The Backwoods

(I)

Chief Sutter was looking at Pam’s legs as he pretended to write up his daily operating report. He needed diversion—from the very loud fact that people in his town were suddenly dying right and left—and Pam’s legs provided this necessary diversion and then some. Pam was a local cutie whom he’d hired as the department’s radio dispatcher and office manager. She was great at both jobs, so the fact that she had a body that could start a riot in a monastery maximized her purpose in the office. She made for a positive working environment, and that was important to hardworking, overstressed police officers, wasn’t it?

Trey sat at the opposite desk, pretending to go over the county blotter, and he, too, seemed to be musing over Pam’s legs as she sat at her own desk, typing. The legs, by the way, could be described as coltish. Long and lean, well toned without being “muscular”—ultimate legs as far as men were concerned. The rest of her was equally flawless: trim and curvy; alert, prominent-nippled breasts; and a tight, to-die-for little butt. Short auburn hair framed a cute little angel face with bright hazel eyes. Any male sexist slob’s archetypical meat for a spectacular daydream: the total office package.

Sutter seethed to himself when she suddenly crossed her legs. The delectable—and tiny—triangle of fabric shouted at him. Fuck, she’s wearin’ a T-back. Just what I need . . .

Then she got up to take something to the file room. The chief’s eyes riveted to the shifting little butt in the tight blue-jean miniskirt, then slid down to the legs. All that tight, fresh, tan skin seemed to glimmer beneath fishnet stockings. Her high heels ticked across the floor until they disappeared.

Trey was shaking his head. “Jesus, Chief. Those are some damn fine walkin’ sticks on her, ain’t they? Wouldn’t mind havin’ ’em wrapped around my head for an hour or three.”

Sutter shot a reproving scowl. “Is there anytime when your mind ain’t in the trash can, Trey? That happens to be our employee you’re lustin’ after.”

Trey grinned, slapping his knees. “Chief, you practically been droolin,’ lookin’ at those gams for the last twenty minutes.”

“I have not,” he insisted. “And shut up. We need to be thinkin’ on what we gotta do about this drug business in Squatterville.”

“Not much we can do. State narcs are investigatin’.”

“Yeah, but this is our town, Trey. So maybe some a’ this is our fault.”

“How do ya figure?”

“All these years we took it for granted that Squatterville’s crime-free. Maybe if we’d had a better presence out there, none a’ this would have happened.”

“Horseshit. People turn to scum because it’s their time. We cain’t be lookin’ over every damn shack on the Point.”

“That ain’t what I’m sayin’. What I mean is—”

Pam came back to her desk, the image of her legs chopping off the rest of the chief’s remark like a carrot end. Oh, God, those legs are killing me. . . . Just as she was sitting down, the hazel eyes flashed at him once. Then she smiled and returned to her work.

Jesus, save me.

He and Trey both looked up from their desks when the bell on the station door chimed.

It was Ricky Caudill who strode in. He looked like he always did: slovenly, fat, not particularly clean. But his usual cast of arrogance made no appearance on his face today.

Instead he looked scared.

Just as peculiar—Sutter noticed—was the expression on Sergeant Trey’s face upon noticing their abrupt visitor. For a split second, something like dread washed over his face, but he quickly buried it beneath his authoritative police veneer.

What’s with that? Sutter wondered. Was it just his imagination?

“Well, look what the cat drug in,” Trey said, and stood up at his desk.

Sutter was too tired, so he didn’t bother. “What’choo want, Ricky, ‘cos the only thing you’re gonna get here is somethin’ you don’t want: an ass kicking.”

“I wanna be locked up,” Ricky declared from where he stood.

“You have to break the law to be locked up,” Pam told him, surprised. “You broken the law lately?”

“My brother’s dead,” he said with no hesitation.

Now Sutter stood up. “You confessin’ to murder, Ricky?”

“Hell, no. I didn’t kill Junior.”

“Then why you wanna be locked up?”

“ ‘Cos I want protection from the person who did. They’ll be after me next.”

Sutter frowned and sat back down. “You’re drunk, Ricky. You’re talkin’ shit. Now get out of here unless you want a big pile a’ trouble to leave with.”

“I ain’t drunk—”

“You smell like a brewery,” Trey said. “I can smell it across the room.”

Ricky’s hands curled up into frustrated fists. “I’m tellin’ ya, my brother’s been murdered. Go to the house ‘n’ look. It was Squatters who done it.”

Sutter stood back up. “Go check it out,” he told Trey.

“Why don’t you check it out, Chief? This guy can be a handful. Let me take care of him.”

Sutter stared Trey down. He didn’t like the innuendo here. “Go check it out. Now. I wanna talk to this one.”

Addled, Trey grabbed the cruiser keys and left.

“You want me to call an ambulance?” Pam asked the chief.

“Ain’t no reason to,” Ricky spoke up first. “My brother’s dead. Call the undertaker. But lock me up,.”

“You’re talkin’ crazy, boy. Now you’re gonna turn around and walk out of here right now. I’m too busy to be foolin’ around with you.”

“Lock me up,” Ricky repeated. “Otherwise I’ll be killed.”

Sutter smirked. “Yeah, sure, by the Squatters. So you’re sayin’ it was Squatters who killed Junior, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“You saw ‘em?”

“Yeah.”

Sutter pinched the bridge of his nose, a headache coming on. “Ricky, you’re tellin’ me you saw Squatters kill your brother?”

“I didn’t see ‘em do it, but one of ’em was in my house. Everd Stanherd. He was in my house, and it was that weirdo clan magic a’ his he used to kill Junior. And he put a curse on me. He’ll be comin’ for me next, so’s you gotta lock me up, Chief, for my protection. I’m beg-gin’ ya, man.”

Sutter came around the desk, shaking his head. “Ricky, you’re a scumbag and a no-account loser, but I can’t lock you up just for that. You gotta commit a crime, boy, and unfortunately talkin’ shit ain’t a crime.”

Ricky stalled, thinking. “Okay,” he said, then spun around, cleared Pam’s desk with his stout forearm, and yanked her top down. Even in the midst of the outrage, Chief’s Sutter’s eyes bulged at the beauteous sight. Razor-sharp tan lines bordered each firm orb of flesh, and the well-delineated nipples stuck out as if iced, plucked, and sucked out in advance. At least Chief Sutter’s day would have one high point.

But the rest was certainly a low point. Pam shrieked at the assault, pushing herself back in her chair, while Ricky stalked off and began hauling bookshelves over. Training manuals scattered. The Virginia State Annotated Code flew across the room, and a moment later so did the office coffeepot, which was full of java. It shattered against the wall. Sutter’s reaction was delayed a moment by sheer disbelief. He broke from his stance just as Ricky now manhandled the five-gallon bottle of Polar Water out of its stand.

“Don’t you dare, you crazy redneck!” Chief Sutter bellowed.

Ricky shoved the bottle across the room. It exploded spectacularly against the wall, gushing springwater everywhere.

Sutter hauled on a sand mitt and lunged. He was a fat man, but he was still a strong one. Three hard belly shots with the mitt doubled Ricky over; then a loud belt across the face sent him reeling conveniently in the direction of the station’s three-unit jail. Ricky hit the floor like a 250-pound pallet of sod.

“Crazy shithead!” Sutter yelled. He doubled over himself now and grabbed Ricky’s bulk by the belt, then began to drag him into the first cell. “You just fucked up my office! Take me all damn day to clean this mess up! I ain’t got time for this grab-ass bullshit!”

Ricky lay wheezing on the cell floor. He groaned a few times, then dizzily sat up against the wall.

“You wanted to be locked up, you dickhead! Well, you got it!” Sutter continued to yell. He slammed the door shut with a clang.

Cross-eyed, Ricky grinned back at him. “Thanks, Chief,” he said.

What a fuckin’ kook! Sutter lumbered back toward the office, frowning as he heard the phone ringing. All he wanted to do was sit his ass down and have a nice, slow day, especially after being up half the night at the Eald fire.

Pam’s hazel eyes looked foreboding when he sat back down at his desk. She’d just hung up the phone.

“Please tell me it was a wrong number,” he pleaded.

“Sorry, Chief. It was Trey. He needs you down at the Caudill house—says Junior’s lying in the middle of the floor, stone-cold dead.”