Ridiculous.

But still, she had to prove it to herself; otherwise she'd get no sleep at all.

There! See? She was almost ecstatic when she looked behind the curtains to find nothing there. The backyard faced her exactly as it had earlier. No movement, the night flowers standing open, moonlight shimmering.

Then her heart slammed once.

Wait a minute. . . .

There was one thing outside that hadn't been there when she'd looked before. At first she hadn't seen it.

Ernie's pickup truck.

The first foot of its front end protruded into her view. That's impossible! She closed her eyes and took several deep breaths. Ernie's dead. I saw his dead body. And his truck wasn't there before!

She was certain, absolutely certain it hadn't been there before.

And next the thought exploded: Oh, my G.o.d, maybe it's Judy! She must've borrowed his truck earlier and gone off somewhere! And she came back but didn't wake me up when she came in!

Now it was joy that propelled her out of the bedroom. "Judy! Are you back?" She raced down the hall, out to the foyer, and up the stairs. She swung into her sister's bedroom and snapped on the light.

"Judy?"

The bed lay empty, neatly made.

Then she's downstairs somewhere! Patricia felt convinced. She has to be! That's the only thing that could explain Ernie's truck being in the backyard. She's downstairs right now in the kitchen, getting something to eat!

Patricia collapsed when she burst in and flicked on the light. Her knees thudded to the floor. She shrieked.

Judy was in the kitchen, all right. But she wasn't getting anything to eat. A cane chair lay tipped over on the floor, along with two sandals. Judy was hanging by the neck from a kitchen rafter.

The rope creaked, a sound not unlike the house frame. Judy's face ballooned, bright scarlet tinged with blue, tongue sticking out. She wore the flowered sundress Patricia remembered her wearing at the clan cookout. To make it worse, the process had snapped the neck entirely, and now beneath the noose, the neck stretched a foot. Lividity had turned her sister's bare feet something close to black, and the lower legs too, veins bulging fat as earthworms.

Oh, Judy . . . Oh, my G.o.d, my poor sister . . .

She'd never been that stable to begin with, and she'd never liked change. That was why she'd stayed with Dwayne so long, even in the midst of all that abuse, and that was why she'd never left this house. She was happy only when things were the same.

But suicide? Patricia dragged herself up, the horror replaced by the reality of the despair. Squatters betraying her, selling drugs while they took a paycheck from her? Police on the property every other night for murders and burnings? Yeah, things have definitely changed around here.

It was inexplicable, but it happened every day: people killing themselves. It was the only cure to a horrid symptom they had to live with for G.o.d knew how long, and with n.o.body else even knowing there was a problem.

I have to call the police right now, Patricia realized. Knowing that her sister's body hung dead behind her couldn't have been more distressing, but Patricia simply didn't have the strength to take her down herself. She turned for the phone- -and almost collapsed again.

Sergeant Trey stood in the doorway to the laundry room, as if he'd just come in through the back. He seemed as startled as she.

"d.a.m.n, Ms. White. Ya scared the bejesus outa me."

Patricia looked at him, confused.

"I just come in from outside. About an hour ago I was looking out the station window and thought I saw Ernie's truck drive by, with Judy drivin' it," he explained. "So I run out and jump in the cruiser, but the d.a.m.n gas tank was on E, so I had to fill up at the station pump. By the time I was done with all that, Judy'd already got back to the house and-"

He looked up the the body.

"You . . . saw her driving?" Patricia's question faltered.

"Yeah, and I'm really sorry. If my d.a.m.n tank hadn't been empty, I probably coulda gotten up here in time to stop her."

"But . . ." The information bewildered Patricia. "But what were you doing walking in just now? You didn't seem surprised to see that she'd committed suicide."

"I already knew. I found her about five minutes ago." He explained more details. "So I went back out to the cruiser to call the state cops on my radio. Then I walked back in and found you standing here."

"Oh." Patricia continued to look at him. Something wasn't right. "But . . . your radio's right there on your belt."

Trey's eyes darted down to his gun belt, the Motorola heavy in its leather holder. "Well, yeah, sure, but that's just my, uh, my field radio." Trey's eyes shifted. He bit his lip a moment, but by then his cool delivery was falling apart. "S-see, this radio ain't got the, uh, the state police frequency on it. Just the station frequency and the county."

"Why the county and not the state?"

Trey blinked. "That's . . . just the way the . . . bands work."

Patricia didn't consciously decide to say what she said next. She simply said it. "I don't believe you. You're acting like you're lying. You're acting like a prosecuting attorney who knows his case is bulls.h.i.t."

Trey blinked again, blank faced. Then he sat down in the chair by the kitchen table, but by the time he did so, his gun was drawn and pointing right at her. "Holy ever-livin' s.h.i.t, Patricia. Why couldn't ya just leave it?"

Patricia's heart hammered so loud she could hear it. "You killed my sister, didn't you?"

"f.u.c.k," Trey muttered. The expletive was directed toward himself, not Patricia. "Yeah. Wanna know what I did? I s.n.a.t.c.hed her after the Squatter cookout, kept her tied up for a day at one a' old shacks way out at the Point. f.u.c.ked the daylights out of her a couple of times, then hung the b.i.t.c.h in the woods." He shrugged non-commitally. "Then I throwed her in the back a' Ernie's truck and brought her here and just threw the same rope over the kitchen rafter. Easy. And who ain't gonna believe it? Alcoholic and a head case to begin with, been depressed since Dwayne got offed. Looks like a typical widow who just couldn't stand to live no more without her man. Happens every day."

"She wasn't the only person you murdered, was she?"

Trey snorted. "These hayseeds out here? Squatters? No-accounts like Ernie? They don't mean s.h.i.t. But you're different. You can't just disappear. You can't wind up dead with a pocketful a' dope. No one would believe it. You ain't no redneck; you're a big-city lawyer. Someone would come snoopin' around." He shook his head in the chair, suddenly exhausted. "You f.u.c.ked everything up."

Trey's attentions seemed diverted inwardly; he wasn't really looking at her. Patricia had backed up against the wall, the entranceway to the foyer only a foot away. But when she edged aside an inch . . .

Trey c.o.c.ked his pistol. "Don't think I won't do it. s.h.i.t, I been killin' folks for a month."

"You and who else? Sutter? He must have been helping you."

"Naw, the fat ol' boy just wouldn't turn crooked, even as bad as he needed the money. It was me 'n' Dwayne at first. The idea was to make a few Squatters disappear-to scare off the rest of 'em. But it wasn't enough, so we had to start gettin' rougher. We did the job on the Hilds and flaked 'em with the crystal, started makin' it look like two dope gangs in a turf war. Then we burned up the Ealds with enough s.h.i.t in their shack to look like a meth lab."

"So the state police would think the Squatters were one of the gangs?" Patricia asked.

"Sure. And it was workin'. It was Ricky 'n' Junior Caudill we paid for the rough stuff. They come on after Dwayne got killed."

Patricia somehow kept her fear in check. "And let me guess. Gordon Felps is the ringleader."

Trey looked up, duly impressed. "Yeah, the money man. Don't you get it? Agan's Point is a s.h.i.t town full a' s.h.i.t people goin' nowhere, and I'm one of'em. But Gordon Felps was gonna turn this place all around, turn the Point into somethin' special, with some big payoffs for whoever helped him. s.h.i.t, all your sister had to do was sell the land to Felps and everything woulda been fine. But no, the dumb b.i.t.c.h couldn't turn her back on the f.u.c.kin' Squatters-like they were her f.u.c.kin' little sideline family, her orphans. Like one a' these crackpot old ladies ya read about, takin' in all the stray cats." He pointed up to Judy's hanging body. "Well, this is what she gets for her loyalty to the f.u.c.kin' Squatters. We couldn't let her stand in our way. When little folks stand in the way of big things, they get run over. I'm tired of small-time. I'm tired of bein' town clown on a no-d.i.c.k two-man department in a s.h.i.t-for-nothing town. But once Agan's Point booms, gets all full-up with rich folks buyin' Felps's fancy waterfront condos? I'll finally be a big-time police chief. It's still gonna happen. Don't think it won't. We just have to adjust the game plan a little."

"Because of me," Patricia realized.

"Uh-huh. I think tomorrow you'll be drivin' back to Washington."

"What?"

"You'll be drivin' back to Washington, and you'll have an unfortunate accident in that nice Caddy of yours. Far enough away from here that your people in D.C. will believe it."

"They'll never believe it, Trey. And I've already told my boss and my husband that I suspected you and Felps of having something to do with all these murders."

Trey smiled. "I know s.h.i.t when I hear it, and what just came outta your mouth is a crock of it." He took a breath and stood up. "Come on. Fun time first." He stepped right up to her.

Patricia's heart began to slug in her chest. "I have a lot of money, Trey."

"Not enough."

"Don't be stupid. If you kill me, someone will find out."

"No, they won't." And that was when his hand blurred upward and smacked the side of his pistol across her temple.

Was it the dream again, the nightmare? Patricia lay on the bed, naked, splayed before the window. The curtains were open now, the moonlight pouring in.

It's the dream again, she felt sure, the dream I had before I found Judy's body. . . .

But in the dream there'd been no curtain at all, and the clock had been ticking madly, whereas now it ticked normally. In the dream she'd been lying paralyzed on the bed, but now . . .

She craned her neck in four directions and saw that her wrists and ankles had been lashed to the bedposts. She felt as if she were drowning in dread, remembering the scene from the kitchen. Trey had murdered Judy, then staged the appearance of suicide. He and his cohorts had been doing all the killing, not a drug gang, to frame the Squatters, to get them off the land, thinking Judy would finally sell out to Felps.

But Judy didn't, so they killed her too. . . .

Patricia gulped, nauseous.

And now it's my turn.

Trey would probably strangle her here, then stage some kind of car wreck. But not before he had some fun with her first.

He'd been standing there all along, hidden in the shadows of the corner of the room. He took several steps until the darkness expelled him into the blaring moonlight. He was shirtless, and unbuckling his gun belt now. Then he took his pants off. Patricia was grateful there was only moonlight and not the lamp; it reduced the details. Trey's body was lean, like a jackal's. The thrill of murder-and of what was to come-had already erected his genitals.

"Good, you're awake," he said. "Ain't no fun pluggin' a gal who's unconscious. Let's see if you're a screamer like your sister. Yeah, baby, that turns me on. And ya can scream all ya want, 'cos there ain't no one to hear ya."

Now the dread was piling up on her like a physical weight. Tears drew lines from the corners of her eyes. I should've gone home to my husband days ago. Why did I have to stay?

The moonlight painted one side of his body icy white, and left the other half black. He pointed to the window. "Bet'cha don't know that a buncha' nights since you been back, I come up here and watched ya through the window. You are some sight, I'll tell ya, all naked and tossin' and turnin', playin' with yourself in your sleep. Dirty girl."

Her nausea trebled. "Jesus, and I thought it was Ernie."

Trey sputtered. "Ernie? That shuck-'n'-jive piece a' s.h.i.t? I busted his back before I lowered him in the water . . . so he could. see the crabs eatin' him alive. The f.u.c.k."

"But he was helping you too, wasn't he? He burned the docks last night-the state police told me."

Trey frowned. "That redneck couldn't burn s.h.i.t. I burned the f.u.c.kin' docks. He tried to stop me, so I whipped his a.s.s, flaked him with dope, and let the crabs have him."

Even in her horror, Patricia felt astonished, even relieved. "I-I didn't know that."

"Bet'cha don't know somethin' else too." Trey's voice darkened. He reached up toward his face, and then . . .

Patricia squinted in the dark.

He took his denture piece out, a bridge of some sort. Patricia came close to swallowing her own vomit at the recognition.

Now Trey's two front teeth were missing.

"You remember me now, don't'cha?" Trey guttered.

"My G.o.d," she choked, "I thought it was Ernie. His two front teeth were missing when the EMTs were taking him out of the bay."

"Aw, s.h.i.t, that ain't nothin'. When me 'n' him got ta fightin' on the docks, I knocked a couple of his teeth out, busted a rib too, 'fore I jacked him out the rest a' the way. I don't like Ernie gettin' credit for my b.a.l.l.s-so make sure you know that. It was me who split your cherry on Bowen's Field that night."

Patricia wished she could just die now.

"I done saw ya skinny-dippin'in the water," Trey admitted. "Couldn't help it-h.e.l.l, I was a young buck myself back then. Chick skinny-dippin' in the woods at night, all by herself? She's asking for it."

"You make me sick," Patricia managed, her muscles tensing against the bonds.

"You were quite a prize back then, and still are," Trey said, feeling her body up with his eyes. "'N fact, you're a d.a.m.n sight better-lookin' now. And ya know what else I remember, baby? I remember how much you liked it. . . ."

Trey stuck the tip of his tongue through the gap in his teeth, and then the rest of the disgusting memory swamped her: her c.l.i.toris sucked through that same gap over twenty-five years ago when she lay lashed to the ground in the middle of Bowen's Field, much the same way she lay lashed to this bed now.

"Yeah, you liked it then, and you're gonna like it again tonight," he promised. "You ain't gonna be alive much longer, so you might as well just lay back and get into it."

He began to walk toward the bed. . . .

"Wait a minute," she said. "Answer me one thing."

He chuckled. "Guess it's the least I can do."

"Set me straight on something. You've been killing the Squatters and making it look like drug dealers were killing them. Right?"

"Yeah. And it worked."

"So you've been killing them," Patricia repeated. "But who's been killing you?"

Trey fell silent in the moonlight.

"Come on, Trey. Tell me the rest of the story. Dwayne was murdering Squatters; then someone murders Dwayne. Junior Caudill murdered the Hilds; then someone murdered him. Right?"

Trey hesitated but said, "Yeah."

"And what about Junior's brother? He was working for you and Felps, too-you said so in the kitchen. He killed the Ealds, didn't he?"

"That's right. Burned 'em up in their shack."