The Backwoods

had is delicious.”

“Even the crab-and-cicada fritters?” Ernie joked.

“Even the crab-and-cicada fritters, Ernie,” she admitted.

“Oh”—Sutter changed the subject—“the county coroner told me you’d been in today.”

Damn. She hoped this wouldn’t open a can of worms. “I just wanted some details on Dwayne’s death.”

“Pretty off-the-wall. So you also know about Junior Caudill, then.”

It wasn’t a question; Patricia sensed he was fishing for something. “Yes, she did mention it.”

“Even stranger than Dwayne.” Sutter shook his head.

“Damn near everyone in town’s heard that news,” Ernie piped up. “Some contagious disease that dissolved all his insides.”

Sutter smirked. “There ain’t no contagious disease, Ernie, and don’t’cha be tellin’ folks anything of the sort. The rumors’re bad enough around here.”

Ernie shrugged. “Just tellin’ ya what I heard, Chief.”

“I don’t think it was anything contagious, Ernie,” Patricia added. “But I don’t guess we’ll know anything until more tests are done on the body.”

“The kick in the tail is there ain’t no evidence a’ foul play, yet everyone thinks that’s exactly what it was,” Ernie said.

Patricia kept her mouth shut and her ears open.

“And it don’t help for Junior’s brother to be accusin’ Everd Stanherd of being involved and then for Everd to disappear,” Sutter stepped up the gossip. “I don’t believe nothin’ that comes outta Ricky Caudill’s yap, but that don’t change the fact that I got no choice but to drag Everd ‘n’ his wife in for questioning.”

Interesting, Patricia thought. “I hadn’t even noticed. Neither Everd nor Marthe is here.”

“Probably never see ’em again,” Ernie said.

“Maybe they ain’t disappeared at all,” Sutter offered, stuffing his face. “Maybe they’re dead.”

“How would they come to be dead?” Patricia had to challenge.

“Well, it was something Trey was kickin’ about, and now that I think of it, it makes sense. Already had a couple a’ turf killings over dope. Maybe Everd ‘n’ his wife were part a’ the same dope ring that David Eald and the Hilds were in.”

Both Patricia and Ernie frowned at that one.

Sutter looked like he regretted the suggestion a moment later. “Well, I guess that is stretchin’ things a bit.” Suddenly he was looking around. “Speakin’ of Trey . . .”

“He was just here a minute ago,” Ernie said.

Patricia looked around herself, straining her vision in the fire-diced dark. Sergeant Trey was nowhere to be seen.

(II)

Got no time to fuck around anymore. It was a steadfast thought, and a calmly determined one. It was dark now, and the main drag stretched on in vacant silence. Good . . . Pam got off duty at five P.M.; then the Agan’s Point police channel was taken over by the county dispatcher.

In other words, there was no one else in the station house right now. No one else except . . .

Good ol’ Ricky, Trey thought. He came in through the back with his key. Killing people wasn’t really that big a deal. Trey couldn’t say he enjoyed it—he just didn’t mind, not if it served his own best interest.

Killing Ricky Caudill was definitely in his best interest.

Big dumb redneck’s gonna spill the beans, Trey thought. Can’t have that. I’ve put too much work into this gig to lose it all because a’ that fat fool’s big mouth. He’s just scared. Well, in a few minutes he won’t have anything to be scared about . . .

Unless, a ‘course, there really is a hell, ’cos he sure as shit ain’t goin’ to heaven.

Such were the limits of Sergeant Trey’s theological perceptions. He was like most folks: just wanted his share plus a little more, and if Felps’s plan worked, Trey stood to walk away with a lot more.

The Squatters were already hightailing it off the Point. In another month or so they’d all be gone, and that was when things would really pick up. But with Dwayne gone—and Ricky and Junior, too—that would leave all the dirty work up to Trey.

I’ll just have to get the job done.

He didn’t turn the lights on in the station when he slipped in. A radio was playing; Pam must’ve left it on for Ricky before she clocked out. Shouldn’t be too hard, Trey thought. Ricky was a big guy— but soft. It’s simple. I jack the fucker out and hang him. Earlier that day Trey had pinched one of the fresh sheets that they used for the jail cots; then he’d cut it into fat strips and made a noose. He’d hang Ricky in his cell and throw out the sheet already on his cot.

Yes. Very simple.

“Take this job and shove it,” the radio crooned very softly. The only light on was down the hall, in the cell corridor. Trey had his blackjack in his pocket already, which he could slip out in an instant. But he’d have to distract Ricky first, and open the cell.

“Hey, Ricky, ya big dolt. You awake?”

Ricky didn’t answer.

“Wake up, moron. Sutter told me to stop by ‘n’ check up on ya. Ya need to take a piss before beddy-bye time?”

Still no answer. Trey walked up to the cell, looked in.

“Hey! Redneck! Wake up!”

Ricky lay on his back on the cot, one arm dangling. Good. The fucker’s sound asleep. Easier to take him out. Trey, as quietly as possible, unlocked the cell and eased open the door.

The cell light itself was turned off; only the light from the hall bled inside. But even in the weak light Trey could tell something wasn’t right when he was several steps inside, blackjack poised in his hand. The arm hanging off the side of the cot looked oddly pale, blue veins almost black against white skin.

“You sick?” Trey leaned over. He shined his flashlight into Ricky’s face—or, it should be said, Ricky’s very dead face.

Fuck!

It was a corpse that lay on the cot now.

The fat face seemed thinner now, and the flesh appeared a translucent white, like a fresh cod fillet.

There was no pulse. The body felt cool.

Trey couldn’t have known it at that precise moment, but Ricky Caudill had lost all of his blood.

Not even one irreducible fraction of a drop remained in his body.

Twelve

(I)

The feeling made Patricia think of the few times in college she’d smoked pot. A warm buzz, a mental lightness, as though an aspect of her persona were floating. She’d been at the cookout for only an hour before it plainly occurred to her that she was not herself, and this—to a high-strung D.C. attorney —was not necessarily a bad thing.

It must’ve been that stuff I was drinking, she decided rather giddily. Aid or whatever they call it, kicked up with Judy’s booze.