Edward Lee - The Backwoods

“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.”

No one said anything after that.

And no one noticed the split second in which Sergeant Trey smiled.

Eight

(I)

Ricky felt high on drugs when he got back home, the tantalizing garbage thoughts filling his brain as effectively as any opiate. The girl had really gotten him tuned up. I love it when the bitches twitch like that, he thought, replaying the atrocity in his mind. And right there on the floor next to her dead daddy! Yeah, it was a great night, all right. He’d torched the place perfectly, too, afterward, and was all the way back in the woods before the fire started to really catch.

Ricky was a consummate sociopath.

Can’t wait to tell Junior, he thought. He was cutting through the woods all the way back home, so as not to be seen. This was something they needed to have a few beers over. And he couldn’t wait to tell him about the girl. . . .

Yeah, my little brother’ll be a mite jealous ‘bout that!

He could hear the sirens in the distance, which simply brought more satisfaction to his heart. It filled him up very happily, like a big, rich meal.

Night sounds pulsed around him. Eventually, the trees broke and he was suddenly standing in his backyard. He didn’t see any lights on in the house, though. Guess Junior went beddy-bye, he thought. Usually they both stayed up late, drinking and watching porn. It seemed a brotherly thing to do.

But Ricky was too keyed-up to go to bed himself. Couple beers and another chew, first, and maybe he’d also pop in his favorite porno, Natal Attraction . He crossed the backyard, stepping over moonlit junk, and went in through the back screen door.

At once, the inside of the house felt . . .

Weird, he thought.

Darkness hemmed him in, and when he closed the door behind him the silence felt cloying, like the faintest unpleasant smell in the air. He snapped on the kitchen light, yet felt no better. He couldn’t shake the feeling, and he didn’t even know what the feeling was. When he opened the refrigerator for a beer, he stalled, hand poised.

Ain’t that the fuckin’ shits.

The full case of brew he’d put in there this afternoon was untouched. Junior must be sick as a dog to not’ve knocked out ten or twelve bottles by now.

He grabbed one and closed the door, then walked slowly, brow furrowed, into the front room, switched on the light—