HIGH PRAISE FOR EDWARD LEE!
“The living legend of literary mayhem. Read him if you dare!”
—Richard Laymon, author of Into the Fire
“Edward Lee’s writing is fast and mean as a chain saw revved to full-tilt boogie.”
—Jack Ketchum, author of The Girl Next Door
“Lee pulls no punches.”
—Fangoria
“The hardest of the hardcore horror writers.”
—Cemetery Dance
“Lee excels with his creativity and almost trademark depictions of violence and gruesomeness.”
—Horror World
IT CAN’T BE REAL
The coroner nodded curtly. “It’s just kind of odd, and it’s difficult to explain in any way that makes sense. But every now and then any medical examiner’s office will get a cause of death that simply can never be determined.”
Patricia frowned at the sheet. This was much less than she’d hoped for. “How was his head cut off, is what I want to be able to tell the family. Was it cut off, shot off? Was it knocked off in some sort of freak accident?”
Another curt look from the pretty coroner. “It was...none of those things, and that’s about the only thing we do know. No blade striations, no evidence of severe impact to the body, no evidence of firearm discharge.”
“But the head was never recovered—that’s what I heard from the locals, anyway. Is that true?”
“Quite true, ma’am.”
This was frustrating. “I’m sorry, but I just don’t get it.”
“Look on the next page, Mrs. White.”
Patricia followed the instruction and immediately fell silent.
What she looked at now was the most macabre photograph she had ever seen in her life....
Other Leisure books by Edward Lee:
FLESH GOTHIC
MESSENGER
INFERNAL ANGEL
This book is for Pam Herbster.
Copyright © 2005 by Edward Lee
All rights reserved.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I’m grateful to have so many people to thank for their friendship, inspiration, and support: Tim McGinnis, Dave Barnett, Rich Chizmar, Doug and Matt, Don D’Auria, Jack Ketchum, Tom Pic, Michael Slade. Cooper, Keene, Mike R., and all the Horror-finders. The proofing committee: Pam (whose blood on the print-out exponentially increased its value!), Bob Strauss, and Ben Ricciardi. Special thanks to David Graham and Lord Gore, and, next, to outstanding friends: Christy and Bill, Darren, R.J. Myers, Kathy, Sarah S., Karyn Valentine & Patti Beller, and Jeff Walton, and of course Charlie Meitz and Tim Shannon—for international crustaceans, particularly Portunus halsatus.
Prologue
The moon smeared in his eyes. He’d been staring as he waited, staring across the gulf of night to the other side of the river. He smiled. Soon . . .
The moonlight revealed sleeping bulldozers, stacks of foundation molds, and telltale trailers erected as construction offices. It’s progress, his benefactor had said not too long ago. Progress equates to more jobs, more satisfaction, and more money. In your pocket and mine. It’s exponential.
Dwayne’s command of the English language excluded that particular adjective—but he got the idea. He was going to help speed progress along, and that was a good thing, wasn’t it?
The voice grated out of the dark: “Do a good job.”
“I always do, don’t I?” Dwayne Parker said. Huffy redneck that he was, he felt mildly insulted by the other man’s comment.
“You do, yes. I’m not denying that.”
“Ain’t none been found, right?” Dwayne challenged.
″Right.″
Workboots came forward, crunching softly. In the moonlight Dwayne could see leaves and moss stuck to the tops of the boots, but no mud like Dwayne’s. Here was what Dwayne guessed was the real difference between white collar and blue collar, the brains and the brawn. Big fuckin’ deal, he thought. Bet I get laid twice as much as he does. . . . It seemed a fair recompense for brawn.
“Sounds like you don’t trust me to get the job done,” Dwayne finally got out. “The tone of your voice ‘n’ all. Like maybe just ’cos I ain’t no big college graduate like your cronies.”
“Don’t be insecure.” Now there was something else to the tone. Dwayne didn’t like it, yet he didn’t push it. The boots crunched forward another few steps, twigs crackling. Moonlight flowed through the trees, bars of shadows from branches splayed across the other man’s face. “I have the utmost confidence in you,” he told Dwayne, and passed him an envelope.
That’s better. . . .
The envelope contained five crisp hundred-dollar bills.
The other man’s voice seemed to resonate, a dark flutter from the face barely visible. “You won’t have to do this too many more times before they all leave.”
“What happens then?” Dwayne asked.
“Your wife sells the land to me. She’ll be rich and so will you.”
Dwayne pocketed the money. Yeah, that’s right. And until then, I’m gonna have a lot of fun.
The cicadas were thrumming, a nearly electric drone that issued out from the woods in all directions. If a sound could be cloying, this was it. It pressed down on him like the sickly sweet humidity of the marsh.
“Here’s fine,” Dwayne said.
The girl seemed surprised. “Here?” she questioned. “Don’t’cha wanna go back to my shack?”
Dwayne frowned. He’d seen where the Squatters lived: mostly sheet-metal huts on the bayside of the Point. He hesitated, “Well, uh—”
“Oh, it’s nice,” the girl promised. ”Not like lots of ’em. My brothers built it for me, and I got it all to myself now that I’m eighteen.”
Dwayne repressed a grin. Eighteen? Shit, this girl looks fourteen, if that. She was a twig of a thing, ninety pounds maybe, but then all the Squatters seemed small—Stanherd’s clan. The tallest males stood five-seven if they were lucky, and the girls? They were all like this one: four-eleven, five feet tops. Must be something hereditary, in the ancestral blood. Stanherd’s Squatters were small people.
But what had she been saying? Don’t want to turn her trick in the woods, he remembered. Wants me to go back to her shack—well, fuck that. Someone might see him.
“Naw, here’s fine,” he repeated. “All I got time for is a quick one.”
The girl was the sleekest shadow in the dark. “Oh, right,” she said. “It’s gettin’ late, and I guess yer wife’d wanna know where you been.”
“Just you let me worry about my wife,” Dwayne said, annoyed. “I don’t answer to her.”
“Don’t she ever get suspicious of ya?” The girl had asked the question calmly and, unabashed, kicked off her flip-flops and took off her shorts. “We all love her so much, generous as she is to us.”
Minimum wage to pick fuckin’ crabs, Dwayne thought with another hidden smile. And these pinheads think that’s a lot of money. Shit. Of course, Dwayne had done the same thing quite a bit in his life, or any other menial job where employers weren’t discriminating. Dumpster cleaning, refuse removal, oil-change jockey, and the like—any job his parole officer could land him. Dwayne was almost forty now, and he’d done three jolts with the Russell County Department of Corrections, totaling seven years in stir. After the last one (two years, assault with a baseball bat), he’d landed here for a job picking crabmeat at the Agan’s Point Shellfish Company. Not the best job he’d ever had. After a while he’d begun to smell like crab guts; no matter how many showers he took, the dank fishy stink emanated from him. But then he’d met Judy and his life had truly changed. She owned the company, which her sister up in D.C. had helped her revamp, a small-time operation that turned secretly lucrative. When Dwayne had pulled enough wool over Judy’s eyes, she’d practically been begging him to marry her. And now?