by Edward Lee
“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.”
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’.”
“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. 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 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.”
Tim’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 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.”
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 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 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.
“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.”
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 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 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 a fuckin’ 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.
“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 . . .”