No, of course not . . . Patricia came back toward the table. "What was in the envelope?"

"Just a piece of paper with a weird word written on it," Baker replied. "Wend-something. I'm not sure."

Just like the letter to Dwayne. Patricia already knew.

"So," the coroner continued. She stood up with an exasperated sigh. "I might as well show you what I already know." And next she skimmed off her lab coat, flapped on a rubberized ap.r.o.n, and snapped on rubber gloves.

She's as confused about this as I am, Patricia realized, and she's getting mad.

Now Baker donned a clear-visored face shield and flipped the shield down, blond hair shimmering around the straps. She s.n.a.t.c.hed up a silver device that looked like a metal can lid fixed to the top of an electric toothbrush. A brand name could clearly be made out on the tool's body-STRYKER-and a moment later Patricia realized with a jolt of adrenaline that this tool was an autopsy saw.

Patricia's hands shot up. "Oh, no, really, it's not necessary for you to show me. . . ." But her plea was too late.

Her skin crawled as if aswarm with c.o.c.kroaches, and her shoulders contracted when the extraordinarily genteel and preposterously attractive coroner revved the saw like the most monstrous dentist's drill and began to cut a straight line from Junior Caudill's pubic bone to the bottom of his sternum. With the saw's grisly whine, flecks of clotted blood flew out of the groove and specked her ap.r.o.n and face shield. As the blade continued to cut upward, Junior's dead, pallid body fat jiggled on the slab.

I've got to get out of here, I've got to . . . Patricia began to feel faint. This was not a place for her. She liked to think of herself as a realist-and this was indeed reality-but by now she'd simply had enough. Just as she would have turned around and run out of the morgue suite, though, the saw's awful whine stopped.

It was obvious now that the coroner's perplexion and sheer rage at the anomaly had been building up within the constraints of her temper, and now those constraints were snapping.

She threw the saw down on the counter, flipped up her visor, then slapped her gloved hands down onto the corpse. She pulled open the great rift sawed into Junior's belly, then thrust a hand in and felt around like someone searching for a lost object under the bed. "See? See? I'm showing you what we already know. Look!"

Patricia ground her teeth, her eyelids appalled slits, and she leaned over and glimpse into the absolutely vacant area of s.p.a.ce that was Junior Caudill's abdominal vault.

"There are no f.u.c.kin' organs inside this fat f.u.c.kin' redneck!" the coroner nearly wailed.

Patricia turned away, stumbled to a lab table, and sat down, exhausted.

Moments of silence pa.s.sed. Baker was now finished with the outburst that had obviously been mounting all morning; she daintily hung up her ap.r.o.n and face shield, and dropped her rubber gloves into a pedal-operated garbage can that read, HAZARDOUS WASTE ONLY. At once she was demure-voiced again, totally out of place here with her tight jeans, magnificent body, and lilting Southern accent.

"So much for that," she said.

Patricia struggled to banish the imagery from her mind. She looked up wearily at the other woman. "So what will you put on the death certificate as a cause of death?"

"Undetermined and curious," Baker said.

(II).

"Magic, huh?" Pam asked, looking over her shoulder from the coffee machine.

"That's right," Ricky Caudill sputtered back at her. Through the jail bars he looked like exactly what he was: a busted, washed-up, no-account rube. "It's that Squatter voodoo they got goin' on," he a.s.sured her. All morning long, in fact, he'd elaborated on the details of last night, leaving out the part about killing David Eald and his daughter and then burning their shack down. "Everybody knows that Everd 'n' that nutty wife a' his are into it. f.u.c.ker cursed me right in my own house, and it was that magic a' his that he used to kill my brother."

"Ricky, it was alcoholism that killed your brother," Pam replied. "Same thing that'll kill you someday."

"Shee-it."

Pam traipsed back to her desk, perky as ever. These redneck losers are just so funny! They'd blame anybody and everything for their dysfunctional lives. She'd heard it all from similar folk sitting in that cell. At least this dolt is original. He's not blaming the police or his wife or his boss for his problems. He's blaming the Squatters! He's telling me that Everd Stanherd is a warlock and he's cursed him!

"And if y'all ain't careful, Everd'll curse the whole town; then you'll all really be in the s.h.i.t."

"Ricky, you already are in the s.h.i.t. You're in jail."

"Only safe place for me. You'll see."

"Sounds to me like you're just scared," Pam challenged him. She loved to toy with these local white-trash hooligans, play on their phony macho self-concepts. "Big, tough, strong man like you, scared of a bunch of hillbilly mumbo-jumbo. Scared like a little baby. Any minute now you'll be curled up in there sucking your thumb and crying for your mama." Pam fully expected the big moron to talk down her challenge, to a.s.sert his masculine bravado.

Instead, Ricky replied, "You're right," very quietly. "I am scared."

Pam shook her head. How do you like that? He really is spooked. He was the last guy on earth she'd expect that from, especially admitting it so plainly. Must be serious DTs, she supposed, and got back to filing the week's DORs and expenditure invoices. And he hasn't looked at my b.o.o.bs once today. The low-cut sleeveless summer dress she wore always had the male heads turning. But not this one.

Ricky Caudill was genuinely preoccupied with his fear.

Charlie the postman wasn't preoccupied, though, and when the bell clanged and he walked in with his mailbag, his eyes darted immediately to her cleavage. "Howdy, Pam," he greeted her. His baldhead and small mustache always reminded her of some of the n.a.z.i honchos she remembered from history cla.s.ses. Ernst Rohm. Heinrich Himmler. "How's the purdiest woman in all of Agan's Point?"

"I don't know, Charlie. How's the biggest bulls.h.i.t artist in Agan's Point?"

"G.o.d!" he said. "I love it when you talk dirty!"

He was such a card. "You should've been an airline pilot, so you could bulls.h.i.t all those bimbo stewardesses."

"You'd always fly first-cla.s.s with me, baby."

"You want some coffee before you leave?"

"Naw, you know what I want. A date with you."

"That'll be happening, Charlie. Hold your breath. Did you come in here to actually deliver, mail, or just stand there with your Hitler mustache and act like you're not looking down my top?"

"Both," he admitted. He began rifling through his mailbag. "I know you'd love for me to stay and chat all day, but I'm a little behind."

"Actually, Charlie, you're a big behind, but that's what I like about you," Pam said. She decided to let him keep on looking down her top. Why not? Gives him something to think about when he's walking his route.

"I'm not just a big behind," he said. "But I'll leave the rest to your imagination." Suddenly, though, the levity on his face faded. "That's weird."

"What?"

"I got a letter for Ricky Caudill, but it's addressed to him care of the Agan's Point police station."

"Well, that's good, because the redneck b.u.m is right down the hall-in the drunk tank."

"You don't say. Saves me a trip out to his house." He put the police mail down on Pam's desk, along with the letter, which she picked up immediately. "No return address," she noted. And it was handwritten, without a great degree of penmanship. She felt through it, feeling for any objects that might serve as weapons, but it was flat. Just a letter. "Thanks, Charlie. I'll give it to him myself."

Charlie just stood there as if he didn't hear her, his eyes still playing over her outstanding bosom.

"I said thanks, Charlie! Have a good day!"

"Oh, right," he said, and walked out.

Men were such s.e.xist pigs, but . . . But they're so amusing! At the very least, Pam got her share of laughs in this town.

She also had her share of boredom. Jeez . . . She could drink only so much coffee. She'd finished her filing, so all she could do now was sit and listen for anything on the police radio. Trey and the chief were out in Squatterville for that big clan cookout, though Pam was surprised they'd even be having it after all the recent commotion. Now she felt more at home with her boredom. I guess I should be grateful nothing's going on, she reminded herself with the deaths, the burning, and all the talk lately, Agan's Point had been anything but boring.

Then her mind strayed.

The letter.

She picked it up, looking at the crude scrawl. It was strange that it was addressed to Ricky Caudill, care of the police station. Word travels fast in a gossip town. . . . Oh, well. There was nothing else to do.

Pam got up with the letter and walked back to the jail cell. "Hey, Ricky, you got some mail," she announced, but when she looked through the bars she saw that he was asleep on the jail cot. He lay belly-up on the mattress, snoring. The fat slob . . . Sounds like a cave full of bears.

Pam slipped the letter through the bars on the floor and walked back to her desk. He could read it when he woke up.

Eleven.

(I).

More white lies, Patricia thought when she set her cell phone down. She'd just hung up with Byron, having kept the conversation innocuous. She was still so befuddled over her trip to the county morgue. What could I tell him, for G.o.d's sake? So she'd told him nothing of significance. Dwayne's head seemingly disappearing off his body as though it had never been there? Junior Caudill with no internal organs? Patricia was confident there was a scientific explanation, but she simply couldn't imagine what it was just yet. Of course, they'd do more tests. . . .

Nevertheless, there was no need to tell Byron. It'd just give him one more thing to worry about.

She stepped out onto the little patio off her bedroom to stand amid part of the garden. The cicadas thrummed-she was finally getting used to it. It just kept taking her back to her childhood. The scents off the myriad flowers smelled luscious: asters, pyxies, and goldenrod. Being here continued to supplant her. She was no longer the high-roller attorney from the city; she was the country girl at home in the midst of nature. But now so many ugly facts kept dicing that image of the peaceful-and very sane-backwoods town.

Murder. Drugs. Turf wars by some unseen dope gang.

Every place has something, she thought. Doesn't matter if it's the city or the sticks.

At the end of the yard, near the kiosk, she spotted Judy wandering about the flowers; the troubled look on her face was no surprise. Talk about being thrown for a loop, Patricia thought. Judy was not a sophisticated woman. Since Dwayne's death, too many things that were wrong about her environment threatened her ability to view her life and the world.

She doesn't know which end is up. . . .

"Hi," Patricia greeted her, meandering up the path.

"Oh, hi, Patricia. I'm just out moseying around. Beautiful day, isn't it?"

Small talk is all she can deal with, Patricia realized. "Yeah, it sure is. And your gardens really top it all off. Everything looks the same as it did when we were kids."

Judy sat down on a stone bench, her hands clasped in her lap. "Yeah, but just because they look the same don't mean they are the same. It's like everything's gone mad overnight. Chief Sutter just called me, said Junior Caudill's dead."

Here we go. Patricia knew the day would be a tailspin now. "I heard about that myself-"

"Drug dealin', murder, arson-all on my land. And G.o.d knows what killed Junior. Never thought much of him-he was always into trouble-and now he's dead too. "

"Judy, there's no reason to believe that his death is related to anything that's been happening in Squatterville." Patricia knew at once that this was going to be a long day. "He probably had a heart attack," she urged, not adding the little part about Junior not even having a heart. "They're still doing tests is what I heard, and there were no signs of foul play. Anyway, all these things that are happening lately don't have anything to do with you. There are a lot of Squatters living out here. It stands to reason that a few of them will get up to no good. It's human nature."

Judy looked up dolefully. "I hate to think of what Mom and Dad would say about this. They never had problems with the Squatters, but now that I'm in charge around here, everything's goin' to h.e.l.l. And now I just feel worse about it. You come all the way out here to help me, and look what happens. Folks killin' each other. I wouldn't blame ya if you never came back to this G.o.dforsaken place."

Patricia knew that she had to work around her sister's mood swings, not confront them head-on. "Of course I will; you're my sister. And you should come out to visit Byron and me sometimes, too. But let's just take things one day at a time. Look at the good things. Your company's doing better than ever, and the Squatters who haven't turned bad have never been happier or more productive. You have this beautiful house in a beautiful place. You're a successful businesswoman with lots to look forward to."

Judy shrugged, noncommital. Some people just had it in their heads that everything was terrible. That's my sister, Patricia thought. "So what's on the agenda today?" she asked.

Before her sister could answer, a horn honked. Past the shrubs Patricia saw an old pickup truck idling on the dirt road that descended the hill toward the Point.

Judy looked at her watch. "My, where has the day gone? It's time to go."

"Go where?"

"The Squatter cookout. Oh, that's right, you ain't been to one since you were a kid, but they are a lot of fun. Come on." , Patricia honestly didn't remember these cookouts. When she looked at her own watch she saw that she, too, had lost track of time. Where's the day gone? She followed Judy down the path that exited the backyard. "Who's in the pickup truck?" she asked.

"Ernie. He'll be driving us down there."

This is just what I need. Patricia thought The truck jostled down the dirt road, springs creaking. She and Judy had squeezed up front on the bench seat, the pickup's back bed loaded up with baskets of food and chests full of ice. Of course, Patricia ended up being in the middle, pressed right up against Ernie behind the wheel. Ernie wore his typical work jeans and boots but also a nice white dress shirt. Redneck high fashion, Patricia mused. Why does he have to look so good all the time? By now the situation amused her as much as aggravated her: how fate kept putting them together. Every time he shifted gears, his hand slid against her bare knee. Yeah, that's just what I need. . . .

"Really whacked out about Junior Caudill, huh?" Ernie made conversation.

Don't bring it up! Patricia wished she could tell him. Don't bring up anything that's been going on. Judy's enough of a basket case as it is. "He probably just had a heart attack; it happens." She desperately shifted subjects. "So what kind of food did you prepare for this banquet?"

"Oh, just side dishes," Judy answered glumly. "All the main courses they make. The Squatters really do have a talent for usin' what the land gives 'em and turning it into a cuisine a' their own."

Ernie laughed, nudging Patricia. "Aw, yer sister's a big fan of Squatter food, Judy. Just the other day she drank a whole cup of ald that Regert made for her down at the pier. Said it was the best thing she ever tasted."

Patricia frowned, remembering the drink's tang. "Actually, Ernie, it wasn't the best thing I've ever tasted."

He raised a finger to denote an additional point. "Oh, yeah, and she also ate a whole bowl of pepper-fried cicadas."

"I ate one! And never will again."

Ernie winked at her with a c.o.c.ked grin. "She never did tell me if they worked, though."