Dr. Sallee's voice came after a long pause. "That's regrettable. So your depression has recurred. . . ."

"No, that's the surprising part. It's almost the opposite. For the days I've been back in Agan's Point, I haven't felt depressed at all. I've felt great; I've felt enthused."

"Strange," the doctor said, "but considerable."

Now Patricia mulled over words in her mind, trying to choose the right ones. "I don't really know how to say it, but-"

"Just say it," Dr. Sallee suggested.

The words leaked out slowly: "Something about coming back has made me feel more s.e.xual than I've felt in years. It's actually scaring me, and I'm beginning to feel out of control." In spite of the miles between them, her face reddened. "I'm . . . masturbating much more than normal, and every night I have very intense s.e.xual dreams, which is unusual for me-"

"s.e.xual dreams? Masturbation? There's nothing abnormal about that," the doctor told her. "This is all an aspect of pa.s.sive s.e.xuality. There's nothing out of control about it."

Pa.s.sive s.e.xuality, she thought. She was even more embarra.s.sed to tell him the rest. Her throat choked up. "I'm almost ashamed to continue. . . ."

"Patricia"-he chuckled-"I'm your counselor. We're essentially strangers, not to mention the fact that everything you say to me is in professional confidence. My rates are high, so you might as well get your money's worth. Make me work for it. I can't help you unless you tell me everything that leads you to think you're out of control."

It made perfect sense. So she said it: "I almost cheated on my husband about an hour ago. That's never happened before. And I was going to do it. . . ."

Dr. Sallee didn't seemed the least bit fazed. "Is there trouble in the marriage?"

"None," she said. "It's the best marriage any woman could ever ask for. I've never not been s.e.xually fulfilled with my husband. We're perfectly compatible in every way, even s.e.xually-especially s.e.xually."

"Was the person you almost cheated with a stranger?"

"No. A boy-er, I should say a man my age-whom I grew up with. We were best friends since childhood."

"Any s.e.xual experiences with him in the past, before your marriage? A high school romance, perhaps, experimentation when you were younger-playing doctor, and the like?"

"No. I know he wanted that, but I was never interested back in those days. I was always very goal-oriented as an adolescent, and even through college." Ernie, Ernie, Ernie, she thought. I never really noticed you over all those years. So why now? "I've seen him maybe three times since I left Agan's Point over twenty years ago. But this time, when I came back for the funeral . . . something happened. I just all of a sudden find him very attractive."

"Hmm," came the counselor's response. "From a clinical standpoint-so far, at least-this all sounds very good."

The-remark astonished her. "Good? I'm in total turmoil!"

"I said from a clinical standpoint. In the past, whenever you returned to Agan's Point, you'd become clinically depressed. Today you've returned to Agan's Point, but you're not depressed at all. You feel great-to use your own words of a moment ago. You feel enthused. Your depression is gone, so that's a good thing."

Now she saw his point, but he still wasn't seeing hers. "Yes, I feel enthused, but I also feel very, very s.e.xual-"

"To the point that you nearly committed an infidelity," he added, "and this is what's bothering you now."

"Exactly. It doesn't make sense. It makes me feel like I must be sick or something, because-"

"Because," he kept finishing for her, "it doesn't seem right for you to feel s.e.xual in the very place that has always reminded you of the worst trauma of your life, which just so happened to be a s.e.xual trauma."

"That's exactly what I mean," she said, sighing in relief that he'd made it easier for her.

His voice almost sounded bored as he continued. "In my job, I've had many patients who were victims of s.e.xual abuse, multiple rape, s.e.xual torture, and worse. You'd be surprised how many women, for instance, will go years or even decades without ever telling anyone-even their counselors-that they experienced o.r.g.a.s.ms during their trauma, because in their minds it seems wrong, it seems shameful, it seems sick to experience pleasure during a revolting ordeal. In truth, quite a considerable percentage of rape victims experience a s.e.xual release, and it doesn't mean they're sick at all. It's just their body reacting to a primordial function. It's not sick, it's not shameful, and its not abnormal."

Patricia calculated this with a reserved interest. She, too, had experienced o.r.g.a.s.m during her rape-the first o.r.g.a.s.m of her life-and she'd never told anyone for the same reasons the doctor had just cited. I never even told Dr. Sallee, she realized, and now I guess I know why he never asked.

Suddenly there was a tear in her eye, but it was a quietly joyous one. "You have no idea how good that makes me feel."

"I'm glad," the doctor said. "And you should be glad, too, of a lot of things-at least based on what you're telling me today. Most rape aftercare revolves not so much around psychotherapy, medication, and group counseling, but around the evolvement of the individual, coming to terms and dealing with it. It's clear to me that you've done this."

This was good to know, but it still didn't solve her problem. "It's like the old problem is gone, but now there's a new one."

"But is it a grievous one?" he asked, already knowing the answer. "Is it a debilitating one? No. In fact, it's got nothing whatever to do with your trauma of so many years ago. Let me allegorize. Are you computer literate?"

She frowned at the question. "I think so. We have a network at the office, and I do all right."

"Good, then I'll use my favorite comparison on you." He chuckled. "Lawyers tend to be objective thinkers; they deal in black-and-white terms. But this is not a black-and-white issue, is it? The human brain is the most sophisticated 'thing' in the world. Ten trillion brain cells, one hundred trillion synaptic connections. . Think of it as a computer. That computer is programed by the experiences of life, good and bad. Well, sometimes the files glitch; sometimes they get viruses and have to be cleansed. A rape, for instance, can be thought of as an infected file, a file gone bad, a file that's no longer functioning in synchronicity with the other files it's been programmed to operate with. When we can't delete a bad file, we try to quarantine it, and sometimes we can't even do that because the file is so out of sorts. Your rape experience is a bad file, Patricia. You've been quarantining it for years, which has worked, but now the computer is appending that file, to make it more serviceable to the system-rewriting the file. This is a soph.o.m.oric a.n.a.logy, but it might help you understand. As far as your rape is concerned, the file has been rewritten; it no longer has a negative effect on the system."

Dr. Sallee's simile did let her see the problem in a clearer light. "But what about-"

"An unexplained heightened s.e.xuality in a nons.e.xual setting?" he finished for her yet again. "Same thing, different program. Only in this case there was never a bad file. Think of it, instead, as a scheduled maintenance activation. The way a calendar program will flash reminders on your screen at a preset time?" Another chuckle. "You're approaching your mid-forties, Patricia, which is the actual s.e.xual peak for most women. Consciously, you've been groomed by your social and professional environment-a very specific environment. You've never wanted children, for instance, because it doesn't suit the course you've chosen for your life, and part of the reason you chose your mate is because he doesn't want children, either. Some people simply don't, but all people-all mammals, in fact-have an inborn instinct to reproduce. It's in our genes whether we like it or not. It's in our brains, our computers, so to speak-it's one of the operations programs. . As we get older-women, especially-that program begins to run faster, to try to become the priority over other programs. It's trying to beat the inevitability of still one more program-one called menopause-an infertility program. In ten years-less, perhaps-your body knows that you will no longer be able to reproduce, so it's lighting up your s.e.xual awareness, going for that last chance of reproductive success. It's all genetic, subconscious. It exists independent of your values and domestic and personal desires. What I'm trying to tell you, Patricia, is that an inexplicable s.e.xual spike at your age is perfectly commonplace. It has nothing to do with your rape, and it doesn't mean there's anything wrong with you. It doesn't mean that you're a tramp or a cheat or a deceptive person. All it means is that you're a perfectly healthy middle-aged woman. For your entire adulthood, you've excelled in everything, and you've been in total control of yourself. You still are. The reason it's happening now is simply because you're in a different place, away from your spouse, and your subconscious mind is selecting 'targets' of s.e.xual opportunity. Almost every single female patient I have in your age group is experiencing the same thing. It's normal, Patricia. And you won't cheat on your husband even when it seems that your body and your mind want to. What'll happen instead is you'll return to your home soon and probably have a lot of great s.e.x with your husband."

Now Patricia was the one chuckling.

The doctor began to finish up. "But until you do return home, you'll still experience this, so just be ready for it. It's okay to m.a.s.t.u.r.b.a.t.e; it's okay to have s.e.xually vivid dreams. It's all part of your s.e.xuality. The important thing is not to worry about it, and don't get yourself worked up. n.o.body knows you better than yourself, Patricia. You know you're not going to cheat on your husband, don't you?"

It was with every confidence now that she answered, "Yes."

"In that case, I can say that I'm happy to have gotten to talk to you today, and unless there's anything else bothering you, then we should hang up now so I won't have to erroneously bill you for therapeutic services that I haven't earned."

The man was a hoot. Thank you very much, Doctor."

"And thank you. The disappearance of your depression proves that . . . I must be a fairly good doctor."

"That you are. Have a great day."

Patricia hung up, feeling exuberant. I'm not a cheating, conniving s.e.x maniac after all. And he's right. I'm cured of my Agan's Point depression. This knowledge was an optimal way to commence with the rest of the day.

With that off her mind, though, she was reminded of more serious matters. Judy, she thought. Just when she gets over one tragedy, she gets. .h.i.t on the head with another one: the murder of the Hilds. By now, she was sure Ernie had explained what he knew of it, and Patricia supposed she should check on her soon to see how she was taking the news. But first . . .

She started up her laptop and went online. Her mailbox remained free of anything from the firm, so next she took to Googling around a little.

Crystal meth, she thought. She'd heard of it, of course, just errant pieces sometimes in the news, but she really didn't know anything specific about it. In a moment, the Drug Enforcement Administration's official Web site opened before her. A highly addictive Cla.s.s II narcotic as defined by the Controlled Substances Act, she read. A superstimulant that produces long-lasting euphoric effects. When she added the word ingredients to her search, other, more obscure pages came up. Active ingredients: pseudoephedrine.

Never heard of it, she thought, until she read on and discovered that the chemical was derived from a complicated distillation and filtering process that began by dissolving over-the-counter allergy medications in certain types of solvent. She'd seen the cache of allergy remedies in the Hilds' bedroom.

The next primary ingredient listed was a phosphorous compound called RD, something else she'd never heard of, but more recognition bloomed when she read the first few lines: that the easiest way for "guerrilla meth-heads" to obtain this compound was through another complicated distillation process using striker pads on paper matchbooks. Chief Sutter mentioned the same thing, she recalled, and she also recalled the veritable garbage bag full of matchbooks in the Hilds' closet.

It's hard to believe, she thought. The Hilds? But it didn't matter how hard it was to believe; it still must be true. Judy wouldn't believe it either, but she had a tendency to be naive. The Squatters are like her children, even the older ones. n.o.body wants to believe their "children" manufacture hard drugs in secret.

And now they'd been brutally murdered by outside drug dealers.

Patricia read on. Crystal meth was a man-made stimulant; it didn't occur in nature. Even small doses could last up to twelve hours, and the street price was relatively cheap: twenty dollars per dose. Clinical addiction rate? Around ninety percent, close to that of crack, and like cocaine it could be administered effectively several ways: snorting, injecting, smoking. The smoking form was called "ice," (small crystalline chunks were placed in a pipe); the inhaled form was called "tweak" on the street.

Patricia was nearly amused when she came across the next street term: "redneck crack," something Chief Sutter had mentioned. It was all logistical, she read. Cocaine was typically transported to large urban centers for the already existing market. It was harder to get, and riskier, because the base form for any type of cocaine was derived from the tropical coca shrub, which grew only in Africa and northern South America. But since crystal meth was synthetic, it could be produced anywhere, and didn't require const.i.tuents that needed to be procured from other countries. Many a trailer park contained secret meth labs-hence the nickname of redneck crack. A thousand dollars' worth of equipment and ingredients-all available at drugstores and hardware stores-could generate five to ten thousand in profit, if the person knew what he was doing. Crystal meth, in other words, was the perfect illicit drug for remote areas. . . .

Like Agan's Point, Patricia deduced.

And, according to the government Web sites, crystal meth use was growing, reaching into society's less accessible nooks and crannies. It was considered an epidemic in the drug culture, and like all narcotics it piggybacked HIV, hepat.i.tis, and crime right along with it.

Jesus. And now this stuff is here. . . .

Patricia went back to the living room, dreading her sister's reaction. Judy looked drawn-faced now, partly confused and partly infuriated. Ernie was pouring her some coffee as she mused: "I guess that's the modem world. In the old days, people used to have stills in the woods and make their corn liquor. Now they're making this stuff . . . this crystal stuff. And not just any people. My people. My Squatters."

"It's probably just isolated, Judy, Patricia said when she came in and sat down. She wanted to sound optimistic, but didn't really know if that was honest or not.

"It was probably just the Hilds doing it."

"You think you know people," Judy said, oblivious. "You like them, you help them, and they seem perfectly normal, perfectly decent, hardworking folks. Then one day you find out the truth. I give 'em a free place to live; I give 'em work when they ain't really suited for work nowheres else. And they do this to me. They been takin' the money I pay 'em to make this drug stuff. And we got a lotta Squatters on the Point. I'd be plumb stupid to think it was just the Hilds."

"Aw, Judy, you don't know that," Ernie said. "I think it was just the Hilds. They was always a bit strange any-ways, more'n most of the Squatters. And may G.o.d forgive 'em, but it looks to me like they got what was coming. Ain't no way I believe there's a whole lotta this goin' on at the Point. These people are crabbers, for Christ's sake. Everd's got 'em cowed like he's Jesus Himself. The Squatters don't even drink. I ain't never even seen one smokin' a cigarette or chewin' chaw. They all think it's a sin to drink 'n' smoke, so makin' . hard drugs is ten times worse. The Hilds was bad apples, is all. Every basket has a few."

Judy leaned backed in her chair, brushing hair from . her eyes as if exhausted. "But that's all I been hearin' lately. Squatters gettin' in fights, Squatter's turnin' lazy at the line, Squatters leavin' the Point 'cos it ain't good enough for 'em no more, like the work I give 'em ain't good enough. I'm hearing all the time these days that somea' the prettier clan girls're sellin' theirselves-whorin'-but all Chief Sutter 'n' everyone else says is the same blamed thing. 'Oh, don't worry, Judy. They're just a few bad apples.' Well-Christmas!-it's startin' to look like we got the whole orchard goin' bad."

Wow, she's really riled up, Patricia realized. This was rare. "Judy, I think you're overreacting. It's inevitable. Anywhere you go, bad elements can work their way in and have a negative effect on otherwise good people."

"She right," Ernie agreed. "You don't need to be worryin' about this, 'specially after what'cha just been through."

Judy's large bosom fell as she sighed. "I guess things do change, no matter how bad we don't want 'em to." Her eyes sought out Patricia's. "Mom and Dad never had problems with the Squatters, but the world ain't the same place as it was back then."

"No, it's not," Patricia said. "As society progresses, good things come with the progress, but so do some bad things."

Now Judy's eyes seemed to be looking more at herself than anywhere else. "I don't know, Patricia. Maybe I really should just up 'n' sell the company, the Point, everything. Maybe it's time."

Oh, Lord. Here we go . . . The image of Gordon Felps flashed in her mind-and it was a shifty image. "You don't need to be thinking about anything of the sort just yet. Things will probably be back to normal in no time."

Another long sigh. "Gracious, I hope so. Ernie, will you get me a gla.s.s of wine, please? I need something to relax."

"Sure."

Great, Patricia thought. She's going to get drunk again. "I'll go fix lunch," she offered, if only to keep things active. The day had turned sour fast: first notice of two murders as well as drug activity on her sister's property, and now Judy all wound up again. At least one good thing happened, she thought with a slight smile. Her talk with Dr. Sallee left her feeling much better about her recent dreams and behavior. There's nothing wrong with me, thank G.o.d. . . .

But when she headed for the kitchen, Ernie cast a quick glance at her when she pa.s.sed. Was it a neutral look? Or did his eyes brush over her b.r.e.a.s.t.s? Just my imagination, she insisted. He'd been quite a gentleman in the aftermath. But she couldn't shed the reminder. Dr. Sallee or not, she was attracted to him, and- I almost had s.e.x with him today-in the woods. . . .

She busied herself over cold cuts in the kitchen, preparing sandwiches. A simple cross hung by the bright window-a normal cross-but for whatever reason she was reminded of the much stranger crosses used by the Squatters, and their bizarre good-luck charms. She truly did believe that the Hild tragedy was isolated, but somewhere deeper in her spirit she feared that something else just as bad was about to happen.

Seven.

(I).

Think I'll have me a jerk, Junior thought. His brother Ricky was out right now, took the truck over to Crick City to pick up some things at Wordon's Hardware: muriatic acid (whatever that was, some kind of cleaner, he guessed), acetone, and some special kind of alcohol called "denatured." Junior didn't know s.h.i.t about crystal meth, but the way Trey explained it, these were the things that rednecks used to make the stuff in their trailers. He already had a bag of matchbooks and several bottles of allergy medicine ready to go-all for appearance' sake.

Junior had done the rough stuff last night, so tonight was Ricky's turn, which was fair enough. This Felps fella was paying righteous bucks for the work, and it was fun-it got their dander up-and it sure as h.e.l.l beat real work.

Yeah, he thought again. I need a jerk, all right. Still all hot 'n' bothered from last night. Get one off quick, before Ricky comes home. He rooted through their box of video p.o.r.n, hunting for his favorite: Barnyard Babes #4, but then thought, Aw, s.h.i.t, that's right. The tape had broken a few weeks ago, so he'd ordered a new one. f.u.c.kin' post office is slower 'n' mola.s.ses. Shoulda got it by now. Such were the disappointments in Junior's existence. He started to hunt through the box of tapes again but then realized, h.e.l.l, I can do without it, I guess, because he was indeed still a bit tingly with the image of Ethel Hild in his head. The old b.i.t.c.h was actually pretty good-lookin'-for an old b.i.t.c.h, at least-and Junior had had a good time putting the blocks to her, and then, when he thought about chopping her in half with the ax . . .

He felt his crotch, nodding in satisfaction. Who needs p.o.r.n? I'm ready to go without it. Yes, Ethel Hild . . . She'd been something. For some reason, making that weirdo husband of hers watch as he'd dropped the ax made it that much more of a turn-on. Junior had especially liked the way her t.i.tties jiggled as he'd chopped, and then when she'd started crawling away. . . ?

The recollection enticed him further. But soon other images entered his head. Judy, he thought next. Not a bad-lookin'dish either, and those big t.i.ts? Junior wouldn't mind doing a similar job on her, just tear the clothes right off her and get her really screaming. And then another image . . .

Patricia.

She was about the cream of the Agan's Point crop: one hundred percent pure-grade fox. That silky, bright red hair? And the t.i.ts on her? Jeez . . . Junior was breaking out in a sweat just thinking about that one. Maybe get her 'n' Judy at the same time, have me a double stack.

Then chop them both in half when he was finished.

All these delicious images challenged Junior's power of decision. Who to think about? It got downright maddening sometimes. . . .

He sat down on the couch, was about to pull his pants down and get to it, when- There was a knock on the door.

Junior sputtered. Jesus, a man can't even jerk off in peace around here! Grunting, he got back up, shifted his pants a little, then opened the door.

"Howdy, Junior. You got a package."

The mailman, Charlie Meitz. He was a big guy with a shaved head, and a mustache that made him look sort of like Hitler.

Junior frowned. "Why didn't ya just leave it in the mailbox?"

"Too big. Plus, I wanted to say hi."

s.h.i.t. Charlie shook the box, offering a sly smile. "What's this? A videotape?"

"Don't you be shakin' my mail around," Junior complained. G.o.d, he hated interruptions.

Now the postman looked at the return address. "Hmm, T and T Video, California. Sounds like one a' them p.o.r.n companies-"

"Gimme that!" Junior barked. He s.n.a.t.c.hed the box away and closed the door. f.u.c.kin' nosy pain in the a.s.s . . . He peered out the side window, looked down the driveway of the c.r.a.ppy little house he and his brother shared, then muttered, "Aw, s.h.i.t! Cain't even beat off in my own house!" Just after the mail truck pulled away, Ricky pulled the pickup up into the driveway.

f.u.c.k. Business would have to wait; Ricky'd be going out late tonight to do more of the job they'd both been hired for. He opened the box that the mailman had brought him and, sure enough, out slid a brand-new copy of Barnyard Babes #4.