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

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

Patricia couldn't think past the shock. "No, I had no idea."

"The fire marshal's down there now, says it was arson. Some coincidence, isn't it? One night after someone b.u.ms down the Ealds' shack-a crystal meth lab-then someone b.u.ms down the docks. Looks like more turf war; at least that's what we think."

"But what does this have to do with Ernie?"

"Several witnesses saw him in proximity to the docks shortly before the fire."

Patricia pushed through some mental cobwebs. Wait a minute. I saw Ernie last night at 3:15. . . . "What time?" she asked.

"About three-thirty in the morning."

The pause in her mind yawned. That didn't sound good at all, especially when she remembered what else Ernie had been doing last night. He was peeping in my window, and . . . It didn't add up, though. "I don't understand why you're here instead of Chief Sutter."

Shannon's rugged face remained blank. "Chief Sutter appears to be missing, too, along with your sister and Ernie Gooder. Sergeant Trey is down at the scene right now."

The confusion was piling up on her headache. "My sister? You're saying that my sister is missing?"

"Not officially, but no one can find her. Her vehicle's in the driveway, and she's not in the house. She's the property owner, but she's not anywhere on the property. We think Ernie Gooder might be working in collaboration with some kind of rival drug gang-"

"That's ridiculous," Patricia had to admit, even after what she'd caught Ernie doing last night.

"There's been quite a bit of evidence lately involving sales and manufacture of amphetamine-based narcotics. These vagrants who live on your sister's land at the south end of the Point. We already know that some of these vagrants or squatters or whatever they are have been producing and selling drugs in an operation run by a man named Everd Stanherd."

Patricia sighed. More craziness. "Look, I don't know about the Squatters-I guess some of them are involved in that-but there's no way that Ernie Gooder is, and . . . what? You think my sister is too?"

"No, we just think it's odd for her to have disappeared when all of this is going on. Two burnings in two days, a rash of missing persons, and drug-related murders between what are obviously rival drug gangs."

Patricia couldn't argue with the trooper. "And what did you say? Chief Sutter is missing too?"

"That's correct, ma'am. Do you know where he is?"

The tone of Sergeant Shannon's voice unsettled her. "Why would I know where the town police chief is, Officer?"

"I'm just asking, ma'am."

"You seem to be implying something that rubs me the wrong way."

"No implications, ma'am. We'd just be very interested in knowing why he's not around when the town docks get burned down. It appears that sometime last night Chief Sutter released a prisoner at the town jail, a man named Ricky Caudill. He's missing, too. And wouldn't you know it? When we checked Caudill's house, we found packets of crystal meth. Sutter's personal vehicle is still at his house, and his wife doesn't know where he is. And . . ." The snide trooper paused for effect. "Wouldn't you know it? The wife's car is gone, stolen. In a town that hasn't had a single stolen car reported in ten years. I got men at the Sutter house right now, searching the premises and his personal vehicle. And on top of all that, your sister is missing too. We'd be very interested in knowing where she is. A lot of people have been disappearing around here lately. More than anything else, we're very concerned about the well-being of Judy Parker and the whereabouts of Chief Sutter and Ricky Caudill. And we're going to arrest Ernie Gooder at the earliest opportunity." Shannon held up the warrant again-a stolid reminder. Then he gave her his card. "I'm sorry to have to wake you up so earl- He paused, looked at his watch, and raised a brow. Then he discreetly sniffed the air, as if to say, Would that be alcohol I smell on your breath? "Sorry to intrude on your day. But please give us a call if you think you might be able to help us out."

"I will," she said, trying to not grind her teeth.

"Hey, Sarge!" a younger trooper called out behind him. "Check it out."

Shannon walked away without further word, retracing steps back to Ernie's bedroom, where several other officers milled about.

Jesus, that rude b.a.s.t.a.r.d! She had a mind to file a hara.s.sment complaint. She closed the door, repressing her lawyer's rage, and dressed quickly. Then brushed her teeth and gargled, hoping to quell any more remnants of last night's drinking. Now let's see what the fuss is in Ernie's room. . . .

When she walked in herself, she didn't need to be told. I don't believe it, she thought.

A state trooper with acetate gloves was plucking tiny bags of crystal methamphetamine out of Ernie's dresser drawer.

There were many such bags.

(II).

I'm not doing too bad here, no, sir, Trey thought. Even with those couple of surprises at the last minute, Trey was sure he'd done the right thing. Burying Sutter and Ricky Caudill had been a cinch; Felps had left some holes already dug at the condo site, as promised. And taking care of the docks, too, had been easy and kind of fun. But I sure as s.h.i.t didn't count on that f.u.c.khead Ernie catching me at the pier last night. Son of a wh.o.r.e followed me all the way from Judy's house! Trey had been caught by total surprise when he'd been pumping twenty or thirty gallons of marine gas from the boat pump all over the pier and the closest crabbing boats.

Ernie was a bigger, stronger man, for sure, but Trey was harder. He'd jacked the redneck out after not much of a tussle, busted some teeth, cracked a rib or two, then knocked him out cold with a bop to the head. Never did like that f.u.c.ker. s.h.i.t, I shoulda just let him burn up in the boathouse. . . . Why hadn't he thought of that? Can't think a everything every time. Instead, he'd hogtied Ernie and driven him out to the abandoned shanty way off from Squatterville on the Point. n.o.body even knows about this place, he thought, unlocking the front door now. He'd tried to look as official as possible for the state cops and firemen once the burning docks had been discovered. They'd all been out there for hours. Close to nightfall, the state began wrapping things up, so Trey took off in his patrol car to "start canva.s.sing the neighborhood. Try to get me a line on Ernie Gooder," he'd claimed.

Instead, he'd come straight to the shanty.

"Howdy, folks," he proclaimed inside.

No one responded, but how could they, with gags in their mouths? Trey lit the lantern; light flowed around him when he proceeded to the center of the room. "There she is, the little cutie," he mocked Judy. s.n.a.t.c.hing her last night couldn't have been easier. She'd been stumbling toward the edge of the woods beyond the cookout, drunk out of her gourd. "Why, sure, Judy, he'd answered her blabbering request. "I'd be more'n happy to drive you back to the house." He'd driven her back to the shanty instead, handcuffed and with her D-cup bra stuffed in her mouth. Drunken b.i.t.c.h didn't even know what he was doing, she was so stewed. Now she lay on the floor, on her side, tied up like a trussed goose. One ample breast had fallen out of the torn blouse, the nipple large as a beer coaster. Trey, of course, did the gentlemanly thing, saying, "Ah, now, that ain't right. A gal can't be havin' a t.i.t hangin' out." And then he ripped back the blouse some more. "She needs both hangin' out. There, that's better." He gave them both a good feel. Trey had plans for these b.r.e.a.s.t.s, and for everything else connected to them . . . but not just yet. He'd be setting her up for another psycho job; this one would look like some of the clan did it, the ones who were running meth. Only Trey knew that there were actually no Squatters selling anything except f.u.c.king crabs-but that was beside the point.

"You first, buddy-bro." Trey grabbed Ernie by the back of the belt and dragged him to the car. He mewled beneath his gag, eyes blooming with rage. Trey hocked on him once he got the cracker loaded into the truck. "Time for a road trip," the dutiful officer promised, then slammed the trunk closed.

Trey cleared his head as he drove, smiling to himself. The moon was just up over the trees, gibbous, yellow as a grapefruit. Even closet sociopaths like Trey found their moments of existential harmony. I'm gonna kill a couple more people tonight, and you know what? I dig it. All part of the plan. He particularly liked the notion that on the same day he'd unofficially become Agan's Point's new police chief, he'd disposed of two bodies and was about to dispose of two more.

I'm really gettin' the hang of this, he thought.

The spur he was looking for sat about five miles north of the Point, inaccessible to boats-due to rocks and a low-tide margin-and well hidden by a wall of trees. When Trey was a boy, in fact, he'd come down here on his own to drop chicken necks. The crabs were humongous and so plentiful he could pull a half bushel in an hour. More of that same existential harmony seized him now when he parked and opened the trunk. Cicadas trilled, the moonlight bathed his face, and the lapping water along the sh.o.r.e made him truly feel one with the universe, the master of his own destiny.

"Out'cha go," he said, hefting Ernie out of the trunk and carrying him like a heavy suitcase by the back of his belt. In the other hand, Trey carried his crowbar.

"Ain't no one to hear ya way out here," Trey said, and cut off his gag.

"You f.u.c.kin' piece a' s.h.i.t, Trey," Ernie wheezed, crooking his neck to look up. "I always knowed you were a twisted motherf.u.c.ker."

"I did f.u.c.k my mother, Ernie. Lotsa times. And I'm d.a.m.n proud of it. Now let's get you fixed up. Hot night like this, you need a cool dip." Trey shoved Ernie on his side, raised the crowbar high, and- Crack! Crack! Crack!

-hammered the crowbar's elbow hard between Ernie's shoulder blades. Ernie grunted a salvo of less-than-eloquent objections, then began to shudder. Several more cracks between the shoulder blades sufficed to achieve Trey's purpose. He leaned over and cut the hogtie, watched Ernie's limbs slump.

"Are ya dead?" Trey asked, slamming his shoe down on Ernie's hand. There was no recoil, no movement whatsoever. But Ernie's eyes were still blinking, his chest rising, and his throat gulping.

"I-I cain't move," Ernie choked. "Cain't move my arms or legs, ya motherf.u.c.kin' sick piece a' s.h.i.t . . ."

"That's 'cos I just paralyzed ya, d.i.c.khead." Trey nodded a secret approval, like an acknowledgment shared exclusively between himself and the night. He'd fractured the spine high enough to cause total paralysis but not quite high enough to kill. "You always were a n.o.b.a.l.l.s, do-good hayseed, Ernie. Well, now you're a quadriplegic no-b.a.l.l.s, do-good hayseed."

Ernie drooled, only his head moving. "You'll burn in h.e.l.l, so I guess that's good enough."

"Sure, but you'll get there first. And when you're down there suckin' the devil's d.i.c.k, I'll still be here, havin' a ball." Trey chuckled as he took to his next task. He tore open Ernie's shirt, pulled off his boots, then yanked his jeans down to his knees.

"What are you, queer?" Ernie challenged. "I figured ya for a lotta things, but not that."

Trey guffawed. "Don't worry, Ernie-boy. I ain't gonna pack your fudge. I done told ya-you're goin' fer a nice cool dip in the good ol' Chesapeake Bay." And then Trey dragged Ernie into the shallow water until the water came over his chest.

"All you're gonna do is drown me?" Ernie managed. It could be discerned by the straining expression on his face that he was trying to move his limbs, but those nerves were no longer firing at all. "Figured a sick f.u.c.k like you'd cut me up or hang me or somethin'."

Naw, Ernie, this is much better, and no, I ain't gonna drown ya neither." Now Trey leaned Ernie's head up against a rotten log in the water. He couldn't move, and was braced enough so that there was no way he might sidle over into the water and indeed drown.

A moment pa.s.sed; then Ernie figured it out, to his extreme misfortune. "Aw, no, G.o.d . . ."

Trey grinned down at his work: Ernie's head and shoulders were propped out of the water, but the rest of his body was submerged.

"Agan's Point crabs'll eat good tonight," Trey said, then walked back to the car and drove off.

Fifteen.

(I).

"It's all beyond belief," Byron said in a very low voice over the phone.

Patricia was looking blankly out the window as she talked, her cell phone to her ear. "I know," she said. "I feel useless. I don't know what to do. I came out here to help my sister, but now I don't even know where she is."

"Well, enough is enough. You have to come home now."

She chewed her lower lip. She did want to go home now, but how could she? "Byron, Judy is missing. I can't leave until I know she's safe."

Byron's dissatisfaction could be sensed over the line. "At this point, I don't even care. All I care about is you being back here with me. I want you here now, in our house-safe. I don't care about Judy, I don't care about those nutty Squatter people, I don't care about docks and lean-tos burning down. People are getting murdered there, Patricia. So you get in your car-right now-and drive home. Now. This minute."

It was rare for Byron to be this bent out of shape; he was even mad, something rarer. "I want to come home, too, Byron. But I can't leave until I know Judy's all right-"

"She probably pa.s.sed out drunk in the woods!" Byron exploded. "Whoever's doing these burnings-these drug people-they could burn Judy's house down next, with you in it!"

"Honey, calm down," she tried to pacify him. The sun from the window glared in her eyes. He was right, and by now . . .

By now, I'm sick to death of Agan's Point and hope I never see the place again. "I'll be home soon. . . ."

"d.a.m.n it! You're so f.u.c.king stubborn!"

I know I am. But I can't leave yet. "I'll be home in three days, no more. I promise."

"What if you can't find her by then? What if she's dead? I'm sorry if that sounds insensitive, but I don't give a s.h.i.t about your sister compared to you!"

Patricia sighed. "I'm sure she'll turn up by then."

"But what if she doesn't?" Byron blared.

"Then I'll come home anyway. I'll come home Sunday no matter what."

Now Byron sighed, too. "I just miss you so much, and I love you. I want you home, away from that crazy place."

"I'll be home, honey. On Sunday."

He calmed down in a moment, and they said their good-byes for the moment, Patricia promising to call him several times a day until she left. Indulging me is wearing him out, she realized. I'm not being much of a wife, am I? She remembered her failed antics with Ernie, her drunkenness, and her complete disregard toward Byron since she'd been here. Yeah, I've been a really lousy wife lately. About the only thing she could look forward to was making it up to him.

Did she hear sirens in the distance? She wasn't sure. Don't tell me something else was set on fire. . . . She called the town police station, inquiring, "Has Judy Parker been located yet?"

"No, ma'am," a woman replied quickly.

"What about Ernie Gooder?"

The receptionist seemed hurried. "He hasn't been found yet either, and neither has Chief Sutter."

"Is Sergeant Trey available now?"

An exasperated sigh. "No, ma'am. He's out helping the state police look."

"Well, if anybody turns up, could you please call-"

"I'm sorry, ma'am, I have a radio call. I have to go. Call back at five or six. Sergeant Trey should be back by then. Have a good day."

Click.

The little bit of radio squawk Patricia had heard in the background sounded urgent. Maybe those really were sirens I heard. . . .

She showered and dressed, feeling awkward, even uneasy. I'm the only one here, she reminded herself. Last night she'd slept fitfully, the only one in the house then, as well. But she'd been sure to wear her nightgown this time, and close and lock the window and her bedroom door. She'd refused to admit to herself that she was afraid.

The beautiful morning outside should've heartened her, but it didn't. What's happening here? she thought, driving through some of the town's side roads. Modest homes from spa.r.s.e yards looked back at her. Yes, the town appeared normal, quaint, and very sane. But this past week a.s.sured her of the falsehood of appearances. Who knows what's going on behind some of those doors? she thought.

She took the Cadillac off the Point, vaguely heading in the direction from which she thought she'd heard sirens. An ambiguous nausea flirted with her stomach, and it took her a few moments to realize why: this was roughly the same direction as Bowen's Field. . . .