The Backwoods

“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 home. Several trees had caught fire too, leaving blackened posts in their place, smoke still wafting.

“I know all the electrical connections ‘n’ junction 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 bums 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 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. Plus 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.

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 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 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 . . .