“I didn’t see ‘em do it, but one of ’em was in my house. Everd Stanherd. He was in my house, and it was that weirdo clan magic a’ his he used to kill Junior. And he put a curse on me. He’ll be comin’ for me next, so’s you gotta lock me up, Chief, for my protection. I’m beg-gin’ ya, man.”
Sutter came around the desk, shaking his head. “Ricky, you’re a scumbag and a no-account loser, but I can’t lock you up just for that. You gotta commit a crime, boy, and unfortunately talkin’ shit ain’t a crime.”
Ricky stalled, thinking. “Okay,” he said, then spun around, cleared Pam’s desk with his stout forearm, and yanked her top down. Even in the midst of the outrage, Chief’s Sutter’s eyes bulged at the beauteous sight. Razor-sharp tan lines bordered each firm orb of flesh, and the well-delineated nipples stuck out as if iced, plucked, and sucked out in advance. At least Chief Sutter’s day would have one high point.
But the rest was certainly a low point. Pam shrieked at the assault, pushing herself back in her chair, while Ricky stalked off and began hauling bookshelves over. Training manuals scattered. The Virginia State Annotated Code flew across the room, and a moment later so did the office coffeepot, which was full of java. It shattered against the wall. Sutter’s reaction was delayed a moment by sheer disbelief. He broke from his stance just as Ricky now manhandled the five-gallon bottle of Polar Water out of its stand.
“Don’t you dare, you crazy redneck!” Chief Sutter bellowed.
Ricky shoved the bottle across the room. It exploded spectacularly against the wall, gushing springwater everywhere.
Sutter hauled on a sand mitt and lunged. He was a fat man, but he was still a strong one. Three hard belly shots with the mitt doubled Ricky over; then a loud belt across the face sent him reeling conveniently in the direction of the station’s three-unit jail. Ricky hit the floor like a 250-pound pallet of sod.
“Crazy shithead!” Sutter yelled. He doubled over himself now and grabbed Ricky’s bulk by the belt, then began to drag him into the first cell. “You just fucked up my office! Take me all damn day to clean this mess up! I ain’t got time for this grab-ass bullshit!”
Ricky lay wheezing on the cell floor. He groaned a few times, then dizzily sat up against the wall.
“You wanted to be locked up, you dickhead! Well, you got it!” Sutter continued to yell. He slammed the door shut with a clang.
Cross-eyed, Ricky grinned back at him. “Thanks, Chief,” he said.
What a fuckin’ kook! Sutter lumbered back toward the office, frowning as he heard the phone ringing. All he wanted to do was sit his ass down and have a nice, slow day, especially after being up half the night at the Eald fire.
Pam’s hazel eyes looked foreboding when he sat back down at his desk. She’d just hung up the phone.
“Please tell me it was a wrong number,” he pleaded.
“Sorry, Chief. It was Trey. He needs you down at the Caudill house—says Junior’s lying in the middle of the floor, stone-cold dead.”
(II)
The hand reached out in tranquil dark. He liked to sit in the dark. The colors of dusk were filtering into the room.
He picked up the phone.
“Yes?”
“It’s all fucked-up like you wouldn’t believe.”
“What are you talking about? I saw a dozen Squatters pulling up stakes today, packing. They’re beginning to leave town. It’s working beautifully, and faster than I thought.”
“No, no, you don’t know the rest. It just happened a few hours ago. Junior’s dead.”
A pause drew out along the line. “How?”
“Don’t know. There’s no wounds, there’s no—”
“He probably had a heart attack. He was a fat slob.”
“No, no, see, Ricky’s in lockup.”
“What? What for? He didn’t—”
“No, he didn’t squeal. But he says it was Everd Stanherd who killed Junior, says he saw the guy in his house last night. He wanted to be locked up for his own protection, but Sutter wouldn’t do it. So then he trashed the place. But he’s talking crazy shit. And . . . and . . . and . . .”
“And what?”
“I’m scared, and Sutter was looking at me funny earlier today when I left the office. I’m about to shit my pants worrying what Ricky might say.”
“Ricky’s in as deep as us.”
“He don’t care! He thinks the Squatters killed Junior with some sorta hocus-pocus!”
“In other words, you think Ricky might be a liability now?”
“Damn right. He starts running his mouth to save his ass, you and I’re both gonna be neck-deep in shit.”
Another pause. The solution was obvious, though he would’ve preferred not to clarify it over a phone line. “Rectify the problem, for both our sakes. Use your position to your advantage. It’ll be easy once you think about it. . . . Am I clear?”
“It’ll cost.”
“I’ll pay. Rectify the problem. Do it quickly.”
He hung up.
His hand retreated back into the dark.
(III)
I don’t believe it, Patricia thought. She looked up the hill, lit by morning sun, and saw what appeared to be a Squatter family leaving the Point. A ragtag man and woman, plus a child, trudged up the hill toward the main road out of town, carrying sacks of clothes and beaten suitcases.
They’re leaving town. . . .
At the end of the trail she spotted a figure coming her way, a toolbox at the end of one strong arm. She scarcely had a minute to contemplate the idea that Squatters were actually moving away out of fear, and now more of this distraction.
Oh, no, not again.
It was Ernie who headed toward her. He smiled and waved.
Patricia had hoped for a nice, leisurely walk by herself, to clear her head. But the instant she saw him . . .
All that sexual tension returned.
Damn it.
He wended up the rest of the trail, the Stanherd house looming in the background.
“Mornin’,” he greeted her.
“Where have you been?”
“I just come from the Stanherd house. Last week Everd asked to borrow my tools to replace some missing shingles, so I thought I’d drop ’em off with Marthe for when he comes back from the boats.” He set the toolbox down, suddenly looking confused. “But he ain’t there.”
“He works the crabbing boats every morning, I thought. He’s probably on the water.”
“His boat’s still tied up at the dock, and so are half a’ the others. What I mean is Everd and his wife are gone. They left town’s, what the men at the pier told me.”
“They . . .” Then Patricia looked farther up the trail and saw yet another Squatter family trudging away. “It looks like quite a few clan people are leaving.”
“Things change. I guess it was bound to happen.” Ernie’s face looked deflated.
“I guess if I had a family, and drugs started popping up in the neighborhood, I’d move too,” Patricia reasoned.
“The others are sayin’ that ain’t the real reason,” Ernie said. “I just talked to some a’ the men at the docks, said a lot of clan are leavin’ ’cos they’re just plain scared.”
“Scared of what?”
“Well, it’s like we were talkin’ the other day. Rumors everywhere—ya never really find out what the true story is. But some a’ the clan are sayin’ that this whole drug business is a setup, and that somebody murdered the Hilds and the Ealds to scare the bejesus out of the rest a’ the Squatters, to get ’em to clear out.”