The Backwoods

“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 . . .”

“And what?”

“I’m scared, and Sutter was looking at me funny earlier today when I left the office. I’m about to shit 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?”

“Damn right. He starts running his mouth to save his ass, you and I’re both gonna be neck-deep in shit.”

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 sexual tension returned.

Damn 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 shingles, 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. “Nobody 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 nobody to run the crabbing business, Judy’d be much more tempted to just say to hell 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 mass 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 grass on either side shimmered 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 God.”

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 makeshift 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