The Backwoods

(II)

The hand reached out in tranquil dark. He liked to sit in the dark. The colors of dusk were filtering into the room.

He picked up the phone.

“Yes?”

“It’s all fucked-up like you wouldn’t believe.”

“What are you talking about? I saw a dozen Squatters pulling up stakes today, packing. They’re beginning to leave town. It’s working beautifully, and faster than I thought.”

“No, no, you don’t know the rest. It just happened a few hours ago. Junior’s dead.”

A pause drew out along the line. “How?”

“Don’t know. There’s no wounds, there’s no—”

“He probably had a heart attack. He was a fat slob.”

“No, no, see, Ricky’s in lockup.”

“What? What for? He didn’t—”

“No, he didn’t squeal. But he says it was Everd Stanherd who killed Junior, says he saw the guy in his house last night. He wanted to be locked up for his own protection, but Sutter wouldn’t do it. So then he trashed the place. But he’s talking crazy shit. And . . . and . . . and . . .”

“And what?”

“I’m scared, and Sutter was looking at me funny earlier today when I left the office. I’m about to shit my pants worrying what Ricky might say.”

“Ricky’s in as deep as us.”

“He don’t care! He thinks the Squatters killed Junior with some sorta hocus-pocus!”

“In other words, you think Ricky might be a liability now?”

“Damn right. He starts running his mouth to save his ass, you and I’re both gonna be neck-deep in shit.”

Another pause. The solution was obvious, though he would’ve preferred not to clarify it over a phone line. “Rectify the problem, for both our sakes. Use your position to your advantage. It’ll be easy once you think about it. . . . Am I clear?”

“It’ll cost.”

“I’ll pay. Rectify the problem. Do it quickly.”

He hung up.

His hand retreated back into the dark.