The Backwoods

by Edward Lee

  “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.

  “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.”

  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.

  Thirteen

  (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 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 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 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 rob
e.

  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 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.

  Fourteen

  (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—”

  “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 someone bums down the Ealds’ shack—a crystal meth lab—then someone bums 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 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. 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.

  (II)

  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.