The Backwoods

“That’ll be happening, Charlie. Hold your breath. Did you come in here to actually deliver, mail, or just stand there with your Hitler mustache and act like you’re not looking down my top?”

“Both,” he admitted. He began rifling through his mailbag. “I know you’d love for me to stay and chat all day, but I’m a little behind.”

“Actually, Charlie, you’re a big behind, but that’s what I like about you,” Pam said. She decided to let him keep on looking down her top. Why not? Gives him something to think about when he’s walking his route.

“I’m not just a big behind,” he said. “But I’ll leave the rest to your imagination.” Suddenly, though, the levity on his face faded. “That’s weird.”

“What?”

“I got a letter for Ricky Caudill, but it’s addressed to him care of the Agan’s Point police station.”

“Well, that’s good, because the redneck bum is right down the hall—in the drunk tank.”

“You don’t say. Saves me a trip out to his house.” He put the police mail down on Pam’s desk, along with the letter, which she picked up immediately. “No return address,” she noted. And it was handwritten, without a great degree of penmanship. She felt through it, feeling for any objects that might serve as weapons, but it was flat. Just a letter. “Thanks, Charlie. I’ll give it to him myself.”

Charlie just stood there as if he didn’t hear her, his eyes still playing over her outstanding bosom.

“I said thanks, Charlie! Have a good day!”

“Oh, right,” he said, and walked out.

Men were such sexist pigs, but . . . But they’re so amusing! At the very least, Pam got her share of laughs in this town.

She also had her share of boredom. Jeez . . . She could drink only so much coffee. She’d finished her filing, so all she could do now was sit and listen for anything on the police radio. Trey and the chief were out in Squatterville for that big clan cookout, though Pam was surprised they’d even be having it after all the recent commotion. Now she felt more at home with her boredom. I guess I should be grateful nothing’s going on, she reminded herself with the deaths, the burning, and all the talk lately, Agan’s Point had been anything but boring.

Then her mind strayed.

The letter.

She picked it up, looking at the crude scrawl. It was strange that it was addressed to Ricky Caudill, care of the police station. Word travels fast in a gossip town. . . . Oh, well. There was nothing else to do.

Pam got up with the letter and walked back to the jail cell. “Hey, Ricky, you got some mail,” she announced, but when she looked through the bars she saw that he was asleep on the jail cot. He lay belly-up on the mattress, snoring. The fat slob . . . Sounds like a cave full of bears.

Pam slipped the letter through the bars on the floor and walked back to her desk. He could read it when he woke up.

Eleven

(I)

More white lies, Patricia thought when she set her cell phone down. She’d just hung up with Byron, having kept the conversation innocuous. She was still so befuddled over her trip to the county morgue. What could I tell him, for God’s sake? So she’d told him nothing of significance. Dwayne’s head seemingly disappearing off his body as though it had never been there? Junior Caudill with no internal organs? Patricia was confident there was a scientific explanation, but she simply couldn’t imagine what it was just yet. Of course, they’d do more tests. . . .

Nevertheless, there was no need to tell Byron. It’d just give him one more thing to worry about.

She stepped out onto the little patio off her bedroom to stand amid part of the garden. The cicadas thrummed—she was finally getting used to it. It just kept taking her back to her childhood. The scents off the myriad flowers smelled luscious: asters, pyxies, and goldenrod. Being here continued to supplant her. She was no longer the high-roller attorney from the city; she was the country girl at home in the midst of nature. But now so many ugly facts kept dicing that image of the peaceful—and very sane—backwoods town.

Murder. Drugs. Turf wars by some unseen dope gang.

Every place has something, she thought. Doesn’t matter if it’s the city or the sticks.

At the end of the yard, near the kiosk, she spotted Judy wandering about the flowers; the troubled look on her face was no surprise. Talk about being thrown for a loop, Patricia thought. Judy was not a sophisticated woman. Since Dwayne’s death, too many things that were wrong about her environment threatened her ability to view her life and the world.

She doesn’t know which end is up. . . .

“Hi,” Patricia greeted her, meandering up the path.

“Oh, hi, Patricia. I’m just out moseying around. Beautiful day, isn’t it?”

Small talk is all she can deal with, Patricia realized. “Yeah, it sure is. And your gardens really top it all off. Everything looks the same as it did when we were kids.”

Judy sat down on a stone bench, her hands clasped in her lap. “Yeah, but just because they look the same don’t mean they are the same. It’s like everything’s gone mad overnight. Chief Sutter just called me, said Junior Caudill’s dead.”

Here we go. Patricia knew the day would be a tailspin now. “I heard about that myself—”

“Drug dealin’, murder, arson—all on my land. And God knows what killed Junior. Never thought much of him —he was always into trouble—and now he’s dead too. ”

“Judy, there’s no reason to believe that his death is related to anything that’s been happening in Squatterville.” Patricia knew at once that this was going to be a long day. “He probably had a heart attack,” she urged, not adding the little part about Junior not even having a heart. “They’re still doing tests is what I heard, and there were no signs of foul play. Anyway, all these things that are happening lately don’t have anything to do with you. There are a lot of Squatters living out here. It stands to reason that a few of them will get up to no good. It’s human nature.”

Judy looked up dolefully. “I hate to think of what Mom and Dad would say about this. They never had problems with the Squatters, but now that I’m in charge around here, everything’s goin’ to hell. And now I just feel worse about it. You come all the way out here to help me, and look what happens. Folks killin’ each other. I wouldn’t blame ya if you never came back to this godforsaken place.”

Patricia knew that she had to work around her sister’s mood swings, not confront them head-on. “Of course I will; you’re my sister. And you should come out to visit Byron and me sometimes, too. But let’s just take things one day at a time. Look at the good things. Your company’s doing better than ever, and the Squatters who haven’t turned bad have never been happier or more productive. You have this beautiful house in a beautiful place. You’re a successful businesswoman with lots to look forward to.”

Judy shrugged, noncommital. Some people just had it in their heads that everything was terrible. That’s my sister, Patricia thought. “So what’s on the agenda today?” she asked.

Before her sister could answer, a horn honked. Past the shrubs Patricia saw an old pickup truck idling on the dirt road that descended the hill toward the Point.

Judy looked at her watch. “My, where has the day gone? It’s time to go.”

“Go where?”

“The Squatter cookout. Oh, that’s right, you ain’t been to one since you were a kid, but they are a lot of fun. Come on.” ,

Patricia honestly didn’t remember these cookouts. When she looked at her own watch she saw that she, too,