The Backwoods

by Edward Lee

  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 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 confused and partly infuriated. Ernie was pouring her some coffee as she mused: “I guess that’s the modem 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 any-ways, 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 backed 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 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 somea’ 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 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.”

  “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.

  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 c
rystal 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 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. 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.

  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 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 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 sl
ept 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 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 ink-black 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 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.