll have some oysters, though," Ernie said, eyes alighting on the
plate. "Remember how you 'n' me used to see who could eat the most when
we was kids?"

Patricia felt touched by the memory. "Of course."

"And you always won them contests, if I remember right."

"Yeah, I guess I did." But oysters, like crabs, she'd always loved;
she'd practically been raised on them. "These are huge," she remarked,
looking at the sprawl of six-inch shells on the plate.

"The Squatters dredge a couple a' bushels every morning." Ernie slurped
three in a row raw off the

162

shell. "Then we sell 'em to a few of the local markets for two bucks a
dozen; then the markets resell 'em for about four."

Patricia sucked one down, curling her toes, it was so fresh and briny.
"In D.C. they'll charge close to twenty dollars for a dozen oysters in a
restaurant. And these are ten times better." When she turned up the next
shell to swallow the oyster meat, a gout of juice ran down her chin and
neck. Great. Now I'll smell like oysters all day.

Ernie ate a few more. "I never did figure out if it was true what they
say, though."

Patricia stalled over the comment. Earlier she'd been abstracting that
Agan's Point seemed to be working some obscure aphrodisiac effect on
her, and now here was Ernie--whom she'd already had a sexual dream
about--mentioning the same supposed effect of oysters. But did he mean
anything more? He had a crush on me for years, she thought. And we never
did anything. We never even kissed. "I think that's just an old wives'
tale," she finally said. Her next oyster spilled more juice on her. "Jeez!"

"Gettin' more on yourself than in your mouth." Ernie laughed.

This time the juice ran down her chin and continued right down into her
cleavage. She felt spaced out for a moment, and suddenly she was
fantasizing again: Ernie pulling her blouse off without a word, and
licking the delectable juice out from between her breasts. Next she
imagined herself fully naked, right here on the dock, more and more
juice running salty rivulets down her stomach, filling her navel,
trickling down. ...

And Ernie licking it all away.

God, she thought, feeling flushed.

163

The oysters were gone now, and Ernie addressed the last object on the
bushel lid. "Naw, I don't know about oysters, and I don't know about
these, neither. But just ask any Squatter. They'll tell ya these are the
best aphrodisiacs in the world."

Patricia was glad for the distraction; she looked at the bowl. "Figs?"

"Naw. They're pepper-fried cicadas, and the ones we got here are the
biggest of 'em all. They dust 'em in wild pepper, then fry 'em in oil."

Patricia simply shook her head. "Ernie? There's no way on earth I would
ever eat one of those things. They're bugs. And I don't eat bugs."

Ernie grabbed a handful from the bowl, munching on them. They crunched
like fried wontons. "Aw, don't chicken out. Believe it or not, they
taste kinda like asparagus, but crunchy."

"Bugs don't taste like asparagus; asparagus tastes like asparagus,"
Patricia said. "I'm not eating bugs."

Ernie ignored her. "You grab one by the wings, like this. ..." His
finger plucked one up. "Then pull it off with your teeth. But don't eat
the wings. They're like wire." He demonstrated, eating another, then
plucked one up for her. He held it right before her mouth.

Patricia shook her head with vigor, insisting, "No!" Then she closed her
lips tight.

"Come on. Like the Squatters say, it's part a' God's bounty. Don't be a
chicken. Won't kill ya to try somethin' new."

Patricia smirked. Shit. I can't believe what I'm about to do, she
thought, then ate the turd-looking thing off his finger. It crunched
between her molars, but actually tasted interesting, not repulsive. "Not
bad," she admitted.

164

"Good. Have another."

"No! One bug's my limit. Now let's go!"

Ernie chuckled as they walked off the pier, the sun beaming on the water
behind them. "What's that building there?" she asked of a long
white-brick structure just up from the dock. "Another washhouse?"

"Naw, that's the line."

"The what?"

"The new pickers' building. We call it the line."

Patricia noticed small windows and a number of window-unit air
conditioners. "It looks new."

"Three, four years old. In fact, I think Judy told me once that it was
you who lent her the money to fix things up. So she had that built. You
remember the old pickers' shack that your daddy built, don't ya?"

"Yeah, and now that you mention it, it was... a shack," she said,
thinking back on the old rickety open-aired building. Squatter women
would sit together at long wooden tables inside, monotonously picking
the meat out of hundreds of crabs each per day. "Can we look inside?"

"Sure. In a way, it's yours." He opened a metal door, after which cool
air gusted out.

A peek inside showed Patricia why they called it "the line." Like a
production line, she thought.

Over a dozen Squatter women--from eighteen to sixty--sat at long wooden
tables. Cooked crabs would be clumped in the middle of the tables, and
from there the women would dismantle the spiny, bright-orange creatures
and begin to pick the meat out of them. Each woman wielded a small,
unsharpened knife with which she'd tease chunks of the white meat from
intricate inner shell channels. The meat would be flicked

165

into plastic one-pound containers, which, when filled, would be scurried
back to a walk-in refrigerator by a younger Squatter girl. Another girl
would hurry back and forth, removing the shell debris.

"They do it so fast," Patricia remarked.

The women's hands pried apart and demeated each crab completely, in only
minutes.

"They get a lot of practice," Ernie said. "I can pick a pound pretty
quick myself, but nothing like them. Couple of our girls can fill a
pound tub in ten minutes. We wanted to enter 'em into the annual pickin'
contest up in Maryland, but they wouldn't go, and that's a damn shame,
'cos they woulda won."

"Why didn't they want to go?"

"They said it was ungodly, or some such. To them, crabs, like all food,
are some kind of gift from the heavens, and shouldn't be turned into a
sport."

More weird philosophy, Patricia thought.

She couldn't imagine more tedious work. Picking crabs all day, every
day? But as she looked inside, the women couldn't have appeared more
content, chatting quietly amongst themselves as their hands and fingers
blurred through the process. In the background-- barely audible--an
evangelical radio station murmured oral missives from God.

"Just wait'll the Squatter cookout," Ernie promised. "They got their own
recipes for crab cakes, Newburg, and cream a' crab soup that're better
than anything you've ever had, even in them upscale D.C. restaurants."

Patricia believed it, and she could even remember a bit of it from her
childhood.

Ernie closed the door and showed her back to the path. "Guess we better
be headin' back to the house--

166

er, I should, at least. Gotta cut the grass. What'choo got planned today?"

"Nothing, really. I'll go back with you, check on Judy. Then I might go
into town, or maybe go for a walk in the woods." This was another
refreshing aspect of being back: not having to follow any agenda. But
she knew she should at least check her e-mail and give the firm a quick
call. Then she thought: And Byron! I haven't called him in a day and a
half! In fact, she'd actually spoken to him only once or twice since
she'd arrived. He'll be worried. ... But when she patted the back pocket
of her shorts, it occurred to her that she'd left her cell phone back in
her room.

The tree-lined path wended further upward; spangles of heat draped
across her face and chest from the sun pouring in through leafy branches
above them.

"There's another one," Ernie said without stopping. He pointed to a tree
as he walked on.

But Patricia paused.

A small plank, painted white, had been nailed to the tree in what
appeared to be a crude decoration. But out here? In the woods? It seemed
so peculiar. A simple but ornate drawing adorned the plank, some
squiggles and slashes; they seemed symmetrical, in some disordered way.

"Another one of their good-luck signs?" she asked.

Ernie had stopped just ahead of her, looking back. "Yeah. Ya see 'em
every now and then out in the woods. The woods are blessed land to the
Squatters."

Patricia peered closer at the design. "It just looks so ... unusual,
doesn't it?"

"I guess," Ernie said without much interest. "It's more creepy than
anything, if ya ask me."

Creepy... Yes, she supposed it was. The color of the

167

paint used to form the design was odd, too: a tannish slate. Is it even
paint? she wondered, touching it. Her finger came away smudged almost
black. Doesn't feel like paint. More like crayon.

Then she realized what it reminded her of. Last night... The note she'd
found in the garbage, addressed to Dwayne. Since then she'd paid no mind
to the weird sheet of paper she'd found, the sheet with one word written
on it. ...

Wenden.

Was it a name? She could look in the phone book but... Why? There was no
reason for her to care, so why did it seem to bother her now? The word
looked as though it had been written in some kind of thin-lined chalk,
similar to this good-luck sign on the tree.

"What'choo doing?" Ernie asked with a smile. "Hopin' some a' that
Squatter good luck'll rub off on ya?"

"Maybe," she said, and broke away.

But Ernie was right. The design was ... creepy.

A narrow creek broke the path, its crystal water burbling. Ernie stepped
over it in one easy stride; then Patricia hopped across herself. She
sighed as her mind cleared--a rarefied luxury for a city attorney--and
concentrated only on the cicada throbs, the babbling creeks around them,
and the steady crunch of Ernie's boots as he strode onward. This odd
sequence of sounds and sensations seemed to tranquilize her as
effectively as a low dose of Valium.

Ernie stopped and turned around. "Well, here's a problem."

"What?"

Another creek crossed the trail, several yards in girth and full of
jagged, algae-covered stones.

168

Then it occurred to Patricia that she was barefoot.

"You don't wanna cut'cher feet all up on them rocks," Ernie said.

Patricia laughed. "Ernie, I don't think I'm quite the city priss you
take me for. It won't kill me to walk barefoot through a creek." She
grinned, about to take her first careful step onto the stones. "Of
course, you could always carry me."

She'd said it as a joke, and was completely taken by surprise when he
grabbed her and picked her up. "I was only kidding!" she exclaimed.

"Ain't no trouble." He chuckled, hefting her. "Us country boys're
strong. Feels to me like you don't weigh much more than a bag a' peanut
shells anyway."

"You say the sweetest things, Ernie," she joked back. "Now, if you'd
said I weigh more than a grand piano, I'd know it was time to join
Weight Watchers."

He carried her easily with one arm bracing her back, the other under her
thighs. Her feet jounced in the air with each step, while her own arm
clung fast to him around his shoulders.

"I hope there's another creek," she kept joking. "Then we can try
piggyback."

"Don't'cha be teasin' me now."

But the rocking motion that came with each step lulled her more. She let
her head rest against his shoulder. He seemed to grip her tighter under
her rump, which increased the friction between her legs--a pleasurable
but aggravating sensation--and the position caused her right breast to
rub against his chest.

Did the cicada sounds begin to drone louder? She felt deceptively
relaxed in his grasp, rocking, rocking, as he stepped over more rocks;
she could've fallen asleep. Some strands of his long hair brushed her
face. The vee

169

of her blouse looped up; then she drowsily realized that one nipple was
showing.

She pretended not to notice.

Oh, God. The thought moaned through her mind.

She felt so strange, burning up with pent-up desires but lazy,
slothlike. The cicada drone continued to fill her head, and the rocking
motion continued to stimulate her sex, her breasts. But he remained the
perfect gentleman; he couldn't have not noticed her nipple. It tingled,
felt like it was swelling. ...

"Here we are. Ten cents for the ride ..."

On the other side of the creek he set her back down on her feet, and she
wasn't even aware of what she was doing when she pressed right up
against him, reached around and squeezed his buttocks, and kissed him,
and it was no friendship kiss. It was a famished one, a kiss incited,
even crazed by desires she couldn't identify, just some sexual arcana
that had swept her sense of reason away and left nothing but cringing
nerves and raw, animal impulse.

Ernie seized up in the sudden shock and leaned back against a tree, his
opened hands out--the roots of some moral reaction, perhaps: that though
this was a woman he'd been in love with so long ago, she was married
now, off-limits. But Patricia only pressed closer, slipping her tongue
into his mouth and squeezing his buttocks with even more deliberation.
Finally, threads of his resistance began to slacken. She moaned into his
mouth, put her arm around his waist, and squeezed her groin to his.

Patricia's mind raced in a desperate delirium. The suction of her kiss
drew his tongue into her mouth. She was never even aware when she
unbuttoned her blouse and bared her breasts. It was almost violent then,
when

170

she grabbed some of his long hair and urged his head lower.

His lips attached to an already swollen nipple and sucked. "Harder," was
the only word she uttered. She was cringing, like someone in a prickly
heat desperate for relief... but the prickly heat here wasn't rash; it
was an agonized desire, the crudest horniness that blocked out all
thoughts from her mind and simply demanded to be tended. Her groan was
barely even feminine when her earlier whimsy came true: after sucking
each nipple to a beating soreness, he licked up and down her throat,
sucked lines in between her breasts, tonguing off the oyster juice she'd
dribbled.

She moaned more, deeper in her throat. Then she grabbed his strong hand
and coaxed it down the front of her shorts, beneath the panties, pushed
some more and made him feel her there. Without hesitation, her own hand
roved his crotch, her fingers testing the already throbbing rigidity. ...

Then she prepared to haul his pants down and drag him to the ground,
make him take her right there in the blazing sun.

She didn't know what she was doing.

She was out of her mind. ...

If this sudden departure from her traditional monogamous values could be
thought of as a thing, that thing fell apart a second later, just as she
was getting his pants open.

Her hand froze; then her eyes vaulted wide and her mouth shot open in a
silent scream of self-outrage.

Oh, my God, oh, my God! What am I doing?

She quickly backed away from him, almost tripping over a tree root.

171

Ernie glared at her. "What the hell?"

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" she blurted. "I-I-I... can't!"

He stood there appalled, his pants open. "You're shittin' me! What the
hell's wrong with you, pullin' such shit!"

Patricia's shoulders slumped. Her face was beet red in shame. She
fumbled to button her blouse. "I'm sorry," she peeped.

"Damn it!" He refastened his jeans, clearly outraged. "Patricia, you
cain't be comin' on to guys like that 'n' then changin' yer mind!"

"I know. I'm sorry," she said yet again.

His glare sharpened. "What, thought you'd git your kicks by gettin' the
big dumb country boy all worked up 'n' then pullin' the plug?"

She shook her head desperately, fighting tears. "No, no, I'd never do
something like that, not to you or anyone."

"What then? What the hell's your problem?"

"I'm ... I'm married--"

"Married? Yeah, I know you're married! And you were married a minute ago
when you grabbed my hand 'n' put it down your pants! You were grabbin'
me by the hair to shove my face in yer boobs! Don't sound to me like you
were all that worried 'bout cheatin' on your husband!"

More embarrassment flushed over her. She struggled for something logical
to say, but what could be logical about this? She was mystified at
herself. I was about to have sex with him right here in broad daylight.
I had every intention of doing that. ... "Ernie, I don't know what to
say. Something just... came over me." She rubbed her eyes. "I've just
been ... weird lately, for some reason.

172

Since the day I got back. I haven't been myself, and I can't understand
it for the life of me. For those last couple of minutes, I wasn't even
thinking. It's like I was out of my mind."

"Well, you are out of your mind for playin' around with a fella like
that," he grumbled. But at least his frustration appeared to be abating.
He sat down at the base of the tree and just shook his head.

Patricia stood in frustration of her own. Her breasts, nipples, and sex
seemed to throb in objection, as though her mind had betrayed her body.
All that desire building up, building up, about to be relieved, and now
this guillotine of last-second morality. "I'm really sorry, Ernie," she
kept apologizing.

His own frustration urged a laugh as the moment cooled down. "Well, at
least we know now."

"Know what?"

"That it is true what they say about oysters and fried cicadas."

She shook her head, smiling. "Come on; let's go back. I promise not to
accost you."

But Ernie had already stood back up; he didn't seem to hear her. "I
wonder what that's all about?" He was staring across the hill.

"Huh?"

"Look."

Her eyes followed his finger.

The town police car was parked at the Stanherd house, its red and blue
lights flashing.

"Never seen nothin' like it," Sergeant Trey was telling them in the
foyer of the old Stanherd house. It had been so long since Patricia had
been inside the dilapidated plantation house that seeing it now refreshed no

173

memories. Nothing had been replaced, just repaired, however expertly,
such that she could've just walked through a time warp, back to the 1850s.

"And I guarantee there ain't never been nothin' like it, ever, in
Squatterville before, and not in Agan's Point either," Trey finished.
"Except for Dwayne last week, we ain't never had a murder in these
parts. And like that?"

It was too much information too fast. She and Ernie had jogged up to the
house upon seeing the cruiser's flashing lights, when Sergeant Trey had
told them that two of the clan's elders, Wilfrud and Ethel Hild, had
been murdered. Patricia thought she remembered the name, but simply
couldn't place faces that far back.

"Craziest thing I ever heard," Ernie murmured.

The old house smelled of incense, potpourri, and handmade candles. It
stood in dead silence, like something watching them in disapproval.
Wide, bare-wood stairs led up into darkness at one end of the foyer, but
Trey showed them through a sitting room full of throw rugs, faded,
intricately patterned wallpaper, and sunlight filtering through dusty
bay windows.

"Is the house empty?" Patricia asked.

"Only one here's Marthe," Trey said.

Everd's wife, Patricia remembered. "So the Hilds lived in the house too?"

"Yeah, along with some of the older couples. All the men are out on the
crabbing boats. That's why Everd ain't here. And the women are all out
gatherin' for the picnic comin' up. Ain't gonna be much of a picnic now.
Shit."

He took them deeper into the house's first floor, and more sun-edged
darkness. No pictures hung on the walls, which seemed strange, but
instead all kinds of

174

inexplicable handmade decorations: corn-husk flowers, oyster-shell
mosaics, and crosses, of course, some that appeared to be made of
small-animal bones. In frames, she also noticed more of those squiggly
designs, their mystical good-luck sign.

In the room farthest in back, Chief Sutter was grimly taking pictures
with a Polaroid, and making notes. From his face he looked like a man
experiencing stomach pains.

"You tell 'em?" he asked Trey.

His deputy nodded.

"Damnedest thing. Murders. In Squatterville, of all places."

Patricia frowned her confusion. "Chief, I don't understand. The Hilds
were murdered? Where are the bodies?"

"No, no, they weren't murdered here. Couple miles away, on the Point's
where their bodies were found. Old Man Halm came across 'em doin' his
morning walk. So me 'n' Trey checked it out." He put his notebook down
next to the camera, then sat down on a big poster bed that must have
been fifty years old. A purplish stone hung above the bed from a piece
of red yarn, and on the nightstand sat a jar of what appeared to be
pickled eggs.

"What's that in the jar?" she asked. "Eggs?"

"They call 'em creek eggs," Ernie said. "Just regular hen's eggs that
they bury in a creek bed for a coupla months, turns 'em black. Supposed
to ward off sickness, more clan superstition."

"Rotten eggs," Sutter muttered. "What a bunch of loonies."

"Stinks something fierce if ya open that jar."

Gross, Patricia thought.

The rest of the room stood as sparse as the house: a

175

cane chair and small walnut table for a desk. A closet full of clothes.
A claw-foot dresser and some candles in metal holders. Above the bed
hung a cross made of acorns glued together, and below it, yet another of
the good-luck designs.

Guess it didn't bring them much in the way of luck.

"Shit, poor Marthe's sittin' in the other room practically in shock."
Sutter rubbed his big face. "Couldn't get nothin' out of her when I was
questionin' her. Trey, go in and see if she's all right."

Trey nodded again and left the room.

"You were taking pictures," Patricia pointed out.

"Yeah, evidence. We're just a small-town department, Patricia, so
whenever something happens here that qualifies as a major crime, we
write up the report and collect whatever evidence there is, then turn it
over to the county sheriff's. They'll be doin' the investigation. Right
now, the county coroner's office is out on the Point, pickin' up the
bodies."

"But if the Hilds were murdered several miles away... why are you
treating this bedroom like the crime scene?"

"'Cos it is, now that I looked around." His hand tiredly gestured at the
closet and some open dresser drawers. "The Hilds were murdered like a
city drug execution. Are ya squeamish?"

"Try me," Patricia said.

"Ethel was stripped naked and chopped in half at the waist with an ax.
Wilfrud was tied to a tree and knifed. And he had a couple bags a'
crystal meth in his pocket." He pointed again to the closet and dresser.
"Then look what I find in there."

Under some linens in the dresser drawer, she noticed dozens of little
plastic bags containing either yellowish

176

granules or yellowish chunks of something that looked like pieces of
rock salt.

"Crystal meth," Sutter said. "Redneck crack. In the city where you live,
crack is the big drug, but out here in the boondocks? That stuff's the
ticket. They snort it, smoke it, shoot it up--one of them little bags
costs a couple bucks to produce; then they sell it for twenty. It's
superspeed, keeps ya high for eight hours. And it's just as addictive as
crack."

Patricia looked at the bags, astonished. "The Hilds were using this stuff?"

"Not using, selling, it looks like. See all that other stuff in the closet?"

A large plastic bag sat on the closet floor. When Patricia opened it,
she couldn't have been more bewildered.

"Matches?" Ernie said when he looked in too.

There must've been a hundred of them in the bag: matchbooks. Just plain
old everyday books of matches. "What does this have to do with--"

"It's part of the process. Meth-heads soak the matches in some kind of
solvent to get some chemical out of it-- not the matches themselves, but
the strike pads on each book. Then, up there on top, that's the main
ingredient."

On the closet shelf sat about a dozen bottles of storebrand allergy and
sinus medication that could be purchased over the counter in any drugstore.

"They soak the cold medicine in alcohol, then boil it and filter it,"
Sutter informed her. "That becomes the base for the crystal meth. Then
they mix it with the stuff from the strike pad and add some kind of
iodine compound, and cook it all down and distill it. I don't know the
whole process--it's pretty complicated. But any cop in the world'll tell
you that's what Wilfrud and Ethel Hild were into."

177

"Cain't believe it," Ernie said. "I known Wilfrud 'n' Ethel all my life.
They were weird, sure. But drug dealers?

"More than dealers," Sutter reminded him. "Producers. It takes all
kinds, Ernie, and sometimes--a lot of the time, actually--people ain't
what they seem."

Patricia supposed he was right about that. Sometimes people changed,
became corrupted, and not much else could corrupt a person's values more
effectively than poverty. But this was utterly shocking. With all her
education, and all her experience living in a large modern city,
Patricia was inclined to think that she knew a lot about human nature
and the world in general. But now she felt oblivious, even ignorant.

This was a different world from hers.

Chief Sutter rose, walked his girth to the open window, and what he said
next provided an eerie accompaniment to what Patricia had just been
thinking. "There's a secret world out there that folks like us either
don't see or just forget about 'cos it don't affect us." He was looking
out at the fringes of Squatterville, the ragtag tract of Judy's land
covered with tin shacks and old trailers. "And the world of crystal meth
is right out there somewhere, right under our noses. The shit's been
poppin' up more and more in our country over the past few years. Shit,
just the other day me 'n' Trey caught a couple of punks from out of town
tryin' to sell this selfsame shit down here. Crystal fuckin' meth." Then
he pointed out the window. "And all that out there is why they call it
redneck crack. Any one of them little shacks or trailers could be a meth
lab."

Patricia knew she couldn't not believe it; that would be naive. And
what's Judy's reaction going to be when she learns that some of her
Squatters are selling hard drugs?

178

"So you say Wilfrud and Ethel were murdered by other drug dealers?"
Ernie asked.

"Had to have been," Sutter answered. "That's how these people do
it--real psycho. The Hilds' operation must've been cutting in on someone
else's territory."

"The same thing happens in the city with the crack gangs." Patricia at
least knew that much. Just a month ago in the Post she'd read about how
drug dealers would kidnap and dismember the girlfriends of rival
dealers. "In the corporate world you buy out the competition, but in the
drug world you kill the competition."

"Sure." Sutter knew as well. "Old as history. The Hilds were probably
movin' in on someone else's turf, and now they got themselves killed for
it."

Car doors could be heard thunking from outside.

"Now the fun starts," Sutter muttered. "You two better git on back to
Judy's. County sheriff's just pulled up, and when they see all that shit
in the closet, they'll be callin' the state narcotics squad."

"Do you think they'll get warrants to search all the Squatters' homes?"
Patricia asked.

"Oh, I'm sure. Let's just hope this is isolated. If there was a whole
lot of other Squatters workin' with the Hilds, we're all in for a big
headache."

Patricia and Ernie walked back out to the foyer with Sutter. The door
stood open in another room; inside, Sergeant Trey could be seen quietly
questioning a very shaken Marthe Stanherd. The thin, elderly woman
looked like a bowed scarecrow as she murmured answers to Trey's queries.

Trouble in paradise,. Patricia thought. Serious trouble...

She and Ernie slipped out, leaving Chief Sutter to brief the incoming
county officers. As they walked back across the rising hill--the sun
beating down, and the

179

cicadas out en masse--Patricia took another glance back at the humble
sheds and shacks of Squatterville, and wondered if last night's brutal
murders were a fluke, or a new beginning for Agan's Point.

The fringes of Squatterville were marked with small, uneven vegetable
patches that the clan's children would tend, mostly spring onions, soy
beans, radishes. Patricia thought of Marthe Stanherd once more when she
spied a genuine scarecrow mounted at the field's edge: old straw-stuffed
clothes and a grimacing potatosack face beneath a corroded hat. The
crucified thing seemed to reach out to them with skeletal hands
fashioned from twigs.

Around its neck hung, not a cross, but a small wooden board acrawl with
elaborate squiggles. ...

"Patricia! Goodness!" Judy called to her the instant she stepped into
the kitchen. Despite last night's overindulgence with liquor, and the
mental aftermath of her husband's funeral, Judy looked peppy, vibrant,
her grayish-red hair flowing in a mane around her face. "Byron called
and he's worried sick about you! Shame on you for not calling him!"

The exclamation caught Patricia totally off guard. "Byron called the house?"

"Yes," Judy sternly replied. "A little while ago. He said he's been
leaving messages on your cell phone since yesterday."

Oh, God...

Judy wagged a scolding finger. "Don't you dare neglect that wonderful
husband of yours--"

Ernie stepped up, interrupting. "Uh, Judy, lemme talk to ya a minute.
The police are at the Stanherd house right now. There was some bad
trouble last night. ..."

180

Patricia edged away, leaving Ernie to make the grim report of the Hilds'
murders to her sister. She was back in her room in a few seconds, then
retrieved her cell phone and called Byron.

"Oh, God, I was so worried, honey," he expressed. "Are you all right?"

"Yes, Byron, I'm fine--"

"I left messages and you never called back, so I thought--"

"Everything's fine, honey," she said, feeling like a complete lout. What
could she say? "Things were just so busy here with the funeral service
and the reception, and all the people. There're so many people here who
remember me--I didn't really expect that."

"But that was all yesterday, right?"

"Well, yes--"

"So why didn't you call me this morning?"

Patricia stalled. She looked, horrified, to the clock: it was almost
noon. "I'm so sorry. I slept late--I was so exhausted. Then I went for a
walk to get the gears turning. But I was going to call you when I got
back, and I just got back a minute ago." She frowned at herself. Now she
was simply lying. How could she tell her own husband that she'd
completely forgotten about him? That she'd been out "for a walk," all
right, with a man she'd been having sexual fantasies about and... and
... And whom I practically just screwed in the woods? she finished for
herself.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I guess I'm overreacting. I know how that place
distresses you. Plus, I just..." There was a pause on the phone. "I
guess I'm just a big, whiny, insecure pud, but I had a horrible dream
last night that you were having sex with another man.

181

Someone should've given Patricia an Oscar for the skill and immediacy
with which she next tossed her head back and laughed and said, "Oh,
Byron, you're so ridiculous sometimes. There's not one solitary man in
Agan's Point who isn't a redneck hayseed with a busted-up pickup truck.
At least have enough respect for me to dream that I'm getting it on with
Tom Cruise or Johnny Depp, someone like that." But even through her
recital, she was thinking, Holy, holy, holy shit!

Now--to Patricia's relief--Byron laughed. "Yeah, I guess it was a pretty
dumb dream. I'm just glad everything's okay."

Finally she had the opportunity to change the subject but to something
not so okay. "Actually, there was a big shocker just this morning. The
police have been here--"

"Police?"

"--and evidently two of the Squatters who live on my sister's land were
murdered last night."

"What!" he exclaimed.

"Yeah, it's the craziest thing. There have never been murders here ever;
then all of a sudden Dwayne gets killed, and now this."

"I want you out of there right now," Byron insisted. "Sounds like that
backward boondocks place is boiling over. Get in the car right now and
come home!"

"Byron, now you are overreacting. It was drug-related, the police said,
and it happened miles away out in the woods. Judy's just finding out
about it now, but even though it's tragic and all that, it's nothing for
us to get all worked up over. A Squatter couple were secretly dealing
drugs, and they got murdered by a rival drug gang--that sort of thing.
It's not like there's a serial killer prowling Agan's Point."

182

"Well, I don't like it," Byron affirmed. "The funeral's over and done
with, so there's no reason for you to stay. You hate the place anyway."

"Byron, the whole reason I came in the first place was to give my
unstable and fairly heavily drinking sister some support in her time of
need. I'll be back next week, just as we planned."

"Well, all right. But I still don't like it. And you need to call me--"

"I will, honey," she promised. "Most of the commotion's over now, so
there won't be any more distractions. And once I get Judy back on her
feet, I'll be home in a flash."

"Good." He paused. "I really miss you and I really love you. You've only
been gone for a few days and I'm already realizing how important you are
to me. I guess I don't show it much. ..."

"Byron, of course you do, so stop it." She truly did love him--more than
anything--and she did want to get back to be with him. Her little mishap
in the woods with Ernie was just a fluke brought on by the stress of
being back; it was simply a loss of control in a moment run amok. I do
love Byron, she attested to herself. Ernie was no more than a man in a
magazine ad whom she'd happened to notice.

On the other hand--and as loving and genuine as he was--Byron did have
his moments of insecurity. He was an overweight middle-aged man, and
Patricia was still a well-endowed, beautiful woman. She knew it must be
hard for him to deal with sometimes.

"You never have to 'do' things to prove your love to me," she continued.
"Just being you is the proof. Please remember that. And I love you too,
very much. Remember that too."

183

"I will," he replied, a bit choked up.

"I'll call tonight, and every night I'm here. And I haven't forgotten. I
even have a cooler."

"What?"

"Your Agan's Point crab cakes, silly!"

"Good. And the minute you get back here, I'm going to eat them off your
beautiful, naked body. That's a promise."

"Byron, nothing turns me on more than culinary sex," she said, laughing,
and then they bade their final "good-byes" and "I love yous" and rang off.

Patricia lay back on the bed and let out a great sigh. The conversation
left her relieved and ashamed at the same time, not a good combination.
She had lied to him--little white lies, but lies just the same--and she
had offered invented excuses, and maybe that was good, because it helped
her confront something important about herself.

It's all me. It's not Byron. There's nothing wrong with my marriage, and
there's nothing wrong with him. So ...

And the coincidence jolted her. He's been having dreams about me
cheating on him, and I've been having dreams about me cheating on him.
And today, with Ernie, I almost did cheat on him.

It was with a total spontaneity that she roved through her cell phone's
address book and found herself looking at Dr. Sallee's number, and
before she knew what she was doing, the line was ringing.

He probably doesn't even remember me, she thought. She'd seen him only
once, when she and Byron had returned from Agan's Point after Judy's
wedding. When the receptionist answered, she said, "Hi, my name's
Patricia White. I had a session with Dr. Sallee several years ago. I was
wondering if I could arrange a phone

184

consultation. I could give you my credit card number over the phone."

"Is your home address still the same?"

"Yes."

Keys were heard tapping. "Yes, we still have it on file."

"Great. Then if possible could you give me a time to call back for a
consultation?"

"One moment, please."

As Patricia waited, she didn't even know what she would say once she got
the consultation. I don't really even know why I called. ...

"Dr. Sallee is available now," the receptionist told her. "I'll put him on."

"Thank you--"

"Patricia White?" the next voice asked.

"Yes, Doctor. You probably don't remember me but--"

"The real estate lawyer with blazing red hair--of course I remember. How
are you?"

She was flattered he remembered her. "All in all, I'm fine, but... I've
been having some problems for the last several days."

"When you came to me last time, we'd nailed your problem in general as a
reactive symptom of monopolar depression. You'd left town to attend your
sister's wedding, at a place called ..."

"Agan's Point," she helped him.

"Yes, the crabbing town. Your depression was activated by memories of a
sexual trauma--a rape--that you suffered at age sixteen. We agreed that
this depression was entirely location triggered, and decided that as
long as you kept your distance from Agan's Point, the depression would
not recur. I presumed this theory

185

worked, because I never heard from you again. Am I wrong?"

"It did work," she said. "I felt fine after that and have for the last
five years. But for the last few--"

"Where are you right now, exactly?" he interrupted.

"Agan's Point," she slowly admitted. "This time for a funeral--my
sister's husband."

Dr. Sallee's voice came after a long pause. "That's regrettable. So your
depression has recurred. ..."

"No, that's the surprising part. It's almost the opposite. For the days
I've been back in Agan's Point, I haven't felt depressed at all. I've
felt great; I've felt enthused."

"Strange," the doctor said, "but considerable."

Now Patricia mulled over words in her mind, trying to choose the right
ones. "I don't really know how to say it, but--"

"Just say it," Dr. Sallee suggested.

The words leaked out slowly: "Something about coming back has made me
feel more sexual than I've felt in years. It's actually scaring me, and
I'm beginning to feel out of control." In spite of the miles between
them, her face reddened. "I'm ... masturbating much more than normal,
and every night I have very intense sexual dreams, which is unusual for
me--"

"Sexual dreams? Masturbation? There's nothing abnormal about that," the
doctor told her. "This is all an aspect of passive sexuality. There's
nothing out of control about it."

Passive sexuality, she thought. She was even more embarrassed to tell
him the rest. Her throat choked up. "I'm almost ashamed to continue "

"Patricia"--he chuckled--"I'm your counselor. We're essentially
strangers, not to mention the fact that

186

everything you say to me is in professional confidence. My rates are
high, so you might as well get your money's worth. Make me work for it.
I can't help you unless you tell me everything that leads you to think
you're out of control."

It made perfect sense. So she said it: "I almost cheated on my husband
about an hour ago. That's never happened before. And I was going to do
it. ..."

Dr. Sallee didn't seem the least bit fazed. "Is there trouble in the
marriage?"

"None," she said. "It's the best marriage any woman could ever ask for.
I've never not been sexually fulfilled with my husband. We're perfectly
compatible in every way, even sexually--especially sexually."

"Was the person you almost cheated with a stranger?"

"No. A boy--er, I should say a man my age--whom I grew up with. We were
best friends since childhood."

"Any sexual experiences with him in the past, before your marriage? A
high school romance, perhaps, experimentation when you were
younger--playing doctor, and the like?"

"No. I know he wanted that, but I was never interested back in those
days. I was always very goal-oriented as an adolescent, and even through
college." Ernie, Ernie, Ernie, she thought. I never really noticed you
over all those years. So why now? "I've seen him maybe three times since
I left Agan's Point over twenty years ago. But this time, when I came
back for the funeral... something happened. I just all of a sudden find
him very attractive."

"Hmm," came the counselor's response. "From a clinical standpoint--so
far, at least--this all sounds very good."

187

The remark astonished her. "Good? I'm in total turmoil!"

"I said from a clinical standpoint. In the past, whenever you returned
to Agan's Point, you'd become clinically depressed. Today you've
returned to Agan's Point, but you're not depressed at all. You feel
great--to use your own words of a moment ago. You feel enthused. Your
depression is gone, so that's a good thing."

Now she saw his point, but he still wasn't seeing hers. "Yes, I feel
enthused, but I also feel very, very sexual--"

"To the point that you nearly committed an infidelity," he added, "and
this is what's bothering you now."

"Exactly. It doesn't make sense. It makes me feel like I must be sick or
something, because--"

"Because," he kept finishing for her, "it doesn't seem right for you to
feel sexual in the very place that has always reminded you of the worst
trauma of your life, which just so happened to be a sexual trauma."

"That's exactly what I mean," she said, sighing in relief that he'd made
it easier for her.

His voice almost sounded bored as he continued. "In my job, I've had
many patients who were victims of sexual abuse, multiple rape, sexual
torture, and worse. You'd be surprised how many women, for instance,
will go years or even decades without ever telling anyone--even their
counselors--that they experienced orgasms during their trauma, because
in their minds it seems wrong, it seems shameful, it seems sick to
experience pleasure during a revolting ordeal. In truth, quite a
considerable percentage of rape victims experience a sexual release, and
it doesn't mean they're sick at all. It's just their body reacting to a
primordial function. It's not sick, it's not shameful, and its not
abnormal."

188

Patricia calculated this with a reserved interest. She, too, had
experienced orgasm during her rape--the first orgasm of her life--and
she'd never told anyone for the same reasons the doctor had just cited.
I never even told Dr. Sallee, she realized, and now I guess I know why
he never asked.

Suddenly there was a tear in her eye, but it was a quietly joyous one.
"You have no idea how good that makes me feel."

"I'm glad," the doctor said. "And you should be glad, too, of a lot of
things--at least based on what you're telling me today. Most rape
aftercare revolves not so much around psychotherapy, medication, and
group counseling, but around the evolvement of the individual, coming to
terms and dealing with it. It's clear to me that you've done this."

This was good to know, but it still didn't solve her problem. "It's like
the old problem is gone, but now there's a new one."

"But is it a grievous one?" he asked, already knowing the answer. "Is it
a debilitating one? No. In fact, it's got nothing whatever to do with
your trauma of so many years ago. Let me allegorize. Are you computer
literate?"

She frowned at the question. "I think so. We have a network at the
office, and I do all right."

"Good, then I'll use my favorite comparison on you." He chuckled.
"Lawyers tend to be objective thinkers; they deal in black-and-white
terms. But this is not a black-and-white issue, is it? The human brain
is the most sophisticated 'thing' in the world. Ten trillion brain
cells, one hundred trillion synaptic connections. Think of it as a
computer. That computer is programmed by the experiences of life, good
and bad. Well,

189

sometimes the files glitch; sometimes they get viruses and have to be
cleansed. A rape, for instance, can be thought of as an infected file, a
file gone bad, a file that's no longer functioning in synchronicity with
the other files it's been programmed to operate with. When we can't
delete a bad file, we try to quarantine it, and sometimes we can't even
do that because the file is so out of sorts. Your rape experience is a
bad file, Patricia. You've been quarantining it for years, which has
worked, but now the computer is appending that file, to make it more
serviceable to the system--rewriting the file. This is a sophomoric
analogy, but it might help you understand. As far as your rape is
concerned, the file has been rewritten; it no longer has a negative
effect on the system."

Dr. Sallee's simile did let her see the problem in a clearer light. "But
what about--"

"An unexplained heightened sexuality in a nonsexual setting?" he
finished for her yet again. "Same thing, different program. Only in this
case there was never a bad file. Think of it, instead, as a scheduled
maintenance activation. The way a calendar program will flash reminders
on your screen at a preset time?" Another chuckle. "You're approaching
your mid-forties, Patricia, which is the actual sexual peak for most
women. Consciously, you've been groomed by your social and professional
environment--a very specific environment. You've never wanted children,
for instance, because it doesn't suit the course you've chosen for your
life, and part of the reason you chose your mate is because he doesn't
want children, either. Some people simply don't, but all people--all
mammals, in fact-- have an inborn instinct to reproduce. It's in our
genes whether we like it or not. It's in our brains, our

190

computers, so to speak--it's one of the operations programs. As we get
older--women, especially--that program begins to run faster, to try to
become the priority over other programs. It's trying to beat the
inevitability of still one more program--one called menopause--an
infertility program. In ten years--less, perhaps--your body knows that
you will no longer be able to reproduce, so it's lighting up your sexual
awareness, going for that last chance of reproductive success. It's all
genetic, subconscious. It exists independent of your values and domestic
and personal desires. What I'm trying to tell you, Patricia, is that an
inexplicable sexual spike at your age is perfectly commonplace. It has
nothing to do with your rape, and it doesn't mean there's anything wrong
with you. It doesn't mean that you're a tramp or a cheat or a deceptive
person. All it means is that you're a perfectly healthy middle-aged
woman. For your entire adulthood, you've excelled in everything, and
you've been in total control of yourself. You still are. The reason it's
happening now is simply because you're in a different place, away from
your spouse, and your subconscious mind is selecting 'targets' of sexual
opportunity. Almost every single female patient I have in your age group
is experiencing the same thing. It's normal, Patricia. And you won't
cheat on your husband even when it seems that your body and your mind
want to. What'll happen instead is you'll return to your home soon and
probably have a lot of great sex with your husband."

Now Patricia was the one chuckling.

The doctor began to finish up. "But until you do return home, you'll
still experience this, so just be ready for it. It's okay to masturbate;
it's okay to have sexually

191

vivid dreams. It's all part of your sexuality. The important thing is
not to worry about it, and don't get yourself worked up. Nobody knows
you better than yourself, Patricia. You know you're not going to cheat
on your husband, don't you?"

It was with every confidence now that she answered, "Yes."

"In that case, I can say that I'm happy to have gotten to talk to you
today, and unless there's anything else bothering you, then we should
hang up now so I won't have to erroneously bill you for therapeutic
services that I haven't earned."

The man was a hoot. "Thank you very much, Doctor."

"And thank you. The disappearance of your depression proves that... I
must be a fairly good doctor."

"That you are. Have a great day."

Patricia hung up, feeling exuberant. I'm not a cheating, conniving sex
maniac after all. And he's right. I'm cured of my Agan's Point
depression. This knowledge was an optimal way to commence with the rest
of the day.

With that off her mind, though, she was reminded of more serious
matters. Judy, she thought. Just when she gets over one tragedy, she
gets hit on the head with another one: the murder of the Hilds. By now,
she was sure Ernie had explained what he knew of it, and Patricia
supposed she should check on her soon to see how she was taking the
news. But first...

She started up her laptop and went online. Her mailbox remained free of
anything from the firm, so next she took to Googling around a little.

Crystal meth, she thought. She'd heard of it, of course, just errant
pieces sometimes in the news, but she really didn't know anything
specific about it. In a moment,

192

the Drug Enforcement Administration's official Web site opened before
her. A highly addictive Class II narcotic as defined by the Controlled
Substances Act, she read. A superstimulant that produces long-lasting
euphoric effects. When she added the word ingredients to her search,
other, more obscure pages came up. Active ingredients: pseudoephedrine.

Never heard of it, she thought, until she read on and discovered that
the chemical was derived from a complicated distillation and filtering
process that began by dissolving over-the-counter allergy medications in
certain types of solvent. She'd seen the cache of allergy remedies in
the Hilds' bedroom.

The next primary ingredient listed was a phosphorous compound called RD,
something else she'd never heard of, but more recognition bloomed when
she read the first few lines: that the easiest way for "guerrilla
meth-heads" to obtain this compound was through another complicated
distillation process using striker pads on paper matchbooks. Chief
Sutter mentioned the same thing, she recalled, and she also recalled the
veritable garbage bag full of matchbooks in the Hilds' closet.

It's hard to believe, she thought. The Hilds? But it didn't matter how
hard it was to believe; it still must be true. Judy wouldn't believe it
either, but she had a tendency to be naive. The Squatters are like her
children, even the older ones. Nobody wants to believe their "children"
manufacture hard drugs in secret.

And now they'd been brutally murdered by outside drug dealers.

Patricia read on. Crystal meth was a man-made stimulant; it didn't occur
in nature. Even small doses could last up to twelve hours, and the
street price was relatively cheap: twenty dollars per dose. Clinical -

193

addiction rate? Around ninety percent, close to that of crack, and like
cocaine it could be administered effectively several ways: snorting,
injecting, smoking. The smoking form was called "ice," (small
crystalline chunks were placed in a pipe); the inhaled form was called
"tweak" on the street.

Patricia was nearly amused when she came across the next street term:
"redneck crack," something Chief Sutter had mentioned. It was all
logistical, she read. Cocaine was typically transported to large urban
centers for the already existing market. It was harder to get, and
riskier, because the base form for any type of cocaine was derived from
the tropical coca shrub, which grew only in Africa and northern South
America. But since crystal meth was synthetic, it could be produced
anywhere, and didn't require constituents that needed to be procured
from other countries. Many a trailer park contained secret meth
labs--hence the nickname of redneck crack. A thousand dollars' worth of
equipment and ingredients--all available at drugstores and hardware
stores--could generate five to ten thousand in profit, if the person
knew what he was doing. Crystal meth, in other words, was the perfect
illicit drug for remote areas. ...

Like Agan's Point, Patricia deduced.

And, according to the government Web sites, crystal meth use was
growing, reaching into society's less accessible nooks and crannies. It
was considered an epidemic in the drug culture, and like all narcotics
it piggybacked HIV, hepatitis, and crime right along with it.

Jesus. And now this stuff is here. ...

Patricia went back to the living room, dreading her sister's reaction.
Judy looked drawn-faced now, partly

194

confused and partly infuriated. Ernie was pouring her some coffee as she
mused: "I guess that's the modern world. In the old days, people used to
have stills in the woods and make their corn liquor. Now they're making
this stuff... this crystal stuff. And not just any people. My people. My
Squatters."

"It's probably just isolated, Judy," Patricia said when she came in and
sat down. She wanted to sound optimistic, but didn't really know if that
was honest or not. "It was probably just the Hilds doing it."

"You think you know people," Judy said, oblivious. "You like them, you
help them, and they seem perfectly normal, perfectly decent, hardworking
folks. Then one day you find out the truth. I give 'em a free place to
live; I give 'em work when they ain't really suited for work nowheres
else. And they do this to me. They been takin' the money I pay 'em to
make this drug stuff. And we got a lotta Squatters on the Point. I'd be
plumb stupid to think it was just the Hilds."

"Aw, Judy, you don't know that," Ernie said. "I think it was just the
Hilds. They was always a bit strange anyways, more'n most of the
Squatters. And may God forgive 'em, but it looks to me like they got
what was coming. Ain't no way I believe there's a whole lotta this goin'
on at the Point. These people are crabbers, for Christ's sake. Everd's
got 'em cowed like he's Jesus Himself. The Squatters don't even drink. I
ain't never even seen one smokin' a cigarette or chewin' chaw. They all
think it's a sin to drink 'n' smoke, so makin' hard drugs is ten times
worse. The Hilds was bad apples, is all. Every basket has a few."

Judy leaned back in her chair, brushing hair from her eyes as if
exhausted. "But that's all I been hearin' lately. Squatters gettin' in
fights, Squatter's turnin' lazy

195

at the line, Squatters leavin' the Point 'cos it ain't good enough for
'em no more, like the work I give 'em ain't good enough. I'm hearing all
the time these days that some a' the prettier clan girls're sellin'
theirselves-- whorin'--but all Chief Sutter 'n' everyone else says is
the same blamed thing. 'Oh, don't worry, Judy. They're just a few bad
apples.' Well--Christmas!--it's startin' to look like we got the whole
orchard goin' bad."

Wow, she's really riled up, Patricia realized. This was rare. "Judy, I
think you're overreacting. It's inevitable. Anywhere you go, bad
elements can work their way in and have a negative effect on otherwise
good people."

"She's right," Ernie agreed. "You don't need to be worryin' about this,
'specially after what'cha just been through."

Judy's large bosom fell as she sighed. "I guess things do change, no
matter how bad we don't want 'em to." Her eyes sought out Patricia's.
"Mom and Dad never had problems with the Squatters, but the world ain't
the same place as it was back then."

"No, it's not," Patricia said. "As society progresses, good things come
with the progress, but so do some bad things."

Now Judy's eyes seemed to be looking more at herself than anywhere else.
"I don't know, Patricia. Maybe I really should just up 'n' sell the
company, the Point, everything. Maybe it's time."

Oh, Lord. Here we go... The image of Gordon Felps flashed in her
mind--and it was a shifty image. "You don't need to be thinking about
anything of the sort just yet. Things will probably be back to normal in
no time."

Another long sigh. "Gracious, I hope so. Ernie, will you get me a glass
of wine, please? I need something to relax."

196

"Sure."

Great, Patricia thought. She's going to get drunk again. "I'll go fix
lunch," she offered, if only to keep things active. The day had turned
sour fast: first notice of two murders as well as drug activity on her
sister's property, and now Judy all wound up again. At least one good
thing happened, she thought with a slight smile. Her talk with Dr.
Sallee left her feeling much better about her recent dreams and
behavior. There's nothing wrong with me, thank God. ...

But when she headed for the kitchen, Ernie cast a quick glance at her
when she passed. Was it a neutral look? Or did his eyes brush over her
breasts? Just my imagination, she insisted. He'd been quite a gentleman,
in the aftermath. But she couldn't shed the reminder. Dr. Sallee or not,
she was attracted to him, and-

I almost had sex with him today--in the woods. ...

She busied herself over cold cuts in the kitchen preparing sandwiches. A
simple cross hung by the bright window--a normal cross--but for whatever
reason she was reminded of the much stranger crosses used by the
Squatters, and their bizarre good-luck charms. She truly did believe
that the Hild tragedy was isolated, but somewhere deeper in her spirit
she feared that something else just as bad was about to happen.

197

Seven

(I)

Think I'll have me a jerk, Junior thought. His brother Ricky was out
right now, took the truck over to Crick City to pick up some things at
Wordon's Hardware: muriatic acid (whatever that was, some kind of
cleaner, he guessed), acetone, and some special kind of alcohol called
"denatured." Junior didn't know shit about crystal meth, but the way
Trey explained it, these were the things that rednecks used to make the
stuff in their trailers. He already had a bag of matchbooks and several
bottles of allergy medicine ready to go--all for appearance' sake.

Junior had done the rough stuff last night, so tonight was Ricky's turn,
which was fair enough. This Felps fella was paying righteous bucks for
the work, and it was fun--it got their dander up--and it sure as hell
beat real work.

Yeah, he thought again. I need a jerk, all right. Still all

198

hot 'n bothered from last night. Get one off quick, before Ricky comes
home. He rooted through their box of video porn, hunting for his
favorite: Barnyard Babes #4, but then thought, Aw, shit, that's right.
The tape had broken a few weeks ago, so he'd ordered a new one. Fuckin'
post office is slower 'n' molasses. Shoulda got it by now. Such were the
disappointments in Junior's existence. He started to hunt through the
box of tapes again but then realized, Hell, I can do without it, I
guess, because he was indeed still a bit tingly with the image of Ethel
Hild in his head. The old bitch was actually pretty good-lookin'--for an
old bitch, at least--and Junior had had a good time putting the blocks
to her, and then, when he thought about chopping her in half with the ax...

He felt his crotch, nodding in satisfaction. Who needs porn? I'm ready
to go without it. Yes, Ethel Hild ... She'd been something. For some
reason, making that weirdo husband of hers watch as he'd dropped the ax
made it that much more of a turn-on. Junior had especially liked the way
her titties jiggled as he'd chopped, and then when she'd started
crawling away ... ?

The recollection enticed him further. But soon other images entered his
head. Judy, he thought next. Not a bad-lookin' dish either, and those
big tits? Junior wouldn't mind doing a similar job on her, just tear the
clothes right off her and get her really screaming. And then another
image...

Patricia.

She was about the cream of the Agan's Point crop: one hundred percent
pure-grade fox. That silky, bright red hair? And the tits on her?
Jeez... Junior was breaking out in a sweat just thinking about that one.

199

Maybe get her 'n' Judy at the same time, have me a double stack.

Then chop them both in half when he was finished.

All these delicious images challenged Junior's power of decision. Who to
think about? It got downright maddening sometimes

He sat down on the couch, was about to pull his pants down and get to
it, when--

There was a knock on the door.

Junior sputtered. Jesus, a man can't even jerk off in peace around here!
Grunting, he got back up, shifted his pants a little, then opened the door.

"Howdy, Junior. You got a package."

The mailman, Charlie Meitz. He was a big guy with a shaved head, and a
mustache that made him look sort of like Hitler.

Junior frowned. "Why didn't ya just leave it in the mailbox?"

"Too big. Plus, I wanted to say hi."

Shit. Charlie shook the box, offering a sly smile. "What's this? A
videotape?"

"Don't you be shakin' my mail around," Junior complained. God, he hated
interruptions.

Now the postman looked at the return address. "Hmm, T and T Video,
California. Sounds like one a' them porn companies--"

"Gimme that!" Junior barked. He snatched the box away and closed the
door. Fuckin' nosy pain in the ass ... He peered out the side window,
looked down the driveway of the crappy little house he and his brother
shared, then muttered, "Aw, shit! Cain't even beat off in my own house!"
Just after the mail truck pulled away, Ricky pulled the pickup up into
the driveway.

200

Fuck. Business would have to wait; Ricky'd be going out late tonight to
do more of the job they'd both been hired for. He opened the box that
the mailman had brought him and, sure enough, out slid a brand-new copy
of Barnyard Babes #4.

Cain't wait to watch this one again. It was a real hoot what some of
those dirty chicks did.

He bellied over to the kitchen table and put the tape down. That nutty
postman had also given him the rest of the regular mail, which Junior
flipped through now. Buncha' shit, he thought. Here was one letter from
the county supervisor of elections, urging him to register to vote. Fat
chance. Phone bill, power bill, water and sewage bill. Least we got the
money to pay, he thought. Felps paid well, and he and Ricky both were
hoping the man would want more work.

There was one more letter in the pile, but... Don't look like no bill,
at least. It was addressed specifically to Junior, in scratchy
handwritten scrawl.

There was no return address.

(II)

It was dirty work, but that was what Ricky Caudill was cut out for. He
didn't like to be bored. His brother had done a good job last night,
real down and dirty, and the effect was exactly what they'd been hired
for. Junior had killed the Hilds in grand style, and Trey had flaked
their room at the Stanherd house. So ...

Tonight's my turn.

It should be a fast, easy job. Those first dozen or so disappearances
hadn't done the trick. No dice, Ricky thought. As it turned out, only a
handful of Squatters!

201

had left. So Felps had this new idea, something on a bigger scale. If
the state cops thought the Squatters were running an extensive meth
operation, they'd roust them big-time, and Judy would just say to hell
with it, and sell the land out from under them anyway. Then..

Problem solved.

The moon hung low beneath reefs of clouds. Ricky slipped through the
woods along a barely visible trail. He didn't hear many cicadas tonight;
their season would be ending soon. Ricky felt totally alone and totally
at peace. Another hundred yards or so and he'd be at the tree line
around the Point.

In one hand he carried his bag of "supplies": two bottles of denatured
alcohol, some Breathe-Free sinus medication, a smaller bottle of
acetone, matchbooks, and a couple of grams of crystal meth. Most of it
would be destroyed in the fire, but there'd still be enough traces left
over to convince the police and fire department what had happened. The
plan sounded perfectly plausible; all the time you'd hear how meth-heads
would accidentally spill a little solvent on their stove elements, and
next thing they knew, their trailer was burning down. That was what was
going to happen tonight.

In his other hand, he carried a hubcap mallet.

Almost there, Ricky thought. At the wood line, he slowed. The only trick
was getting in and out without being seen. He'd already had the place
picked out; some Squatter named David Something-or-other had himself a
small wooden shack at the western edge of the woods, fairly far away
from most of the others.

He crept up, careful not to let the bag crinkle. Moonlight painted one
side of the shack luminous white. Shit... He slipped by quickly, then
plunged into the

202

darkness of the shack's front side. No lights could be detected from the
makeshift windows, but he did hear snoring--a good thing.

And another good thing: out here in the quiet, peaceful boondocks,
nobody ever locked their doors. Hell, most of these Squatter shacks
didn't even have doors, just curtains or hinged planks, or sheet
plastic, like this guy had.

Ricky ever so quietly set the bag of incriminating supplies down on the
front stoop; then he stepped through the sheet plastic.

He'd seen David Something-or-other on the docks and around town in the
past. Didn't know the guy, but then Ricky didn't associate with
Squatters, except maybe some of the trashier girls for twenty-dollar
tricks, but there weren't many who did that. This guy was in his
thirties, it looked like, short like all the Squatters, but built up
pretty well from working his ass off all his life hauling crab bushels.
Ricky, on the other hand, was more fat than muscle, and without some
backup or a knife--or, in this case, a big hard-rubber) hubcap
mallet--he probably wouldn't stand a chance' against this David cracker.

Except when he's asleep, Ricky thought, smiling in the dark.

He supposed about the only thing more despicable than shooting a man in
the back was cracking him in' the head with a hubcap mallet while he
slept like a baby in his own home. This was Ricky's speed.

When he'd slipped through the facsimile of a front door, he plunged into
more darkness. Bars of moonlight fell in wedges across the floor. Upon
entering, he'd rustled the plastic a little--not much of a sound under
regular circumstances, but loud as holy hell

203

when you were trying to kill a man. Ricky gritted his brown teeth at the
rustle, then stepped quickly aside so that no moonlight might give him
away. He stood dark as a shadow himself.

He let his eyes adjust, roving. A cheap, shitty little place like most
of them, but it looked clean, much cleaner, in fact, than the cheap,
shitty little house he shared with his even more demented brother.

He spotted some bookshelves and some cabinets, and a cubby of a kitchen
with what looked like a thirty-year-old refrigerator. There was also one
of those mini stove/oven combos that folks had in efficiency apartments.
Perfect, he thought. His instructions were explicit: drop some of the
allergy pills in the bottom of the saucepan and leave it on the stove.
It would look to the fire marshal and cops like good ol' David
Something-or-other had been cooking the shit down with denatured
alcohol, the stuff had ignited, and then the whole joint burned down.
He'd leave the other stuff lying around, too, and drag David's dead or
unconscious body out of his bed and let him burn up with everything
else. If Ricky did it right, the hubcap mallet wouldn't crack the skull,
so it wouldn't look like murder.

But... where is the guy? Ricky wondered.

He could hear him snoring. He strained his vision, then let more things
become visible in the room.

There's the cracker.

It was just an old spring cot the guy slept on. Ricky could make out the
form of his body, and the short inkblack hair that almost looked darker
than the darkness.

Time to rock, he thought, hefting the mallet's weight in his hand. He
moved forward in short, silent steps. When he got closer he noticed a
roughly cut stone of

204

some kind hanging over the guy's bed; Ricky wouldn't know in a million
years that it was specifically a chrysolite stone, said to bid good
dreams and protect one's home from evil. The stone wasn't exactly doing
a great job tonight.

Another few steps and he was at the head of the cot, looking right down
at the stupid rube. The mallet froze high over his head, and in that
moment Ricky could see his own shadow thrown against one wall: a shadow
of death, a haunter of the dark.

At that single image he smiled, his heart beating faster, because he
looked bigger now than he ever had.

"Who the--"

The Squatter's eyes glimmered in the moonlight, wide open. A hand shot
upward, but--

Thud!

--too late.

One whack with the mallet was all it took. Ricky patted the top of the
guy's head, felt no fractures. Good job. Didn't matter if he was dead or
not, because he'd surely die in the fire that Ricky would start in a few
minutes. David Something-or-other's lights were out for good.

A macabre realization occurred to him then. The last thing this weirdo
hillbilly saw in his life ... was me.

Ricky liked that.

He went back out and grabbed the bag. It didn't take long to put the
matchbooks up in a cupboard, along with the acetone and the first bottle
of denatured alcohol. Next he pulled a small boiling pot off the wall,
set it on the stove, and dropped in a handful of allergy pills.

Now all I gotta do is drag the cracker out of his bed, empty the other
bottle of alcohol around the joint... and light 'er up.

Ricky liked fires. He'd liked to look at them since he

205

was a kid--when he'd burned his mother and stepfather's house down with
them in it. Bitch had it comin'fer lettin her old man make me Junior ...
He didn't finish the thought, but it would suffice to say that fires
made him feel like a success. They made him feel transcendental ... not
that he had any clue what that meant.

With some huffing, he dragged the Squatter out of the cot and left him
to lie across the floor. Ricky didn't notice his chest moving up and
down, so he guessed he was dead. Burning the fucker up alive had more
kick to it, but that was the way the cards fell sometimes.

He noticed a jar on the kitchen counter. Pickled eggs, it looked like.
Shit, yeah! I love pickled eggs. He and Junior had loved them as kids;
their mom had made them all the time, before she'd started boozing hard
and passing out every night, leaving their stepfather free to come into
their rooms, and--

Well, that was another story.

He opened the jar, was about to grab an egg, but--

Holy shit!

The stink from the jar hit him in the face like someone dropping a
flowerpot on his head.

Smells worse than afuckin' pile a' dead dogs.

He put the jar back, revolted; then--

"Daddy?"

--his eyes bolted open, and he spun.

Shit!

There was someone else in the shack.

A slant of moonlight fell right on her, like a spotlight. A
girl--mid-teens, he guessed, but it was hard to really tell with these
Squatter girls because so many of them blossomed a few years before
other girls.

It must've been something in the water.

But whether it was or not scarcely mattered to Ricky.

206

He was all fucked-up in the head to begin with, and now--razzed and
bristly over busting the cracker's coconut in his own bed and about to
turn the joint into a late-night bonfire--he was even more fucked-up.

His blood felt hot, excitement tingling on his skin with his sweat. His
crotch felt tight.

"You're not my daddy!" she objected in that weird slur of clan dialect.
She cast a worried glance down at the empty cot.

The guy was lying in darkness behind Ricky. She can't see him, he
realized. He saw her own cot now, wedged in the corner of the room out
of the moonlight. "Aw, now don't'choo worry 'bout your daddy,
sweetheart. He's outside runnin' a errand, but he'll be right back. Me
'n' him are good buddies."

The girl's lower lip trembled, not that Ricky was looking at her lower
lip. He was looking at the rest, though, his lust holding his eyes open.

"But I ain't never seen you before," she questioned.

"Oh, well, that's 'cos me'n yer daddy, see, we work together on them
crab boats."

Yeah. Ricky was all fucked-up in the head, all right, and as for the girl?

Well, never mind what he did to the girl before he set the place ablaze
and slipped out into the night.

(II)

Patricia dreamed of smoke and fire. She was running through the woods
somewhere near the moonlit water, and though fires raged around her, she
felt nothing even remotely like fear. Instead she felt invulnerable,

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safe. Heat wafted about her, but caused no injury. If anything, it only
stoked the heat of her own desires.

"That's what the heat is," a voice calmly pointed out. It was Dr. Sallee
sitting in a chair by a stand of trees. "The symbology of the dream
mechanism. Our will is guided by conscious and subconscious impulses. It
defines us as individuals, in subjective terms that are too complex for
the concrete world around us: dreams."

The voice drifted like the smoke. Patricia tried to focus on the
doctor's words and discern what they might mean with regard to her
specifically, but too many other things nagged at her, such as her calm
in the midst of this raging forest fire, and the hot tingling of her
skin. She felt flushed; she felt...

Oh, God...

"Just a dream," she muttered to herself. At least she knew that. "It's
just a dream, so I don't have to worry about it."

"That's right," Dr. Sallee agreed. But why did he look dead all of a
sudden? Face drawn and pallid as old wax? The dark suit he wore was
dust-tinged, its fabric frayed.

As though he'd just climbed out of a coffin after being buried for a
long, long time.

"The death of Freudian dynamics, I suppose," he said, disheartened.
"Psychological thesis is dead in this day and age, I'm afraid. I'm dead."

For whatever reason, then, Patricia laughed.

"But you're right," he repeated. Why had his voice reduced to a dark
gurgle? "This is a dream, so you don't have to worry about it."

Patricia peered at him through smoke.

"And you don't have to worry about what you do."

208

The smoke engulfed him. The fire blazed behind her, so she ran, though
she still felt no fear. Her feet crunched twigs and leaves, the earth
warm beneath them. Her sexual urgency--her feminine heat--rose with the
flames. At one point she broke through the trees, the smoke hanging
behind her, and realized she was wandering along the edge of a lake--no ...

A pond.

The realization seized her then.

This is the pond at Bowen's Field. ...

Moonlight blared in her face. Even this late at night she could clearly
make out her reflection on the pond's glass-flat surface.

The vision gave her a mild shock.

She stood pantiless in a sheer nightshirt made even more sheer by
profuse perspiration. She seemed a caricature of female sexuality, her
parts exaggerated by some aspect of the craft of the dream. Her breasts
were ample in life; in the dream, though, they were even larger, higher,
so swollen she could've been pregnant. The damp nightshirt clung to
them, making no secret of nipples just as magnified, with fleshy ends
prominent as olives. The dream had deepened her curves and widened her
hips, and when (with no volition whatsoever) she raised the hem of the
nightshirt, she saw that she was not only missing her panties, but
missing pubic hair as well.

Her desires squirmed with her nerves. The night's heat drew more sweat
from her skin, leaving her in a veneer of indeterminable lust.

It was Ernie who rose from the water: naked, his smile sweet and eyes
reaching. Patricia's eyes yearned back, but her own smile was clearly
one of wantonness, the greed to slake her own needs moistening her. She

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simply stood there, lifting her hem again up past her navel.

Why should she feel guilty now? It was a dream, and even Dr.
Sallee--evidently a doctor whose professional philosophies were
dead--had affirmed that she could do what she wanted. And when she'd
talked to the real Dr. Sallee on the phone, he essentially told her that
she had defeated the trauma of her past.

This dream proved that, didn't it? Here she was at the very site of her
rape, but she stood now as a normal and very untraumatized sexual being.

Her sensibilities corroded. She felt lewd, trampish. Was this her real
self coming out? Was this the real Patricia? Or was the dream just
giving her the luxury of cutting loose in a way she couldn't in real life?

"It's only your sexual socialization evolving," Dr. Sallee's unseen
voice guaranteed. "Superego versus id. The societal verisimilitudes of
modern man reinforce the self-maintenance of our regrettable sexual
repression."

She tried to make sense of it, but couldn't.

"We're all animals, Patricia. We just act like we're not. Hence the
repression and its debilitating effect. Ultimately, it's what? Unnatural."

What am I doing? This is a dream. Am I waiting for my doctor's
permission to have sex? She nearly laughed at the absurdity--in a dream
no less. The idea behind his comment hawked down on her. We're animals
but we pretend that we're not.

"Cavemen didn't repress themselves," the doctor's voice assured her
next. "Neither did cavewomen."

Well...

Her eyes hooked on Ernie. He was naked in the water, on his knees. The
dream, too, had augmented him

210

into a puppet of male sexual features all optimized. A broadened back,
shoulders, and neck. Chest and biceps like pumped bands of meat. The
surreally large genitals rising at the vision of her.

"Come here," she said, a slut now. "And bring your mouth. You're going
to need it."

Ernie obeyed without pause, a slave to her summons. He crawled to her on
hands and knees: every woman's perfect man. Patricia remained standing,
the dream enforcing her need to be higher than him, to reduce him to
subservience. She gave her plumpened breasts a shameless caress through
the top and felt their gorge of nervous desire gust to her loins. She
parted her legs some more, closing her eyes with a commanding smile,
waiting for his mouth to give her succor. ...

But nothing happened.

She looked down again and saw that he was gone without a trace.

Unless the gentle ripple in the water could be called a trace.

What crawled out next wasn't Ernie. It was something thin, gray, and
very dead.

A woman. She couldn't have weighed ninety pounds. Gray skin seemed
stretched over a struggling framework of bones, and Patricia could see
those bones moving as the woman crawled hence. Hollow eyes looked up
from the skull-like face showing through the open vee of straggly,
waterlogged hair. Patricia wasn't sure--not that details mattered in a
dream--but it seemed that the corpse woman possessed crude stitches
about her waist, as though she'd been cut in half and later reconnected
by slipshod surgeons. A pendant with a stone of some kind swung about
the starved neck as she continued to crawl.

211

"Flee this evil place, child," rumbled some semblance of a voice. Was
that a Squatter accent leaking through the corrosion that death had
brought to her larynx? "Run outta here now, and beg God's grace to go
with ya. Run. Run."

"Run from what?" Patricia asked.

The cadaver collapsed as though all of her joints at once had lost their
connective tissue.

Patricia's query wasn't answered, and when she heard stomping behind
her--something coming out of the woods--she didn't need an answer to run
just the same.

Her feet kicked up splotches of mud when she dashed along the edge of
the pond. Before she could turn off in another direction... were there
things in the pond, close to the surface, looking at her or addressing
her in some way?

She didn't want to know. She plunged back into the woods and their
moonlit darkness, the fire still blazing deeper within. Smoke stung her
eyes, and when she felt small, fragile things crunching under her bare
soles, she realized what they were: cicadas, having been cooked to
crisps while trying to fly away.

The stomping still pounded behind her.

She thrashed farther into the woods, hoping she was heading away from
the fires. Who's following me? But was it even a who? This was a dream,
and that fact, now, she had to keep reminding herself of.

"It's something you're never meant to see." Dr. Sallee's voice somehow
suffused her head. He was nowhere to be seen, of course. "Sometimes we
chase ourselves. We're our own worst predators. Could it be that the
person or thing that's chasing you is actually an aspect of yourself?"

I don't care! she thought at this point. Now she truly

212

felt fear, and she expected more Freudian backlash when it became
apparent that her previous sexual arousal had increased tenfold. I don't
believe that I subconsciously want to be raped again! She felt
absolutely sure. Freud can kiss my ass! Her dream-enhanced breasts
swayed vigorously beneath the tight fabric of the nightshirt. Her
nipples buzzed. Then--

Shit!

Patricia fell to the ground belly-first. She'd tripped over something. A
vine? A branch?

No, because when she looked back, she saw in a network of moonlight what
it had been: a severed head.

Dwayne's head, she knew.

And the wild footfalls of her pursuer drew closer. But...

What's ... that?

Did she hear a pounding in the back of the dream? Like someone knocking
on a door, she thought. But there were no doors here in the burning
woods. The woods signified her desires, she knew, and the dangers that
accompanied them, and her pursuer: the unknown.

But what of the pounding?

It scarcely mattered. She heaved herself up, was about to sprint off
again, but then she saw another slant of moonlight painting the tree
right before her.

There was a design carved in the tree's bark ... but was the bark
bleeding? No, of course not, it must be sap. And it was the design that
riveted her: a crude yet elaborate cross framed by the intricate
etchings and squiggles of the Stanherd clan's symbol for good luck.

She squirmed, flat on her back now. The dream was gone, and all she
could feel were the throes of orgasm, her nerves pulsing, her hand
fervid between her legs, and then--

213

"Patricia! Patricia!"

Her sister's voice.

Patricia snapped away. She was confused at first, for the moonlit
darkness of the bedroom matched that of the woods in her dream. Of
course, she'd wakened, and it was Judy who'd wakened her.

"Patricia, I'm so sorry ta wake ya at this hour, but--"

Oh, Jesus ... The first thing she noticed was that her nightshirt--the
same one from the dream--was pulled up over her breasts. Her nipples
throbbed in delicious pain, and she knew how they'd gotten that way:
from self-plucking. The sheet lay aside, her legs splayed. She knew
she'd been masturbating in her sleep again, to the point of climax.

The second thing she noticed was the smell of smoke.

"Is the house on fire?" she blurted. Why else would Judy be waking her
up so late and so abruptly?

"No, no, dear me, no. But--"

"And ... I heard this loud pounding," she said, quickly dragging the
nightshirt back down.

"That was Sergeant Trey, knocking on the front door."

The police? "What did he want?"

"To tell me what happened. There's been a burnin' on the Point, in
Squatterville. Now hurry up 'n' put somethin' on so's we can go see."

Afire on the Point. Real smoke, evidently, had pursued her in the dream.
"I'll be right there," she said.

Judy turned before she left, the slyest smile in the dark. "You were
havin' yourself one racy dream, sister."

Thank God she couldn't see Patricia blushing.

"Ain't nothin' wrong with a gal takin' care a' herself," Judy added.
"Now hurry! We'll meet'cha out front."

My God, Patricia thought when she left. My own sister just caught me
masturbating. ... She pulled on a blouse,

214

shorts, and sneakers. Before she left she glanced out her open window
and saw flames from afar.

It wasn't the kind of sight anyone would ever expect to see in a place
like Agan's Point. Ever. Blossoms of flashing red, blue, and white
lights throbbed out into the night. Several fire trucks parked askew,
tentacle-like hoses reaching out. A half dozen police cars bracketed the
end of the perimeter--several state cars, Patricia noted--with
poker-faced officers prowling the scene. Patricia, Judy, and Ernie
looked on in macabre awe.

"Oh, Lord, no." Judy gasped.

"It's David Eald's shack," Ernie said, "so I guess that's--"

Ernie didn't finish as the three of them watched firemen bring out a
black body bag atop a stretcher.

A smell in the air nauseated Patricia; it wasn't a stench she might
expect; it was an aroma--something akin to pork roast. Oh, Jesus, she
thought, her stomach flipping.

"That ain't the worst of it, I'm afraid," Sergeant Trey told them. His
face shifted in various luminous shades from the flashing lights.

"David Eald has a daughter, doesn't he?" Judy choked out the question.

Both Trey and Ernie nodded at the same time, and a moment later a second
stretcher was carried out.

Had a daughter, Patricia thought.

The trucks had put the fire out, a fire that had incinerated the
dilapidated wooden shed that had comprised David Eald's ome. Several
trees had caught fire too, leaving blackened posts in their place, smoke
still wafting.

"I know all the electrical connections 'n' junction

215

boxes were good," Ernie said. Did he seem worried that someone might
think he'd made a mistake? "They're all to spec. I installed 'em myself,
every hookup in Squatterville."

"Just one a' those things," Trey offered. "Happens all the time, bad as
it is. He 'n' his daughter probably went to bed and forgot to turn off
the stove. The smoke conks 'em out in their sleep; then the place burns
down."

A common tragedy. You read about accidents like this all the time in the
paper, Patricia acknowledged, and you never really think much about it.
... "There're an awful lot of police, though. And why all the state
troopers?"

"That does seem strange," Judy added. "The nearest state police station
is a half hour away."

"On account a' what happened earlier," Trey said. "With the Hilds.
They're still investigating that... and now this happens."

"But the Hilds' murders and this fire can't possibly be related,"
Patricia supposed.

"I don't know about that, not now." Another voice sneaked up from
behind. Chief Sutter's disheartened bulk stepped out of the darkness.

Judy looked puzzled. "Whatever do ya mean, Chief?"

"The Hilds were closet druggers--crystal meth." The chief's eyes roved
the cinders that were once the Eald shack. "Ain't much left a' the place
now, but the state cops found some charred chemical bottles inside, and
a burned pot on the stove with somethin' at the bottom of it that they
say ain't food."

Patricia immediately remembered what she'd read on the Internet earlier.
"A methamphetamine lab," she said. "Is that what the police think?"

"They're sendin' the bottles and other stuff to their

216

lab for tests, but it sure looks like it." Sutter shook his head. "Kinda
makes sense when you think about it."

It was pretty sad sense.

Judy stood in something like a state of shock as she watched the police
and firemen stalk about.

Patricia asked the grimmest question yet. "How old was this man's
daughter?"

"Thirteen, fourteen, thereabouts," Ernie replied.

Judy stifled a sob.

"It's all the damn drugs," Sutter regarded. "Goddamn evil shit..."

Patricia could feel streams of heat eddying off the cinders. The night
felt more and more like something she was disconnected from--she was a
watcher looking] down. This quaint little town really is going to hell
fast! Four deaths just in the few days I've been here. Poor Dwayne...

The night swallowed the heavy thunks of the ambulance doors. Radio
squawk etched the air. Patricia put her arm around her sister, who was
already blinking tears out of her eyes. Judy's lower lip quivered when
she finally said, "I might have to sell this land after all."

No one said anything after that.

And no one noticed the split second in which Sergeant Trey smiled.

217

Eight

(I)

Ricky felt high on drugs when he got back home, the tantalizing garbage
thoughts filling his brain as effectively as any opiate. The girl had
really gotten him tuned up. I love it when the bitches twitch like that,
he thought, replaying the atrocity in his mind. And right there on the
floor next to her dead daddy! Yeah, it was a great night, all right.
He'd torched the place perfectly, too, afterward, and was all the way
back in the woods before the fire started to really catch.

Ricky was a consummate sociopath.

Can't wait to tell Junior, he thought. He was cutting through the woods
all the way back home, so as not to be seen. This was something they
needed to have a few beers over. And he couldn't wait to tell him about
the girl. ...

Yeah, my little brother'll be a mite jealous 'bout that!

He could hear the sirens in the distance, which

218

simply brought more satisfaction to his heart. It filled him up very
happily, like a big, rich meal.

Night sounds pulsed around him. Eventually, the trees broke and he was
suddenly standing in his backyard. He didn't see any lights on in the
house, though. Guess Junior went beddy-bye, he thought. Usually they
both stayed up late, drinking and watching porn. It seemed a brotherly
thing to do.

But Ricky was too keyed-up to go to bed himself. Couple beers and
another chew, first, and maybe he'd also pop in his favorite porno,
Natal Attraction. He crossed the backyard, stepping over moonlit junk,
and went in through the back screen door.

At once, the inside of the house felt...

Weird, he thought.

Darkness hemmed him in, and when he closed the door behind him the
silence felt cloying, like the faintest unpleasant smell in the air. He
snapped on the kitchen light, yet felt no better. He couldn't shake the
feeling, and he didn't even know what the feeling was. When he opened
the refrigerator for a beer, he stalled, hand poised.

Ain't that the fuckin' shits.

The full case of brew he'd put in there this afternoon was untouched.
Junior must be sick as a dog to not've knocked out ten or twelve bottles
by now.

He grabbed one and closed the door, then walked slowly, brow furrowed,
into the front room, switched on the light--

The bottle of beer shattered on the floor.

Ricky stared, gut churning.

Junior Caudill lay in the middle of the floor, eyes and mouth wide open,
not breathing. His face could've been a pallid mask, gravity pushing the
blood to the

219

lowest surfaces of the body, leaving the flesh white as a turnip.

Ricky's mourning escaped in a shrill gasp from his throat. He couldn't
say or even think anything about what he was looking at. Junior had
obviously been dead for several hours, but that wasn't why Ricky stared.

Junior's pants looked several sizes too large; in fact, they hung so
loosely they surely would've fallen down were he standing up.

When the shock snapped, Ricky yelled, "Junior!" and rushed to him,
dropping to his knees. His hands floated in the air; he didn't know what
to do.

"Junior! What happened?"

In his mind he knew his brother was dead; it was obvious from the
pallor. He felt the neck for a pulse, found nothing but cool fat. Then
he straddled his brother to administer some inept CPR, like on TV, but
he may as well have been straddling a bag of fertilizer.

"Junior..."

He climbed off then, numb, remaining on his knees.

Musta had a heart attack or somethin'...

What else could it be?

He just looks so fuckin' weird, he thought.

Indeed, the arms and legs still held their usual girth--Junior, like his
brother, was a big man. Fat, in other words. The big, fat arms and legs
looked normal, and so did the fat-covered chest and chubby face. So ...

Why did Junior look so strange?

Ricky pushed his brother's spotty T-shirt up over the blubbery, hairy
chest and belly.

He shook his head in the utmost dismay.

There was no intricate way to put it. Junior's once-proud and very
prominent beer gut... was gone.

Had he been dieting? Fuck, no, Ricky knew. His

220

brother had never been on a diet in his life. Diets were for sissies!

He remained there awhile, sorting his thoughts. He supposed he should
call an ambulance, but that might not be the smartest thing to do right
now. The local ambulances were at the Point, no doubt recovering the
burned bodies of David Something-or-other and his little fox of a
daughter. It would seem an odd coincidence. And an ambulance call might
bring some police questioning with it. Guess I'll have to wait, he
reasoned, but there was still no reasoning this situation.

In time, Ricky struggled up. Damn it, Junior. Why'd ya have to die?
Never even got the chance to tell you 'bout the hot job I did on them
two crackers ...

He went to the kitchen, grabbed another beer, then wandered open-eyed
around the house. He didn't turn" the lights on; he needed it calm and
dark, to help him think on what to do.

Musta been a heart attack. Couldn't be nothin' else. Hash 'n' eggs every
morning of his life? Shit, I guess the one who needs ta go on a diet is
me. ...

He wandered around some more in the dark, then found himself in the
living room. He didn't know where he was going, what he was even doing.
This was redneck mourning: shuffling around in your dark house with a
beer in your hand and a thousand-yard stare. ...

With his next step, something crinkled under his foot.

A glance down showed him a sheet of paper. The hell's this? he wondered,
and picked it up. He was about to turn the light on to look at it when--

Movement snagged the corner of his eye. He spun around, and--

His second beer of the night shattered, full, on the floor.

221

A thin figure stood staring at him from the hall that led to the
bedrooms. It was so dark Ricky couldn't see. Just a figure there,
something barely more substantial than a shadow ...

A burglar? It must be. But, boy, did he pick the wrong house to burgle!
There was nothing to steal in this dump. This dumb-ass burglar's about
to get his ass killed, Ricky thought with some confidence.

Unless...

"Who the fuck're you, scumbag?" Ricky challenged.

The figure looked grainy standing there in the dark. It said nothing.

"I'm gonna..." But Ricky stalled through a thought. It finally occurred
to his not-so-spectacular brain that maybe this figure was the guy who
killed Junior somehow.

The figure said this, in a low, grating voice like some slow, black
liquid oozing up his throat:

"Your brother is in hell. ..."

And the figure, in a split second, withdrew into the hall.

"I am gonna kill you so motherfuckin' dead, you motherfucker!" Ricky
bellowed out in his loudest sociopathic rage. His bulk tore down the
hall, boots thudding. In the dim darkness he spotted an edge of the
figure disappearing into Junior's bedroom. A second later Ricky was
there, eyes sweeping back and forth in the dark.

There was no one else in the room.

But the window stood open, framing moonlit darkness.

Then that utterly bizarre voice seemed to gush around his head in a mad
circle:

"Your useless brother is now a fat whore for the devil's minions, as you
too will be, very soon. ..."

222

Ricky stared in the dark. This time the voice had seemed to have no
source. It came from everywhere, or nowhere.

He thrust his head out the window and saw the figure standing between
some trees at the very end of the yard.

That is one fast motherfucker! How'd he get all the way out there so fast?

A cloud moved off; then a bar of moonlight fell ever so briefly across
the figure's face, and Ricky's teeth ground, because he knew who it was. ...

And then the figure's voice returned one last time, not from the figure
itself but again a mushlike gurgle churning around Ricky's head as it
bade its final promise before the figure disappeared.

The voice said this: "Curse thee."

Running after him would be pointless. Ricky pulled back into the room,
confused, sick, and enraged. But something tempered that rage--even
sociopaths felt fear.

He took deep breaths in the dark bedroom. Now instead of the evil voice
it was the sound of cicadas that flowed into the room, and it was then
that Ricky realized he was still holding the piece of paper he'd found
in the living room.

He turned on the light and looked at it.

A single word was scrawled on a sheet of white paper, in something like
brown chalk: wenden.

"I want you out of there right now! More murders? That place is dangerous."

Patricia sat comfortably on the bed. Sunlight

223

streamed into the room, warming her face. It was Byron she was talking
to on her cell, and the previous, very loud exclamation had been his
response when she'd told him about the burning last night, and the
gruesome deaths of David Eald and his daughter. "Honey, you're
overreacting again. It's just some people way out on the Point who got
involved with drugs--"

"And those two people who got murdered the other night--what was their
name? The Hilds? The Halds? Whatever! They were involved in drugs, too!
Which is why I want your butt in your car right now, heading north!"

Patricia rolled her eyes. "There's plenty of drug-related crime in D.C.,
but we don't move because of it."

"That's four murders in a week," Byron countered. "No, five. Don't
forget about Dwayne, the whole reason you went back to that nutty place."

"The Ealds weren't murdered. Their place burned down, probably an
accident. It's actually kind of common in makeshift meth labs. Making
the stuff involves several flammable solvents."

"That's supposed to put me at ease? It's okay because it's common for
drug labs to burn down?"

"No, but I'm just saying--"

"And it could just as easily be that someone else torched the place,
couldn't it? Another turf murder. Didn't you say the Hilds were murdered
by a rival drug gang for operating on their turf?"

"Well, it's possible. That's what the police think. But..." She paused
over the phone. How can I argue with him? He's actually right. The place
very easily could have been burned down by a rival drug gang. "Honey,
still, you're overreacting. Everything's fine here, and we're

224

perfectly safe. Judy's still shaken up over the funeral and all, so
that's why I'm here. I told you, I won't be gone longer than a week."

"Promise."

She laughed. "I promise!"

"So what are you going to do today? Chew tobacco? Sit on the porch in a
rocking chair?"

"Agan's Point isn't quite that backward. I'm just going to go for a
drive into town this morning--"

"You shouldn't be driving into town; you should be driving out of town."

She just shook her head and continued. "And then I'll probably just hang
around the house and help Judy with some things." She began to tell him
about the big clan cookout tomorrow--if the Squatters still had it
now--but as she talked, her focus dissolved. Was that a splattering she
heard? Yes, and a hiss. She noticed then that her bedroom door was open
a crack, and as she peered down the hall, she saw that the bathroom
door, too, stood open a few inches.

Ernie's in there taking a shower, she realized. He's so used to having
this wing of the house to himself that he forgot to close the door,...
This wouldn't have meant anything to her, but...

She could see flesh.

A convenient angle allowed the shower to reflect in the bathroom mirror,
which she could see a significant slice of through the crack in the door.

She kept talking to her husband without even thinking, and suddenly had
gotten up and walked to her own door for a better view. She could see
him in there,] all right--he hadn't closed the shower curtain.

My God, what am I doing? What if he saw me? He'd think I was a total
perv... which I guess I am. A female voyeur?

225

Looking at other people in secret had never been a desire of hers, but
then a lot of things about herself had changed since she'd gotten back.
What would Dr. Sallee say about this? she wondered. It was just the
midlife sexual peak of all women, so ...

Was it that bad?

Her sense of guilt struggled to cut into her thoughts--as she continued
to talk to her loving husband, no less--but she easily blocked them out.

And watched.

And then imagined.

Suddenly she saw herself in the shower with Ernie, and the more deeply
she thought about it, the more clearly the vision focused. ...

He wasn't even surprised as she stepped in; it was as though he were
expecting her, as though his flesh were a summons to her desire, and he
knew it. When the cool spray hit Patricia's breasts, her nipples shot
right up. Something else shot right up, too, when she put her hand to
his sudsy groin. She could feel it beating in her hand.

Then, in gestures that nearly seemed rough, his calloused hands spun her
around by the hips, and then he was feeling her up into a suit of suds.
He stood behind her, his manhood hot against her buttocks. He was
manipulating her flesh the way a sculptor manipulated clay. Patricia
grew short of breath at once, rising on her tiptoes, her mouth and eyes
wide open. The rough fingers skipped back and forth between corkscrewing
her nipples and massaging her sex. She just stood there and let herself
be felt

She talked on to Byron, locked in some split stream of consciousness,
communicating to him and regarding his replies with no real awareness
... while the rest of

226

her mind delved deeper into the sexual musing. Ernie still stood behind
her, the shower hissing over them. One strong forearm locked around her
waist, and then he was lifting her up. Her feet came off the shower
floor. She could feel her buttocks sliding over his penis as she
continued to rise, as if he would penetrate her from behind with her
feet off the ground. Her sex burned; she was squirming--

Oh, God, no...

"Patricia?"

It was about to nudge into her all at once.

"Patricia? Damn, I think your cell phone cut out. Can you hear me?"

Her legs were tensing, her back arching as her inflamed breasts and
nipples thrust outward, and she was already beginning to cli--

"Patricia!"

Reality slapped her in the face. No, she wasn't in the shower with
Ernie; she was talking to her husband! "I'm here," she assured him,
waiting for her heart to slow down.

"You sounded way off in space."

Not in space, she thought, visibly blushing, just in the shower. "The
reception down here isn't always that great. When I call tomorrow, I'll
use Judy's phone."

"So how is Judy doing, considering?"

Patricia tore herself away from the gap in the door, then went back and
sat on the bed. Her last real image of Ernie had been of him stepping
out of the shower, in the reflection. She struggled to reengage her mind
against a backwash of guilt. "Actually, okay, I think. She's seemed to
be handling Dwayne's death pretty well since I got here, but now she's
kind of rocked by what happened last night. She even said something to

227

the effect that it might be a good idea for her to sell the point."

"I think she should. Sounds like the whole place is turning into
Drugtown. Sell it before all the property value goes down the tubes."

"Really, Byron, it's not that bad. There're luxury condos going up on
the other side of the river. That'll drive any bad elements out faster
than anything."

"I hope you're right."

"You get back to work now," she said, "and I'll call tomorrow. And
there's something you need to know."

"What?"

"I love you," she said.

"Well, I love you, too, so come back soon, will you?"

"I will," she promised, and then they hung up.

Patricia sighed. My fantasies are out of control! It aggravated her so
much now. But at least there was some solace: Dr. Sallee said this is
common for women my age. There's no reason to feel guilty, because
they're just fantasies. I'd never really cheat on Byron. ...

Before she could consider anything further, she spotted Ernie coming
down the hall in a robe.

"Hey, Ernie?" she called out.

He stuck his head in, his long hair combed out in wet lines. "Oh, hey. I
didn't even know you were here."

Yeah, I'm here, all right, spying on you in the shower. "I meant to get
up early, but it took me a while to fall back to sleep once we got back
from the fire. How's Judy?"

"It's funny," he said. "She's more pissed off than depressed about the
Ealds. She don't like the idea that Squatters are makin' dope on her land."

"Well, it's just a few of them."

"Yeah, I know. She'll be all right. It's just too much goin' on at once.
She ain't handlin' it well."

228

Patricia deliberately avoided eye contact. Just his being in the same
room relit some of the shower fantasy's fire. "I wanted to ask you
something. Do you know who officially declared Dwayne dead? I know he
was cremated at the funeral home, but where was he autopsied? Is there a
family doctor or something?"

"It was the EMTs who picked his body up just off the Point," Ernie
informed her. "And they took Dwayne's body to the county hospital there,
to the county morgue. So I guess that's where they did the autopsy, but
that's about all I know. You might wanna ask Chief Sutter."

"I already did," she said, looking off. And he seemed vague.

"What'cha wanna know that for?"

She shrugged. "I just want to see the autopsy report. Nobody seemed to
know any details about the murder, not even Judy."

"That's 'cos Judy doesn't want to know 'em. You know how she is. She
coulda got a copy of the autopsy report, legal-like."

Legal-like, Patricia thought. Even the backwater way he talked seemed
attractive. "I do know how she is, and I can't really blame her.
Learning the details of how her husband got his head cut off would just
rub her face deeper in the tragedy. But I keep hearing funny things
about the incident, and no one seems to know exactly what happened."

Ernie nodded. "Just like any small hick town. Everything's rumors."

"What other rumors are there?" she couldn't help but ask.

"Well, over the past coupla months a lotta Squatters have
disappeared--that's the biggest rumor goin'."

229

"I've heard something along those lines. But they didn't really
disappear, they just pulled up roots and moved somewhere else. Even
Squatters can get sick of living in the same place."

"Sure, and that's probably true. But that's what I'm talkin' about. The
way people are in a town like this. There's always gotta be a mystery
goin' on, even if it ain't true. Rumor is some of these Squatters was
actually murdered. By Dwayne."

The comment jolted her. "Dwayne?"

"Um-hmm. And you wanna know the rest?"

Now Patricia was almost laughing. "Of course!"

"Rumor is that Everd Stanherd used his boondocks magic to kill
Dwayne--for revenge."

"And people actually believe this?" she asked, astonished.

"Oh, yeah."

"I don't believe in 'boondocks' magic, and I'm sure you don't either."
She paused, looking at him hard. "Do you?"

He paused himself, which seemed strange, then cracked a smile and said,
"A' course not. All I meant is to show ya how things work here. There's
rumors for everything. And that'd be great if you really could see
Dwayne's autopsy report, and put an end to that rumor."

"Oh, don't worry, I will."

"I got work to do in the yard, so I'll see ya later," he said, and
disappeared from the open door.

What a strange conversation. But at least it got my mind off... him.
Middle age is turning me into a closet slut! And he was right about the
rumors. People made them up to make their lives feel more interesting.
Patricia had to admit she was intrigued herself, and that was why she
picked up her cell phone again and called her office.

230

Her associate put her through to the boss, the chief managing partner,
Tim McGinnis.

"So how are things down there in... where?" he asked.

"Agan's Point, southern, southern Virginia."

"Never heard of it. Sounds like a hillbilly town."

"It sort of is," she said through a laugh. "D.C. and this place are two
different worlds. Everything all right at the firm?"

"Well, other than the roof threatening to collapse since the day you
left, things are great. I hope you get back here soon, because the
Walton account wants to go to settlement."

"Give it to the associates; I don't have to be there."

"They want you, nobody else. I guess you're the only lawyer in D.C. they
trust. Please come back soon."

"God, you sound like my husband. Don't worry; I won't be more than a week."

"Thank God."

"But I also wanted to ask you something." She got to the point of her
call. "Didn't you tell me once that some buddy of yours works for the
governor of Virginia?"

Tim laughed snidely. "Yeah, but he's not my buddy; he's my brother. He's
the number four man in the state government, director of public safety.
Oversees every police department in the state, every fire department,
county sheriff's--everything."

Perfect, she thought. "Are you in any position to ask him a favor?"

Now Tim laughed harder. "Since I practically put his boss in office with
private fund-raising contributions, I think I can safely say my brother
would shit turkeys and whistle 'Dixie' if I told him to. Why?"

Patricia was amused by the talk. "I need access to an

231

autopsy report, and I don't have the time to do a FOIA request. My
sister's husband--Dwayne Parker. Nobody knows the exact cause of death,
and I want to find out."

Jim's incredulity could be sensed over the line. "I thought you said he
got his head cut off! That's the cause of death: head cut off."

Patricia felt guilty getting a laugh out of the tragedy.. But it is kind
of funny when you put it that way. "There's this rumor down here that
there was some oddity relating to the decapitation, and I haven't gotten
anywhere with the local police chief. I really need this, Tim. The
autopsy report is in the morgue at the county hospital in Luntville."

"I'll make a call. Just go to the place tomorrow, and it shouldn't be a
problem."

"Thanks, Tim. It's just that there's some weird stuff going on here, and
I'm curious about it."

"Hmm. Well, remember what curiosity did to the cat. I don't really like
the idea of my star attorney running around down in Hooterville
inquiring about decapitations."

"The weirdest part is that there have been several more murders just
since I've been back--"

"What!"

"Drug-related stuff. It's very uncharacteristic in a place like this."

Now her boss lost his levity. "Why don't you just come home? Don't tell
me some other people got their heads cut off too."

"No, but it was pretty brutal stuff. I just want to check some things
out, get my sister squared away; then I'll be back."

"You'd damn well better, 'cos let me tell you

232

something. If you wind up getting your head cut off... I'm going to be
pissed."

A final laugh. "Thanks for your help, Tim. And I will be back soon, with
my head securely attached to my neck."

233

Nine

(I)

Chief Sutter was looking at Pam's legs as he pretended to write up his
daily operating report. He needed diversion--from the very loud fact
that people in his town were suddenly dying right and left--and Pam's
legs provided this necessary diversion and then some. Pam was a local
cutie whom he'd hired as the department's radio dispatcher and office
manager. She was great at both jobs, so the fact that she had a body
that could start a riot in a monastery maximized her purpose in the
office. She made for a positive working environment, and that was
important to hardworking, overstressed police officers, wasn't it?

Trey sat at the opposite desk, pretending to go over the county blotter,
and he, too, seemed to be musing over Pam's legs as she sat at her own
desk, typing. The legs, by the way, could be described as coltish. Long
and lean, well toned without being "muscular"--ultimate legs as far as
men were concerned. The rest of her

234

was equally flawless: trim and curvy; alert, prominent-nippled breasts;
and a tight, to-die-for little butt. Short auburn hair framed a cute
little angel face with bright hazel eyes. Any male sexist slob's
archetypical meat for a spectacular daydream: the total office package.

Sutter seethed to himself when she suddenly crossed her legs. The
delectable--and tiny--triangle of fabric shouted at him. Fuck, she's
wearin a T-back. Just what I need...

Then she got up to take something to the file room. The chief's eyes
riveted to the shifting little butt in the tight blue-jean miniskirt,
then slid down to the legs. All that tight, fresh, tan skin seemed to
glimmer beneath fishnet stockings. Her high heels ticked across the
floor until they disappeared.

Trey was shaking his head. "Jesus, Chief. Those are some damn fine
walkin' sticks on her, ain't they? §Wouldn't mind havin' 'em wrapped
around my head for an hour or three."

Sutter shot a reproving scowl. "Is there anytime when your mind ain't in
the trash can, Trey? That happens to be our employee you're lustin' after."

Trey grinned, slapping his knees. "Chief, you practically been droolin,'
lookin' at those gams for the last twenty minutes."

"I have not," he insisted. "And shut up. We need to be thinkin' on what
we gotta do about this drug business in Squatterville."

"Not much we can do. State narcs are investigatin'."

"Yeah, but this is our town, Trey. So maybe some a' this is our fault."

"How do ya figure?"

"All these years we took it for granted that Squatterville's

235

crime-free. Maybe if we'd had a better presence out there, none a' this
would have happened."

"Horseshit. People turn to scum because it's their time. We cain't be
lookin' over every damn shack on the Point."

"That ain't what I'm sayin'. What I mean is--"

Pam came back to her desk, the image of her legs chopping off the rest
of the chief's remark like a carrot end. Oh, God, those legs are killing
me. ... Just as she was sitting down, the hazel eyes flashed at him
once. Then she smiled and returned to her work.

Jesus, save me.

He and Trey both looked up from their desks when the bell on the station
door chimed.

It was Ricky Caudill who strode in. He looked like he always did:
slovenly, fat, not particularly clean. But his usual cast of arrogance
made no appearance on his face today.

Instead he looked scared.

Just as peculiar--Sutter noticed--was the expression on Sergeant Trey's
face upon noticing their abrupt visitor. For a split second, something
like dread washed over his face, but he quickly buried it beneath his
authoritative police veneer.

What's with that? Sutter wondered. Was it just his imagination?

"Well, look what the cat drug in," Trey said, and stood up at his desk.

Sutter was too tired, so he didn't bother. "What'choo want, Ricky, 'cos
the only thing you're gonna get here is somethin' you don't want: an ass
kicking."

"I wanna be locked up," Ricky declared from where he stood.

236

"You have to break the law to be locked up," Pam told him, surprised.
"You broken the law lately?"

"My brother's dead," he said with no hesitation.

Now Sutter stood up. "You confessin' to murder, Ricky?"

"Hell, no. I didn't kill Junior."

"Then why you wanna be locked up?"

" 'Cos I want protection from the person who did. They'll be after me next."

Sutter frowned and sat back down. "You're drunk, Ricky. You're talkin'
shit. Now get out of here unless you want a big pile a' trouble to leave
with."

"I ain't drunk--"

"You smell like a brewery," Trey said. "I can smell it across the room."

Ricky's hands curled up into frustrated fists. "I'm tellin' ya, my
brother's been murdered. Go to the house 'n' look. It was Squatters who
done it."

Sutter stood back up. "Go check it out," he told Trey.

"Why don't you check it out, Chief? This guy can be a handful. Let me
take care of him."

Sutter stared Trey down. He didn't like the innuendo] here. "Go check it
out. Now. I wanna talk to this one."

Addled, Trey grabbed the cruiser keys and left.

"You want me to call an ambulance?" Pam asked the chief.

"Ain't no reason to," Ricky spoke up first. "My brother's dead. Call the
undertaker. But lock me up."

"You're talkin' crazy, boy. Now you're gonna turn around and walk out of
here right now. I'm too busy to be foolin' around with you."

"Lock me up," Ricky repeated. "Otherwise I'll be killed."

237

Sutter smirked. "Yeah, sure, by the Squatters. So you're sayin' it was
Squatters who killed Junior, huh?"

"Yeah."

"You saw 'em?"

"Yeah."

Sutter pinched the bridge of his nose, a headache coming on. "Ricky,
you're tellin' me you saw Squatters kill your brother?"

"I didn't see 'em do it, but one of 'em was in my house. Everd Stanherd.
He was in my house, and it was that weirdo clan magic a' his he used to
kill Junior. And he put a curse on me. He'll be comin' for me next, so's
you gotta lock me up, Chief, for my protection. I'm beggin' ya, man."

Sutter came around the desk, shaking his head. "Ricky, you're a scumbag
and a no-account loser, but I can't lock you up just for that. You gotta
commit a crime, boy, and unfortunately talkin' shit ain't a crime."

Ricky stalled, thinking. "Okay," he said, then spun around, cleared
Pam's desk with his stout forearm, and yanked her top down. Even in the
midst of the outrage, Chief's Sutter's eyes bulged at the beauteous
sight. Razor-sharp tan lines bordered each firm orb of flesh, and the
well-delineated nipples stuck out as if iced, plucked, and sucked out in
advance. At least Chief Sutter's day would have one high point.

But the rest was certainly a low point. Pam shrieked at the assault,
pushing herself back in her chair, while Ricky stalked off and began
hauling bookshelves over. Training manuals scattered. The Virginia State
Annotated Code flew across the room, and a moment later so did the
office coffeepot, which was full of Java. It shattered against the wall.
Sutter's reaction was delayed a

238

moment by sheer disbelief. He broke from his stance just as Ricky now
manhandled the five-gallon bottle of Polar Water out of its stand.

"Don't you dare, you crazy redneck!" Chief Sutter bellowed.

Ricky shoved the bottle across the room. It exploded spectacularly
against the wall, gushing springwater everywhere.

Sutter hauled on a sand mitt and lunged. He was a fat man, but he was
still a strong one. Three hard belly shots with the mitt doubled Ricky
over; then a loud belt across the face sent him reeling conveniently in
the direction of the station's three-unit jail. Ricky hit the floor like
a 250-pound pallet of sod.

"Crazy shithead!" Sutter yelled. He doubled over himself now and grabbed
Ricky's bulk by the belt, then began to drag him into the first cell.
"You just fucked up my office! Take me all damn day to clean this mess
up! I ain't got time for this grab-ass bullshit!"

Ricky lay wheezing on the cell floor. He groaned a few times, then
dizzily sat up against the wall.

"You wanted to be locked up, you dickhead! Well, you got it!" Sutter
continued to yell. He slammed the door shut with a clang.

Cross-eyed, Ricky grinned back at him. "Thanks, Chief," he said.

What afuckin' kook! Sutter lumbered back toward the office, frowning as
he heard the phone ringing. All he wanted to do was sit his ass down and
have a nice, slow day, especially after being up half the night at the
Eald fire.

Pam's hazel eyes looked foreboding when he sat back down at his desk.
She'd just hung up the phone.

"Please tell me it was a wrong number," he pleaded.

239

"Sorry, Chief. It was Trey. He needs you down at the Caudill house--says
Junior's lying in the middle of the floor, stone-cold dead."

(II)

The hand reached out in tranquil dark. He liked to sit in the dark. The
colors of dusk were filtering into the room.

He picked up the phone.

"Yes?"

"It's all fucked-up like you wouldn't believe."

"What are you talking about? I saw a dozen Squatters pulling up stakes
today, packing. They're beginning to leave town. It's working
beautifully, and faster than I thought."

"No, no, you don't know the rest. It just happened a few hours ago.
Junior's dead."

A pause drew out along the line. "How?"

"Don't know. There's no wounds, there's no--"

"He probably had a heart attack. He was a fat slob."

"No, no, see, Ricky's in lockup."

"What? What for? He didn't--"

"No, he didn't squeal. But he says it was Everd Stanherd who killed
Junior, says he saw the guy in his house last night. He wanted to be
locked up for his own protection, but Sutter wouldn't do it. So then he
trashed the place. But he's talking crazy shit. And ... and ... and..."

"And what?"

"I'm scared, and Sutter was looking at me funny earlier today when I
left the office. I'm about to shit my pants worrying what Ricky might say."

"Ricky's in as deep as us."

240

"He don't care! He thinks the Squatters killed Junior with some sorta
hocus-pocus!"

"In other words, you think Ricky might be a liability now?"

"Damn right. He starts running his mouth to save his ass, you and I're
both gonna be neck-deep in shit."

Another pause. The solution was obvious, though he would've preferred
not to clarify it over a phone line. "Rectify the problem, for both our
sakes. Use your position to your advantage. It'll be easy once you think
about it. ... Am I clear?"

"It'll cost."

"I'll pay. Rectify the problem. Do it quickly."

He hung up.

His hand retreated back into the dark.

(III)

I don't believe it, Patricia thought. She looked up the hill, lit by
morning sun, and saw what appeared to be a Squatter family leaving the
Point. A ragtag man and woman, plus a child, trudged up the hill toward
the main road out of town, carrying sacks of clothes and beaten suitcases.

They're leaving town. ...

At the end of the trail she spotted a figure coming her way, a toolbox
at the end of one strong arm. She scarcely had a minute to contemplate
the idea that Squatters were actually moving away out of fear, and now
more of this distraction.

Oh, no, not again.

It was Ernie who headed toward her. He smiled and waved.

241

Patricia had hoped for a nice, leisurely walk by herself, to clear her
head. But the instant she saw him ...

All that sexual tension returned.

Damn it.

He wended up the rest of the trail, the Stanherd house looming in the
background.

"Mornin'," he greeted her.

"Where have you been?"

"I just come from the Stanherd house. Last week Everd asked to borrow my
tools to replace some missing shingles, so I thought I'd drop 'em off
with Marthe for when he comes back from the boats." He set the toolbox
down, suddenly looking confused. "But he ain't there."

"He works the crabbing boats every morning, I thought. He's probably on
the water."

"His boat's still tied up at the dock, and so are half a' the others.
What I mean is Everd and his wife are gone. They left town's, what the
men at the pier told me."

"They..." Then Patricia looked farther up the trail and saw yet another
Squatter family trudging away. "It looks like quite a few clan people
are leaving."

"Things change. I guess it was bound to happen." Ernie's face looked
deflated.

"I guess if I had a family, and drugs started popping up in the
neighborhood, I'd move too," Patricia reasoned.

"The others are sayin' that ain't the real reason," Ernie said. "I just
talked to some a' the men at the docks, said a lot of clan are leavin'
'cos they're just plain scared."

"Scared of what?"

"Well, it's like we were talkin' the other day. Rumors everywhere--ya
never really find out what the true

242

story is. But some a' the clan are sayin' that this whole drug business
is a setup, and that somebody murdered the Hilds and the Ealds to scare
the bejesus out of the rest a' the Squatters, to get 'em to clear out."

"That's ridiculous," Patricia replied. "Nobody wants the Squatters to
leave. ..." But then the rest of her sentence trailed off as she
considered her words.

"Uh-hmm," Ernie edged in. "That Felps fella would love for the Squats to
leave. With nobody to run the crabbing business, Judy'd be much more
tempted to just say to hell with it and sell the land."

"To Felps, you're right." A breeze ran through her red hair. "He's
already made offers. But that's still crazy. I don't believe for a
minute that Gordon Felps is murdering Squatters for the sake of his
condo development."

"Neither do I, but ya gotta admit the coincidence." Ernie pointed to one
of the shanties, where a man hauled a suitcase out the front door.
"Looks like a lot of 'em are figurin' they'd be safer somewhere else.
They don't wanna wind up like the Hilds 'n' the Ealds."

Like a chain reaction, Patricia thought. The murder of the Hilds, plus
the fire, has started a mass exodus. Ernie's suspicion of Gordon Felps
was an overreaction; nevertheless, she wondered how long it would be
before he came back to Judy with another offer to purchase the property.

"Let's just go ask someone," she said off the top of her head.

"Huh?"

"Come on. ..."

He followed her back down the trail. High grass on either side shimmered
in sunlight, while lone cicadas buzzed clumsily through the air.
Patricia wasn't sure what lured her down the hill; perhaps she just wanted

243

to see more directly for herself. They approached one larger shack made
of roofing metal. Outside was a chicken-wire pen that caged, of all
things, several seagulls.

"Seagulls as pets?" she questioned.

"Not quite," Ernie said. "The Squatters use gull fat to make candles,
and they eat the meat. Roasted gull tastes just like--"

"Let me guess. Chicken."

"Naw, tastes like mallard duck."

Patricia shook her head. "I've never heard of anyone eating seagull.
They're like pigeons, I thought. Don't taste good."

"They pen 'em for two weeks, and feed 'em nothin' but corn. Just wait
till the clan banquet tomorrow. You'll have to try some."

Patricia doubted she would. "I'd be surprised if they even had this
banquet. With four of their own killed in a couple of days ... that's
not exactly a festive occasion."

"That ain't how the Squatters see it. Every day they're alive they
consider a gift from God."

Patricia appreciated the positive philosophy. Eat, drink, and be merry,
she thought, for tomorrow you may die? But she honestly wondered how
many of them believed the others had been murdered as a scare tactic.

A little Squatter girl--about ten--moseyed about the pen. She wore a
frayed and obviously handmade sundress, and had a mop of black hair.

"Hi, there," Patricia greeted her. "Are these your birds?"

The little girl looked up despondently and nodded. She looked on the
verge of tears. Then she opened the makeshift door of the pen and began
shooing the gulls out with a branch.

244

"Why are you letting them go?"

In a rush, all of the hefty birds scampered out of the pen and flew off
at once. "Cain't take 'em with us, my daddy said," the little girl told
them.

"Where are you goin'?" Ernie asked.

The girl's accent warbled from her small mouth. "Someplace called
Norfolk, 'cos my daddy says he might git a job on the big crab boats.
But we cain't stay here, 'cos someone might kill us." And then the
little girl ran back into the shed.

"That's so sad," Patricia said.

"Yeah, but like I said..."

Patricia tried to unclutter her mind as they meandered back toward her
sister's house. She frowned to herself when Ernie turned his back to her.

It was that same distraction again--raging, fraying her sexual nerves.
Whenever she tried to focus on something else, his aura kept dragging
her eyes back to his unknowing body: the long flow of his hair, the
strong legs in tight workman's jeans, the strong back. What if I weren't
married; what if I weren't... ? Her thoughts kept betraying her.

Just remember what Dr. Sallee said. Women my age experience their actual
sexual peak. It's normal for me to feel this way ... as long as I don't
act on those feelings.

His boots crunched up the trail before her, and that alternate voice
kept asking her: What if I weren't married?

It didn't matter.

"Well, how do ya like that?"

Patricia reclaimed her attention; Ernie had stopped on the incline of
the trail, looking up toward the main road.

"What are you ..." But then she spotted the vehicle herself, a new large
pickup truck parked at the shoulder. Even at this considerable distance
she could see the

245

man sitting in the driver's seat peering down into the center of
Squatterville, as though he were actually watching the clan families
trudging away from their homes in order to leave town. The man in the
pickup truck was Gordon Felps.

246

(I)

Less than a twenty-minute drive took Patricia to Luntville and the
rather drab county hospital. She knew it was her imagination, yet it
bothered her the way two clerks at the information kiosk gave her the
eye when she asked directions to the morgue. The basement, of course.
They were always in the basement.

The downstairs unnerved her; it was dark and dead silent. Her footsteps
clattered about her head as she made her way to the yellowish
glass-windowed door that read, office of the county coroner.

Let's see how much pull my boss really has, she thought. Getting a
morgue to release recent records was usually akin to pulling the teeth
out of a ferret. When she entered, she expected more odd looks from the
personnel here and was nearly shocked to find herself standing before a
human dichotomy: an utterly striking blonde in tight jeans and an open
lab coat that revealed a haltered bosom and a perfect bare abdomen. She
had the

247

kind of body that spurred jealousy even from the most extraordinarily
attractive women.

Her body's ten times better than mine! Patricia thought. I'm pissed!
"Hi," she began, and got out her driver's license. "I'm--"

"Patricia White, right?" A sexy Southern accent preceded the blond woman
when she hurried around the registration desk. She spoke very quickly.
"The governor's office called this morning, and I'd just like you to
know that we'll do whatever we can to accommodate you." Then she pulled
out a folder. "You wanted to see the post records for a decedent named
Dwayne Parker?"

That's what I call the red-carpet treatment, Patricia thought, amused.
Tim's brother lit afire under somebody's butt. "Yes, and I'm sorry it
was such short notice. I'm the attorney for the decedent's wife, and I
won't be in town long, so I didn't really have time to file a FOIA request."

"Oh, well, there's no reason to do that"--the beautiful woman kept
speaking very quickly--"because, after all, we're a branch of the
government that exists to serve the taxpayers' needs."

Now she's absolutely kissing my ass, Patricia realized. The coroner's
office for a rural county like this probably didn't keep the best
records anyway. The last thing they'd want is a government inspection.
But it was working, and that was all Patricia cared about. "Are you the
receptionist? I was hoping to talk to the county coroner himself."

"Herself, and you are, ma'am," the blonde corrected, and gestured to the
nametag on her lab coat. It read c. baker, russell county coroner. "And
I'd be happy to answer any questions you have, since the postmortem
report might be ... confusing to you."

248

Patricia opened the folder and scanned the top sheet: Anomalous
death--COD, it read. Decapitation via smooth Transection oflevator
scapulae muscular process and #5 &6 cervical vertebrae. Mode of
transection as yet undetermined and curious. She blinked, looked back up
at Baker, and admitted, "I'm only good with legalese, not medical tech
talk. I guess this means that the manner in which Dwayne Parker lost his
head ... that's what they're calling 'undetermined and curious'?"

The coroner nodded curtly, but she was obviously curtailing something.
"It's just kind of odd, and its difficult to explain in any way that
makes sense. But every now and then any medical examiner's office will
get a cause of death that simply can never be determined."

Patricia frowned at the sheet. This was much less than she'd hoped for.
"How was his head cut off, is what I want to be able to tell the family.
Was it cut off, shot off? Was it knocked off in some sort of freak
accident?"

Another curt look from the pretty coroner. "It was ... none of those
things, and that's about the only thing we do know. No blade striations,
no evidence of severe impact to the body, no evidence of firearm discharge."

"But the head was never recovered--that's what I heard from the locals,
anyway. Is that true?"

"Quite true, ma'am."

This was frustrating. "I'm sorry, but I just don't get it."

"Look on the next page, Ms. White."

Patricia followed the instruction and immediately fell silent.

What she looked at now was the most macabre photograph she'd ever seen
in her life. ...

The clarity of the bright digital picture--Dwayne's autopsy
photo--seemed to shout at her. "This ... can't be real, can it?"

249

"Oh, it's real, ma'am. I took the picture myself. It hasn't been
altered, and there weren't any defects in the film or processing. I took
several with several different cameras."

The photograph framed Dwayne's chest and shoulders, as well as the area
of space that his head would occupy, if he'd had a head. Patricia
expected a clot-caked stump or some other kind of ragged wound to
indicate the decapitation. But there was nothing.

There was just skin.

"There's not even a--"

"Not even a neck," Baker finished. "And the osteo X-rays actually show a
round--not a severed--cervical vertebra. There's actually no clinical
evidence of a decapitation--which I know is silly, because he's got no
head. But the picture looks like he'd never had one. Look at the next
picture."

Patricia, with some trepidation, turned to the next sheet: a close-up of
where the "stump" should be.

"This," she started, shaking her head, "this ..." She tried to frame
words. "This looks like there's just skin grown over the place where his
neck should be."

"Um-hmm."

Patricia looked up again, grateful to take her eyes off the creepy
photograph. "You're the coroner. How do you account for this?"

"I really can't. It happens in this business, and I realize that's not
an acceptable answer, but it's all I can give you. It's just one of
those rare deaths that's a big question mark."

"And you're sure this is Dwayne Parker? You're sure it's not some
elaborate stage dummy or something, some kind of joke?"

"It's no dummy, Ms. White. I personally performed

250

the Y-section and a clinical evisceration. I weighed every organ in that
man's body. There are pictures of that too, if you'd like to--"

"No, no, that won't be necessary," Patricia hastened to say.

"The Bureau of Prisons verified the fingerprints, along with two
five-probe DNA profiles. And the body that I autopsied had tattoos that
matched the county corrections inductee log of distinguishing marks. The
body in the photograph is Dwayne Parker, and I'm very sorry I can't give
you any useful information regarding his decapitation. One of the
dermatologists at the hospital suggested that maybe some kind of mold or
fungus grew over the transection area--"

"Is that possible?"

"In my opinion, no." The coroner shrugged, just as frustrated now as
Patricia. "That's why we call this kind of death undetermined and curious."

You can say that again. ... Patricia passed back the folder. She was
glad not to have it in her hands anymore. What am I going to tell Judy?
She struggled with the thought.

Nothing, I guess. I just won't tell her anything.

"What's stranger," Baker said, "is the fact that Dwayne Parker was a
resident of Agan's Point, the crabbing town out on the water."

"Why is that strange?" Patricia asked.

"Because it really is a quiet little place. I don't think I've ever seen
a decedent from Agan's Point who didn't die from old age. Then all of a
sudden, in little more than a week we get Dwayne Parker, plus two brutal
mutilations and two people burned to death."

The Hilds and the Ealds, Patricia knew. "All from

251

Agan's Point. Did you find any evidence of drugs in any of the bodies?"

Baker shook her head. "The narcotics unit and the Agan's Point police
chief both asked me for full tox screens--something about crystal
methamphetamine. There was nothing in any of them, no CDS of any kind,
no marijuana, not even any trace alcohol. But that's not even what I was
going to mention. That's not the strange part."

"What is?"

"The body that came in this morning."

Patricia's brow furrowed. "Not another Agan's Point resident..."

"I'm afraid so. The sixth one now."

"Who?"

"Forty-five-year-old male Caucasian named Robert Caudill, aka Junior."

The name rang a bell. "I remember when I was a kid, he and his twin
brother were the neighborhood bullies." Patricia pinched her chin. "And
he was murdered?"

"Don't know," Baker replied. "I don't see how it could be a homicide,
but..." She sighed, blowing a tress of blond hair. "Since the governor's
office told me to open all doors to you ... I guess I can show you. You
want to see?"

She's asking me if I want to see a fat redneck's corpse. Patricia told
herself. She gritted her teeth and said, "Yes, please."

Whatever it is, it can't be any weirder than the picture of Dwayne.

Patricia was quite wrong about that, which she would discern in a
moment. She followed the attractive coroner through the front office and
into a door that

252

read, suite 1--do not enter. At once a strong scent accosted her
nostrils. "It's formalin; you'll get used to it," Baker said.
"All-purpose preservative." Overhead fluorescent tubes threw the
ghastliest tint about the room; Patricia supposed it was just her
imagination--she was in a morgue--but somehow that tint made her feel
unnaturally close to death. Ranks of storage shelves behind them sat
heavy with big smoke-colored glass bottles: jore's, zenker's solution,
phenol 20 percent. A tin tray marked amyloid /fat necrosis prep held
several bottles of iodine and copper sulphate. A large sink and
heat-sealing iron hung on the same wall. Basically the room could've
passed for any high school biology lab, save for one fact: high school
biology labs didn't have a covered dead body sitting in the middle of them.

Patricia's stomach flipped when she glimpsed the covered bulk. White
light glinted like abstract art in the crinkles of the black plastic sheet.

Baker seemed nonchalant when she whipped the sheet off the table.

What am I doing here? Patricia yelled at herself.

The body lay there so candidly it seemed surreal, like the graphics in a
CD-ROM game--a spooky veil like tulle that somehow enhanced details
instead of detracting from them. The body lay on a stainless-steel
morgue platform that came equipped with a removable drain trap, gutters
for "organic outflow," and a motorized height adjustment. The corpse's
image was blatant, like a surprise shout in the dark.

"Here he is," Baker announced in her snippy Southern drawl.
"Robert--Junior--Caudill."

Patricia didn't allow herself to look at the body directly, opting for
peripheral side glances. The pallor of the flesh reminded her of the
water chestnuts that

253

Byron used to make rumaki at home; the unused chestnuts would always sit
in the fridge too long, and start to turn brown. Junior Caudill was a
big man--and a plump one--much of his body fat settling like raw lard on
the stainless-steel table. One morbid glimpse at his groin showed her
the purple nose of a penis shriveled so severely that it could've been a
mushroom in a bird's nest. Oh, my God, I'm looking at a cadaver. ...
When she closed her eyes she found the formalin fumes seemed to sting.
The afterimage of the white face lingered behind her eyes. She only
vaguely remembered the man from her youth, a problem child and
troublemaker who'd dropped out of school early. Had she seen him and his
brother at Dwayne's funeral? Probably, but she didn't even care. Come to
think of it, she didn't even care that he was dead. At least the body
hadn't been cut open yet. Had Baker been able to establish cause of
death without a full autopsy?

Finally she choked out the question: "Okay, it's a dead body, so what's
so strange about it?"

Baker snapped on a light board on the wall. "Here's a transabdominal
X-ray of Dwayne Parker," she said, clipping a large sheet of film to the
board. Murky shades and shapes seemed to throb. "It's normal." Her lithe
finger pointed. "Normal GI tract, cardiopulmonary process, liver,
bladder, spleen. Everything that's supposed to be there is there."

"Except his head," Patricia noted when she looked higher and saw that
the boundary of the X-ray ended at the shoulders.

"Yes, but this isn't about Dwayne Parker's head. This is about Robert
Caudill." And then just as quickly as she spoke, she pinned up another
sheet of X-ray film.

Patricia caught the dissimilarity in an instant.

254

Dwayne's X-ray clearly showed the presence of his internal organs.

Junior Caudill's X-ray clearly showed an absence of internal organs.

"Where are his organs?" Patricia asked baldly. "You haven't autopsied
the body yet--I don't even see any cuts on it."

"There aren't any cuts, and, no, I haven't done the post yet. I've only
done some preliminaries so far." Baker sat down as if fatigued or
repressing an agitation. "The only thing I can think of is maybe the
decedent was exposed to a strain of flesh-eating bacteria, like an
internalized version of the one in England, or maybe he died from a
corrosive digestive virus."

Patricia asked the strangest question, then, ever to pass her lips: "So
his organs dissolved?"

Baker's sleek shoulders shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe. There are no
other contrary indications if that's the case. E. coli, for instance,
has been known to liquefy parts of the digestive system, and then the
effluent drains from the rectal canal--"

Patricia was suddenly delighted she hadn't eaten yet today, for surely
she would've deposited her last meal right here on the floor or perhaps
even on the corpse of Robert "Junior" Caudill.

"But there's virtually no clinical evidence of an effluent void from the
rectum, because I inspected his rectum thoroughly," Baker insisted, as
though her competency were in question.

Patricia closed her eyes. This woman has a lousy job. ... She let her
eyes stray around the room, to any place away from the corpse. Her mind
was ticking with questions. But then something snagged an eye: something
on the counter, at the other side of the room.

255

Two clear plastic bags, one large, one smaller.

"What's that? In those bags?"

Baker looked over, uninterested. "Oh, that's some stuff the EMTs brought
over; some of it was in his pockets or near the corpse on the floor. I
bagged it as evidence."

Patricia walked over; she was pretty sure she noticed what was in the
larger bag. "But what is it exactly?"

"Looks like a couple of pieces of crystal meth in the little bag, and--"

"An envelope in the other bag?"

"Yes."

Patricia leaned over and saw the outside of the envelope. Junior
Caudill's name and address, in craggy handwriting.

"Don't open the bags," Baker reminded her. "You don't want your
fingerprints on police evidence."

No, of course not... Patricia came back toward the table. "What was in
the envelope?"

"Just a piece of paper with a weird word written on it," Baker replied.
"Wend-something. I'm not sure."

Just like the letter to Dwayne. Patricia already knew.

"So," the coroner continued. She stood up with an exasperated sigh. "I
might as well show you what I already know." And next she skimmed off
her lab coat, flapped on a rubberized apron, and snapped on rubber gloves.

She's as confused about this as I am, Patricia realized, and she's
getting mad.

Now Baker donned a clear-visored face shield and flipped the shield
down, blond hair shimmering around the straps. She snatched up a silver
device that looked like a metal can lid fixed to the top of an electric
toothbrush. A brand name could clearly be made out

256

on the tool's body--stryker--and a moment later Patricia realized with a
jolt of adrenaline that this tool was an autopsy saw.

Patricia's hands shot up. "Oh, no, really, it's not necessary for you to
show me. ..." But her plea was too late.

Her skin crawled as if aswarm with cockroaches, and her shoulders
contracted when the extraordinarily genteel and preposterously
attractive coroner revved the saw like the most monstrous dentist's
drill and began to cut a straight line from Junior Caudill's pubic bone
to the bottom of his sternum. With the saw's grisly whine, flecks of
clotted blood flew out of the groove and specked her apron and face
shield. As the blade continued to cut upward, Junior's dead, pallid body
fat jiggled on the slab.

I've got to get out of here, I've got to ... Patricia began to feel
faint. This was not a place for her. She liked to think of herself as a
realist--and this was indeed reality--but by now she'd simply had
enough. Just as she would have turned around and run out of the morgue
suite, though, the saw's awful whine stopped.

It was obvious now that the coroner's perplexion and sheer rage at the
anomaly had been building up within the constraints of her temper, and
now those constraints were snapping.

She threw the saw down on the counter, flipped up her visor, then
slapped her gloved hands down onto the corpse. She pulled open the great
rift sawed into Junior's belly, then thrust a hand in and felt around
like someone searching for a lost object under the bed. "See? See? I'm
showing you what we already know. Look!"

Patricia ground her teeth, her eyelids appalled slits, and she leaned
over and glimpsed into the absolutely

257

vacant area of space that was Junior Caudill's abdominal vault.

"There are no fuckin' organs inside this fat fuckin' redneck!" the
coroner nearly wailed.

Patricia turned away, stumbled to a lab table, and sat down, exhausted.

Moments of silence passed. Baker was now finished with the outburst that
had obviously been mounting all morning; she daintily hung up her apron
and face shield, and dropped her rubber gloves into a pedaloperated
garbage can that read, hazardous waste only. At once she was
demure-voiced again, totally out of place here with her tight jeans,
magnificent body, and lilting Southern accent.

"So much for that," she said.

Patricia struggled to banish the imagery from her mind. She looked up
wearily at the other woman. "So what will you put on the death
certificate as a cause of death?"

"Undetermined and curious," Baker said.

(II)

"Magic, huh?" Pam asked, looking over her shoulder from the coffee machine.

"That's right," Ricky Caudill sputtered back at her. Through the jail
bars he looked like exactly what he was: a busted, washed-up, no-account
rube. "It's that Squatter voodoo they got goin' on," he assured her. All
morning long, in fact, he'd elaborated on the details of last night,
leaving out the part about killing David Eald and his daughter and then
burning their shack down. "Everybody knows that Everd 'n' that nutty
wife a' his

258

are into it. Fucker cursed me right in my own house, and it was that
magic a' his that he used to kill my brother."

"Ricky, it was alcoholism that killed your brother," Pam replied. "Same
thing that'll kill you someday."

"Shee-it."

Pam traipsed back to her desk, perky as ever. These redneck losers are
just so funny! They'd blame anybody and everything for their
dysfunctional lives. She'd heard it all from similar folk sitting in
that cell. At least this dolt is original. He's not blaming the police
or his wife or his boss for his problems. He's blaming the Squatters!
He's telling me that Everd Stanherd is a warlock and he's cursed him!

"And if y'all ain't careful, Everd'll curse the whole town; then you'll
all really be in the shit."

"Ricky, you already are in the shit. You're in jail."

"Only safe place for me. You'll see."

"Sounds to me like you're just scared," Pam challenged him. She loved to
toy with these local white-trash hooligans, play on their phony macho
self-concepts. "Big, tough, strong man like you, scared of a bunch of
hillbilly mumbo-jumbo. Scared like a little baby. Any minute now you'll
be curled up in there sucking your thumb and crying for your mama." Pam
fully expected the big moron to talk down her challenge, to assert his
masculine bravado.

Instead, Ricky replied, "You're right," very quietly. "I am scared."

Pam shook her head. How do you like that? He really is spooked. He was
the last guy on earth she'd expect that from, especially admitting it so
plainly. Must be serious DTs, she supposed, and got back to filing the
week's DORs and expenditure invoices. And he hasn't looked at my boobs
once today. The low-cut sleeveless summer

259

dress she wore always had the male heads turning. But not this one.

Ricky Caudill was genuinely preoccupied with his fear.

Charlie the postman wasn't preoccupied, though, and when the bell
clanged and he walked in with his mailbag, his eyes darted immediately
to her cleavage. "Howdy, Pam," he greeted her. His baldhead and small
mustache always reminded her of some of the Nazi honchos she remembered
from history classes. Ernst Rohm. Heinrich Himmler. "How's the purdiest
woman in all of Agan's Point?"

"I don't know, Charlie. How's the biggest bullshit artist in Agan's Point?"

"God!" he said. "I love it when you talk dirty!" He was such a card.
"You should've been an airline pilot, so you could bullshit all those
bimbo stewardesses." "You'd always fly first-class with me, baby." "You
want some coffee before you leave?" "Naw, you know what I want. A date
with you." "That'll be happening, Charlie. Hold your breath. Did you
come in here to actually deliver mail, or just stand there with your
Hitler mustache and act like you're not looking down my top?"

"Both," he admitted. He began rifling through his mailbag. "I know you'd
love for me to stay and chat all day, but I'm a little behind."

"Actually, Charlie, you're a big behind, but that's what I like about
you," Pam said. She decided to let him keep on looking down her top. Why
not? Gives him something to think about when he's walking his route.

"I'm not just a big behind," he said. "But I'll leave the rest to your
imagination." Suddenly, though, the levity on his face faded. "That's
weird."

260

"What?"

"I got a letter for Ricky Caudill, but it's addressed to him care of the
Agan's Point police station."

"Well, that's good, because the redneck bum is right down the hall--in
the drunk tank."

"You don't say. Saves me a trip out to his house." He put the police
mail down on Pam's desk, along with the letter, which she picked up
immediately. "No return address," she noted. And it was handwritten,
without a great degree of penmanship. She felt through it, feeling for
any objects that might serve as weapons, but it was flat. Just a letter.
"Thanks, Charlie. I'll give it to him myself."

Charlie just stood there as if he didn't hear her, his eyes still
playing over her outstanding bosom.

"I said thanks, Charlie! Have a good day!"

"Oh, right," he said, and walked out.

Men were such sexist pigs, but... But they're so amusing! At the very
least, Pam got her share of laughs in this town.

She also had her share of boredom. Jeez ... She could drink only so much
coffee. She'd finished her filing, so all she could do now was sit and
listen for anything on the police radio. Trey and the chief were out in
Squatterville for that big clan cookout, though Pam was surprised they'd
even be having it after all the recent commotion. Now she felt more at
home with her boredom. I guess I should be grateful nothing's going on,
she reminded herself with the deaths, the burning, and all the talk
lately, Agan's Point had been anything but boring.

Then her mind strayed.

The letter.

She picked it up, looking at the crude scrawl. It was

261

strange that it was addressed to Ricky Caudill, care of the police
station. Word travels fast in a gossip town. ... Oh, well. There was
nothing else to do.

Pam got up with the letter and walked back to the jail cell. "Hey,
Ricky, you got some mail," she announced, but when she looked through
the bars she saw that he was asleep on the jail cot. He lay belly-up on
the mattress, snoring. The fat slob ... Sounds like a cave full of bears.

Pam slipped the letter through the bars on the floor and walked back to
her desk. He could read it when he woke up.

262

(I)

More white lies, Patricia thought when she set her cell phone down.
She'd just hung up with Byron, having kept the conversation innocuous.
She was still so befuddled over her trip to the county morgue. What
could I tell him, for God's sake? So she'd told him nothing of
significance. Dwayne's head seemingly disappearing off his body as
though it had never been there? Junior Caudill with no internal organs?
Patricia was confident there was a scientific explanation, but she
simply couldn't imagine what it was just yet. Of course, they'd do more
tests. ...

Nevertheless, there was no need to tell Byron, It'd just give him one
more thing to worry about.

She stepped out onto the little patio off her bedroom to stand amid part
of the garden. The cicadas thrummed--she was finally getting used to it.
It just kept taking her back to her childhood. The scents off the myriad
flowers smelled luscious, asters, pyxies,

263

and goldenrod. Being here continued to supplant her. She was no longer
the high-roller attorney from the city; she was the country girl at home
in the midst of nature. But now so many ugly facts kept dicing that
image of the peaceful--and very sane--backwoods town.

Murder. Drugs. Turf wars by some unseen dope gang.

Every place has something, she thought. Doesn't matter if it's the city
or the sticks.

At the end of the yard, near the kiosk, she spotted Judy wandering about
the flowers; the troubled look on her face was no surprise. Talk about
being thrown for a loop, Patricia thought. Judy was not a sophisticated
woman. Since Dwayne's death, too many things that were wrong about her
environment threatened her ability to view her life and the world.

She doesn't know which end is up. ...

"Hi," Patricia greeted her, meandering up the path.

"Oh, hi, Patricia. I'm just out moseying around. Beautiful day, isn't it?"

Small talk is all she can deal with, Patricia realized. "Yeah, it sure
is. And your gardens really top it all off. Everything looks the same as
it did when we were kids."

Judy sat down on a stone bench, her hands clasped in her lap. "Yeah, but
just because they look the same don't mean they are the same. It's like
everything's gone mad overnight. Chief Sutter just called me, said
Junior Caudill's dead."

Here we go. Patricia knew the day would be a tailspin now. "I heard
about that myself--"

"Drug dealin', murder, arson--all on my land. And God knows what killed
Junior. Never thought much of him--he was always into trouble--and now
he's dead too."

264

"Judy, there's no reason to believe that his death is related to
anything that's been happening in Squatterville." Patricia knew at once
that this was going to be a long day. "He probably had a heart attack,"
she urged, not adding the little part about Junior not even having a
heart. "They're still doing tests is what I heard, and there were no
signs of foul play. Anyway, all these things that are happening lately
don't have anything to do with you. There are a lot of Squatters living
out here. It stands to reason that a few of them will get up to no good.
It's human nature."

Judy looked up dolefully. "I hate to think of what Mom and Dad would say
about this. They never had problems with the Squatters, but now that I'm
in charge around here, everything's goin' to hell. And now I just feel
worse about it. You come all the way out here to help me, and look what
happens. Folks killin' each other. I wouldn't blame ya if you never came
back to this godforsaken place."

Patricia knew that she had to work around her sister's mood swings, not
confront them head-on. "Of course I will; you're my sister. And you
should come out to visit Byron and me sometimes, too. But let's just
take things one day at a time. Look at the good things. Your company's
doing better than ever, and the Squatters who haven't turned bad have
never been happier or more productive. You have this beautiful house in
a beautiful place. You're a successful businesswoman with lots to look
forward to."

Judy shrugged, noncommital. Some people just had it in their heads that
everything was terrible. That's my sister, Patricia thought. "So what's
on the agenda today?" she asked.

Before her sister could answer, a horn honked. Past

265

the shrubs Patricia saw an old pickup truck idling on the dirt road that
descended the hill toward the Point.

Judy looked at her watch. "My, where has the day gone? It's time to go."

"Go where?"

"The Squatter cookout. Oh, that's right, you ain't been to one since you
were a kid, but they are a lot of fun. Come on."

Patricia honestly didn't remember these cookouts. When she looked at her
own watch she saw that she, too, had lost track of time. Where's the day
gone? She followed Judy down the path that exited the backyard. "Who's
in the pickup truck?" she asked.

"Ernie. He'll be driving us down there."

This is just what I need. Patricia thought. The truck jostled down the
dirt road, springs creaking. She and Judy had squeezed up front on the
bench seat, the pickup's back bed loaded up with baskets of food and
chests full of ice. Of course, Patricia ended up being in the middle,
pressed right up against Ernie behind the wheel. Ernie wore his typical
work jeans and boots but also a nice white dress shirt. Redneck high
fashion, Patricia mused. Why does he have to look so good all the time?
By now the situation amused her as much as aggravated her: how fate kept
putting them together. Every time he shifted gears, his hand slid
against her bare knee. Yeah, that's just what I need. ...

"Really whacked out about Junior Caudill, huh?" Ernie made conversation.

Don't bring it up! Patricia wished she could tell him. Don't bring up
anything that's been going on. Judy's enough of a basket case as it is.
"He probably just had a heart attack; it happens." She desperately shifted

266

subjects. "So what kind of food did you prepare for this banquet?"

"Oh, just side dishes," Judy answered glumly. "All the main courses they
make. The Squatters really do have a talent for usin' what the land
gives 'em and turning it into a cuisine a' their own."

Ernie laughed, nudging Patricia. "Aw, yer sister's a big fan of Squatter
food, Judy. Just the other day she drank a whole cup of aid that Regert
made for her down at the pier. Said it was the best thing she ever tasted."

Patricia frowned, remembering the drink's tang. "Actually, Ernie, it
wasn't the best thing I've ever tasted."

He raised a finger to denote an additional point. "Oh, yeah, and she
also ate a whole bowl of pepper-fried cicadas."

"I ate one! And never will again."

Ernie winked at her with a cocked grin. "She never did tell me if they
worked, though."

Patricia almost blushed at the inside joke, recalling '] the wives'-tale
insistence that cicadas had an aphrodisiac effect.

She also remembered the dense sexual fugue state she'd experienced after
eating it.

I was going to have sex with him. ... She choked before she could
respond. And I can't blame the damn fried cicadas. I can only blame my
own weakness and immorality.

But she'd stopped short, hadn't she? I said no at the last minute, so I
never really cheated on Byron. ...

Judy was scowling at her. "Patricia, one thing you don't need to be
eatin' are cicadas, not unless your husband is with ya."

Ernie chuckled softly to himself, their inside joke still

267

alive. Patricia wanted to wilt right there on the front seat. My God ...

Ordinarily the acre or so of land before Squatterville was barren, but
now it looked more like a fairground. Savory smoke drifted off of
open-pit fires over which abundant meats were being cooked. Squatter
women busied themselves at fold-down tables, serving up plates heaped
with steaming meals. Lines of people, Squatters and townsfolk alike,
trailed around the table, chatting amiably. As the sun faded, the scene
appeared almost surreal: faces seemed diced into wedges of firelight.
Chatter warbled in and out, and laughter rose up.

"There's pitchers of aid over there." Ernie pointed to another table.
"Too bad there's no booze."

"Hush," Judy whispered. "Just 'cos Squatters don't drink don't mean we
can't." And then Patricia and Ernie saw her lower a silver flask into a
pocket.

"This is some feast," Patricia said, marveling over the various dishes
set out. Ernie appeared behind her with a loaded plate. "Try some duck.
The Squatters do it up great. It's slow-roasted."

Patricia took the plate. It smelled delicious, the skin dark and crisp.

"And you must have some of this, big sister," Judy insisted, thrusting a
pewter mug toward her. "Squatter aid."

"I had that the other day. It tastes like swamp water!"

"Shh! The Squatters'll be offended, dear. You can't decline their
hospitality," Judy whispered lower. "And don't worry; I tuned it up with
a drop of vodka."

"Oh, terrific ..."

"Come on," Ernie coaxed her further. "When in Squatterville, do as the
Squatters do."

268

When Patricia took a sip, her brow shot up. Oh, yeah, just a drop of
vodka ... "You're just trying to get me drunk," she joked to him.

"Why?" he said, deadpan. Then he cracked a smile and laughed.

Oh, that's right. She'd never forget what almost happened in the woods.
I'm just a tease. The roasted duck came apart fork-tender beneath
crunchy skin. "My God, this is probably the best duck I've ever had."

"Glad ya like it," Ernie said. "It's not really duck. It's seagull."

"You're so funny. ..."

Her eyes roved the other offerings on the table: stout sausages,
steaming kettles of stew, homemade biscuits and seasoned flatbreads. The
aromas were almost erotic. Byron would go to town here, she thought.
Another table sat heavy with various crab dishes. Something like a
Newburg cooked in empty shells, crab-stuffed wild peppers, crabmeat
po'boys. She helped herself to several fried crab fritters and found
them delectably crunchy inside. "These are fantastic!" she exclaimed,
cheeks stuffed.

On her third one, Judy tugged her arm. "Not too many a' the fritters,
hon. It's the Squatter crabcake recipe wrapped around a fried cicada."

Not those things again!

Ernie laughed.

Next Patricia scanned around in general. The quiet revelry buzzed around
her; it all seemed so hearty and honest. But again she thought it
strange to have such a feastlike cookout so soon after four Squatters
had been killed. The positivity of their religion, she remembered.
Almost like evangelists. Even death is a joyous occasion,

269

because death is just another step toward eternal life in heaven.

Patricia hoped that was true.

She sampled more food, finding the cuisine complex and fascinating. Judy
wandered off, tipsy already, while Patricia and Ernie stood aside to eat
and peoplewatch. I must be getting tipsy, too, she suspected, or maybe
it was just fatigue compounded by the perplexities of the day...
especially her experience at the morgue. She pushed the morbid images
from her mind and instead just tried to relax, melting into the lazy,
darkening atmosphere. Squatters greeted her happily, offering her more
of their wares. Music--a quavering violin, it sounded like--echoed
around the grounds, yet she couldn't pinpoint the source. As the sun
died completely, faces seemed brighter and more focused somehow, in
spite of the seeping darkness.

"There's the money man," Ernie commented. At the last table she spotted
Gordon Felps sampling a cobblerlike dessert. He seemed to sense her
notice, looked up and nodded to her, then returned his attention to the
person talking to him: Judy. She doesn't really have a crush on him,
does she? Patricia asked herself. She could tell by Ernie's sedate
expression that he found it amusing. But at least her sister was getting
over Dwayne; perhaps it took his death to make her realize what an awful
person he truly had been, not even worth mourning. Chief Sutter and Trey
cruised another table full of plank-roasted bluefish and large
soft-shell clams whose necks stood out straight from steaming. Sutter
actually manipulated two plates of food, which wasn't surprising.
Eventually he wended his way over to Patricia and Ernie.

270

"Some spread, huh, Patricia?"

"It's incredible," she said. "I didn't think I'd like much of this type
of cuisine, but so far every single thing I've had is delicious."

"Even the crab-and-cicada fritters?" Ernie joked.

"Even the crab-and-cicada fritters, Ernie," she admitted.

"Oh"--Sutter changed the subject--"the county coroner told me you'd been
in today."

Damn. She hoped this wouldn't open a can of worms. "I just wanted some
details on Dwayne's death."

"Pretty off-the-wall. So you also know about Junior Caudill, then."

It wasn't a question; Patricia sensed he was fishing for something.
"Yes, she did mention it."

"Even stranger than Dwayne." Sutter shook his head.

"Damn near everyone in town's heard that news," Ernie piped up. "Some
contagious disease that dissolved all his insides."

Sutter smirked. "There ain't no contagious disease, Ernie, and don't'cha
be tellin' folks anything of the sort. The rumors're bad enough around
here."

Ernie shrugged. "Just tellin' ya what I heard, Chief."

"I don't think it was anything contagious, Ernie," Patricia added. "But
I don't guess we'll know anything until more tests are done on the body"

"The kick in the tail is there ain't no evidence a' foul play, yet
everyone thinks that's exactly what it was," Ernie said.

Patricia kept her mouth shut and her ears open.

"And it don't help for Junior's brother to be accusin' Everd Stanherd of
being involved and then for Everd to

271

disappear," Sutter stepped up the gossip. "I don't believe nothin' that
comes outta Ricky Caudill's yap, but that don't change the fact that I
got no choice but to drag Everd 'n' his wife in for questioning."

Interesting, Patricia thought. "I hadn't even noticed. Neither Everd nor
Marthe is here."

"Probably never see 'em again," Ernie said.

"Maybe they ain't disappeared at all," Sutter offered, stuffing his
face. "Maybe they're dead."

"How would they come to be dead?" Patricia had to challenge.

"Well, it was something Trey was kickin' about, and now that I think of
it, it makes sense. Already had a couple a' turf killings over dope.
Maybe Everd 'n' his wife were part a' the same dope ring that David Eald
and the Hilds were in."

Both Patricia and Ernie frowned at that one.

Sutter looked like he regretted the suggestion a moment later. "Well, I
guess that is stretchin' things a bit." Suddenly he was looking around.
"Speakin' of Trey..."

"He was just here a minute ago," Ernie said.

Patricia looked around herself, straining her vision in the fire-diced
dark. Sergeant Trey was nowhere to be seen.

(II)

Got no time to fuck around anymore. It was a steadfast thought, and a
calmly determined one. It was dark now, and the main drag stretched on
in vacant silence. Good ... Pam got off duty at five p.m.; then the Agan's

272

Point police channel was taken over by the county dispatcher.

In other words, there was no one else in the station house right now. No
one else except...

Good ol' Ricky, Trey thought. He came in through the back with his key.
Killing people wasn't really that big a deal. Trey couldn't say he
enjoyed it--he just didn't mind, not if it served his own best interest.

Killing Ricky Caudill was definitely in his best interest.

Big dumb redneck's gonna spill the beans, Trey thought. Can't have that.
I've put too much work into this gig to lose it all because a' that fat
fool's big mouth. He's just scared. Well, in a few minutes he won't have
anything to be scared about ...

Unless, a 'course, there really is a hell, 'cos he sure as shit ain't
goin' to heaven.

Such were the limits of Sergeant Trey's theological perceptions. He was
like most folks: just wanted his share plus a little more, and if
Felps's plan worked, Trey stood to walk away with a lot more.

The Squatters were already hightailing it off the Point. In another
month or so they'd all be gone, and that was when things would really
pick up. But with Dwayne gone--and Ricky and Junior, too--that would
leave all the dirty work up to Trey.

I'll just have to get the job done.

He didn't turn the lights on in the station when he slipped in. A radio
was playing; Pam must've left it on for Ricky before she clocked out.
Shouldn't be too hard, Trey thought. Ricky was a big guy--but soft. It's
simple. I jack the fucker out and hang him. Earlier that day Trey had
pinched one of the fresh sheets that they used for

273

the jail cots; then he'd cut it into fat strips and made a noose. He'd
hang Ricky in his cell and throw out the sheet already on his cot.

Yes. Very simple.

"Take this job and shove it," the radio crooned very softly. The only
light on was down the hall, in the cell corridor. Trey had his blackjack
in his pocket already, which he could slip out in an instant. But he'd
have to distract Ricky first, and open the cell.

"Hey, Ricky, ya big dolt. You awake?"

Ricky didn't answer.

"Wake up, moron. Sutter told me to stop by 'n' check up on ya. Ya need
to take a piss before beddy-bye time?"

Still no answer. Trey walked up to the cell, looked in.

"Hey! Redneck! Wake up!"

Ricky lay on his back on the cot, one arm dangling. Good. The fucker's
sound asleep. Easier to take him out. Trey, as quietly as possible,
unlocked the cell and eased open the door.

The cell light itself was turned off; only the light from the hall bled
inside. But even in the weak light Trey could tell something wasn't
right when he was several steps inside, blackjack poised in his hand.
The arm hanging off the side of the cot looked oddly pale, blue veins
almost black against white skin.

"You sick?" Trey leaned over. He shined his flashlight into Ricky's
face--or, it should be said, Ricky's very dead face.

Fuck!

It was a corpse that lay on the cot now.

The fat face seemed thinner now, and the flesh appeared a translucent
white, like a fresh cod fillet.

274

There was no pulse. The body felt cool.

Trey couldn't have known it at that precise moment, but Ricky Caudill
had lost all of his blood.

Not even one irreducible fraction of a drop remained in his body.

275

Twelve

(I)

The feeling made Patricia think of the few times in college she'd smoked
pot. A warm buzz, a mental lightness, as though an aspect of her persona
were floating. She'd been at the cookout for only an hour before it
plainly occurred to her that she was not herself, and this--to a
high-strung D.C. attorney--was not necessarily a bad thing.

It must've been that stuff I was drinking, she decided rather giddily.
Aid or whatever they call it, kicked up with Judy's booze.

But...

So what?

It was a party, and there was no reason why she shouldn't have a good
time. She picked at more food off and on, and drank more aid. Judy was
already drunk, but that was to be expected. Everybody seemed to be
fading off into the darkness tinged by firelight. Patricia found herself
chatting happily with townsfolk and

276

Squatters she didn't even know, and several times, when she noticed
Ernie talking to some Squatter girls, she felt some pangs of trifling
jealousy, after which she just laughed at herself.

Eventually she lost track of Judy entirely, and when she couldn't make
out Gordon Felps anywhere in the crowd, she had to wonder, but that just
caused her to laugh too. I'm getting hammered! she realized next, but
with Judy not around to top off her aid with vodka, where was the
inebriation coming from? Had somebody else spiked the Squatter
concoction and not told anyone? That had to be the answer.

"How come we never dated in high school?" Ernie appeared out of the dark
to ask right up front. He looked a little crocked, too. But what would
compel such an overt question?

Maybe the fact that I practically pulled his pants down in the woods the
other day? she chided herself. Suddenly, though, she seemed remorseful.
"I don't know, Ernie. I guess it was all me. I didn't care about
anything except getting an education and getting out, after ... well,
you know. What happened at Bowen's Field."

Ernie nodded, probably not expecting his question to cause such a dark
note. He just nodded, then thrust a plate at her. "Try a mushroom
stuffed with crab roe. They're great."

Patricia laughed. She ate one, then said very quickly, "I wish we had,
though, Ernie," and wandered off.

"Wish we had what?" he practically shouted after her.

She giggled and wended through more people, sensing him behind her.
"Where's Chief Sutter?" she asked to change the subject. "I haven't seen
him in a while."

"I think I saw him leave earlier."

277

Patricia stopped, peering between some shoulders toward the woods. She
grabbed Ernie's arm. "Is that Everd Stanherd out there?"

"Can't be," he said, squinting himself. "He's wanted by the police."

Even now she could see the figure standing between some trees, firelight
from one of the cooking pits shifting across the thin, old face. For a
moment it appeared as though his intensely bright eyes looked right at
Patricia. "Don't you see him? He's right..." But before she could point,
a pretty Squatter girl stepped right in front of them. Her ripe young
body filled the skimpy shorts and makeshift top. A trinketlike cross
dangled about her swollen cleavage, and the smile on her face seemed
wanton, mischievous. Squiggles of some kind of dark face paint adorned
her cheeks--like a child at a carnival. More bizarre lines curved down
her bare belly and around her navel, while still more traveled down
voluptuous legs.

Patricia was taken aback when the girl kissed both her and Ernie on the
cheek, then placed pendants around their necks, after which she scurried
away into the crowd.

"What is this?" Patricia touched the object about her neck, a furry
preserved animal foot of some kind. "A rabbit's foot?"

"Not quite. It's a badger's foot."

Patricia winced. "Gross! Why would she ... Like the Hawaiians and their
leis, some kind of welcoming gift?"

Ernie snorted a laugh. "It's sort of a fertility thing with them, a
romance thing."

"Huh?"

"Lemme put it this way. The Squatters must think

278

you 'n' me would make a great couple. Guess they didn't see your wedding
ring."

Patricia's fingers were unconsciously diddling with the dried foot. "How
strange."

Ernie was obviously frustrated and maybe even embarrassed. He peered
back through the crowd. "What were you sayin'? You saw Everd? If ya did,
we should probably call Chief Sutter."

"I don't think for a minute that Everd Stanherd had anything to do with
Junior Caudill's death, and neither do you."

"No, I guess I don't," Ernie verified, "but why'd he 'n' his wife head
for the hills the minute folks started sayin' he did?"

Patricia couldn't answer. She stood on her tiptoes to look over the
crowd. The fire pit raged, but there was no one standing between the
trees where she thought she'd seen the Squatter elder. "Maybe it wasn't
even him," she dismissed. "Just someone who looked like him. What was it
they called him? Remember the guy who gave us the oysters the other day?"

"Oh, Regert, yeah. That name the clan has for Everd is sawon. It means
'seer,' or somethin' like that."

Patricia kept looking out. "Damn, I'm sure it was him, though." Without
even thinking, she grabbed Ernie's hand and pulled. "Come on; let's go
check."

She was tugging him gently through the crowd. More firelit faces grinned
at them as they passed, many of them adorned as the girl had been, with
the carnival-like face paint. Again, and even more strongly, Patricia
didn't feel like herself, but whoever that other self was... she enjoyed
the sensation. Another part, though--some remnant of her rational
self--probably

279

knew what her subconscious was up to. Lewd thoughts shouted at her in
the baldest truth: I'm drunk, I'm horny, and, gee, look what I'm doing
now. I'm hauling this man into the woods on a stupid pretext--the same
man I almost had sex with the other day. I keep telling myself that I'd
never cheat on Byron, but... what am I really doing?

She couldn't even fool herself.

Their footfalls crunched into the woods. I should let go of his hand
now, she thought. But she didn't. She led him in deeper, until the
moonlight showed them a footpath. "Let's go this way," she said. "He
probably came this way."

Ernie said nothing, but he was frowning.

Moonlight painted one tree whose bark had been scraped away, and into
the bare wood beneath more odd Squatter etchings had been cut around a
makeshift cross. Would this be her good luck? And what of the bizarre
badger foot the painted girl had christened them both with?

The night shimmered. As the cicadas thrummed, Patricia felt herself
merging into that other self. Her heartbeat had already picked up; she
could feel her nipples aching against the fabric of the sheer blouse.
The evening heat was caressing her, sensitizing her skin through pores
seeping sweat.

"Everd ain't out here, Patricia," Ernie finally spoke his mind. He
likely had already deciphered her motives, even before she had herself.
"This is dumb. Let's go back."

"No," she whispered. She was secretly desperate. "I'm serious. I really
did see him." Now her fingers seemed manic, diddling with the dried foot
as though it were some talisman that would embolden her.

280

"I'm goin' back," he insisted, agitation in his voice. "We both know
what's goin' on here."

"What?" she questioned ineptly. "What do you--"

"If we stay out here, we're both gonna get in trouble, and it ain't
gonna lead to nothin' no ways. I ain't comin' out here just to be jerked
around."

Patricia let go of his hand and stopped. "Ernie, that's ridiculous," she
insisted, but her head was reeling--not so much from inebriation as from
lust. Lust felt stuffed in her head. Her knees were almost shaking. "I
really do want to talk to Everd Stanherd--"

"Fine. Then go talk to him. I ain't gettin' myself set up again to wind
up lookin' like a fool. I'm goin' back."

When he turned, her heart twisted in her chest. All reason was lost now,
along with her values and selfrespect. "Ernie, wait. ..."

He gruffed a sigh, stopped midstep, and jerked back around.

Patricia had already unbuttoned her blouse. Her breasts felt hot and
very heavy on her chest now, as though all that drunken desire had
pushed more blood into them. She skimmed off the blouse and let it fall
to the twigs. She was leaning against the skinned tree, her head just
under the crudely adorned Squatter cross.' Her eyes riveted into him.

"Christ, I feel sorry for your husband, Patricia, 'cos you are one right
pain in the ass when you drink."

She barely heard him. She arched her back against the tree, elucidating
her breasts, and next she actually caressed them in her hands. When she
pliered the nipples between her fingers, she moaned out loud.

"You're drunk," he declared.

"I know, but so what?"

281

She slipped her shorts down to midthigh, then openly played a hand
through her scarlet pubic hair.

Ernie gnawed his lip, then decided. "You're all bark and no bite,
Patricia. You got some midlife fucked-up city-chick thing goin' on, like
teasin' it up with some redneck sucker who had a crush on you since
junior high's gonna show ya somethin' about yourself you didn't know.
It's just bullshit, and I ain't buyin' it, and even if you were game,
all that'd do is make ya feel guilty in the morning 'cos you're fuckin'
married and you and I both know you ain't gonna cheat on your husband.
You might act like you'd cheat on him, but you ain't gonna do it, so's
I'm wastin' my damn time standin' here like a fuckin' idiot."

Ernie turned around and walked back to the cookout.

The reality collided with her. She was almost in tears when she pulled
her shorts up and got back into her blouse. She stumbled to the fringes
of the gathering, finally letting some common sense reach through her
drunkenness. I am really one screwed-up woman. It doesn't have anything
to do with my childhood, or the rape or my parents. It's got nothing to
do with Dr. Sallee or Byron or Ernie or anyone. It's me, and I've got to
get my act together, and I've got to start right now. ...

The party was still in full swing as some of the older Squatters lit the
great bonfire in the middle of the held. Patricia edged around the
crowd, cloaking herself in shadows. She didn't look to see where Ernie
was and she felt too embarrassed to allow herself to be seen. After
several deep breaths, she felt a little less drunk, and she walked back
up the hill.

The only person who even noticed her leaving was Everd Stanherd himself,
who was looking out from the trees he'd been hiding in. He watched her
walk home.

282

"Maybe she can help us, like you said," Marthe Stanherd remarked. She
held her husband's hand in the dark.

"Maybe, my love," he replied in his strange, buoyant accent. "Or maybe
I'm wrong about everything, and the great Lord God has deemed me unfit
to be a seer even for myself. ..."

(II)

Chief Sutter had felt not quite right all day. This morning, for
instance, he'd wakened with a grand erection-- rare for a man his
age--but when he took a look at his wife snoring next to him, he
realized he'd sooner attempt to copulate with a grounded manatee. The
box of jelly-filled doughnuts he'd picked up for breakfast at the
Qwik-Mart was stale. He'd had a headache and a half since morning, which
turned into a headache and seven-eights by noon from the pollen and the
heat. All kinds of shit was going down in his town, none of which Sutter
could reckon, and the only thing he had to look forward to all day was
the Squatter cookout, which had kicked off just fine, and then he got a
call from Trey on the radio. Something happened at the station. Jesus.

"What are all the damn lights doin' off?" were the first words to exit
Sutter's mouth when he came in.

Trey looked up from his desk with an expression like bewilderment. The
younger man rubbed his face. "Things are startin' to get really
fucked-up 'round here, Chief. I don't know where to start."

Sutter looked at his watch, his patience ticking away with it. "Why'd
you call me down here at midnight,

283

Trey? And why'd you turn off the lights? Start talkin'. Now."

"Ricky Caudill's dead, Chief," Trey blurted.

"Bullshit." Sutter bulled past Trey's desk to the cells. The only light
that remained on was the hall light, which bled into Caudill's unit. The
cell door stood unlocked.

"Fuck!" Sutter shouted.

Eventually Trey came down the hall. He was edgy, fidgeting. "That's how
I found him, Chief. Looks like..."

Sutter was leaning over the cot. "It looks like all his blood's gone is
what'choo were about to say." The wizened face looked pale as old candle
wax. There was no blood on the floor, none on Caudill's clothes, no
evidence of a wound. "It's fuckin' crazy," Sutter murmured, staring.

Trey turned on the cell light. Sutter unbuttoned Cauldill's shirt to
reveal a sheet-white chest underscored with blue veins. The lack of
color in the flesh made Ricky's chest hairs look like jet-black wires.
The nipples were purple. Sutter lifted up the arm that dangled off the
cot, then pushed Caudill's body on its side. "No lividity," he said.

"What's that, Chief?"

"We've seen corpses before, Trey. After they're dead an hour or two, the
blood settles to the low points a' the body and turns blue. But not
here. It's impossible."

"I know, Chief," Trey agreed wearily. "Lotta impossible shit been goin'
on lately, and you know what folks're sayin'."

Sutter turned and bellowed, "I ain't believin' no shit about Everd
Stanherd hexin' people! Ain't no reason for Everd to hex Ricky or Junior
anyway!"

284

Trey shrugged where he stood. "There is if it was Ricky 'n' Junior who
killed the Hilds and the Ealds."

Sutter's face was reddening. "Why would they do that? You're sayin' the
Caudills were into selling crystal meth, too?"

"I don't know, Chief. Gimme another explanation, then. Somebody killed
Ricky in his cell, drained all his blood without spillin' a drop? You
tell me."

"There ain't no fuckin' such thing as hexes 'n' curses 'n' magic! We're
cops, for God's sake!" Sutter yelled. "You hear me?"

Trey waited through a moment of silence. "Roger that, Chief. I don't
believe the shit either, but then again ... I don't know what to make of
any a' this."

"Did you call the coroner's office?"

"No."

"Why?"

Trey let out a breath at the same time he took an inadvertent glance at
Ricky Caudill's grub-white corpse. "This place is givin' me the creeps,
Chief. Let's go back out front and talk."

Sutter's temper was ranging up and down. He didn't like not knowing
things, and right now the only thing he did know was that something was
seriously off kilter. "Turn some fuckin' lights on," he griped in the
station lobby. "It's dark as a fuckin' tomb in here."

There was a click. Suddenly a cone of light blossomed at Chief Sutter's
very own desk. But Trey was standing beside him.

Then who the hell was sitting at Sutter's desk?

"Good evening, Chief Sutter," Gordon Felps greeted him. Only the bottom
half of his face could be seen in the light. "We were going to talk to
you eventually, but certain events have expedited that need."

285

"Mr. Felps? What are you--"

"It's best if we just begin as openly as possible," the blond man said.
"You are the law, after all. But sometimes the law is malleable, for the
greater good. The Squatters, for instance."

Confusion immediately swept Sutter. He looked to Trey, who remained
standing beside him. "What's going on, Trey?"

Trey sighed. "Chief, it's like last week, when we shook down those
shitheads in the Hummer. Common drug dealers. We fucked 'em up and took
their cash, and booted 'em out of town, right?"

The reference threw Sutter for a big loop. That had been private police
business, the details of which he didn't particularly want to admit in
front of Felps or any citizen. "Trey, you better level with me about
what's goin' on here."

Trey nodded, crossing his arms. "That's what I'm doin', boss. And you
are the boss; don't get me wrong. We want you in with us."

"I'm not likin' the sound of this."

Trey held up a finger to make a point. "Lemme put it this way. Those
scumbags in the Hummer, okay? What if we'd gone a step further, Chief? I
mean, what we did was illegal. You weren't exactly keepin' the
Constitution in mind when you knocked that black dealer's teeth out and
busted his leg--"

Sutter was enraged. "You were part a' that, too, so don't ya go sayin'
that--"

"Chief, Chief, that's not what I mean, so listen to me. We both fucked
those guys up, and we took their watches and their cash--you and me. And
we've done stuff like that before because--let's face it--the common man
don't give a shit if the police steal from

286

criminals and bust their faces in. Forget about the letter a' the
law--this is common sense stuff we're talkin' 'bbout, stuff that all
cops do, 'cos if we don't take the law into our own hands when we can
get away with it, criminals'll drag this great country of ours right
down the shitter. You agree with that, Chief. We've talked about it.
What it all boils down to is this: so what? We fucked up a coupla
criminals. We stole from a coupla thieves. And in doin' so, we did help
make the world a teeny bit better, didn't we? 'Cos those two assholes
are probably still in the hospital. They ain't never gonna sell drugs
here again, right?"

Sutter's blood pressure was starting to creep. "Right, Trey, so stop
dickin' with me and tell me what this is really all about."

Trey nodded again, sticking to analogies. "Let's go one further, okay?
Let's just say we'd killed those two losers in the Hummer. They kill
innocent people with the drugs they sell. We know they're guilty. Sure,
the Constitution 'n' all says they're innocent until proven guilty in
court, but--shit, Chief--we saw it with our own eyes. We don't need no
judge to tell us. Those guys sell hard drugs, and folks eventually die
from those same drugs. So say we killed 'em to boot. That's against the
letter a' the law, too. But what about the common man's law? It ain't
that big a deal, right? We killed a couple of killers and the world's a
better place for it. Right?"

Sutter's eyes shone hard on Trey. "What the fuck are you tryin' to tell me?"

"What Trey's trying to relate to you, Chief," Gordon Felps stood up and
said, "is that we're all trying to make Agan's Point a better place,
while we're serving our own better interests at the same time."

287

"The Squatters," Sutter croaked.

"Yes, Chief. They're a negative element, and they need to go. I won't
lie to you. I want them gone so that I can make a lot of money by
turning Agan's Point into the clean, upscale community it deserves to
be. Trey wants them gone so that he can benefit financially as well. The
Squatters are slowly sliding away from acceptable levels of morality.
They're getting into the drug trade themselves, which can only be bad
for Agan's Point. If the Squatters leave, then Judy Parker will sell the
land to me and we can get on with the business of progress."

"What Mr. Felps is sayin', Chief," Trey spoke up, "is that we want the
Squatters gone... so we're helpin' 'em along."

The silence seemed to tick along with the darkness, and with Sutter's
contemplations. "Helping 'em... along."

"That's right," Felps continued in a monotone. "We knew that the Hilds
were selling hard drugs, so I paid Junior Caudill to kill them, and to
make it appear to be part of a turf-war scenario."

"He jazzed up the facts," Trey added. "To make it look more convincing
to the state cops."

"And then I paid Ricky Caudill to burn down the Ealds' shack, because we
also had it on good authority that they were running a meth lab out of
it. Dwayne, too, by the way. He was the first contractor on my payroll.
He killed about a half dozen Squatters who we also knew were working drugs."

Sutter stood stock-still. Now it was all unfolding before his face and
his very life. "Ah, and you say you knew that these Squatters were into
drugs, so you were takin' the law into your own hands by killin' 'em. To
make Agan's Point a better place."

288

"Yes," Felps said. "And to serve our own gain."

"So how did you know the Hilds 'n' the Ealds were into meth?"

"Street intelligence, Chief Sutter. The best kind, which, as a police
officer yourself, you already know."

"I'd been hearin' about it for a while, Chief," Trey said.

"Hearin' about it from who?"

"State cops here 'n' there, and county. Plus just bits 'n' pieces I'd
been hearin' on the job. It's all legit, boss. We wouldn't have done it
if we hadn't known it was rock-solid."

"So what do you think, Chief?" Felps asked outright. "Are you going to
join us? It will change your life if you do. Your financial problems
will be over, and you will get to be chief of police in a much, much
better place-- the kind of job you deserve."

Sutter stared.

"So what do you think, Chief?" Felps repeated.

The cards all fell down. Sutter turned straight to Felps and stared at
him. "I think that you murdered them Squatters in cold blood. I don't
believe for a minute that the Hilds 'n' the Ealds or any other Squatters
had anything to do with crystal meth. I think ya killed 'em and flaked
'em with dope to make it look like they did. Just to get rich off the land."

Felps's lips could barely be seen in the darkness hovering over the
desk. "That's regrettable, Chief."

Sutter reached for his gun, but--

Click.

Trey already had his own revolver cocked against Sutter's head. "Damn
it, Chief. Ya done buggered everything up." He reached around and hit
his boss's thumb snap, then took his gun.

289

"I can't believe this," Sutter said, remarkably stable. "You growed up
white trash, Trey. I pulled ya out, gave ya work, trusted ya, and now
after all that, you got a gun to my head? Are you really gonna kill me
after all I done for ya?"

bam!

Muzzle flash lit the station up for a split second when Trey's piece
bucked in his hand. A chunk of skull blew out of Chief Sutter's head in
a way that reminded Trey of the old JFK assassination footage he caught
every now and then on the History Channel--the old melon shot. Sutter's
last act in life was to collapse before his own desk with a considerable
thud.

At least he got to die with a bellyful of food.

"Good job," Felps said. "An unfortunate happenstance, but there was no
other option available. I need his body buried deep. Will that be a
problem?"

"Naw. Won't be the first time I been up all night."

"Bury him and Ricky in the foundation trenches at my construction site.
I'll see to it that they're cemented over. It'll look like Ricky and
Sutter were part of the meth network, too. Sutter let Ricky out of jail
and then they fled. Be sure to plant some crystal in Sutter's personal
vehicle and Ricky Caudill's house. In addition, that other job we
discussed--the pier. I'd planned to have Ricky and Junior do that too."

"But now they're dead, so you need me to do it," Trey finished what he
already knew.

"Correct." Felps looked blankly yet confidently to Trey. "Do you foresee
any of this presenting a problem?"

"Nope."

"Here's something to tide you over for the time being." Felps handed
Trey a very fat envelope. "I'll talk to you soon. And congratulations
... Chief Trey."

290

Yeah, Chief Trey. Trey rolled the title over in his head.

I really like the sound of that.

Felps left the station through the rear exit. Trey pocketed the sheaf of
cash, then began to mop up Sutter's blood.

It would be a long night, but a productive one.

291

(I)

It was the last thing Patricia needed: another steaming, piping-hot
dream. ...

Faceless, well-muscled men spent themselves in her one after another.
When one rolled off, another took his place, hot skin veneered in sweat
sliding across her tingling flesh. Something felt soft beneath her bare
buttocks and back--her bed?--but through the woozy slits of her eyes she
was certain she saw trees, moonlight, the woods. Oh, God, oh, God, oh,
God, she thought as another orgasm broke. The gustlike sensation racked
her, forcing her to lock her ankles and wrists around the broad back of
her current suitor, but he shrugged away, dragging his manhood out of
her just to make way for still more unidentified men. Teeth clamped her
nipple ends and pulled; calloused hands wrung her inflamed breasts.
Patricia was going crazy in the anonymous sexual frenzy. She was
allowing herself to be used, to be squashed, humped, and emptied into,
yet through that

292

debasement--she knew--she received pleasures far more intense than those
she was giving. Who were these men, these roughened, lust-charged
strangers? It didn't matter. They were but sexual animals, just as she.
They were symbols of her repression and the designs that society
nowadays demanded of successful, married "businesswomen." It doesn't
matter, she panted to herself in the dream. None of it matters. The only
thing that matters is me. ...

She quaked at the ensuing orgasms. Mouths licked greedily over her body;
tongues roved her sex. Stout fingers manipulated her clitoris with a
jeweler's finesse, then roughly burrowed into her folds as well as other
places.

Moonlight blurred in her eyes. The Orgy seemed to be abating, but she
could still see shadows of people around her. The aftermath of her
ecstasy left her gleefully exhausted, but...

She felt herself becoming aware of something. The trees around her, the
woods--they seemed pushed off at a distance. Did she hear water lapping
somewhere? She thought of a pond or a lake, and as more water gently
splashed, she thought it could mean that someone was coming out of this
body of water. Details shifted, and her vision began to clear.

Then her heart froze in her chest.

I know where I am now, she realized, and she might as well have come to
this conclusion inside of a coffin.

She'd been having sex with all those men... at Bowen's Field.

She lurched upright, screaming. She ran for the woods, thrashing into
their midst. Her scream followed her like a contrail, but when it
occurred to her that she was being followed--by some bizarre, giggling

293

horde--the fringes of the nightmare began to dissolve, and the next
thing she knew she was standing before the dresser mirror in the
bedroom, naked, hair disarrayed, terrified. Her bosom heaved. The
badger's foot on the cord about her neck seemed to be vaguely alive,
moving about the valley of her breasts. In the dark mirror she saw that
she'd been finger painted with Squatter graffiti: gleaming,
slate-colored lines and squiggles inscribed about her nipples,
bracketing her navel, traveling about her thighs like crestwork on an
old house. Her face had been painted likewise--an ancient fertility
mask, a rictus of either wantonness or horror.

The giggling tittered behind her. Had something followed her from the
nightmare into reality? Her eyes bloomed at her horrid likeness in the
mirror, and in the reflection she could see the window, and a faceless
figure standing there.

She sat upright in bed as if awakened by a shriek. She remained naked,
the sheets kicked off the bed. Her first instinct, though, was to look
very closely at herself.

She slid off the mattress and walked gingerly to the dresser. Please,
please, please, she thought. The badger's foot still dangled between her
breasts, but her face and skin were clean--no evidence of the Squatter
clan's body paint. Finally she let out a long breath. The cicadas
trilled sedately from outside. Moonlight tinted the quiet room.

Just a nightmare, she assured herself.

She was tired of her dreams, and tired of never feeling like herself
since she'd arrived. I need to go home soon. This place is weirding me out.

In the dream she'd been drenched in impassioned sweat, but now she felt
equally drenched in shame and

294

unmitigated sin. She'd enjoyed the raving sexual fest of the dream,
which only made her feel guiltier about Byron. I'll bet he's not
dreaming of orgies with a bunch of women, she thought. He's home
worrying about me, and missing me.

Patricia didn't do well with guilt. ...

The clock on the nightstand read 3:20 a.m. Jesus ... Now that the terror
of the dream had subsided, her head throbbed. I'm half-drunk and
half-hungover at the same time. The dark room hovered around her.
Eventually the comforting moonlight and cicada sounds turned annoying.
Then--

Creeeeeak.

Patricia snapped her gaze toward the open window. "Who's there?" she
abruptly called out.

A creak.

As if someone had been standing on the wooden porch below the window.
It's probably nothing, she dismissed, yet quickly pulled on her robe.

Someone had been standing by the window in the dream

Yes, it was probably nothing, but she got up nonetheless and leaned out
the window. "Is anyone there?" she asked too quietly. What if someone
answered? Who would be out here at this hour, and for what purpose?

She wouldn't let herself contemplate answers.

She squinted, set her hand down on the sill to lean out further, but...

What is...

Her hand came away wet. Something viscid.

Gross. Whatever it was, it felt warm. Slug trails. Annoyed, she wiped
her hand with a tissue, then grabbed the flashlight and went outside.

At first she couldn't reckon what she was seeing in

295

the flashlight beam: a splotch like melted wax pooled on the sill, the
overflow running down the outside wall in a trail. It was still wet but
now she noticed other similar trails that had long since dried.

The window, she thought.

Then, revolted, she knew.

Like the peephole at the Squatter's shower. Oh, my God. The realization
bloomed in totality.

Some man was out here, masturbating. Looking at me naked in bed ...

Then a rustling came from the hedges out in the yard, and she saw a
figure slinking away. It was Ernie.

He stumbled drunkenly down the path, then through the trees, and
disappeared.

296

(I)

bam, bam, bam, bam, bam.

The knock on the door sounded like someone hitting the frame with a hammer.

Oh, my God, I'm so hungover, Patricia thought, a hand to her head. She'd
passed back out on the bed last night, and when she looked to the clock
now, it shocked her to see that it was noon. And--

bam, bam, bam, bam, bam.

The knock was maddening, painful against her headache. She dragged
herself out of bed, making sure her robe was sashed. Who would be
knocking that loud? It's so fucking rude!

When she opened her door, it puzzled her to find a poker-faced Virginia
state trooper looking back at her, with sergeant stripes on his sleeve.
"Sorry to bother you, ma'am. Are you Patricia White?"

"Why, yes, but--"

297

"I'm Sergeant Shannon, with the state police narcotics unit. I need to
ask you a few questions," he said. The trooper had gunmetal hair and no
trace of the local accent, more like a Wisconsin accent than anything
Southern. His eyes seemed critical of the fact that Patricia was in her
nightgown past noon. "It won't take very long at all."

Patricia immediately put her guard up. She was a lawyer; such a question
from a police officer had to make her wonder. "What are the questions in
reference to?" she asked back.

"Ernie Gooder ... and your sister, Judy Parker."

Patricia's head throbbed; she couldn't concentrate. "What on earth ...
Is everything all right?"

"No, ma'am. There was more trouble last night," the officer said. "Do
you have any idea where Judy Parker or Ernie Gooder is?"

"Well..." She rubbed her eyes. "Aren't they here at the house?"

"Nope. We checked the house."

Another flag shot up. "You need a search warrant for that, Sergeant."

He put a piece of paper in her face. "I have more than that, ma'am. I
have an arrest warrant for Ernie Gooder. The magistrate just signed it."

This is crazy! "Why do you want to arrest Ernie?"

"Did you know that most of the Agan's Point boat docks burned down last
night? The boathouse, and about half of your sister's crabbing boats?"

Patricia couldn't think past the shock. "No, I had no idea."

"The fire marshal's down there now, says it was arson. Some coincidence,
isn't it? One night after

298

someone burns down the Ealds' shack--a crystal meth lab-- then someone
burns down the docks. Looks like more turf war; at least that's what we
think."

"But what does this have to do with Ernie?"

"Several witnesses saw him in proximity to the docks shortly before the
fire."

Patricia pushed through some mental cobwebs. Wait a minute. I saw Ernie
last night at 3:15. ... "What time?" she asked.

- "About three-thirty in the morning."

The pause in her mind yawned. That didn't sound good at all, especially
when she remembered what else Ernie had been doing last night. He was
peeping in my window, and ... It didn't add up, though. "I don't
understand why you're here instead of Chief Sutter."

Shannon's rugged face remained blank. "Chief Sutter appears to be
missing, too, along with your sister and Ernie Gooder. Sergeant Trey is
down at the scene right now."

The confusion was piling up on her headache. "My sister? You're saying
that my sister is missing?"

"Not officially, but no one can find her. Her vehicle's in the driveway,
and she's not in the house. She's the property owner, but she's not
anywhere on the property. We think Ernie Gooder might be working in
collaboration with some kind of rival drug gang--"

"That's ridiculous," Patricia had to admit, even after what she'd caught
Ernie doing last night.

"There's been quite a bit of evidence lately involving sales and
manufacture of amphetamine-based narcotics. These vagrants who live on
your sister's land at the south end of the Point. We already know that
some of these vagrants or squatters or whatever

299

they are have been producing and selling drugs in an operation run by a
man named Everd Stanherd."

Patricia sighed. More craziness. "Look, I don't know about the
Squatters--I guess some of them are involved in that--but there's no way
that Ernie Gooder is, and ... what? You think my sister is too?"

"No, we just think it's odd for her to have disappeared when all of this
is going on. Two burnings in two days, a rash of missing persons, and
drug-related murders between what are obviously rival drug gangs."

Patricia couldn't argue with the trooper. "And what did you say? Chief
Sutter is missing too?"

"That's correct, ma'am. Do you know where he is?"

The tone of Sergeant Shannon's voice unsettled her. "Why would I know
where the town police chief is, Officer?"

"I'm just asking, ma'am."

"You seem to be implying something that rubs me the wrong way."

"No implications, ma'am. We'd just be very interested in knowing why
he's not around when the town docks get burned down. It appears that
sometime last night Chief Sutter released a prisoner at the town jail, a
man named Ricky Caudill. He's missing, too. And wouldn't you know it?
When we checked Caudill's house, we found packets of crystal meth.
Sutter's personal vehicle is still at his house, and his wife doesn't
know where he is. And ..." The snide trooper paused for effect.
"Wouldn't you know it? The wife's car is gone, stolen. In a town that
hasn't had a single stolen car reported in ten years. I got men at the
Sutter house right now, searching the premises and his personal vehicle.
And on top of all that, your sister is missing too.

300

We'd be very interested in knowing where she is. A lot of people have
been disappearing around here lately. More than anything else, we're
very concerned about the well-being of Judy Parker and the whereabouts
of Chief Sutter and Ricky Caudill. And we're going to arrest Ernie
Gooder at the earliest opportunity." Shannon held up the warrant
again--a stolid reminder. Then he gave her his card. "I'm sorry to have
to wake you up so earl--" He paused, looked at his watch, and raised a
brow. Then he discreetly sniffed the air, as if to say, Would that be
alcohol I smell on your breath? "Sorry to intrude on your day. But
please give us a call if you think you might be able to help us out."

"I will," she said, trying to not grind her teeth.

"Hey, Sarge!" a younger trooper called out behind him. "Check it out."

Shannon walked away without further word, retracing steps back to
Ernie's bedroom, where several other officers milled about.

Jesus, that rude bastard! She had a mind to file a harassment complaint.
She closed the door, repressing her lawyer's rage, and dressed quickly.
Then brushed her teeth and gargled, hoping to quell any more remnants of
last night's drinking. Now let's see what the fuss is in Ernie's room. ...

When she walked in herself, she didn't need to be told. I don't believe
it, she thought.

A state trooper with acetate gloves was plucking tiny bags of crystal
methamphetamine out of Ernie's dresser drawer.

There were many such bags.

301

I'm not doing too bad here, no, sir, Trey thought. Even with those
couple of surprises at the last minute, Trey was sure he'd done the
right thing. Burying Sutter and Ricky Caudill had been a cinch; Felps
had left some holes already dug at the condo site, as promised. And
taking care of the docks, too, had been easy and kind of fun. But I sure
as shit didn't count on that fuckhead Ernie catching me at the pier last
night. Son of a whore followed me all the way from Judy's house! Trey
had been caught by total surprise when he'd been pumping twenty or
thirty gallons of marine gas from the boat pump all over the pier and
the closest crabbing boats.

Ernie was a bigger, stronger man, for sure, but Trey was harder. He'd
jacked the redneck out after not much of a tussle, busted some teeth,
cracked a rib or two, then knocked him out cold with a bop to the head.
Never did like that fucker. Shit, I shoulda just let him burn up in the
boathouse. ... Why hadn't he thought of that? Can't think a everything
every time. Instead, he'd hogtied Ernie and driven him out to the
abandoned shanty way off from Squatterville on the Point. Nobody even
knows about this place, he thought, unlocking the front door now. He'd
tried to look as official as possible for the state cops and firemen
once the burning docks had been discovered. They'd all been out there
for hours. Close to nightfall, the state began wrapping things up, so
Trey took off in his patrol car to "start canvassing the neighborhood.
Try to get me a line on Ernie Gooder," he'd claimed.

Instead, he'd come straight to the shanty.

"Howdy, folks," he proclaimed inside.

No one responded, but how could they, with gags in their mouths? Trey
lit the lantern; light flowed around

302

him when he proceeded to the center of the room. "There she is, the
little cutie," he mocked Judy. Snatching her last night couldn't have
been easier. She'd been stumbling toward the edge of the woods beyond
the cookout, drunk out of her gourd. "Why, sure, Judy," he'd answered
her blabbering request. "I'd be more'n happy to drive you back to the
house." He'd driven her back to the shanty instead, handcuffed and with
her D-cup bra stuffed in her mouth. Drunken bitch didn't even know what
he was doing, she was so stewed. Now she lay on the floor, on her side,
tied up like a trussed goose. One ample breast had fallen out of the
torn blouse, the nipple large as a beer coaster. Trey, of course, did
the gentlemanly thing, saying, "Ah, now, that ain't right. A gal can't
be havin' a tit hangin' out." And then he ripped back the blouse some
more. "She needs both hangin' out. There, that's better." He gave them
both a good feel. Trey had plans for these breasts, and for everything
else connected to them ... but not just yet. He'd be setting her up for
another psycho job; this one would look like some of the clan did it,
the ones who were running meth. Only Trey knew that there were actually
no Squatters selling anything except fucking crabs--but that was beside
the point.

"You first, buddy-bro." Trey grabbed Ernie by the back of the belt and
dragged him to the car. He mewled beneath his gag, eyes blooming with
rage. Trey hocked on him once he got the cracker loaded into the truck.
"Time for a road trip," the dutiful officer promised, then slammed the
trunk closed.

Trey cleared his head as he drove, smiling to himself. The moon was just
up over the trees, gibbous, yellow as a grapefruit. Even closet
sociopaths like Trey found their moments of existential harmony. I'm
gonna kill a

303

couple more people tonight, and you know what? I dig it. All part of the
plan. He particularly liked the notion that on the same day he'd
unofficially become Agan's Point's new police chief, he'd disposed of
two bodies and was about to dispose of two more.

I'm really gettin' the hang of this, he thought.

The spur he was looking for sat about five miles north of the Point,
inaccessible to boats--due to rocks and a low-tide margin--and well
hidden by a wall of trees. When Trey was a boy, in fact, he'd come down
here on his own to drop chicken necks. The crabs were humongous and so
plentiful he could pull a half bushel in an hour. More of that same
existential harmony seized him now when he parked and opened the trunk.
Cicadas trilled, the moonlight bathed his face, and the lapping water
along the shore made him truly feel one with the universe, the master of
his own destiny.

"Out'cha go," he said, hefting Ernie out of the trunk and carrying him
like a heavy suitcase by the back of his belt. In the other hand, Trey
carried his crowbar.

"Ain't no one to hear ya way out here," Trey said, and cut off his gag.

"You fuckin' piece a' shit, Trey," Ernie wheezed, crooking his neck to
look up. "I always knowed you were a twisted motherfucker."

"I did fuck my mother, Ernie. Lotsa times. And I'm damn proud of it. Now
let's get you fixed up. Hot night like this, you need a cool dip." Trey
shoved Ernie on his side, raised the crowbar high, and--

Crack! Crack! Crack!

--hammered the crowbar's elbow hard between Ernie's shoulder blades.
Ernie grunted a salvo of lessthan-eloquent objections, then began to
shudder. Several more cracks between the shoulder blades sufficed

304

to achieve Trey's purpose. He leaned over and cut the hogtie, watched
Ernie's limbs slump.

"Are ya dead?" Trey asked, slamming his shoe down on Ernie's hand. There
was no recoil, no movement whatsoever. But Ernie's eyes were still
blinking, his chest rising, and his throat gulping.

"I-I cain't move," Ernie choked. "Cain't move my arms or legs, ya
motherfuckin' sick piece a' shit..."

"That's 'cos I just paralyzed ya, dickhead." Trey nodded a secret
approval, like an acknowledgment shared exclusively between himself and
the night. He'd fractured the spine high enough to cause total paralysis
but not quite high enough to kill. "You always were a no-balls, do-good
hayseed, Ernie. Well, now you're a quadriplegic no-balls, do-good hayseed."

Ernie drooled, only his head moving. "You'll burn in hell, so I guess
that's good enough."

"Sure, but you'll get there first. And when you're down there suckin'
the devil's dick, I'll still be here, havin' a ball." Trey chuckled as
he took to his next task. He tore open Ernie's shirt, pulled off his
boots, then yanked his jeans down to his knees.

"What are you, queer?" Ernie challenged. "I figured ya for a lotta
things, but not that."

Trey guffawed. "Don't worry, Ernie-boy. I ain't gonna pack your fudge. I
done told ya--you're goin' fer a nice cool dip in the good ol'
Chesapeake Bay." And then Trey dragged Ernie into the shallow water
until the water came over his chest.

"All you're gonna do is drown me?" Ernie managed. It could be discerned
by the straining expression on his face that he was trying to move his
limbs, but those nerves were no longer firing at all. "Figured a sick
fuck like you'd cut me up or hang me or somethin'."

305

"Naw, Ernie, this is much better, and no, I ain't gonna drown ya
neither." Now Trey leaned Ernie's head up against a rotten log in the
water. He couldn't move, and was braced enough so that there was no way
he might sidle over into the water and indeed drown.

A moment passed; then Ernie figured it out, to his extreme misfortune.
"Aw, no, God ..."

Trey grinned down at his work: Ernie's head and shoulders were propped
out of the water, but the rest of his body was submerged.

"Agan's Point crabs'll eat good tonight," Trey said, then walked back to
the car and drove off.

306

(I)

"It's all beyond belief," Byron said in a very low voice over the phone.

Patricia was looking blankly out the window as she talked, her cell
phone to her ear. "I know," she said. "I feel useless. I don't know what
to do. I came out here to help my sister, but now I don't even know
where she is."

"Well, enough is enough. You have to come home now."

She chewed her lower lip. She did want to go home now, but how could
she? "Byron, Judy is missing. I can't leave until I know she's safe."

Byron's dissatisfaction could be sensed over the line. "At this point, I
don't even care. All I care about is you being back here with me. I want
you here now, in our house--safe. I don't care about Judy, I don't care
about those nutty Squatter people, I don't care about docks and lean-tos
burning down. People are getting

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murdered there, Patricia. So you get in your car--right now--and drive
home. Now. This minute."

It was rare for Byron to be this bent out of shape; he was even mad,
something rarer. "I want to come home, too, Byron. But I can't leave
until I know Judy's all right-"

"She probably passed out drunk in the woods!" Byron exploded. "Whoever's
doing these burnings-- these drug people--they could burn Judy's house
down next, with you in it!"

"Honey, calm down," she tried to pacify him. The sun from the window
glared in her eyes. He was right, and by now ...

By now, I'm sick to death of Agan's Point and hope I never see the place
again. "I'll be home soon. ..."

"Damn it! You're so fucking stubborn!"

I know I am. But I can't leave yet. "I'll be home in three days, no
more. I promise."

"What if you can't find her by then? What if she's dead? I'm sorry if
that sounds insensitive, but I don't give a shit about your sister
compared to you!"

Patricia sighed. "I'm sure she'll turn up by then."

"But what if she doesn't?" Byron blared.

"Then I'll come home anyway. I'll come home Sunday no matter what."

Now Byron sighed, too. "I just miss you so much, and I love you. I want
you home, away from that crazy place."

"I'll be home, honey. On Sunday."

He calmed down in a moment, and they said their good-byes for the
moment, Patricia promising to call him several times a day until she
left. Indulging me is wearing him out, she realized. I'm not being much of a

308

wife, am I? She remembered her failed antics with Ernie, her
drunkenness, and her complete disregard toward Byron since she'd been
here. Yeah, I've been a really lousy wife lately. About the only thing
she could look forward to was making it up to him.

Did she hear sirens in the distance? She wasn't sure. Don't tell me
something else was set on fire. ... She called the town police station,
inquiring, "Has Judy Parker been located yet?"

"No, ma'am," a woman replied quickly.

"What about Ernie Gooder?"

The receptionist seemed hurried. "He hasn't been found yet either, and
neither has Chief Sutter."

"Is Sergeant Trey available now?"

An exasperated sigh. "No, ma'am. He's out helping the state police look."

"Well, if anybody turns up, could you please call--"

"I'm sorry, ma'am, I have a radio call. I have to go. Call back at five
or six. Sergeant Trey should be back by then. Have a good day."

Click.

The little bit of radio squawk Patricia had heard in the background
sounded urgent. Maybe those really were sirens I heard. ...

She showered and dressed, feeling awkward, even uneasy. I'm the only one
here, she reminded herself. Last night she'd slept fitfully, the only
one in the house then, as well. But she'd been sure to wear her
nightgown this time, and close and lock the window and her bedroom door.
She'd refused to admit to herself that she was afraid.

The beautiful morning outside should've heartened her, but it didn't.
What's happening here? she thought,

309

driving through some of the town's side roads. Modest homes from sparse
yards looked back at her. Yes, the town appeared normal, quaint, and
very sane. But this past week assured her of the falsehood of
appearances. Who knows what's going on behind some of those doors? she
thought.

She took the Cadillac off the Point, vaguely heading in the direction
from which she thought she'd heard sirens. An ambiguous nausea flirted
with her stomach, and it took her a few moments to realize why: this was
roughly the same direction as Bowen's Field. ...

Forget about it. You're long over all that.

And she did feel long over the incident, just as Dr. Sallee had
explained. And miles before the road would lead to Bowen's Field, she
saw a state police car turning down a trail into the woods.

Something is going on out here, she realized.

The road wound down to a rutted dirt lane. Around the bend, she stopped
short, startled. My God! What happened here? An ambulance and three
police cars sat parked with their lights flashing. Sergeant Shannon, the
rugged state trooper she'd talked to yesterday, stood with the other
officers, arms crossed and looking down toward a fingerlike estuary
cutting into the woods from the bay. Shannon turned at the sound of her
tires, then broke from the others and approached.

"Ms. White," he said, holding up a cautious hand, "you don't want to
come down here."

"What happened!" she blurted, heart racing. She spotted two EMTs
dragging a gurney from the ambulance. One of them also unfolded a black
body bag. "It's not my sister, is it?"

The trooper blocked her way. He looked a little pale.

310

"No, it's not. It's one of the other missing persons-- Ernie Gooder. I'm
afraid he's d--"

Patricia pushed past him, wild-eyed. No! It can't be! But even as the
plea left her lips, she knew the worst.

Her eyes shot down at the water. She blinked. Then she jerked her gaze away.

"I told you you didn't want to come down here, Ms. White," Shannon said.
"There is some rough stuff going on in this town."

Rough stuff. What Patricia had seen in the several seconds she'd
actually been able to look was this: Ernie's dead body being dragged out
of the shallow water... or, it could be said, something significantly
less than his dead body.

From the chest down the body looked corroded, or even eaten. All the
skin and quite a bit of muscle mass was absent, leaving raw white bones
showing. The waist down was the worst--there was essentially nothing
left but tendons and scraps of muscle fiber along the leg bones and
hips: a wet skeleton. Skeletal feet pointed up at the ends of the lower
leg bones. Ernie's sodden shirt had been torn open and hung off the
shoulders, while his pants looked congealed at what was left of his
ankles. Some arcane process had whittled away the flesh, leaving this
human scrap, and in the final second of her glimpse, Patricia realized
what that process was.

At least a dozen very large blue crabs let go of those skeletal legs
when the body had been pulled out, whereupon they skittered back into
the water. Ernie had been used for crab bait.

Patricia wanted to throw up. She felt dizzy at once, and braced herself
against a tree. "My God," she wheezed.

311

"Sorry you had to see that," Shannon said. "These drug wars can get down
and dirty."

"I knew him very well," Patricia mumbled over the nausea. "He simply
wasn't the type to sell or use drugs."

Shannon seemed convinced otherwise. "We found crystal meth in his room,
so how do you explain--"

"Sergeant Shannon?" one of the EMTs called out. He knelt at Ernie's
horrific corpse, as gloved cops prepared to slide it into the body bag.
"Found some CDS in his pants pocket. Looks like crystal meth. You'll
want to bag it as evidence."

"You were saying?" Shannon said back to Patricia.

When she heard the bag being zipped up, some morbid force caused her to
steal one last glance. Ernie was now mostly in the bag, but his head
hung out, neck craned back. That was when she saw...

His teeth ... My God, his teeth ...

"You all right, Ms. White?"

"His two front teeth are missing," she croaked. "It's impossible for me
to not have noticed that in the past."

"Ever hear of false teeth? They probably fell out when his attackers
were putting him in the water."

Patricia didn't hear whatever else he said before he departed and went
to secure the drug evidence.

His two front teeth are missing. The words droned in her head. It was
the one thing she'd never forget: the man who'd raped her over
twenty-five years ago had been missing his two front teeth. ...

Patricia could barely maintain her composure. She stood up at the end of
the road with Shannon. They both watched in silence as the ambulance and
other police cars drove away, leaving a veil of road dust hanging

312

in the air. When the last vehicle had left, Patricia stood in numb
shock, the cicada sounds beating in her ears.

"I can tell you," Shannon began, "nothing will ruin a town and its
people faster than dope. It's happening everywhere. And half the time
it's the people you least expect."

"It's just... Ernie," she said. "He wasn't the type at all."

"All it takes is one hit off a meth pipe and you're done. Every addict I
ever busted says the same thing. It changes you overnight. And once the
stuff tips you over, you're making it or selling it just to maintain
your own supply. It turns decent people into thieves, killers,
criminals--human animals. And good luck making it through rehab. This
stuff and crack? The success rate is so low it's not even worth
bothering with. You can put a meth-head in prison for ten years, and
he's back with the pipe the first day he gets out. That's how addictive
this stuff is."

Patricia shook her head, looking out into the woods.

"So you knew this guy pretty well, I take it," the trooper observed.

"I thought I did. I grew up with him as a kid. I live in D.C. now, but I
came back to Agan's Point for a visit-- the first time in years."

"Well, now you can see what happened to him over those years."

"I guess I knew something was wrong--I couldn't imagine he'd gotten
involved with drug people. He wasn't the type."

"There isn't a type. It can happen to anyone. You experiment with
something like this, think, "Oh, I'll just do it once to see what it's
like.' Then you're never the

313

same. We're pretty sure Ernie Gooder was the person who burned down the
docks two nights ago."

"What time did you say the fire occurred?"

"Three thirty."

Patricia smirked. "He was peeping in my window around quarter after."

"Really?" Shannon said. "You're lucky that all he did was peep. Anyway,
it's obvious what's going on out here--a meth war between two gangs.
Ernie and some of these other locals are in one gang, and a bunch of
these Squatters are in the other. And now they're duking it out. It
might seem impossible for a place like this, but like I said, the same
thing's happening all over the state." Shannon shrugged. "Chief Sutter
being missing doesn't look good either."

"So you think he's involved with drugs?"

"A cop, especially a police chief, is the kind of power person any dope
gang will pay to work for them and protect their runs. You wouldn't
believe the kind of money a crooked cop can make."

"Is that what you really think? That Chief Sutter is working with a drug
gang?"

"It's either that or he got killed trying to make a bust. A police chief
doesn't just disappear."

Even in her civilian naivete, Patricia was coming to grips with Sergeant
Shannon's suspicions.

The heat was steepening, the humidity drawing beads of sweat on her brow.

"And I'm sorry I'm the one to tell you this, but I'm sure you've already
considered it anyway," Shannon told her. "There's a pretty big chance
that your sister was involved in some of this too. She's also missing.
There's a good chance--"

314

"I know, Sergeant." Patricia faced the facts. "My sister's probably
dead. Her body's probably lying in the woods somewhere."

Shannon didn't say anything after that.

When he went back on his rounds, Patricia headed back toward town. She
drove aimlessly, cranking the air-conditioning up. What am I thinking?
she asked herself. That I'm just going to see Judy walking down the
road? She's going to wave to me, with a big smile? She knew that wasn't
going to happen.

She drove through more of the town proper, and then the outskirts. I've
never seen anything like this, she thought; Agan's Point looked
abandoned, evacuated. Not even one person out walking their dog... When
she pulled into the Qwik-Mart, she found the little parking lot empty,
noticed no one in the store, then spotted the sorry, we're closed sign.

Hours passed without her notice. Patricia tried to keep her mind off
what was becoming the greatest likelihood. Eventually, she forced
herself to admit why she was driving so pointlessly.

I don't want to go back to the house.

The comfortable old house she'd been raised in now seemed utterly
haunted, not just by her dour parents but by murdered people she didn't
know, and by Judy, by Ernie, by every dim, sad memory, and as she pulled
up the long cul-de-sac out front, those memories massed and urged her
away. She drove to the southern end of the Point. ...

Where the town looked evacuated; the tract of land that comprised
Squatterville looked evacuating. It's a mass exodus now, she saw. She
wondered how many Squatters actually had been involved in drugs. Just

315

those few? Or had the Squatters become a secret drug culture of their own?

We'll never know. They're all leaving now.

In small salvos they trudged up the hill and away, beaten suitcases and
sacks of possessions in tow; Patricia thought of refugees leaving a
bombed city. Where they go next is anybody's guess, and it's not like
anyone cares anyway.

The sun was sinking. Patricia drove the loop around the crab-picking
house and then winced at the burned pier. The boathouse had been reduced
to cinders, while the boats that had been burned had been moored ashore,
the hulls like blackened husks. She could still smell the char in the
air, thick as the cicada trills.

Out in the bay she saw the pale wood plank sticking up: the Squatter
graffiti, their good-luck sign. The plank appeared to overlook the
ruined docks, a symbol now of the clan's bad fortune, not good fortune.

The inevitable approached quickly, like a beast running down a fawn. The
sun had now been replaced by a fat yellow moon that stalked her back to
the dark house.

She parked the Cadillac out front, then sat for several minutes staring,
the engine ticking beneath the hood. I don't want to go in. There's
nobody there anymore.

She trudged up the steps, frowning at the odd door knocker that was a
half-formed face. The fantasy beckoned her: that she would walk in,
smell homemade biscuits baking, and Judy would look up from the oven and
explain where she'd been the last two days, and it would all be so
innocent, and they'd laugh and hug and everything would be okay again.

316

Patricia's hands were shaking when she entered and crossed the foyer.
Darkness saturated the house. She walked around downstairs, wide-eyed,
snapping on lights, but the illumination she sought only made the house
feel bigger ... and emptier. Her feet took her listlessly to the kitchen
and no, the air didn't smell of biscuits; it smelled sterile, lifeless.
Instinct urged her to call out for Judy, but she didn't bother.

Her sister wasn't here, and probably never would be again.

She checked the answering machine. Had anyone called? Had the police
left a message to relate that Judy had been found, had been rushed to
the hospital for an appendectomy or something, and was recovering now
and waiting for her?

"You have ... zero ... messages," the machine's generic voice told her.

She turned and went to the refrigerator for some juice, but her hand
froze in midair. A strawberry magnet held a note to the door--Things to
get: flour, milk, eggs, coffee--a shopping list in Judy's unruly scrawl.
Patricia stared at the list and began to cry.

She wore her clothes to bed, too unsettled to undress. The bedroom
window stared at her. It was locked now, its curtains drawn, but just
knowing what Ernie had been doing on the other side of it several nights
ago gave her a grim fright. A dead man's sperm is on my windowsill, she
thought absurdly. Just a few feet away... The notion knotted her
stomach. She could go sleep in another room, but that idea distressed
her as well. Which room would she take? Ernie's? Her sister's? Or what
about her parents' old room upstairs? No, they were all chock-full of
ghosts now.

She stared up at the ceiling, at the room's grainy

317

darkness. Were faces forming in the grains? The window, the window, part
of her mind kept whispering to her.

There's nothing there, so forget about it and go to sleep! she shouted
back at herself, but she couldn't take solace even in her own sense of
reason. Eventually she threw back the sheets, sighed to herself, and
pulled back the curtain.

See. No one there. No peeping Toms, no monsters. Beyond the glass the
yard looked normal, sedate. Night flowers in the expansive garden opened
their petals to the night. The moon had risen higher now and turned
white, flooding the backyard with a tranquil glow. There was nothing out
of the ordinary for her to see.

Back under the covers, she curled into a ball. Did she hear the hall
clock ticking? The house frame creaked a few times, causing her to
flinch. Please, Judy. Please come home. Please be okay, she prayed,
drifting off.

The maw of a nightmare opened wide. She was in the same room, in the
same grainy darkness and on the same bed, only naked now, splayed.
Moonlight flooded the room and, in turn, her bare flesh. It painted her
in a translucent lambency: bright, sharpwhite skin, the rim of her navel
a shadow dark as black ink. Her legs were spread to the window, her
furred sex shamefully bared.

She couldn't close her legs for the life of her.

She couldn't cover herself.

How can there be moonlight in the room? she thought. The curtains are
closed. I know they are. I just closed them. But of course she thought
that, for it didn't occur to her yet that this was a dream. ...

She thought on through a tingling fear, concluding her question: Someone
must have opened the curtains.

318

Then:

The window...

She was determined not to look, but just as she'd given the order to
herself, some force--the ghost of her father's hand, perhaps--pushed her
head up and made her look.

She looked straight ahead between the mounds of her breasts, down her
stomach, through her spread legs. The tiny tuft of pubic hair drew a
bead like a gunsight to the window.

The curtains weren't merely open; they were gone. The moonlight
shimmered in an unwelcome guest now. She felt humiliated, ashamed. If
someone was outside, they could look in and see her totally bared, the
most private part of her body displayed as if on purpose. What would
they think of her, lying on the bed like that, utterly naked?

But...

Thank God. There's no one there.

The hall clock began to tick louder than normal, and more rapidly. She
kept looking down her body at the window, saw her breasts rising and
falling faster now, her flat abdomen trembling, and then, beyond the
ticking, she heard something else.

Crunching.

Footsteps, she knew.

Patricia's paralysis intensified; she felt made of cement, a prone
statue. When the shadow edged into the window frame, her scream froze in
her chest.

It was Ernie.

Cadaverous now, he leered in with a rotten grin, his eyes like raw
oysters, his skin fish-belly white. He was masturbating, his dead hand
shucking a rotten penis

319

with vigor. Worse than the act--and the dead, wet gleam in his eyes--was
the gap that shone through the grin: the two front teeth missing. At one
point he pushed a black tongue through the gap and wriggled it.

Soon another figure joined him: David Eald and his dead young daughter,
both blackened corpses, the Hilds now naked, gut-sucked stick figures.
Chief Sutter, as bloated in death as he was in life, his dead face the
color and consistency of cheesecake, with two thumbholes for eyes. And
finally Judy herself, naked and sagging, the skin of her face stretched
across her skull like a stocking mask, the steam of rot wafting off her
flesh.

Yes, they'd all congregated now--this cadaverous clique--to paint
Patricia's nakedness with their spoiled grins. Ernie painted the
windowsill with something else, his bony hips quivering and cheeks
bloated-- putrid semen spurting. In his enthusiasm, Patricia noted that
he'd actually wrung the skin off his penis at the climactic moment. She
also saw that maggots frenzied in the sperm as it shot out.

Thank God the window's locked, Patricia thought.

Then Ernie's and Sutter's cheesy-dead fingers began to open the window.
First they'd reveled just to see her, but now they were coming to touch. ...

When the stench poured into the room, Patricia wakened and screamed loud
as a truck horn.

Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God...

Was she going insane? Her hand shot to her chest; her heartbeat felt
like something exploding in her. But at least her clothes were on--at
least now she knew it had been a dream.

The grainy dark hung before her, a veil. The hall

320

clock ticked but was back to its normal, quiet pace. When the house
frame creaked again, she actually found it comforting--because she knew
it was real.

The window seemed to beckon her, though. Of course its curtains remained
closed, just as she'd left them. But...

Her paranoia raced back to snare her. Damn it, she thought. Damn it,
damn it! She needed to know, just to be sure. ...

She swung her feet out and rose, giving herself a moment to fully come
awake. When the time came to move, she faltered. Come on, Patricia. What
are you thinking?

What was she thinking? That she'd pull the curtains back to find a
cluster of dead faces leering in?

Ridiculous.

But still, she had to prove it to herself; otherwise she'd get no sleep
at all.

There! See? She was almost ecstatic when she looked behind the curtains
to find nothing there. The backyard faced her exactly as it had earlier.
No movement, the night flowers standing open, moonlight shimmering.

Then her heart slammed once.

Wait a minute. ...

There was one thing outside that hadn't been there when she'd looked
before. At first she hadn't seen it.

Ernie's pickup truck.

The first foot of its front end protruded into her view. That's
impossible! She closed her eyes and took several deep breaths. Ernie's
dead. I saw his dead body. And his truck wasn't there before!

She was certain, absolutely certain it hadn't been there before.

321

And next the thought exploded:

Oh, my God, maybe it's Judy! She must've borrowed his truck earlier and
gone off somewhere! And she came back but didn't wake me up when she
came in!

Now it was joy that propelled her out of the bedroom. "Judy! Are you
back?" She raced down the hall, out to the foyer, and up the stairs. She
swung into her sister's bedroom and snapped on the light.

"Judy?"

The bed lay empty, neatly made.

Then she's downstairs somewhere! Patricia felt convinced. She has to be!
That's the only thing that could explain Ernie's truck being in the
backyard. She's downstairs right now in the kitchen, getting something
to eat!

Patricia collapsed when she burst in and flicked on the light. Her knees
thudded to the floor. She shrieked.

Judy was in the kitchen, all right. But she wasn't getting anything to
eat. A cane chair lay tipped over on the floor, along with two sandals.
Judy was hanging by the neck from a kitchen rafter.

The rope creaked, a sound not unlike the house frame. Judy's face
ballooned, bright scarlet tinged with blue, tongue sticking out. She
wore the flowered sundress Patricia remembered her wearing at the clan
cookout. To make it worse, the process had snapped the neck entirely,
and now beneath the noose, the neck stretched a foot. Lividity had
turned her sister's bare feet something close to black, and the lower
legs too, veins bulging fat as earthworms.

Oh, Judy ... Oh, my God, my poor sister ...

She'd never been that stable to begin with, and she'd never liked
change. That was why she'd stayed with

322

Dwayne so long, even in the midst of all that abuse, and that was why
she'd never left this house. She was happy only when things were the same.

But suicide? Patricia dragged herself up, the horror replaced by the
reality of the despair. Squatters betraying her, selling drugs while
they took a paycheck from her? Police on the property every other night
for murders and burnings? Yeah, things have definitely changed around here.

It was inexplicable, but it happened every day: people killing
themselves. It was the only cure to a horrid symptom they had to live
with for God knew how long, and with nobody else even knowing there was
a problem.

I have to call the police right now, Patricia realized. Knowing that her
sister's body hung dead behind her couldn't have been more distressing,
but Patricia simply didn't have the strength to take her down herself.
She turned for the phone--

--and almost collapsed again.

Sergeant Trey stood in the doorway to the laundry room, as if he'd just
come in through the back. He seemed as startled as she.

"Damn, Ms. White. Ya scared the bejesus outa me."

Patricia looked at him, confused.

"I just come in from outside. About an hour ago I was looking out the
station window and thought I saw Ernie's truck drive by, with Judy
drivin' it," he explained. "So I run out and jump in the cruiser, but
the damn gas tank was on E, so I had to fill up at the station pump. By
the time I was done with all that, Judy'd already got back to the house
and--"

He looked up the the body.

"You ... saw her driving?" Patricia's question faltered.

323

"Yeah, and I'm really sorry. If my damn tank hadn't been empty, I
probably coulda gotten up here in time to stop her."

"But..." The information bewildered Patricia. "But what were you doing
walking in just now? You didn't seem surprised to see that she'd
committed suicide."

"I already knew. I found her about five minutes ago." He explained more
details. "So I went back out to the cruiser to call the state cops on my
radio. Then I walked back in and found you standing here."

"Oh." Patricia continued to look at him. Something wasn't right. "But...
your radio's right there on your belt."

Trey's eyes darted down to his gun belt, the Motorola heavy in its
leather holder. "Well, yeah, sure, but that's just my, uh, my field
radio." Trey's eyes shifted. He bit his lip a moment, but by then his
cool delivery was falling apart. "S-see, this radio ain't got the, uh,
the state police frequency on it. Just the station frequency and the
county."

"Why the county and not the state?"

Trey blinked. "That's ... just the way the ... bands work."

Patricia didn't consciously decide to say what she said next. She simply
said it. "I don't believe you. You're acting like you're lying. You're
acting like a prosecuting attorney who knows his case is bullshit."

Trey blinked again, blank faced. Then he sat down in the chair by the
kitchen table, but by the time he did so, his gun was drawn and pointing
right at her. "Holy ever-livin' shit, Patricia. Why couldn't ya just
leave it?"

Patricia's heart hammered so loud she could hear it. "You killed my
sister, didn't you?"

"Fuck," Trey muttered. The expletive was directed

324

toward himself, not Patricia. "Yeah. Wanna know what I did? I snatched
her after the Squatter cookout, kept her tied up for a day at one a' the
old shacks way out at the Point. Fucked the daylights out of her a
couple of times, then hung the bitch in the woods." He shrugged
noncommitally. "Then I throwed her in the back a' Ernie's truck and
brought her here and just threw the same rope over the kitchen rafter.
Easy. And who ain't gonna believe it? Alcoholic and a head case to begin
with, been depressed since Dwayne got offed. Looks like a typical widow
who just couldn't stand to live no more without her man. Happens every day."

"She wasn't the only person you murdered, was she?"

Trey snorted. "These hayseeds out here? Squatters? No-accounts like
Ernie? They don't mean shit. But you're different. You can't just
disappear. You can't wind up dead with a pocketful a' dope. No one would
believe it. You ain't no redneck; you're a big-city lawyer. Someone
would come snoopin' around." He shook his head in the chair, suddenly
exhausted. "You fucked everything up."

Trey's attentions seemed diverted inwardly; he wasn't really looking at
her. Patricia had backed up against the wall, the entranceway to the
foyer only a foot away. But when she edged aside an inch ...

Trey cocked his pistol. "Don't think I won't do it. Shit, I been killin'
folks for a month."

"You and who else? Sutter? He must have been helping you."

"Naw, the fat ol' boy just wouldn't turn crooked, even as bad as he
needed the money. It was me 'n' Dwayne at first. The idea was to make a
few Squatters disappear--to scare off the rest of 'em. But it wasn't
enough, so we had to start gettin' rougher. We did the

325

job on the Hilds and flaked 'em with the crystal, started makin' it look
like two dope gangs in a turf war. Then we burned up the Ealds with
enough shit in their shack to look like a meth lab."

"So the state police would think the Squatters were one of the gangs?"
Patricia asked.

"Sure. And it was workin'. It was Ricky 'n' Junior Caudill we paid for
the rough stuff. They come on after Dwayne got killed."

Patricia somehow kept her fear in check. "And let me guess. Gordon Felps
is the ringleader."

Trey looked up, duly impressed. "Yeah, the money man. Don't you get it?
Agan's Point is a shit town full a' shit people goin' nowhere, and I'm
one of 'em. But Gordon Felps was gonna turn this place all around, turn
the Point into somethin' special, with some big payoffs for whoever
helped him. Shit, all your sister had to do was sell the land to Felps
and everything woulda been fine. But no, the dumb bitch couldn't turn
her back on the fuckin' Squatters--like they were her fuckin' little
sideline family, her orphans. Like one a' these crackpot old ladies ya
read about, takin' in all the stray cats." He pointed up to Judy's
hanging body. "Well, this is what she gets for her loyalty to the
fuckin' Squatters. We couldn't let her stand in our way. When little
folks stand in the way of big things, they get run over. I'm tired of
small-time. I'm tired of bein' town clown on a no-dick two-man
department in a shit-for-nothing town. But once Agan's Point booms, gets
all full-up with rich folks buyin' Felps's fancy waterfront condos? I'll
finally be a big-time police chief. It's still gonna happen. Don't think
it won't. We just have to adjust the game plan a little."

"Because of me," Patricia realized.

326

"Uh-huh. I think tomorrow you'll be drivin' back to Washington."

"What?"

"You'll be drivin' back to Washington, and you'll have an unfortunate
accident in that nice Caddy of yours. Far enough away from here that
your people in D.C. will believe it."

"They'll never believe it, Trey. And I've already told my boss and my
husband that I suspected you and Felps of having something to do with
all these murders."

Trey smiled. "I know shit when I hear it, and what just came outta your
mouth is a crock of it." He took a breath and stood up. "Come on. Fun
time first." He stepped right up to her.

Patricia's heart began to slug in her chest. "I have a lot of money, Trey."

"Not enough."

"Don't be stupid. If you kill me, someone will find out."

"No, they won't." And that was when his hand blurred upward and smacked
the side of his pistol across her temple.

Was it the dream again, the nightmare? Patricia lay on the bed, naked,
splayed before the window. The curtains were open now, the moonlight
pouring in.

It's the dream again, she felt sure, the dream I had before I found
Judy's body. ...

But in the dream there'd been no curtain at all, and the clock had been
ticking madly, whereas now it ticked normally. In the dream she'd been
lying paralyzed on the bed, but now ...

She craned her neck in four directions and saw that her wrists and
ankles had been lashed to the bedposts.

327

She felt as if she were drowning in dread, remembering the scene from
the kitchen. Trey had murdered Judy, then staged the appearance of
suicide. He and his cohorts had been doing all the killing, not a drug
gang, to frame the Squatters, to get them off the land, thinking Judy
would finally sell out to Felps.

But Judy didn't, so they killed her too. ...

Patricia gulped, nauseous.

And now it's my turn.

Trey would probably strangle her here, then stage some kind of car
wreck. But not before he had some fun with her first.

He'd been standing there all along, hidden in the shadows of the corner
of the room. He took several steps until the darkness expelled him into
the blaring moonlight. He was shirtless, and unbuckling his gun belt
now. Then he took his pants off. Patricia was grateful there was only
moonlight and not the lamp; it reduced the details. Trey's body was
lean, like a jackal's. The thrill of murder--and of what was to
come--had already erected his genitals.

"Good, you're awake," he said. "Ain't no fun pluggin' a gal who's
unconscious. Let's see if you're a screamer like your sister. Yeah,
baby, that turns me on. And ya can scream all ya want, 'cos there ain't
no one to hear ya."

Now the dread was piling up on her like a physical weight. Tears drew
lines from the corners of her eyes. I should've gone home to my husband
days ago. Why did I have to stay?

The moonlight painted one side of his body icy white, and left the other
half black. He pointed to the window. "Bet'cha don't know that a buncha'
nights since you been back, I come up here and watched ya

328

through the window. You are some sight, I'll tell ya, all naked and
tossin' and turnin', playin' with yourself in your sleep. Dirty girl."

Her nausea trebled. "Jesus, and I thought it was Ernie."

Trey sputtered. "Ernie? That shuck-'n'-jive piece a' shit? I busted his
back before I lowered him in the water ... so he could see the crabs
eatin' him alive. The fuck."

"But he was helping you too, wasn't he? He burned the docks last
night--the state police told me."

Trey frowned. "That redneck couldn't burn shit. I burned the fuckin'
docks. He tried to stop me, so I whipped his ass, flaked him with dope,
and let the crabs have him."

Even in her horror, Patricia felt astonished, even relieved. "I-I didn't
know that."

"Bet'cha don't know somethin' else too." Trey's voice darkened. He
reached up toward his face, and then ...

Patricia squinted in the dark.

He took his denture piece out, a bridge of some sort. Patricia came
close to swallowing her own vomit at the recognition.

Now Trey's two front teeth were missing.

"You remember me now, don't'cha?" Trey guttered.

"My God," she choked, "I thought it was Ernie. His two front teeth were
missing when the EMTs were taking him out of the bay."

"Aw, shit, that ain't nothin'. When me 'n' him got ta fightin' on the
docks, I knocked a couple of his teeth out, busted a rib too, 'fore I
jacked him out the rest a' the way. I don't like Ernie gettin' credit
for my balls--so make sure you know that. It was me who split your
cherry on Bowen's Field that night."

329

Patricia wished she could just die now.

"I done saw ya skinny-dippin' in the water," Trey admitted. "Couldn't
help it--hell, I was a young buck myself back then. Chick skinny-dippin'
in the woods at night, all by herself? She's asking for it."

"You make me sick," Patricia managed, her muscles tensing against the bonds.

"You were quite a prize back then, and still are," Trey said, feeling
her body up with his eyes. " 'N fact, you're a damn sight better-lookin'
now. And ya know what else I remember, baby? I remember how much you
liked it. ..."

Trey stuck the tip of his tongue through the gap in his teeth, and then
the rest of the disgusting memory swamped her: her clitoris sucked
through that same gap over twenty-five years ago when she lay lashed to
the ground in the middle of Bowen's Field, much the same way she lay
lashed to this bed now.

"Yeah, you liked it then, and you're gonna like it again tonight," he
promised. "You ain't gonna be alive much longer, so you might as well
just lay back and get into it."

He began to walk toward the bed. ...

"Wait a minute," she said. "Answer me one thing."

He chuckled. "Guess it's the least I can do."

"Set me straight on something. You've been killing the Squatters and
making it look like drug dealers were killing them. Right?"

"Yeah. And it worked."

"So you've been killing them," Patricia repeated. "But who's been
killing you?"

Trey fell silent in the moonlight.

"Come on, Trey. Tell me the rest of the story. Dwayne was murdering
Squatters; then someone murders

330

Dwayne. Junior Caudill murdered the Hilds; then someone murdered him.
Right?"

Trey hesitated but said, "Yeah."

"And what about Junior's brother? He was working for you and Felps,
too--you said so in the kitchen. He killed the Ealds, didn't he?"

"That's right. Burned 'em up in their shack."

"Why do I have this funny feeling that Ricky Caudill is dead now, too?
Is he?"

Trey nodded. "He died in the town jail cell, some disease."

"Some disease? What happened to him?"

Trey was growing flustered. "I don't know--I ain't a doctor. It had to
have been some disease or somethin'. Nobody killed him--he was in his
jail cell when it happened."

"When what happened?" Patricia insisted.

"He lost all his blood, it looked like."

"Really? And Dwayne lost his head, but there was no evidence of a wound,
and Junior lost all of his internal organs. I saw Junior's autopsy,
Trey, and the inside of his body was empty. But there was no sign of an
incision. How do you take a man's organs out of his body without cutting
him open first?"

"I don't know," Trey said.

"Ricky Caudill lost all his blood. Were there any cuts on him? Did
somebody cut his veins?"

"I didn't inspect his fuckin' body; all I did was bury it."

"You said he died in his jail cell. So I guess his blood was all over
the cell floor, right? Right?"

"No!" Trey yelled. "The floor was clean, and there weren't no cuts on him!"

Silence.

331

The clock was still ticking, and outside Patricia could hear the
cicadas' drone. "Answer me one more thing, Trey."

"No. Fuck it." He grabbed a pillow off the bed. "I got me a piece a'
your ass when you were sixteen--that'll have to do. I'm just gonna
smother your ass right now and be done with it."

He raised the pillow and was about to position it over her face, then
began to lower it.

"Did Ricky Caudill get a letter on the day he died?" Patricia blurted.

The pillow froze, then fell away.

"How did you know that?" Trey's voice ground out.

"He did, didn't he? A sheet of paper with one word on it, one
handwritten word. Wenden, something like that, right? It looked like it
was written in some kind of dust or chalk. That was the letter he got,
wasn't it?"

Agan's Point's new chief of police just stood there in the moonlight. He
didn't reply.

"Dwayne got a letter like that, too."

"Bullshit!"

"He did. I found it in the garbage can in the den. The postmark was the
day he died. Go look if you don't believe me. It's probably still there.
And Junior Caudill got a letter just like it, too."

"No, he didn't!"

"Yes, he did, Trey! I saw it in an evidence bag at the county coroner's."

Now Trey stood with his jaw dropping and his eyes wide, contemplating
something in utter dread.

"Trey?" Patricia asked.

Trey just stared.

332

"Trey?"

He looked down at her almost beseechingly.

"Trey, did you get a letter like that too? Did you get one today?"

Trey's Adam's apple bobbed when he gulped. "It's in my pants pocket. The
postman delivered it today. No return address. But I know who it's from,
and I ain't afraid."

"Who's it from, Trey? Is it from--"

"It's from Everd Stanherd, that little shit. Just some a' his backwoods
superstitious bullshit, tryin' to scare us. But I ain't afraid." He
gulped again. "I don't believe in black magic or whatever fucked-up
mumbo-jumbo he thinks he's pullin'."

Now it was Patricia's jaw that began to drop. "Everybody who got one of
those letters died. They died because something was taken from them.
Blood, organs, Dwayne's head."

"Ain't nothin' been taken from me." But even then his words began to
slur. ...

"Trey," Patricia implored. "I think you should turn on the light and
look at yourself in the mirror. Something's happening to you."

"Ain't nothin' haplen-in'!"

But what was it? Patricia's eyes were riveted.

"Ain't blow-one play-ken bluthin' flum me!" Trey shouted. He turned
shakily, tried to stride out of the room, but as he did so, he wobbled
in his gait. When he reached out for the doorknob, his fingers turned
limp as cooked pasta; then his arm slowly bowed, then fell, tentacle-like.

Before he fell over altogether, Patricia saw his head... collapse, as
though his skull had dissolved within the sack of his face.

333

A few seconds later the door creaked open, figures entering. Some held
candles made from rendered fat, and in the flickering light Patricia
recognized the face of Everd Stanherd.

"Wenden," came the bizarre word from the even more bizarre Squatter
accent. "It's from our holy language, from a time even before that of
the druids."

Patricia had been untied, dressed in a robe, and carried out. Then
they'd driven her to someplace in the woods, for the woods truly were
their home.

Everd Stanherd, his wife, and a few of the elders sat with Patricia in a
circle, their candles guttering.

"We owe you no explanations, for they are all secrets. But remember
this: long before Christ, God said 'An eye for an eye.'"

Patricia was still regaining her senses. I'm alive. And it wasn't a
dream. ...

"You're a wizard or something," she managed.

"No. I am the sawon--it means seer," Everd intoned. His face was barely
visible--all of them were.

The moonlight shimmered through the branches.

The cicadas thrummed.

"Sawon." Patricia remembered the word. The Squatter on the pier had told
them. "You're, like, the clan wise man, some kind of ancestral leader?"

"It means ... seer," he repeated.

"What does wenden mean?" Patricia asked next.

One of the other elders' voices fluttered like a death rattle. "It means
gone."

Gone. Patricia thought. Dwayne's head, junior's innards. Ricky Caudill's
blood. And Trey's bones ... all... gone.

"You cursed them," Patricia observed. "Any of them who harmed the
Squatters. It was magic."

334

"We can say no more," Marthe Stanherd whispered.

Patricia couldn't resist. "But... how?"

"We can say no--" Marthe began, but Everd leaned forward, overriding
her. He held something in his crabbed hand. A jar? Patricia wondered. A
clay pot of some sort, the size of a masonry jar. A cross adorned with
the familiar squiggles and slashes of Squatter artwork had been etched
into the pot.

"The burned blood," Everd told her. "It's our sacrament, from the sawon
before me. And when I am dead, my blood will suffice for the next
sacrament, for the sawon who is to follow. One of these men here tonight."

Several of the faces in the circle looked startled when Everd removed
the strange jar's lid and passed it to Patricia.

She looked in and saw ...

Dust?

Brownish dust. The dull chalklike substance with which the death letters
had been written? There was very little left, just enough to form a rim
around the bottom.

Burned blood, Patricia repeated in her mind.

"It's consecrated," someone said.

And someone else: "Through faith older than any religion..."

Patricia was confused, but she also knew that there were some things she
was not meant to understand. No one was.

"I'm dying," Everd said, next, through a smile that seemed to float
around them in the dark. "I will soon become the next sacrament. I will
soon be wenden. I will soon be gone."

They were all getting up now, blowing out their gullfat candles.

335

"You're a good woman." Everd was the first to walk away. "Continue to be
good."

"But where will you go?" Patricia blurted from where she sat.

"From whence we came: nowhere. Everywhere. Anywhere."

Like shifting ink spots, one by one they disappeared amongst the trees,
blending into darkness.

But a final question assailed her. "Wait a minute! What about Gordon Felps?"

A hand patted her shoulder. The creviced face of the final elder
whispered, "Don't worry about Gordon Felps. We took care of him."

When Patricia looked again, they were ...

Gone.

It was an hour before daybreak when Patricia pulled through the gates of
the compound. A sign on the fence read: felps construction, inc. builder
of fine homes

FOR LUXURY LIVING.

This seemed the most likely place to check first; she had no idea where
Felps was staying in town. From the road she could see his truck parked
in front of the office trailer.

Gravel crunched under her feet when she walked across the lot. She
climbed the short wooden steps before the trailer, then paused. It
occurred to her to knock but...

She tried the knob. The door clicked open.

He must not be here, she deduced. Darkness seemed clotted in the
trailer. For some reason she wasn't afraid of what she might find.

"Felps? Are you here?"

A voice rattled back. "Who is it?"

336

"Patricia White."

A pause. "Thank God."

"Trey's dead. I know what happened, your plan, the people you paid to
frame and murder Squatters, all of it."

"It doesn't matter."

He must've been at the very back of the trailer; she couldn't see
anything. And his voice now was beginning to scare her. Something about
it sounded so hopeless.

She felt around the wall for a light switch but couldn't find one. Damn,
I can't see!

"Please come over here," Felps stoically begged her. "There's a gun in
the top drawer of the desk. I want you to take it out and kill me. For
God's sake--please. Kill me."

She never found the light switch, but in the little bit of moonlight
coming in through a tiny window, she saw a flashlight sitting atop a
file cabinet.

"Please," Felps pleaded.

She snapped on the flashlight, pointed it, and ...

Stared.

Gordon Felps looked normal at first glance, sitting in a comfortable
office chair. But then Patricia noticed ...

Oh... shit...

His sleeves were empty. She lowered the flashlight. The legs of his
pants were empty as well. On the desk before him lay the letter she
didn't even need to look at now. Wenden, she thought. Gone. Gordon
Felps's arms and legs were gone.

"Don't leave me! I can't live like this!" he shouted.

But she was already backing out of the trailer.

337

"Come over here and get this gun and shoot me in the fucking head--I'm
begging you!"

Patricia turned the flashlight off. She walked out of the trailer,
closed the door quietly behind her, and walked back to her car.

338

What could she tell Byron? What could she tell anyone?

Nothing, she decided.

She should never have gone in the first place. I just want to go back to
my life.

Patricia knew she would never take it for granted again.

The highway breezed by. It seemed like she was driving away from the
night, leaving its secrets well behind, which suited her just fine. This
early there was scarcely any rush hour, even when she was all the way
back to D.C. The smog and the ugly monolithic buildings and potholed
roads couldn't have made her happier to see. She'd figure out something
to tell Byron later, something feasible to explain Judy's death, and the
rest of it. She didn't want to lie, but with this?

The truth wouldn't do.

I'm going to forget about everything right now, she promised herself.
The resolution made her feel rejuvenated, and a monumental burden
disappeared. When

339

she parked the Cadillac in front of the condo, she felt giddy.

She walked quietly up the steps, and was careful to keep the keys from
jingling when she unlocked the door and came in. The instant she stepped
inside, she truly felt that she was home. She was back where she belonged.

She traipsed in, hoping Byron was still asleep. I'll slide into bed next
to him and let him find me there when he wakes up. It would be the best
surprise. She'd be right there in bed next to him, two days earlier than
he expected.

She kicked off her sandals. She looked around the living room--dim in
morning light--and actually had tears in her eyes, she was so happy.
Byron's pretentious art prints on the wall delighted her now. The feel
of the carpet beneath her bare feet titillated her. Even the air smelled
comforting.

She began to unbutton her blouse when she entered the bedroom.

Her hand fell.

Her heart almost stopped.

Patricia stood there for a long time, looking at the bed.

Indeed, Byron was still asleep, and he would definitely be surprised to
find that his loving wife had returned two days earlier than he expected.

You bastard, she thought.

A woman lay in bed next to Byron. She looked young, early twenties, half
of her skinny, naked body crooked out from under the sheets. A small,
pert breast stuck out too, and she had some silly tattoo on her thigh.
And as she lay all cuddled up nice and cozy next to Byron, she was snoring.

Patricia's mind essentially switched off. There was no

340

tirade, no lamp throwing, no profanity-laden shouts. There was nothing
like that at all. Instead Patricia walked back out to the car, opened
the door, and got in.

She didn't drive anywhere. Had she had more presence of mind, she
would've driven either to a friend's or a divorce lawyer's. But she
didn't even put the key in the ignition.

She didn't know how much time passed when she finally said aloud to
herself, "What am I going to do? My husband is upstairs right now--in my
bed--sleeping with another woman. What am I going to do?"

The answer sat next to her on the front seat.

The clay pot.

The sacrament.

The Squatters had left it in the woods with her. But there was still a
small amount left inside.

Patricia looked up at her bedroom window.

I'm going to go to the drugstore now, buy some paper, and buy an
envelope. Then I'm going to go to the post office and buy a stamp.

And then mail a letter.

341 Edward Lee has had over twenty-five books published in the horror
and suspense fields, including Flesh Gothic, Messenger and City
Infernal. He is a Bram Stoker Award nominee, and his short stories have
appeared in over a dozen mass market anthologies, including The Best
American Mystery Stories of 2000, the Hot Blood series, and the
award-winning 999. His movie, Header, has been filmed and awaits
release. Lee lives in Florida's St. Pete Beach. Visit his official
website at www.edwardleeonline.com.