The Backwoods

(II)

“It just seemed weird to me, Mr. Chief,” the slim, curvy girl with tousled black hair was relating into the driver’s-side window of the Agan’s Point police patrol car.

The strange accent was more of a giveaway than the pale skin and black hair, not to mention the “Mr. Chief.” One of Stanherd’s Squatters, Chief Sutter realized. They always called him Mr. Chief. He didn’t recall seeing this one around, but then he didn’t typically pay much attention to the Squatters—he didn’t have to. They kept to themselves, stayed out of trouble, and worked hard, most of them taking minimum-wage jobs at the crab company. Chief Sutter was a reasonable man. Work your job, pay your taxes, and obey the law, and you’ll have no problem with me. Right now, however, Chief Sutter was having a problem of his own, with this girl who’d flagged them down on Point Road. As she leaned over the window, to convey some mishap at the Qwik-Mart, her breasts stared him bold in the face. The homemade tomato-red jumper top restrained a pair of breasts that might be getting close to D-cup territory. The hand-set stitches of the top, in fact, were stretching enough to show lines of flesh in their seams. She also wore an equally tight threadbare skirt hemmed uncomfortably high on the thigh. The Squatters made their own clothes from fabric scraps they bought at Goodwill, and this little thing was obviously still growing into her getup. A heat wave flashed in Sutter’s groin when, as he listened, his eyes shot a quick glance down the front of her abdomen and hips. Oh, lord, he commiserated. Her right foot crossed over the back ankle of her left, a dollar-store flip-flop hanging off the sleek, voluptuous foot. Jiminy Christmas, even her fucking feet are hot . . . Hence Chief Sutter’s “problem.” The images distracted him, such that he found himself nodding as if in attention but hearing almost nothing of what she said.

“—and they was kinda grinnin’ and lookin’ me over,” she went on, “the way fellas’ll do, makin’ me really uncomfortable, and when I told ’em I didn’t wanna buy none, they said somethin’ like, ‘Well, that’s all right, we’ll give ya some fer free if ya come and party with us.’”

The Squatter girls weren’t much above the neck, sort of wide faces and flat noses, not the best teeth, and that ratty black hair. But below the neck?

Jiminy Christmas, Sutter repeated the thought. They all had bodies that would make a calendar girl feel insecure.

“What’s that you were sayin’ there, hon?” Trey asked. Sutter could tell by Trey’s squint and the tone of his query that he too was experiencing a problem with distraction. Any officer’s job was to get all the facts, and that wasn’t working well here, not with this Squatter bombshell’s pair of absolutely state-of-the-art breasts practically falling out of that top in front of them.

“What was it you say these fellas were tryin’ ta sell you?” Trey blinked hard enough to get out.

Her hip cocked, which caused her bosom to sway delectably in the hand-stitched top, and she explained in that weird accent that all the Squatters seemed to have, “Ice! Can ya believe that? They asked me if I wanted to buy some ice! Sure, it’s hot ʹnʹ all, but we got a bunch a’ ice trays in our freezer just like dang near everyone, and even if we didn’t, I could walk right in the Qwik-Mart and buy me a bag. Dumbest thing I ever heard anyone tryin’ ta sell right out front of a convenience store. Who sells ice out of a truck, Mr. Chief? So’s that’s why I flagged ya down, just ‘cos that whole thing seemed really weird and so did them fellas. Thought the police’d wanna know.”

Sutter and Trey exchanged glances. At least now they had some police business, which was good, because if Sutter had to spend another minute looking at this girl’s outrageous body he might have a heart attack right there in the cruiser.

“That was right of you to flag us down, missy,” Sutter said, “because fellas like that are definitely not the type we want in Agan’s Point. You see which way they went?”

Now she stood on both feet, legs parted, and leaned back with hands on hips. More distraction: she was so short—all the Squatters were—and as she leaned back like that, she nearly appeared unreal, like something manufactured at a scaled-down size. When she pointed across the windshield, Sutter’s eyes bugged as one immaculate breast rose in the top, and in that little gap underneath he could see the bare bottom of it in all of its orbicular glory. “They ain’t went nowhere yet, Mr. Chief, ‘cos see? They’re still there. That’s them in that orange boxy-looking truck parked right out front of the Qwik-Mart, and that’s one of ‘em standin’ right there talkin’ on the pay phone.”

Trey’s expression revved up. “Well, ain’t that grand, yes, sir!”

“You got that right,” Sutter agreed, then back to the girl: “You’ve done a fine civic duty today, missy, and we appreciate it.”

She seemed delighted by Sutter’s response, and then her not-so-comely face lit up with a big smile—not that Sutter nor Trey, was focused on her face. “You have a fine day, Mr. Chief, and . . . and . . . and Mr. Chief’s partner.”

Sutter paused to himself. Shit. I gotta know. “By the way, missy, if you don’t mind my asking . . . how old are you?”

Her eyes beamed. “Why, it’s funny you should ask, but I just turnt fifteen yesterday!”

Trey spit out a mouthful of coffee while Sutter thought in a long, low groan: Oh, my great God in . heaven. . . .

The girl waved giddily as the cruiser backed up and began to turn. “Jiminy Christmas,” Sutter muttered like a man with a bad bellyache. “That dizzy brick shit-house was almost the death of me just lookin at her.”

“Damn near busted my pants, Chief. And did‘ja see how little she was? Bet she wasn’t five feet. And who cares about the butt-ugly face? Them Squatter chicks got bods on ’em that make me wanna howl at the fuckin‘ moon.” Trey may have momentarily rubbed his crotch when Sutter wasn’t looking. “I got myself a leapin’ lizard down here.”

“Tell me about it.”

His slapped his thigh. “And she’s only fifteen!”

“Tell me about it,” Sutter repeated, pulling around.

Trey was shaking his head. “But just as they got bodies from hell they ain’t got but shit fer brains.” He let out a hick laugh. “She thinks those guys are selling ice cubes! How’s that for a dumb shit?”

“Aw, give her a break. She’s had a shit life, no proper schooling, and works her ass off at the crab plant.”

Trey belted out another laugh. “Shit, Chief, with that bod, she can work my ass off anytime she likes!”

Sutter shot him a reproving glare.

“Er, I mean, once she turns eighteen,” Trey added in haste.

“That’s what I thought you meant. Christ, ten minutes ago you were runnin’ your mouth all about how God helps us out if we obey His laws.” Sutter chuckled. “You sure lost your religion quick enough, lustin’ after that Squatter.”

Trey roused to object. “I was just speakin’ figurative, Chief,” he said, pronouncing the word as figgur-tive, “as men will do when they’re amongst themselves, but in my heart—and I say this ’cos I know it’s in your heart too—men married in the eyes of the Lord wouldn’t even think of havin’ any carnal knowledge with no gal other than his lawful wife, no matter what age she is. I asked Father Darren ’bout it once.”

“About what?”

“About lust in the heart, and he said that since all men was born in original sin, we’re all guilty of lust—can’t help but be—‘cos it’s all in our genes. So it’s okay to eyeball a hot gal now and again, ’cos it’s a manner of appreciatin’ the beauty God gave to women.”

Sutter’s eyes narrowed. “Father Darren said it’s okay to eyeball other women?”

Trey raised a finger to finish his point. “As long as you know in your heart that ya wouldn’t really have sex with her once it got down to brass tacks. I know you’d never cheat on yer fine wife, June, and I sure as shit’d never cheat on Marcy. Don’t matter that they both gone to fat and got tits hangin’ down to their thighs. That’s ’cos God blesses us in our love.”

Sutter sighed.

“Anyway, Chief, that’s what Father Darren means in a nutshell. It’s okay by Him that you look at other chicks every once in a while as long as ya’d never really hobnob with ‘em.”

Well, that’s sure good to hear, ‘cos I still got half a hard-on in my pants from lookin’at that little thing, Sutter thought sourly.

Trey grinned. “And look at it this way, Chief. That little piece a’ eye candy got your mind off your money problems, huh?”

The recollection of those breasts, those curves, and those legs waylaid him. “It got my mind off ‘em, but I still got ’em, Trey.”

“Patience is a virtue, Chief. Says so in the Bible. God smiles upon a patient man. . . .”

Sutter shook off the after-imagery as he pulled into the convenience store, where a gleaming, brand-new Humvee occupied one of the parking spots, tangerine orange and ten coats of lacquer. A shifty-looking black guy in his mid-twenties, in baggy pants and gold chains, had just hung up the pay phone and was coming back to the car, giving them the eye.

“Fucker’s got more gold chains than Mr. T.,” Trey observed with a smirk. “And look at the watch on the son of a bitch. Looks like a Rolex.”

“We know where he gets that kind of money,” Sutter remarked. His own watch cost $7.95 at the drugstore. “And look at those rings on him, too. Fucker’s all decked out like a Harlem pimp.”

In the Hummer’s driver’s seat sat a long-haired white kid with scruff on his chin, and similar gold chains and watch.

“We know what these scumbags are all about, so keep on your toes,” Sutter said. “I’ll take the rapper and you take the white guy.”

“Gotcha, Chief. Thumb snap’s off.” He grinned at his boss and released the snap on his holster. “We ain’t had a tussle in a spell. I’m ready.”

“You keep your dander down unless ya need it.” Sutter hit his own thumb snap; then he added, “And it can’t hurt for us to mitt up.”

“Roger that,” Trey assented. They each slipped on their pair of Bianchi elastic-stretch sand mitts with nude trigger fingers and heavy-duty leather sand pouches reinforcing the knuckles and palms. Ideal for punching through doors or busting a scumbag’s face without consequently busting one’s own knuckles.

Sutter moved his own considerable bulk out of the car. He blocked off the black guy before he could get back to the Hummer, while Trey leaned against the driver’s door, arms crossed.

“Is there a problem, Officer?” the black guy asked a bit haughtily. His T-shirt read, RAPPINʹ AND CAPPINʹ, and he had a tattoo of an AK-47 inked over one apple-sized bicep.

“Oh, there’s a problem,” Sutter confirmed. “Turn around, hands flat out on the roof, and spread ’em. No sudden movements. Don’t fuck with me.”

“The fuck?” the white guy complained.

“Pipe down, Kid Rock,” Trey said, “or I’ll pipe ya down.”

The black guy glared. “I haven’t done anything wrong! You’re just shaking me down ‘cos I’m black!”

“Don’t give me that racist jive,” Sutter said back. “I don’t give a shit what color a man’s face is. The only kind of black man I call a nigger is a black man trying to sell crystal meth to kids.”

That was all the black guy needed to hear—“crystal meth”—before he realized he could either run his ass off or do three-to-five for possession and distro of Class II narcotics with another five tacked on for attempted distro to a minor. He chose to run his ass off.

Shit!

He bolted off the car. Sutter, since he was not exactly dextrous nor physically fit, being obese and close to sixty, managed to get a handful of T-shirt, which sufficed only to slow the guy down around the comer of the car, whereupon the T-shirt tore away.

As for Trey, he didn’t appear to even break a single bead of sweat when in some impressive synchrony he—

Whap!

—landed a solid fist right smack-dab into Kid Rock’s forehead, then—

“Holy Jesus, man, that hurts like a motherfucking motherfucker!”

—emptied half a can of GOEC-brand chemical spray into his eyes and bleeding, split-open face.

“Got ya covered, Chief,” Trey said next, sidestepping forward. He moved fast enough to cut off the black guy before he could get clear. Then—

Thud.

—palm-heeled him once in the solar plexus.

Which sufficed to circumvent the attempt to flee.

“Getcha a case of beer for that one, Trey,” Sutter said approvingly, then lumbered over. “You simmer down the long-hair while I read this suspect his rights.” The black guy was sprawled out belly-down on the pavement, bug-eyed, barely able to move. He was sucking wind. Sutter promptly stepped on the back of his head, treating his face to a little dermabrasion the hard way. The guy flip-flopped on the pavement, shrieking like a little girl who’d just been scared out of a carny house of horrors.

Kid Rock had managed to stop screaming long enough to make the very unwise decision to attempt to drive off. Hair hanging in blood-drenched strings, he jerked his hand forward, touched the keys in the ignition, was about to start the car, when—

“Holy Jesus, mother of God, you gotta be fuckin’ shitting me!”

—Trey emptied the rest of the GOEC into his eyes.

Sutter dragged a dozenish bags of crystal methamphetamine, aka “ice,” out of the black guy’s pockets, not to mention a pipe, and—of all things—a 1964 Topps Mickey Mantle baseball card. Sutter pocketed the card, then allowed the point of his steel-toed black oxford to come into direct proximity with the area of space that was occupied by the black guy’s scrotum. That took the rest of the zing out of him.

Finally got me another Mantle card for my collection . . .

The cowbell on the door clanged. Pappy Halm, a well-known Agan’s Point local and the store’s proprietor, hobbled out front, aghast. He clacked toward the scene on his cane and objected in his typical loud rail, “What the hell ya doin’ Chief? I seen ya in the winder! All that fella done is make a blamed phone call! What right ya got to beat him down like that?”

Sutter showed him a handful of ice. “This walkin’ piece a’ shit here and his hippie buddy are selling these hard drugs to kids. Just tried to sell some to a fifteen-year-old not five minutes ago.”

“Oh, yeah?” Halm replied, then cracked the end of his cane hard up into the black guy’s crotch. Now the guy was gasping, screaming, and blubbering all at the same time.

“Want me to cuff Kid Rock, Chief?” Trey asked.

“Naw.” Sutter dragged the black guy up. “If we write this one up and take ‘em to county detent, I’ll miss dinner. And you know how fierce the wife bitches at me when I miss dinner. Fuckers’d be out on bail in the time it takes me to fart.”

“Roger that.”

“But we better look the vehicle over. Check that guy’s pockets and under the seat.” Sutter opened the Humvee’s back door for a quick search. Jesus . . . He found a tackle box full of more ice. “Bet there’s a thousand bucks’ worth of dope in here,” he said.

Trey peeked between the front seats. “More’n that, by the looks of it. Just think of all the kids they’d be selling it to. And look at what the hippie was carryin’.” He held up a small pistol.

“Jesus. These guys.”

Sutter shoved the dizzy black guy back into the front seat, but before he closed the door—

Crack!

—he raised his fiberglass nightstick high over his head and whacked it down across the guy’s thigh. The thighbone snapped like a stout bough.

Trey whipped out his own billy. “A limp to remember us by. The same for this one?”

“Naw. He’s gotta drive. But I think a Southern-style haircut might do him justice. Fucker must think he’s in Lynyrd Skynyrd.”

Trey twirled a finger around a lock of Kid Rock’s hair, pressed his other hand against his head, and yanked as though starting a lawn mower. The kid barked a righteous yelp when a clump of hair popped out of his head along with a square inch of scalp.

Sutter’s temples pounded in sudden disgust as he looked at the shining vehicle and the gold chains on the wheezing black man. “It ain’t fuckin’ fair, ya know? I ain’t an ungrateful man, and I ain’t greedy either. But I got my problems just like any hardworkin’ man. Them two mortgages I was telling you about are bleedin’ me dry, car insurance just gone up again and so did county property taxes, not to mention the damned Ay-rabs keep jacking the price a’ gas. Got a wife that eats more than the Redskins defensive line, God love her, and who runs my credit cards up like she’s Bill fuckin’ Gates’s wife insteada the wife of a small-town police chief, and now the blasted AC up ’n’ broke, so that’s gonna cost me out the ass . . . so I am pinched to the max. I’m so broke I can barely pay fuckin’ attention, and then look what we got here.” He glared intensely at the shuddering black guy and his accomplice. “We got two piles of walkin,’ talkin’ garbage wearing gold jewelry and drivin’ a brand-new Hummer, and how’d they get the kind of bread for all that?” He looked at the bags of crystal meth. “By sellin’ this shit. Yes, sir, these pieces a’ shit live large and got enough cash to choke a fuckin’ horse, and what do I got? Enough debt to choke a fuckin’ horse.” He slammed the Humvee door, made a fist of his right sand mitt, and said directly to the black guy, “We don’t take kindly to people sellin’ drugs in our town, so listen up.”

He pinched the guy’s cheeks together. “You ‘n’ your buddy are gonna turn this jalopy around and drive outta here, and you ain’t gonna stop till you’re plumb out of this county, and you’re never, and I mean never, gonna come back here again, and if we ever, and I mean ever, see you anywhere near Agan’s Point in the future—”

Whap!

He rammed his sand mitt right into the guy’s mouth.

“—we might have to rough ya up a little.”

The black guy was spitting out teeth. Kid Rock convulsed behind the wheel, backing the Hummer up and spinning wheels out of the lot.

Trey rubbed his hands together. “All in a day’s work, huh, Chief?”

“Damn straight. And I snagged myself one hell of a Mantle card. Pisses me off, though.”

“What’s that, Chief?”

Sutter dropped the tackle box and rest of the drugs into the garbage. “A small fortune worth of dope, and those punks probably sell that much shit to kids every damn day.”

“Sure they do.”

“Driving around in a brand-new fifty-grand Hummer—”

“That tricked-up model? Sixty, sixty-five at least.”

“Yeah, and we drive clunkers. Gold chains, too. Shit. Only thing I can afford to wear around my neck is a line of sweat. Ain’t right.”

“No, it ain’t, Chief.” Trey crossed his arms with a look of concern. “But I’d say we done a lotta good today. Ain’t no drugs gonna be sold by them fellas fer a while. And . . .” Trey paused to reflect on something. “Let me ask you somethin’, Chief.”

Sutter scratched his belly, trying to shake off the irritation. “Go ahead.”

“Is stealin’ from a thief really stealin’?”

“Huh?”

“If a fella breaks the letter of the law but the only person he victimizes is a lawbreaker himself, is that really a crime?”

Sutter didn’t get where this was coming from. “Well, you told me Father Darren said lusting after another woman ain’t really lust so long as you wouldn’t really get it on with her. So I guess . . . no, it ain’t.”

“I didn’t think so neither, ‘cos, see . . .” Trey reached in his pockets. “While you were checkin’ the backseat, I took the liberty of lightening up those boys’ wrists—”

“The Rolexes?” Sutter queried with some excitement.

“Yeah, Chief, the Rolexes.” Off of two fingers, Trey dangled two genuine Rolex Submariners. He passed one to Sutter. “No doubt it was drug money those guys used to buy these.”

Sutter inspected the watch with a gleam in his eye. “No doubt.”

“So we could sell these fine watches and give the money to the charity of our choice, or we could even—”

“We could even wear the fuckin’ things ourselves,” Sutter finished, and put the watch on. Perfect fit. “It’s legitimate for officers of the law to own accurate timepieces.”

“Roger that.” Trey put his on too, admiring it. “And one more thing. Since we agree that lustin’ after a chick you wouldn’t bone ain’t lust, and stealin’ from a criminal ain’t stealin’ . . .”

Sutter’s eyes widened.

“Look what my fingers found in Kid Rock’s pocket.” Now Trey held a wad of bills. Mostly hundreds showed when he fanned the stack. “A little more than two grand here, Chief, and tell me if I’m wrong, but this here pile of cash is pure drug profits. It ain’t money those fellas earned mowin’ lawns.”

“It’s ill-gotten gains procured during a critical police procedure, Trey,” Sutter embellished. “We’ll split it.”

Trey handed over the whole wad. “Nope. You take it, Chief. You buy you ‘n’ your wife the brand-new air conditioner you need. You asked God fer help, and He just answered your prayer. Me? I’m fine. When I need some help, I’ll ask the Lord myself.”

This shitty day just turned really fine, really fast. Sutter pocketed the money with some haste. “I’ll remember this, Trey. Thanks.”

Trey grinned. “Don’t thank me. Thank the Lord.”

I damn straight will. . . . “We’ll drop the gun off next time we go up to county. And right now?” Sutter looked at the Qwik-Mart. “Coffee and doughnuts on me.”

“Make way fer the law!” Pappy Halm celebrated behind the counter. “Our fine boys in blue! Agan’s Point is damn proud to have such brave officers protectin’ us!”

“Proud enough to slide us free coffee and doughnuts?” Trey asked.

“Hell, no! What do I look like? Fuckin’ Santa Claus?” Halm winked. “But refills are half-price.”

“You’re all class, Pappy.”

Sutter wended to the doughnut display and began to tong out a box of cream-filled and glazed. “Guess that poor black fella’ll have to sell some of his gold to cover his dental bill.”

Trey guffawed. “Yeah, and Kid Rock’ll have to comb his hair funny to cover up the permanent bald spot.”

Pappy Halm slapped his thighs. “They picked the wrong guys to fuck with today!”

“Never seen a worse pair of scumbags in my life,” Trey added, eyes cruising over the mag rack full of Hustler, Penthouse, and Playboy.

“Speaking of scumbags . . .” Sutter noticed a copy of the town’s weekly paper, the Agan’s Point Messenger, and the blaring headlines: LOCAL MAN MURDERED. He picked it up and scanned over the short article about the mysterious death of Dwayne Parker. “Damn near forgot about this. Feel so bad for Judy—the poor dumb girl don’t even realize that Dwayne wasn’t no good for her.”

“Wasn’t no good for anyone or anything,” Trey pitched in. “There’s a bad seed in every crowd.”

Sutter read more of the article. “This came out the day after they found the body; it don’t say when the funeral is. Hey, Pappy? You know when they’re holdin’ services for Dwayne Parker?”

The name seemed to slap Halm’s age-lined faced. His eyes lit up in a furor. “Dwayne Parker! That no-good, low-down rat bastard! Ya ask me, they can’t bury that fucker deep enough. He ain’t worth the lumber it takes to build the coffin! Ain’t worth the elbow grease it takes to dig the hole, nor the fuckin’ air ya gotta breathe whiles yer gettin’ the job done.”

“They ain’t buryin’ him,” Trey said, skirting the point. “Crematin’ him is what I heard.”

“Then fuck it! That cracker ain’t worth the gas it takes to burn him. Ain’t worth the effort it takes me to grunt out a whiskey-piss into his urn. Cryin’ shame the . way that prick treated Judy, broke her damn heart, slappin’ her around like that. You ask me, any man who beats his wife should have his own ass beat twice as hard.”

Sutter nodded, chewing a cream-filled. “We’re not in disagreement there, Pappy. But I wanna show my face and offer my condolences to Judy. When’s the funeral?”

“You ask me, they shouldn’t even have a funeral for that worthless piece a’ shit. He pulled up here one night all pissy drunk, and I could see in the car he had a woman with him, and that woman sure as shit wasn’t Judy, and he walks in all stinkin’ a’ beer and talkin’ loud, grabs himself a twelve-pack and just looks at me ‘n’ says ‘Put it on my wife’s tab, ya old fuck,’ and then walks back out. Hocks a big looger on my front winder ta boot. That son of a fuckin’ dirty mutt. I ever tell you about the time he—”

Trey slapped a hand down on the counter. “Pappy! Chief wants to know when the services are!”

Halm blinked. “Oh, yeah. Saturday noon, at the Schoenfeld Funeral Parlor. I’ll be there, fer Judy a’ course—but not fer that rat bastard.”

Sutter rolled his eyes. Gee, I guess he didn’t think much of Dwayne.

“Hearin’ some damn funny stuff, since we’re on the topic,” Trey said in an aside.

Sutter put the paper down, listening.

“Funny ain’t the word,” Halm said. “Nonstop fucked-up is more like it, since the day they found that fucker dead.”

Shit . . . Sutter asked with some hesitation, “What’s fucked-up, Pappy?”

“The talk about Dwayne is what. You fellas are the cops, fer Christ’s sake. Ya musta seen the body.”

“We didn’t get the call; Luntville EMTs did,” Sutter said quickly.

“Well, ya musta heard that somebody cut his head off.”

“Aw, we all heard that, Pappy.,” Trey stepped in. “That ain’t the half of it. I know some of Luntville’s EMTs—they’re buddies of mine—and they said there was something really fucked-up about the way he lost his head . . . but they didn’t say exactly what. Something really screwy, though.”

Sutter frowned through an uncomfortable tremor in his belly. “Don’t listen to every rumor you hear, ‘specially in a hick burg like this. Stuff gets all blown out of proportion.”

“I don’t know, Chief. I went down to the county morgue to take a look myself and they wouldn’t even let me in. Why’s that? I’m a police officer in the jurisdiction of the murder. It was our crime scene. Ain’t our fault we weren’t the first responders.”

“Trey, it ain’t even positive yet that it was a murder. Could’ve been an accident. See? Folks start talkin’ without knowin’ all the facts and they jump to conclusions. County didn’t let you in ‘cos I’d already been there to ID the body.”

Trey stalled at the information. “Shit, Chief, you didn’t tell me that.”

“Right, I didn’t tell no one except Judy, because she’s the official next of kin. She wasn’t up to seein’ the body, so I went in there on her behalf.”

Halm and Trey both looked at him.

“So?” Halm asked.

“Was his head really gone?” Trey finished.

Sutter sighed. “Yeah, Trey.”

“And they never found the head,” Halm added. “Somebody cut off his head and run off with it. That ain’t murder?”

“We still get gators,” Sutter hedged. “It coulda been a gator. He could’ve fallen down the bluff and lost his head on the rocks. Fuckin’ truck could’ve been barrelin’ around the bend and knocked his head off with the rearview. It could’ve been anything. So relax ‘n’ stop talkin’ shit, ’cos that just makes the rumors worse. We don’t want all this weird talk getting back to Judy. She’s bent out of shape enough as it is.”

Trey and Halm quieted but only for a moment.

Trey began, “Was there anything screwed-up about the neck wound?”

“No, Trey,” Sutter replied, aggravated. “His head got cut off. Simple. It happens. It was a decapitation. Said so in the autopsy report.”

This was Chief Sutter’s first lie.

Pappy popped some chaw in his mouth: Red Man. “They’re also sayin’ it was Squatters who killed him. Everd Stanherd’s people. Makes sense.”

Jesus, Sutter griped. These boys won’t get off it. He couldn’t tell the truth about it, could he? He didn’t even understand the truth himself. “It makes no sense, Pappy. Ain’t no reason for Squatters to kill Dwayne Parker. You don’t kill the husband of the woman who keeps your ass out of the welfare line. And you seen these people. I’ll bet the biggest of the men don’t even stand five-six. Dwayne was six-three and was still packin’ all them muscles from working out in the joint all those years. Shit, there ain’t ten Squatters who could take down Dwayne Parker.”

“There are if one of ‘em had a machete in his paw,” Trey pointed out.

I just can’t win here, Sutter thought.

Pappy spit brown juice into a Yoo-Hoo bottle. “And ain’t it funny ‘bout how Dwayne gets his ticket punched right in the middle of all this talk about some Squatters disappearin’. Like maybe he had somethin’ to do with it.”

“Or done it himself,” Trey said.

Now Sutter was grinding his teeth. “Done what himself, Trey?”

“Offed some Squatters. Dwayne hated the Squatters; everyone knows that.”

“Listen to me, both of you.” Sutter’s voice hardened. “There ain’t no Squatters who disappeared. It’s bullshit.”

“Nearly a dozen’s what I heard,” Pappy offered.

“Here one day, gone the next,” Trey said.

This was getting hairy. “You two boneheads listen up. Ain’t nobody’s disappeared ‘round here. It’s a free country. Some of these people think they can do better some-wheres else than here . . . and that’s their right. There ain’t nothing wrong with Squatters just’cos they’re a little funny-lookin’ in the face. They’re just as smart as anyone else and just as able to work. Some of ‘em get tired of crabbing, so they move on. Like anywhere.”

Sutter’s sensible explanation didn’t seem to convince the others. It was true that an unusual number of Stanherd’s Squatters had left their abode on the Point, some quite suddenly. Stanherd himself had reported it several times, but even he admitted that they probably did just leave town of their own accord. Sutter did know of the anomaly regarding Dwayne Parker’s death, but of missing Squatters? He knew nothing, nor did he believe any foul play was involved. I swear to God. Gossip mouthpieces like Trey and Pappy Halm just make my job harder. . . .

“So I don’t want to hear no more crap about Squatters disappearing into the night and Dwayne’s fuckin’ head never being found,” he finished.

All three heads turned when the cowbell clanged, and in walked a lean, fortyish man with short blond hair, blue eyes, and an expression that could be deemed somber. He wore a beige windbreaker in spite of the heat, work pants and boots without a speck of dirt on them.

“Howdy, Mr. Felps,” Pappy said.

“Mr. Halm, Chief Sutter, Sergeant Trey,” the man said in return. His voice was light yet somehow edged, sibilant. “Things are going well for you all, I trust?”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Felps,” Sutter replied. Felps’s presence always affected Sutter and most townspeople as something close to regal, for some disjointed reason. He wasn’t necessarily the town’s savior, because Agan’s Point had always been self-sufficient—but just barely. Instead, Felps was the bearer of some energetic new blood that was sorely needed. His Riverside Estates luxury condo complexes would siphon upper-income families out of the state’s overpopulated big cities. There were already several hundred preconstruction sales, along with pricey television ads throughout Virginia. This transplantation would divest Agan’s Point of some of its natural beauty but deliver a much-needed economic shot in the arm. Sutter saw it as the progress he’d waited for all his life, and he saw Felps as its herald. “Things are just dandy ‘round here.”

“And theyʹll be getting even better soon,” Felps said, picking up a coffee and Danish. “You’ve probably noticed that the foundations have already been laid. Things will change around here fast. You’ll all be very pleased.” The man’s enthusiasm, however, seemed dulled, lost in his businessman’s veneer. Sutter supposed any successful construction magnate carried the same air. And what did it matter, anyway? All our lives will improve because of this fella, Sutter realized.

Felps’s stay was brief, to the point. He paid up, bade them a good day, and left.

“Not the friendliest fella in the land,” Pappy said, “but do you think I give a flying fuck? My business’ll triple the first year those condos start opening.”

“He’s a big-city builder, Pappy,” Sutter reminded him. “Guys like that are no-nonsense and all business. That’s why they’re millionaires.”

Trey shrugged, leaning on the counter. “He ain’t such a poker face once ya get to know him. Matter of fact, I had a few beers with him at the bar the other night.”

Sutter felt secretly jealous. “You’re kidding me?”

“Naw. He and a few of his managers walked in. They asked me to join ‘em and we all sat there for an hour shootin’ the shit and pounding a few. When Felps is off the clock, he’s a regular guy just like you and me.”

Sutter’s jealousy remained. If there was one man he wanted to be pals with, it was Felps. I’ll have to work on that. . . .

“Later, Pappy,” he said. “We’re out of here.”

“You boys take it easy the rest of the day.” Pappy cackled. “Don’t wanna wear yourselves out kickin’ scumbag ass.”

“Just another day in the lives of two hardworkin’ cops,” Trey said, casting a final glance at the men’s mags.

Back outside, Sutter didn’t even have time to grab his keys before a shadow moved behind him. He hadn’t heard a sound. Had those drug dealers come back for revenge? Impossible, he thought. They’re lucky if they made it to the nearest hospital on their own. . . . Sutter spun, instinct charging his gun hand, but then found himself looking into the face of a gaunt old man.

“Hey, there, Everd,” Trey greeted.

Everd Stanherd stood like a meticulously dressed scarecrow, neat as a pin in his typical faded black suit and tie. Short jet-black hair didn’t look right atop the old, waxen, and deeply lined face, yet the deep-socketed eyes appeared vibrant, the eyes of a twenty-year-old set in an old man’s skull. The only detail that might tell him apart from any elderly man was the pendant around his neck: a black silk cord connected to a small black silk sack.

Everd lived with his wife, Marthe, in the only house at the end of the point, a decrepit slat-wood mansion built a hundred years ago. Judy Parker let him live there, and he shared the house with other elders of his Squatter clan. The rest of the Squatters lived all about the property surrounding the house, in surprisingly well built tin huts erected in the midst of the heavy woods—Squatterville, most people called the area. Judy let them all live there rent-free as a benefit of their employment with the crab company. In all, the Squatters were respectful, law-abiding, and industrious in their own simple way, and this frail yet vibrant man standing before them was their leader.

“It’s good to see you, Everd,” Sutter said. “Any word on those couple of folks in your clan who can’t be accounted for?”

“No, sir,” Everd replied. They all spoke so strangely, yet Everd’s tone and diction were the strangest of all. His thin lips barely moved around the words, almost as though they were being projected from elsewhere. And that indefinable dialect. “As a matter of fact, two left for Roanoke last week, quite verifiably. I suspect the same can be said of the others, as you suggested. It’s just uncharacteristic for members of our clan to leave without notice.”

“Everd, when I was a kid, I ran away a bunch of times, and never told my parents where I was headed,” Sutter pointed out. “There’s over a hundred Squatters you got livin’ on the Point. You can’t keep tabs on them all.”

“You’re correct, sir,” Everd returned. He stood absolutely motionless as he spoke, save for one crabbed hand fingering the black pouch about his neck. “However, a third member seems to have disappeared—a young girl named Cynabelle—Cindy, to you. But I must confess that she may have fallen with a bad crowd and vacated, too, for more adventurous exploits in the city.” Everd paused, as if about to say something difficult. “She lacked the standard of morality that my clan lives by, and I’m afraid several of the girls have fallen by the same wayside in the past. Not many, but a few. I feel it’s my failing ultimately.”

“Trickin’ herself out, you mean.” Trey got the gist. “Everd, your Squatters have a lower crime rate than the general population. From a police officer’s point a’ view, they’re about as low-maintenance as you can get.”

“Don’t kick yourself in the tail,” Sutter added some consolation. He was actually relieved by the extent to which Everd was reasonable about things. “You run a tight ship with your people, and we’re grateful. But you can’t go blamin’ yourself because a few girls go bad. They’re ain’t nothing you can do about it. In any community, there’s always gonna be a few girls who decide they can make more money with their bodies than workin’ a proper job. Been that way for thousands of years. And there’s always gonna be a few fellas who go bad too. Don’t worry about it.”

“Nevertheless, I apologize for such mishaps,” the man intoned. “I will try to keep a closer rein on it. But I’ve also come to thank you.”

“For what?”

“Just earlier,” Everd said. He kept touching the pouch. “Some ruffians from the city attempted to corrupt one of our young girls. She came immediately and told me. She said that you and your deputy repelled these two criminals convincingly.”

“Oh, yeah,” Trey said. “Couple drug dealers tryin’ to sell their crap in our town. We sent ’em packin’, didn’t we, Chief?”

“You won’t have to worry about them boys anymore, Everd,” Sutter guaranteed. Every so often, he’d cast a glance to the pendant, at first paying it no mind, but gradually growing more curious.

Everd looked him right in the eye, his own eyes green as emeralds, flecked with blue—another trademark of Squatter heredity. “You men have the utmost gratitude of my clan. This I cannot emphasize enough. I’d like to invite you both to my home tonight for a meal prepared in the tradition of our ancestors. Marthe will be serving an andouille-style sausage made with slow-smoked muskrat, crab-and-chickpea bisque, cattail cakes, and the seasonal delicacy this year, something we call custa.”

“Custa? What’s that?” Trey inquired.

“Cicadas roasted in wild mint and cracked white peppercorns.”

Yow! Sutter’s doughnut-filled stomach lurched as if kicked. “That’s, uh, mighty generous of ya, Everd, and we definitely will take you up on that kind offer down the road. But, see, Trey and I have some important police work to do for the next few weeks.”

Everd nodded. “In the future, then, when it’s more convenient to your busy schedule. You’re always welcome at my home. And remember the clan cookout next week.”

“We’ll be there for sure,” Trey said.

“So until we meet again, gentlemen, I bid you a pleasant day.” But before Everd turned to leave, Sutter couldn’t resist: “Everd, tell me somethin’, will ya? What is that thing around your neck?”

The old man seemed unfazed by the question, untying the sack. “It’s called a tok.” He removed something stiff and twisted.

What in shit’s name!

It was a chicken head.

“It’s the severed head of a black cock—not an ordinary chicken, mind you,” Everd explained. “Upside down in the pouch. It preserves wisdom.” He started to take it off. “Here, I’d like you to have it, as my gift.”

Yow! Sutter held up his hand. “Aw, no, Everd, I couldn’t. But thanks just the same.”

“Very well. But it’s been a pleasure to be in your company these few minutes. I look forward to our next meeting.” And then Everd slipped away, silent as a shadow.

“How do you like that funky shit?” Trey chuckled. “With all the shit he said he was servin’ for dinner, I’m surprised there ain’t no chicken on the menu. Ain’t that some weird superstitious jive they got goin’ on?”

“You got that right,” Sutter said. “And I’ll definitely pass on the muskrat and cicadas.”

“Roger that.”

“Hey, Chief, why don’t ya hang a chicken head from the cruiser rearview? Maybe it’ll give us wisdom!”

Sutter looked after the old man, who’d already made it halfway up the road. “The Squatters are tough to figure. They’re kind of like Indians, but they don’t look it. All those charms they’re into.”

“Or like Gypsies,” Trey compared. “But they don’t look like Gypsies, either. They don’t even look European.”

“The accent’s weird too. One time I asked Everd where he and his people were from, and you know what he said? He said ‘the Old World.’ Then I asked him what the hell that mean, and he told me Agan’s Point is where they’re from. That his ancestors’ve always been here.” Sutter pinched his chin. “I wonder where they’re really from. . . .”

“Yeah, then there’s always the one question that’s more important than that,” Trey posed.

“What’s that?”

“Who gives a flying rat’s ass?”

Sutter was inclined to agree. He looked down the road again and saw no sign of Everd Stanherd. Trey had his back to him, looking off in the opposite direction. “Ooo-eee, Chief! Would you look at that Caddy!”

“Yeah. Nice set of wheels.”

A snappy, late-model Cadillac coup was cruising along past them, a ragtop, with a deep, rich paint job the color of red wine. The driver obviously spotted the two police watching her, and slowed down a bit.

Trey squinted. “Looks like some dandy tail drivin’ it, too. Looks hiiiiiigh-class.”

“Yeah, too high-class for this town, now that ya mention it,” Sutter considered. “Bet that car runs eighty grand outta the showroom, Trey. What the hell’s a rich gal like that doin’ in Agan’s Point?”

“Red-hairt, too,” Trey could see. “Ah-oooooo-gah! Bet she’s got red carpet to match those red drapes.” He elbowed Sutter. “Looks like she’s doin’ about five over the limit, Chief. What say we pull her over, see what she’s got to gander?”

Sutter frowned. “Git your mind outta the sewer, Trey.” But it wasn’t that bad an idea. Cops worked hard. They needed a perk now and again.

Then, as the car flashed by, the driver waved and honked.

Both men looked behind them. Trey scratched his head. “She wavin’ at us?”

That was when the red hair and upscale look clicked. “Ah, I know who that is, and so do you.”

“Huh?”

“Patricia, Judy Parker’s sister.”

Trey stared off after the vanishing car. “Ya don’t say? Ain’t seen her around here in—”

“About five years. Looks different ‘cos she cut her hair. Came back for Judy’s marriage to that scumbag Dwayne, and now it looks like she’s here again—”

“—for the scumbag’s funeral.”

A silence passed between them. The Cadillac disappeared around the road’s bend.

“Too bad about her, ya know?” Trey said.

Sutter nodded at the words. “I remember Patricia since she was tiny—shit, I wasn’t but twelve or thirteen myself when she was born. Fiery, chatty little kid, she was. Full a’ life, always happy.”

“Yeah. Then she just turned cold. Bet I didn’t hear her say two words before she ran off to college and law school.”

Sutter jingled his keys. He remembered. “Poor girl never was the same,” he said, “after the rape. . . .”