“Later, Pappy,” he said. “We’re out of here.”
“You boys take it easy the rest of the day.” Pappy cackled. “Don’t wanna wear yourselves out kickin’ scumbag ass.”
“Just another day in the lives of two hardworkin’ cops,” Trey said, casting a final glance at the men’s mags.
Back outside, Sutter didn’t even have time to grab his keys before a shadow moved behind him. He hadn’t heard a sound. Had those drug dealers come back for revenge? Impossible, he thought. They’re lucky if they made it to the nearest hospital on their own. . . . Sutter spun, instinct charging his gun hand, but then found himself looking into the face of a gaunt old man.
“Hey, there, Everd,” Trey greeted.
Everd Stanherd stood like a meticulously dressed scarecrow, neat as a pin in his typical faded black suit and tie. Short jet-black hair didn’t look right atop the old, waxen, and deeply lined face, yet the deep-socketed eyes appeared vibrant, the eyes of a twenty-year-old set in an old man’s skull. The only detail that might tell him apart from any elderly man was the pendant around his neck: a black silk cord connected to a small black silk sack.
Everd lived with his wife, Marthe, in the only house at the end of the point, a decrepit slat-wood mansion built a hundred years ago. Judy Parker let him live there, and he shared the house with other elders of his Squatter clan. The rest of the Squatters lived all about the property surrounding the house, in surprisingly well built tin huts erected in the midst of the heavy woods—Squatterville, most people called the area. Judy let them all live there rent-free as a benefit of their employment with the crab company. In all, the Squatters were respectful, law-abiding, and industrious in their own simple way, and this frail yet vibrant man standing before them was their leader.
“It’s good to see you, Everd,” Sutter said. “Any word on those couple of folks in your clan who can’t be accounted for?”
“No, sir,” Everd replied. They all spoke so strangely, yet Everd’s tone and diction were the strangest of all. His thin lips barely moved around the words, almost as though they were being projected from elsewhere. And that indefinable dialect. “As a matter of fact, two left for Roanoke last week, quite verifiably. I suspect the same can be said of the others, as you suggested. It’s just uncharacteristic for members of our clan to leave without notice.”
“Everd, when I was a kid, I ran away a bunch of times, and never told my parents where I was headed,” Sutter pointed out. “There’s over a hundred Squatters you got livin’ on the Point. You can’t keep tabs on them all.”
“You’re correct, sir,” Everd returned. He stood absolutely motionless as he spoke, save for one crabbed hand fingering the black pouch about his neck. “However, a third member seems to have disappeared—a young girl named Cynabelle—Cindy, to you. But I must confess that she may have fallen with a bad crowd and vacated, too, for more adventurous exploits in the city.” Everd paused, as if about to say something difficult. “She lacked the standard of morality that my clan lives by, and I’m afraid several of the girls have fallen by the same wayside in the past. Not many, but a few. I feel it’s my failing ultimately.”
“Trickin’ herself out, you mean.” Trey got the gist. “Everd, your Squatters have a lower crime rate than the general population. From a police officer’s point a’ view, they’re about as low-maintenance as you can get.”
“Don’t kick yourself in the tail,” Sutter added some consolation. He was actually relieved by the extent to which Everd was reasonable about things. “You run a tight ship with your people, and we’re grateful. But you can’t go blamin’ yourself because a few girls go bad. They’re ain’t nothing you can do about it. In any community, there’s always gonna be a few girls who decide they can make more money with their bodies than workin’ a proper job. Been that way for thousands of years. And there’s always gonna be a few fellas who go bad too. Don’t worry about it.”
“Nevertheless, I apologize for such mishaps,” the man intoned. “I will try to keep a closer rein on it. But I’ve also come to thank you.”
“For what?”
“Just earlier,” Everd said. He kept touching the pouch. “Some ruffians from the city attempted to corrupt one of our young girls. She came immediately and told me. She said that you and your deputy repelled these two criminals convincingly.”
“Oh, yeah,” Trey said. “Couple drug dealers tryin’ to sell their crap in our town. We sent ’em packin’, didn’t we, Chief?”
“You won’t have to worry about them boys anymore, Everd,” Sutter guaranteed. Every so often, he’d cast a glance to the pendant, at first paying it no mind, but gradually growing more curious.
Everd looked him right in the eye, his own eyes green as emeralds, flecked with blue—another trademark of Squatter heredity. “You men have the utmost gratitude of my clan. This I cannot emphasize enough. I’d like to invite you both to my home tonight for a meal prepared in the tradition of our ancestors. Marthe will be serving an andouille-style sausage made with slow-smoked muskrat, crab-and-chickpea bisque, cattail cakes, and the seasonal delicacy this year, something we call custa.”
“Custa? What’s that?” Trey inquired.
“Cicadas roasted in wild mint and cracked white peppercorns.”
Yow! Sutter’s doughnut-filled stomach lurched as if kicked. “That’s, uh, mighty generous of ya, Everd, and we definitely will take you up on that kind offer down the road. But, see, Trey and I have some important police work to do for the next few weeks.”
Everd nodded. “In the future, then, when it’s more convenient to your busy schedule. You’re always welcome at my home. And remember the clan cookout next week.”
“We’ll be there for sure,” Trey said.
“So until we meet again, gentlemen, I bid you a pleasant day.” But before Everd turned to leave, Sutter couldn’t resist: “Everd, tell me somethin’, will ya? What is that thing around your neck?”
The old man seemed unfazed by the question, untying the sack. “It’s called a tok.” He removed something stiff and twisted.
What in shit’s name!
It was a chicken head.
“It’s the severed head of a black cock—not an ordinary chicken, mind you,” Everd explained. “Upside down in the pouch. It preserves wisdom.” He started to take it off. “Here, I’d like you to have it, as my gift.”
Yow! Sutter held up his hand. “Aw, no, Everd, I couldn’t. But thanks just the same.”
“Very well. But it’s been a pleasure to be in your company these few minutes. I look forward to our next meeting.” And then Everd slipped away, silent as a shadow.
“How do you like that funky shit?” Trey chuckled. “With all the shit he said he was servin’ for dinner, I’m surprised there ain’t no chicken on the menu. Ain’t that some weird superstitious jive they got goin’ on?”
“You got that right,” Sutter said. “And I’ll definitely pass on the muskrat and cicadas.”
“Roger that.”
“Hey, Chief, why don’t ya hang a chicken head from the cruiser rearview? Maybe it’ll give us wisdom!”
Sutter looked after the old man, who’d already made it halfway up the road. “The Squatters are tough to figure. They’re kind of like Indians, but they don’t look it. All those charms they’re into.”
“Or like Gypsies,” Trey compared. “But they don’t look like Gypsies, either. They don’t even look European.”
“The accent’s weird too. One time I asked Everd where he and his people were from, and you know what he said? He said ‘the Old World.’ Then I asked him what the hell that mean, and he told me Agan’s Point is where they’re from. That his ancestors’ve always been here.” Sutter pinched his chin. “I wonder where they’re really from. . . .”