Authors: Edward Lee
The Backwoods (41 page)
“Good, you’re awake,” he said. “Ain’t no fun pluggin’ a gal who’s unconscious. Let’s see if you’re a screamer like your sister. Yeah, baby, that turns me on. And ya can scream all ya want, ‘cos there ain’t no one to hear ya.”
Now the dread was piling up on her like a physical weight. Tears drew lines from the corners of her eyes.
I should’ve gone home to my husband days ago. Why did I have to stay
?
I should’ve gone home to my husband days ago. Why did I have to stay
?
The moonlight painted one side of his body icy white, and left the other half black. He pointed to the window. “Bet‘cha don’t know that a buncha’ nights since you been back, I come up here and watched ya through the window. You are some sight, I’ll tell ya, all naked and tossin’ and turnin’, playin’ with yourself in your sleep. Dirty girl.”
Her nausea trebled. “Jesus, and I thought it was Ernie.”
Trey sputtered. “Ernie? That shuck-‘n’-jive piece a’ shit? I busted his back before I lowered him in the water . . . so he could. see the crabs eatin’ him alive. The fuck.”
“But he was helping you too, wasn’t he? He burned the docks last night—the state police told me.”
Trey frowned. “That redneck couldn’t burn shit.
I
burned the fuckin’ docks. He tried to stop me, so I whipped his ass, flaked him with dope, and let the crabs have him.”
I
burned the fuckin’ docks. He tried to stop me, so I whipped his ass, flaked him with dope, and let the crabs have him.”
Even in her horror, Patricia felt astonished, even relieved. “I-I didn’t know that.”
“Bet‘cha don’t know somethin’ else too.” Trey’s voice darkened. He reached up toward his face, and then . . .
Patricia squinted in the dark.
He took his denture piece out, a bridge of some sort. Patricia came close to swallowing her own vomit at the recognition.
Now Trey’s two front teeth were missing.
“You remember me now, don’t’cha?” Trey guttered.
“My God,” she choked, “I thought it was Ernie. His two front teeth were missing when the EMTs were taking him out of the bay.”
“Aw, shit, that ain’t nothin’. When me ’n’ him got ta fightin’ on the docks, I knocked a couple of his teeth out, busted a rib too, ‘fore I jacked him out the rest a’ the way. I don’t like Ernie gettin’ credit for
my
balls—so make sure you know that. It was me who split your cherry on Bowen’s Field that night.”
my
balls—so make sure you know that. It was me who split your cherry on Bowen’s Field that night.”
Patricia wished she could just die now.
“I done saw ya skinny-dippin‘in the water,” Trey admitted. “Couldn’t help it—hell, I was a young buck myself back then. Chick skinny-dippin’ in the woods at night, all by herself? She’s asking for it.”
“You make me sick,” Patricia managed, her muscles tensing against the bonds.
“You were quite a prize back then, and still are,” Trey said, feeling her body up with his eyes. “’N fact, you’re a damn sight better-lookin’ now. And ya know what else I remember, baby? I remember how much you liked it. . . .”
Trey stuck the tip of his tongue through the gap in his teeth, and then the rest of the disgusting memory swamped her: her clitoris sucked through that same gap over twenty-five years ago when she lay lashed to the ground in the middle of Bowen’s Field, much the same way she lay lashed to this bed now.
“Yeah, you liked it then, and you’re gonna like it again tonight,” he promised. “You ain’t gonna be alive much longer, so you might as well just lay back and get into it.”
He began to walk toward the bed. . . .
“Wait a minute,” she said. “Answer me one thing.”
He chuckled. “Guess it’s the least I can do.”
“Set me straight on something. You’ve been killing the Squatters and making it look like drug dealers were killing them. Right?”
“Yeah. And it worked.”
“So you’ve been killing them,” Patricia repeated. “But who’s been killing you?”
Trey fell silent in the moonlight.
“Come on, Trey. Tell me the rest of the story. Dwayne was murdering Squatters; then someone murders Dwayne. Junior Caudill murdered the Hilds; then someone murdered him. Right?”
Trey hesitated but said, “Yeah.”
“And what about Junior’s brother? He was working for you and Felps, too—you said so in the kitchen. He killed the Ealds, didn’t he?”
“That’s right. Burned ’em up in their shack.”
“Why do I have this funny felling that Ricky Caudill is dead now, too? Is he?”
Trey nodded. “He died in the town jail cell, some disease.”
“Some
disease
? What happened to him?”
disease
? What happened to him?”
Trey was growing flustered. “I don’t know—I ain’t a doctor. It had to have been some disease or somethin’. Nobody killed him—he was in his jail cell when it happened.”
“When
what
happened?” Patricia insisted.
what
happened?” Patricia insisted.
“He lost all his blood, it looked like.”
“Really? And Dwayne lost his head, but there was no evidence of a wound, and Junior lost all of his internal organs. I saw Junior’s autopsy, Trey, and the inside of his body was
empty.
But there was no sign of an incision. How do you take a man’s organs out of his body without cutting him open first?”
empty.
But there was no sign of an incision. How do you take a man’s organs out of his body without cutting him open first?”
“I don’t know,” Trey said.
“Ricky Caudill lost all his blood. Were there any cuts on him? Did somebody cut his veins?”
“I didn’t inspect his fuckin’ body; all I did was bury it.”
“You said he died in his jail cell. So I guess his blood was all over the cell floor, right? Right?”
“No!” Trey yelled. “The floor was clean, and there weren’t no cuts on him!”
Silence.
The clock was still ticking, and outside Patricia could hear the cicadas’ drone. “Answer me one more thing, Trey.”
“No. Fuck it.” He grabbed a pillow off the bed. “I got me a piece a’ your ass when you were sixteen—that’ll have to do. I’m just gonna smother your ass right now and be done with it.”
He raised the pillow and was about to position it over her face, then began to lower it.
“Did Ricky Caudill get a letter on the day he died?” Patricia blurted.
The pillow froze, then fell away.
“How did you know that?” Trey’s voice ground out.
“He did, didn’t he? A sheet of paper with one word on it, one handwritten word.
Wenden
, something like that, right? It looked like it was written in some kind of dust or chalk. That was the letter he got, wasn’t it?”
Wenden
, something like that, right? It looked like it was written in some kind of dust or chalk. That was the letter he got, wasn’t it?”
Agan’s Point’s new chief of police just stood there in the moonlight. He didn’t reply.
“Dwayne got a letter like that, too.”
“Bullshit!”
“He did. I found it in the garbage can in the den. The postmark was the day he died. Go look if you don’t believe me. It’s probably still there. And Junior Caudill got a letter just like it, too.”
“No, he didn’t!”
“Yes, he did, Trey! I saw it in an evidence bag at the county coroner’s.”
Now Trey stood with his jaw dropping and his eyes wide, contemplating something in utter dread.
“Trey?” Patricia asked.
Trey just stared.
“Trey?”
He looked down at her almost beseechingly.
“Trey, did you get a letter like that too? Did you get one
today?”
today?”
Trey’s Adam’s apple bobbed when he gulped. “It’s in my pants pocket. The postman delivered it today. No return address. But I know who it’s from, and I ain’t afraid.”
“Who’s it from, Trey? Is it from—”
“It’s from Everd Stanherd, that little shit. Just some a’ his backwoods superstitious bullshit, tryin’ to scare us. But I ain’t afraid.” He gulped again. “I don’t believe in black magic or whatever fucked-up mumbo-jumbo he thinks he’s pullin’.”
Now it was Patricia’s jaw that began to drop. “Everybody who got one of those letters died. They died because something was taken from them. Blood, organs, Dwayne’s head.”
“Ain’t nothin’ been taken from me.” But even then his words began to slur. . . .
“Trey,” Patricia implored. “I think you should turn on the light and look at yourself in the mirror. Something’s happening to you.”
“Ain’t nothin’ haplen-in’!”
But what was it? Patricia’s eyes were riveted.
“Ain’t blow-one play-ken bluthin’ flum me!” Trey shouted. He turned shakily, tried to stride out of the room, but as he did so, he wobbled in his gait. When he reached out for the doorknob, his fingers turned limp as cooked pasta; then his arm slowly bowed, then fell, tentacle-like.
Before he fell over altogether, Patricia saw his head . . . collapse, as though his skull had dissolved within the sack of his face.
A few seconds later the door creaked open, figures entering. Some held candles made from rendered fat, and in the flickering light Patricia recognized the face of Everd Stanherd.
“Wenden,”
came the bizarre word from the even more bizarre Squatter accent. “It’s from our holy language, from a time even before that of the druids. . . .”
came the bizarre word from the even more bizarre Squatter accent. “It’s from our holy language, from a time even before that of the druids. . . .”
Patricia had been untied, dressed in a robe, and carried out. Then they’d driven her to someplace in the woods, for the woods truly were their home.
Everd Stanherd, his wife, and a few of the elders sat with Patricia in a circle, their candles guttering.
“We owe you no explanations, for they are all secrets. But remember this: long before Christ, God said ‘An eye for an eye.’ ”
Patricia was still regaining her senses.
I’m alive. And it wasn’t a dream.
. . .
I’m alive. And it wasn’t a dream.
. . .
“You’re a wizard or something,” she managed.
“No. I am the
sawon
—it means seer,” Everd intoned. His face was barely visible—all of them were.
sawon
—it means seer,” Everd intoned. His face was barely visible—all of them were.
The moonlight shimmered through the branches.
The cicadas thrummed.
“Sawon.”
Patricia remembered the word. The Squatter on the pier had told them. “You’re, like, the clan wise man, some kind of ancestral leader?”
Patricia remembered the word. The Squatter on the pier had told them. “You’re, like, the clan wise man, some kind of ancestral leader?”
“It means . . .
seer,
” he repeated.
seer,
” he repeated.
“What does
wenden mean
?” Patricia asked next.
wenden mean
?” Patricia asked next.
One of the other elders’ voices fluttered like a death rattle. “It means
gone
.”
gone
.”
Gone
. Patricia thought.
Dwayne’s head. Junior’s innards. Ricky Caudill’s blood. And Trey’s bones . . . all . . . gone
.
. Patricia thought.
Dwayne’s head. Junior’s innards. Ricky Caudill’s blood. And Trey’s bones . . . all . . . gone
.
“You cursed them,” Patricia observed. “Any of them who harmed the Squatters. It
was
magic.”
was
magic.”
“We can say no more,” Marthe Stanherd whispered.
Patricia couldn’t resist. “But . . . how?”
“We can say no—” Marthe began, but Everd leaned forward, overriding her. He held something in his crabbed hand.
A jar?
Patricia wondered. A clay pot of some sort, the size of a masonry jar. A cross adorned with the familiar squiggles and slashes of Squatter artwork had been etched into the pot.
A jar?
Patricia wondered. A clay pot of some sort, the size of a masonry jar. A cross adorned with the familiar squiggles and slashes of Squatter artwork had been etched into the pot.
“The burned blood,” Everd told her. “It’s our sacrament, from the
sawon
before me. And when I am dead, my blood will suffice for the next sacrament, for the
sawon
who is to follow. One of these men here tonight.”
sawon
before me. And when I am dead, my blood will suffice for the next sacrament, for the
sawon
who is to follow. One of these men here tonight.”
Several of the faces in the circle looked startled when Everd removed the strange jar’s lid and passed it to Patricia.
She looked in and saw . . .
Dust?
Brownish dust. The dull chalklike substance with which the death letters had been written? There was very little left, just enough to form a rim around the bottom.
Burned blood,
Patricia repeated in her mind.
Patricia repeated in her mind.
“It’s consecrated,” someone said.
And someone else: “Through faith older than any religion . . .”
Patricia was confused, but she also knew that there were some things she was not meant to understand. No one was.
“I’m dying,” Everd said next, through a smile that seemed to float around them in the dark. “I will soon become the next sacrament. I will soon be
wenden.
I will soon be gone.”
wenden.
I will soon be gone.”
They were all getting up now, blowing out their gullfat candles.
“You’re a good woman.” Everd was the first to walk away. “Continue to be good.”
“But where will you go?” Patricia blurted from where she sat
“From whence we came: nowhere. Everywhere. Anywhere.”
Like shifting ink spots, one by one they disappeared amongst the trees, blending into darkness.
But a final question assailed her. “Wait a minute! What about Gordon Felps?”
A hand patted her shoulder. The creviced face of the final elder whispered, “Don’t worry about Gordon Felps. We took care of him.”
When Patricia looked again, they were . . .
Gone.
It was an hour before daybreak when Patricia pulled through the gates of the compound. A sign on the fence read: FELPS CONSTRUCTION, INC. BUILDER OF FINE HOMES FOR LUXURY LIVING.
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