place, hot skin veneered in sweat sliding across her tingling flesh. Something felt soft beneath her bare buttocks and back—her bed?—but through the woozy slits of her eyes she was certain she saw trees, moonlight, the woods.
She quaked at the ensuing orgasms. Mouths licked greedily over her body; tongues roved her sex. Stout fingers manipulated her clitoris with a jeweler’s finesse, then roughly burrowed into her folds as well as other places.
Moonlight blurred in her eyes. The orgy seemed to be abating, but she could still see shadows of people around her. The aftermath of her ecstasy left her gleefully exhausted, but . . .
She felt herself becoming aware of something. The trees around her, the woods—they seemed pushed off at a distance. Did she hear water lapping somewhere? She thought of a pond or a lake, and as more water gently splashed, she thought it could mean that someone was coming out of this body of water. Details shifted, and her vision began to clear.
Then her heart froze in her chest.
She’d been having sex with all those men . . . at Bowen’s Field.
She lurched upright, screaming. She ran for the woods, thrashing into their midst. Her scream followed her like a contrail, but when it occurred to her that she was being followed—by some bizarre, giggling horde—the fringes of the nightmare began to dissolve, and the next thing she knew she was standing before the dresser mirror in the bedroom, naked, hair disarrayed, terrified. Her bosom heaved. The badger’s foot on the cord about her neck seemed to be vaguely alive, moving about the valley of her breasts. In the dark mirror she saw that she’d been finger painted with Squatter graffiti: gleaming, slate-colored lines and squiggles inscribed about her nipples, bracketing her navel, traveling about her thighs like crestwork on an old house. Her face had been painted likewise—an ancient fertility mask, a rictus of either wantonness or horror.
The giggling tittered behind her. Had something followed her from the nightmare into reality? Her eyes bloomed at her horrid likeness in the mirror, and in the reflection she could see the window, and a faceless figure standing there.
She sat upright in bed as if awakened by a shriek. She remained naked, the sheets kicked off the bed. Her first instinct, though, was to look very closely at herself.
She slid off the mattress and walked gingerly to the dresser.
She was tired of her dreams, and tired of never feeling like herself since she’d arrived.
In the dream she’d been drenched in impassioned sweat, but now she felt equally drenched in shame and unmitigated sin. She’d enjoyed the raving sexual fest of the dream, which only made her feel guiltier about Byron.
Patricia didn’t do well with guilt. . . .
The clock on the nightstand read 3:20 A.M.
Patricia snapped her gaze toward the open window. “Who’s there?” she abruptly called out.
A creak.
As if someone had been standing on the wooden porch below the window.
Someone had been standing by the window in the dream. . . .
Yes, it was probably nothing, but she got up nonetheless and leaned out the window. “Is anyone there?” she asked too quietly. What if someone answered? Who would be out here at this hour, and for what purpose?
She wouldn’t let herself contemplate answers.
She squinted, set her hand down on the sill to lean out further, but . . .
Her hand came away wet. Something viscid.
Gross. Whatever it was, it felt warm. Slug trails. Annoyed, she wiped her hand with a tissue, then grabbed the flashlight and went outside.
At first she couldn’t reckon what she was seeing in the flashlight beam: a splotch like melted wax pooled on the sill, the overflow running down the outside wall in a trail. It was still wet, but now she noticed other similar trails that had long since dried.
Then, revolted, she knew.
Like the peephole at the Squatter’s shower.
Then a rustling came from the hedges out in the yard, and she saw a figure slinking away. It was Ernie.
He stumbled drunkenly down the path, then through the trees, and disappeared.
Fourteen
The knock on the door sounded like someone hitting the frame with a hammer.
The knock was maddening, painful against her headache. She dragged herself out of bed, making sure her robe was sashed. Who would be knocking that loud?
When she opened her door, it puzzled her to find a poker-faced Virginia state trooper looking back at her, with sergeant stripes on his sleeve. “Sorry to bother you, ma’am. Are you Patricia White?”
“Why, yes, but—”
“I’m Sergeant Shannon, with the state police narcotics unit. I need to ask you a few questions,” he said. The trooper had gunmetal hair and no trace of the local accent, more like a Wisconsin accent than anything Southern. His eyes seemed critical of the fact that Patricia was in her nightgown past noon. “It won’t take very long at
