The Backwoods Part 21

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 beg-gin' ya, man."

Sutter came around the desk, shaking his head. "Ricky, you're a sc.u.mbag and a no-account loser, but I can't lock you up just for that. You gotta commit a crime, boy, and unfortunately talkin' s.h.i.+t 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 a.s.sault, pus.h.i.+ng 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 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, gus.h.i.+ng 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 s.h.i.+thead!" 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 f.u.c.ked up my office! Take me all d.a.m.n day to clean this mess up! I ain't got time for this grab-a.s.s bulls.h.i.+t!"

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 d.i.c.khead! 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 a f.u.c.kin' kook! Sutter lumbered back toward the office, frowning as he heard the phone ringing. All he wanted to do was sit his a.s.s 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.

"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 f.u.c.ked-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 s.h.i.+t. 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 s.h.i.+t my pants worrying what Ricky might say."

"Ricky's in as deep as us."

"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?"

"d.a.m.n right. He starts running his mouth to save his a.s.s, you and I're both gonna be neck-deep in s.h.i.+t."

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.

Patricia had hoped for a nice, leisurely walk by herself, to clear her head. But the instant she saw him . . .

All that s.e.xual tension returned.

d.a.m.n 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 s.h.i.+ngles, 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 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. "n.o.body 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 n.o.body to run the crabbing business, Judy'd be much more tempted to just say to h.e.l.l 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 ma.s.s 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 gra.s.s on either side s.h.i.+mmered in sunlight, while lone cicadas buzzed clumsily through the air. Patricia wasn't sure what lured her down the hill; perhaps she just wanted 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 G.o.d."

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 sun-dress, 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 makes.h.i.+ft door of the pen and began shooing the gulls out with a branch.

"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 . . ."