Shit!
Patricia fell to the ground belly-first. She’d tripped over something. A vine? A branch?
No, because when she looked back, she saw in a network of moonlight what it had been: a severed head.
Dwayne’s head, she knew.
And the wild footfalls of her pursuer drew closer. But . . .
What’s . . . that?
Did she hear a pounding in the back of the dream? Like someone knocking on a door, she thought. But there were no doors here in the burning woods. The woods signified her desires, she knew, and the dangers that accompanied them, and her pursuer: the unknown.
But what of the pounding?
It scarcely mattered. She heaved herself up, was about to sprint off again, but then she saw another slant of moonlight painting the tree right before her.
There was a design carved in the tree’s bark . . . but was the bark bleeding? No, of course not, it must be sap. And it was the design that riveted her: a crude yet elaborate cross framed by the intricate etchings and squiggles of the Stanherd clan’s symbol for good luck.
She squirmed, flat on her back now. The dream was gone, and all she could feel were the throes of orgasm, her nerves pulsing, her hand fervid between her legs, and then—
“Patricia! Patricia!”
Her sister’s voice.
Patricia snapped away. She was confused at first, for the moonlit darkness of the bedroom matched that of the woods in her dream. Of course, she’d wakened, and it was Judy who’d wakened her.
“Patricia, I’m so sorry ta wake ya at this hour, but—”
Oh, Jesus . . . The first thing she noticed was that her nightshirt—the same one from the dream—was pulled up over her breasts. Her nipples throbbed in delicious pain, and she knew how they’d gotten that way: from self-plucking. The sheet lay aside, her legs splayed. She knew she’d been masturbating in her sleep again, to the point of climax.
She second thing she noticed was the smell of smoke.
“Is the house on fire?” she blurted. Why else would Judy be waking her up so late and so abruptly?
“No, no, dear me, no. But—”
“And . . . I heard this loud pounding,” she said, quickly dragging the nightshirt back down.
“That was Sergeant Trey, knocking on the front door.”
The police? “What did he want?”
“To tell me what happened. There’s been a burnin’ on the Point, in Squatterville. Now hurry up ’n’ put somethin’ on so’s we can go see.”
A fire on the Point. Real smoke, evidently, had pursued her in the dream. “I’ll be right there,” she said.
Judy turned before she left, the slyest smile in the dark. “You were havin’ yourself one racy dream, sister.”
Thank God she couldn’t see Patricia blushing.
“Ain’t nothin’ wrong with a gal takin’ care a’ herself,” Judy added. “Now hurry! We’ll meet’cha out front.”
My God, Patricia thought when she left. My own sister just caught me masturbating. . . . She pulled on a blouse, shorts, and sneakers. Before she left she glanced out her open window and saw flames from afar.
It wasn’t the kind of sight anyone would ever expect to see in a place like Agan’s Point. Ever. Blossoms of flashing red, blue, and white lights throbbed out into the night. Several fire trucks parked askew, tentacle-like hoses reaching out. A half dozen police cars bracketed the end of the perimeter—several state cars, Patricia noted—with poker-faced officers prowling the scene. Patricia, Judy, and Ernie looked on in macabre awe.
“Oh, Lord, no.” Judy gasped.
“It’s David Eald’s shack,” Ernie said, “so I guess that’s—”
Ernie didn’t finish as the three of them watched firemen bring out a black body bag atop a stretcher.
A smell in the air nauseated Patricia; it wasn’t a stench she might expect; it was an aroma—something akin to pork roast. Oh, Jesus, she thought, her stomach flipping.
“That ain’t the worst of it, I’m afraid,” Sergeant Trey. told them. His face shifted in various luminous shades from the flashing lights.
“David Eald has a daughter, doesn’t he?” Judy choked out the question.
Both Trey and Ernie nodded at the same time, and a moment later a second stretcher was carried out.
Had a daughter, Patricia thought.
The trucks had put the fire out, a fire that had incinerated the dilapidated wooden shed that had comprised David Eald’s home. Several trees had caught fire too, leaving blackened posts in their place, smoke still wafting.
“I know all the electrical connections ‘n’ junction boxes were good,” Ernie said. Did he seem worried that someone might think he’d made a mistake? “They’re all to spec. I installed ’em myself, every hookup in Squatterville.”
“Just one a’ those things,” Trey offered. “Happens all the time, bad as it is. He ’n’ his daughter probably went to bed and forgot to turn off the stove. The smoke conks ’em out in their sleep; then the place bums down.”
A common tragedy. You read about accidents like this all the time in the paper, Patricia acknowledged, and you never really think much about it. . . . “There’re an awful lot of police, though. And why all the state troopers?”
“That does seem strange,” Judy added. “The nearest state police station is a half hour away.”
“On account a’ what happened earlier,” Trey said. “With the Hilds. They’re still investigating that . . . and now this happens.”
“But the Hilds’ murders and this fire can’t possibly be related,” Patricia supposed.
“I don’t know about that, not now.” Another voice sneaked up from behind. Chief Sutter’s disheartened bulk stepped out of the darkness.
Judy looked puzzled. “Whatever do ya mean, Chief?”
“The Hilds were closet druggers—crystal meth.” The chief’s eyes roved the cinders that were once the Eald shack. “Ain’t much left a’ the place now, but the state cops found some charred chemical bottles inside, and a burned pot on the stove with somethin’ at the bottom of it that they say ain’t food.”
Patricia immediately remembered what she’d read on the Internet earlier. “A methamphetamine lab,” she said. “Is that what the police think?”
“They’re sendin’ the bottles and other stuff to their lab for tests, but it sure looks like it.” Sutter shook his head. “Kinda makes sense when you think about it.”
It was pretty sad sense.
Judy stood in something like a state of shock as she watched the police and firemen stalk about.
Patricia asked the grimmest question yet. “How old was this man’s daughter?”
“Thirteen, fourteen, thereabouts,” Ernie replied.
Judy stifled a sob.
“It’s all the damn drugs,” Sutter regarded. “Goddamn evil shit . . .”
Patricia could feel streams of heat eddying off the cinders. The night felt more and more like something she was disconnected from—she was a watcher looking down. This quaint little town really is going to hell fast. Four deaths just in the few days I’ve been here. Plus Dwayne . . .
The night swallowed the heavy thunks of the ambulance doors. Radio squawk etched the air. Patricia put her arm around her sister, who was already blinking tears out of her eyes. Judy’s lower lip quivered when she finally said, “I might have to sell this land after all.”