Edward Lee - The Backwoods

She quaked at the ensuing orgasms. Mouths licked greedily over her body; tongues roved her sex. Stout fingers manipulated her clitoris with a jeweler’s finesse, then roughly burrowed into her folds as well as other places.

Moonlight blurred in her eyes. The orgy seemed to be abating, but she could still see shadows of people around her. The aftermath of her ecstasy left her gleefully exhausted, but . . .

She felt herself becoming aware of something. The trees around her, the woods—they seemed pushed off at a distance. Did she hear water lapping somewhere? She thought of a pond or a lake, and as more water gently splashed, she thought it could mean that someone was coming out of this body of water. Details shifted, and her vision began to clear.

Then her heart froze in her chest.

I know where I am now, she realized, and she might as well have come to this conclusion inside of a coffin.

She’d been having sex with all those men . . . at Bowen’s Field.

She lurched upright, screaming. She ran for the woods, thrashing into their midst. Her scream followed her like a contrail, but when it occurred to her that she was being followed—by some bizarre, giggling horde—the fringes of the nightmare began to dissolve, and the next thing she knew she was standing before the dresser mirror in the bedroom, naked, hair disarrayed, terrified. Her bosom heaved. The badger’s foot on the cord about her neck seemed to be vaguely alive, moving about the valley of her breasts. In the dark mirror she saw that she’d been finger painted with Squatter graffiti: gleaming, slate-colored lines and squiggles inscribed about her nipples, bracketing her navel, traveling about her thighs like crestwork on an old house. Her face had been painted likewise—an ancient fertility mask, a rictus of either wantonness or horror.

The giggling tittered behind her. Had something followed her from the nightmare into reality? Her eyes bloomed at her horrid likeness in the mirror, and in the reflection she could see the window, and a faceless figure standing there.

She sat upright in bed as if awakened by a shriek. She remained naked, the sheets kicked off the bed. Her first instinct, though, was to look very closely at herself.

She slid off the mattress and walked gingerly to the dresser. Please, please, please, she thought. The badger’s foot still dangled between her breasts, but her face and skin were clean—no evidence of the Squatter clan’s body paint. Finally she let out a long breath. The cicadas trilled sedately from outside. Moonlight tinted the quiet room.

Just a nightmare, she assured herself .

She was tired of her dreams, and tired of never feeling like herself since she’d arrived. I need to go home soon. This place is weirding me out .

In the dream she’d been drenched in impassioned sweat, but now she felt equally drenched in shame and unmitigated sin. She’d enjoyed the raving sexual fest of the dream, which only made her feel guiltier about Byron. I’ll bet he’s not dreaming of orgies with a bunch of women, she thought. He’s home worrying about me, and missing me.

Patricia didn’t do well with guilt. . . .

The clock on the nightstand read 3:20 A.M. Jesus . . . Now that the terror of the dream had subsided, her head throbbed. I’m half-drunk and half hungover at the same time. The dark room hovered around her. Eventually the comforting moonlight and cicada sounds turned annoying. Then—

Creeeeeak.

Patricia snapped her gaze toward the open window. “Who’s there?” she abruptly called out.

A creak.

As if someone had been standing on the wooden porch below the window. It’s probably nothing, she dismissed, yet quickly pulled on her robe.

Someone had been standing by the window in the dream. . . .

Yes, it was probably nothing, but she got up nonetheless and leaned out the window. “Is anyone there?” she asked too quietly. What if someone answered? Who would be out here at this hour, and for what purpose?

She wouldn’t let herself contemplate answers.

She squinted, set her hand down on the sill to lean out further, but . . .

What is . . .

Her hand came away wet. Something viscid.

Gross. Whatever it was, it felt warm. Slug trails. Annoyed, she wiped her hand with a tissue, then grabbed the flashlight and went outside.

At first she couldn’t reckon what she was seeing in the flashlight beam: a splotch like melted wax pooled on the sill, the overflow running down the outside wall in a trail. It was still wet, but now she noticed other similar trails that had long since dried.

The window, she thought.

Then, revolted, she knew.

Like the peephole at the Squatter’s shower. Oh, my God. The realization bloomed in totality.

Some man was out here, masturbating. Looking at me naked in bed . . .

Then a rustling came from the hedges out in the yard, and she saw a figure slinking away. It was Ernie.

He stumbled drunkenly down the path, then through the trees, and disappeared.

Fourteen

(I)

Bam, bam, bam, bam, bam.

The knock on the door sounded like someone hitting the frame with a hammer.

Oh, my God, I’m so hungover, Patricia thought, a hand to her head. She’d passed back out on the bed last night, and when she looked to the clock now, it shocked her to see that it was noon. And—

Bam, bam, bam, bam, bam.

The knock was maddening, painful against her headache. She dragged herself out of bed, making sure her robe was sashed. Who would be knocking that loud? It’s so fucking rude!

When she opened her door, it puzzled her to find a poker-faced Virginia state trooper looking back at her, with sergeant stripes on his sleeve. “Sorry to bother you, ma’am. Are you Patricia White?”

“Why, yes, but—”

“I’m Sergeant Shannon, with the state police narcotics unit. I need to ask you a few questions,” he said. The trooper had gunmetal hair and no trace of the local accent, more like a Wisconsin accent than anything Southern. His eyes seemed critical of the fact that Patricia was in her nightgown past noon. “It won’t take very long at all.”

Patricia immediately put her guard up. She was a lawyer; such a question from a police officer had to make her wonder. “What are the questions in reference to?” she asked back.

“Ernie Gooder . . . and your sister, Judy Parker.”

Patricia’s head throbbed; she couldn’t concentrate. “What on earth . . . Is everything all right?”

“No, ma’am. There was more trouble last night,” the officer said. “Do you have any idea where Judy Parker or Ernie Gooder is?”

“Well . . .” She rubbed her eyes. “Aren’t they here at the house?”

“Nope. We checked the house.”

Another flag shot up. “You need a search warrant for that, Sergeant.”

He put a piece of paper in her face. “I have more than that, ma’am. I have an arrest warrant for Ernie Gooder. The magistrate just signed it.”

This is crazy! “Why do you want to arrest Ernie?”

“Did you know that most of the Agan’s Point boat docks burned down last night? The boathouse, and about half of your sister’s crabbing boats?”

Patricia couldn’t think past the shock. “No, I had no idea.”

“The fire marshal’s down there now, says it was arson. Some coincidence, isn’t it? One night after someone bums down the Ealds’ shack—a crystal meth lab—then someone bums down the docks. Looks like more turf war; at least that’s what we think.”

“But what does this have to do with Ernie?”