(II)
Later, the house
sprawled with friends, neighbors, and other well-wishers.
This is definitely a Southern-style funeral
reception, Patricia observed. The gathering began quietly
but soon unwound into something close to a party. Local women had
all brought food—cakes, salads, cold cuts—but it didn’t take long
before the banquet table took a backseat to alcohol. This is how they do it. . . . Younger Squatter
women silently aided Ernie in dispensing the drinks, yet Patricia
didn’t see any of the Squatters actually drinking themselves.
Oh, that’s right, she remembered.
They’re teetotalers. Just about
everyone else, though, was proving the opposite.
But Patricia was
surprised by how well composed her sister remained during the
service. There were tears, of course, but nothing close to the
breakdown Patricia foresaw. Again, it seemed that Patricia’s mere
presence was her sister’s main source of comfort.
As late afternoon
became evening, Patricia began to feel more at ease herself. At
first she’d felt a bit like an outcast in this crowd of seeming
strangers, but eventually many of the faces sparked her memories of
when she’d last lived here; she was greeted cordially time and time
again, even by some whom she didn’t remember until names were
mentioned. The entirety of the affair was rich with sentimental
talk, like, “Dwayne surely will be missed,” ‟What a tragic
passing,” “We’ll really miss him,” and on and on—things Patricia
knew were being said only for Judy to overhear. In the parlor, some
older local men spoke more along the lines of the truth: “Judy’s so
much better off without that lyin’, cheatin’ prick,” and “Good
riddance to the bastard.” Patricia’s city-born cynicism forced a
smile.
She kept her own
drinking on the light side—she wasn’t in the mood, and she didn’t
want to make a bad impression by getting too tipsy in front of the
others. I’m here for my sister, so I don’t
need to be getting pie-eyed.
But every so
often—she couldn’t help it—she cast a glance toward
Ernie.
Not this again . . .
He had his suit
jacket and tie off now, the sleeves of his white dress shirt rolled
up over toned, tanned forearms. He’d unbuttoned the shirt a few
notches, and she could see his pectorals flexing when he lifted a
tray of sandwiches.
Her eyes raked down
his body, and suddenly she was imagining him naked, on top of her .
. .
I have to stop this! This is crazy!
“You must be
Patricia, Judy’s sister from Washington.”
The sudden voice
hawked down on her; she flinched as a child might when caught doing
something naughty. A very well dressed blond man stood beside her,
hard blue eyes, a flirting smile. She’d been so caught off guard
musing about Ernie, she was nearly annoyed.
“Yes, I’m Patricia,”
she said when she recovered. “And you are?”
“Gordon Felps,” the
man replied. His hand felt cool, strong. His complexion seemed
blanched, which only intensified the blue eyes. “I’ve heard quite a
bit about you from your sister. My only regret is the circumstance
I’ve finally gotten to meet you under.”
Felps, Felps. Patricia struggled. Then she
remembered. “Oh, you’re the construction magnate.”
The man chuckled. “I
wouldn’t call myself a magnate by any means, but I am a builder,
yes.”
“The luxury condos
that are going on up on the river side of the Point.” Her lawyer’s
instincts instantly engaged. “And you’d like to continue building
on this side of the Point. My sister mentioned that you’d already
made an offer for her property, so you’ll need to know that I’m
Judy’s acting legal counsel for all personal and business matters.”
A cordial smile as she handed him her business card. “Please feel
free to contact me in the future for any inquiries regarding my
sister.”
Felps wasn’t fazed by
her polite show of force; if anything he was impressed. He pocketed
the card. “I will, thank you—not that I suspect it will be
necessary, not at this point. Judy’s made her desires clear to me.
She doesn’t want to sell the family land, and I respect that.
Actually I’ve made several offers, but anything more than five
million wouldn’t be practical from my standpoint.”
Five million? I thought she said one million. . .
.
“I fully understand
her loyalty to Everd Stanherd and his people. She doesn’t want to
put them out; regrettably, if I took over the property, I’d have no
choice. I’d build an entire community where they’re living
now.”
“The Squatters have
always been sort of a surrogate family—they worked for my mother
and father when they started the crabbing business in the fifties.”
But in the back of Patricia’s mind, she kept thinking, Five million? Wow . . .
“Of course. I’ll have
to keep my project on the river side, but I’m sure it will still
stimulate the town’s growth.” He looked around the reception.
“Anyway, it’s uncouth of me even to be discussing it at such a
time—sorry.”
“Oh, I’m so glad you
two could meet.” Judy emerged from the crowd and squeezed between
Patricia and Felps, draping an arm around each of their shoulders.
“Mr. Felps is the man I was telling you about, the construction
man.”
“Yes. We were just
having a chat,” Patricia said.
Judy was obviously in
her cups, stooping over a little. But at least the tears had dried.
She hugged Patricia harder. “Oh, and it was Gordon who supplied all
the liquor for Dwayne’s reception. Wasn’t that kind of
him?”
“Yes, it was.” But
then Patricia thought, Probably hoping you’d
get drunk and sign a bad purchase agreement.
“It was nothing,
Judy,” Felps said. “For the short time I’ve been here, you and
Dwayne have been good friends, and my heart goes out to you now in
this sad time. I hope it goes without saying, but if you need
anything—anything at all—just ask.”
“Thank you, Gordon.”
Another tear now; then she looked glitter-eyed to Patricia. “He’s
such a sweet man.”
He may be a con man, but I don’t know how sweet he
is, Patricia thought. She was just being protective, of
course. Felps was probably a fine person and a legitimate
businessman, but since lawyers tended to despise businessmen, and
vice versa, she supposed her guarded reaction was
normal.
Felps stood his
ground in spite of the sudden discomfort. Judy was close to drunk
now, and she was a sloppy drunk. Was
she clutching Felps so hard on purpose? Was she deliberately
pressing her left breast against him, or was she just unaware of it
in her inebriation? The stooped pose lowered the vee of her black
dress, showing a depth of cleavage. Could my
sister possibly have a crush on this guy? came Patricia’s
off-key thought. Judy’s bosom was almost as formidable as
Patricia’s. She watched Felps’s eyes, hoping to catch them straying
to the cleavage . . . but it never happened.
Then Patricia berated
herself. My head has been in the gutter since
the minute I came back here. I’d better straighten
up.
“I’ve got to visit
the ladies’ room, but you two keep chatting,” Judy slurred next.
She gave Patricia a kiss on the cheek, then a squeezy hug to Felps,
and she was gone.
“I’d better get going
myself,” Felps said, glancing at his watch. “Early day tomorrow.
But it was very nice meeting you.”
“You,
too.”
Interesting, she thought after he’d
left. He could be the greatest guy in the
world, but . . . I don’t think I like him.
It was just more
attorney cynicism, but what did it matter? When she looked back
into the dining room to see if Ernie was still there, all she
caught a glimpse of was his back as he disappeared into the
kitchen.
Was she suddenly
obsessed with him? Had returning here sparked some
until-recently-dormant middle-aged biological clock? We weren’t even high school sweethearts, she
reminded herself. He wanted to be but I
didn’t. Was some fossil of regret inching out of her
soul?
Ridiculous, she dismissed the thought. Even in her
darkest and most personal hours, she knew she’d found total
happiness—as well as sexual satisfaction—with Byron. When she’d
called him on her cell phone just before the services, simply
hearing his voice had sparked a few sexual wires. Her nipples had
hardened even as she related her very dull goings-on thus far.
I don’t know what this Ernie thing is, but
it’s stupid and nonsensical, so I’m going to put it out of my
mind, she determined.
“Howdy, Patricia. My
condolences, a’ course. Sorry it took me so long to welcome ya back
to town.”
Another startlement
as she’d been musing. It was Chief Sutter who’d approached her.
She’d always thought of him as a clichéd country-bumpkin-type
chief, complete with the suspenders and big belly, but she’d always
remembered him as a considerate man who very much cared about the
residents he was employed to protect. She remembered how gentle,
how caring he’d been in the aftermath of the rape, as well as the
delicacy with which he’d handled her during the grueling but
necessary questioning.
She smiled warmly,
shaking his hand. “Chief Sutter. I’m happy to see you. In fact, I
waved yesterday when I was coming into town.”
He winked. “The
Qwik-Mart. Yeah, Trey ‘n’ I caught a glimpse of ya in that shiny
new car of yours. Judy’s always tellin’ me how well things are
going for you ‘n’ your husband up in D.C. We’re all so happy for
ya.”
It was just small
talk, but Patricia appreciated it, and it truly was good to see
him. “Thanks, Chief, and I hope things are going well for you,
too.” She quickly glanced around. “Where is your deputy, by the
way? I know I saw him at the service.”
“He had to go back
out on patrol, but he sends his condolences as well.” Suddenly
something like concern touched the chief’s face, and she noticed
that he was holding a dark plastic bag with some official-looking
seal on it. “But if I could trouble ya for just a minute? Could you
take this and see that Judy gets it when the time is right?” He
held up the bag. “It’s from the country police lab, and they’re
done with it now.”
“What is
it?”
“Dwayne’s personal
effects, stuff he had on him when his body was found. They released
it me today, but it ain’t really appropriate to give it to Judy
just yet.”
“Oh, of
course.”
“Just his wedding
band, watch, wallet ‘n’ all.”
Patricia opened the
bag and looked inside. “Did the crime lab find anything in the way
of evidence?”
“Unfortunately, no.
And there’s some cash in there too, just so ya know. A goodly
amount.”
Watch, wallet, gold wedding band? Patricia thought,
thinking it odd. She opened the wallet, saw some cash, but also
noted five hundred-dollar bills in the bottom of the bag. “That’s
strange, isn’t it, Chief?”
“You mean that
whoever killed him didn’t take his valuables and the cash? Yes, it
is. A’ course, anyone’s first guess is that Dwayne was murdered, ya
know, on account . . .”
“On account of him
losing his head, sure,” she finished.
“Right. But, uh, the
cause of the decapitation itself was officially labeled as
‘undetermined.’ In other words, the coroner wasn’t convinced it was
a murder. Could’ve been a fluke accident, who knows?”
Patricia withheld an
overt frown. Instead she asked, “Is it true that no one ever found
. . .”
“Dwayne’s head? Yeah,
that is true, I’m afraid.”
Patricia doubted it
was an accident, but the point wasn’t worth belaboring.
Oh, well. An “undetermined”
decapitation. “I’ll put this in a safe place, Chief,” she
assured him, “and show it to Judy when the time is
right.”
“Thanks much,
Patricia. And thanks for comin’ all this way. It means an awful lot
to Judy.” He shook her hand again. “But I’d best get along now. I’m
sure I’ll be seein’ ya again before you leave.”
“I hope so, Chief.
Good-bye for now.”
Chief Sutter wended
off through the crowd. I guess I’ll put this
in the den, Patricia concluded of the bag, but in her mind
it kept occurring to her that the only thing stranger than the
notion of the decapitation’s being an accident was Chief Sutter’s sudden uneasiness when
talking about it at all.
Like something bothered him more than the obvious
facts. Dwayne’s death was indeed a mystery, but . .
.
It’s almost like the chief knows more than he’s
telling, she thought. she looked into the living room and
was content to see Judy on the couch, surrounded by friends.
She’s getting drunk again, but she’s more than
entitled to do that today. Then she slipped off down the
hall and switched on the light in the small den that Judy used for
an office.
The room seemed
sterile with its wall of file cabinets. Company records, I’m sure. On the wall over the
desk hung Judy’s very first incorporation certificate and her
business license that had been changed over since their parents’
deaths.
A picture on the
other wall left her morose—a shot of her father, long ago, hauling
bushels of crabs off a small trawler. I’ll bet
that was taken before I was born. Her father, though spry
and muscular in the photo, still had the same cold, humorless look
in his eyes she’d always known him for.
Then something else
on the wall—an old poster—utterly depressed her.
COME JOIN US ALL!THE FIRST ANNUAL AGAN’S POINT CRAB FESTIVAL!MONDAY SEPTEMBER 6.NOON TIL EIGHT AT BOWEN’S FIELD!
Patricia turned away,
a lump in her throat and a knot in her stomach. Bowen’s Field, my God . . .
And suddenly that
everlasting look in her father’s eyes seemed more accusory and
disgusted than cold.
Next thing she knew
she was standing in a daze. The images in her mind began to tumble
backward, pulling at her. . . .
She’d been thinking
about it all day at school. It didn’t seem like her. She didn’t
know why. Skinny-dipping?
It was a big deal
back in eleventh grade, and Agan’s Point and some other nearby
towns hosted a number of suitable ponds and small lakes. Patricia
was constantly being invited by her friends, yet the invitations
had never threatened her sexually because it was only her circle of
female friends always asking her to go.
Boys went too sometimes, but from what she’d heard nothing much
ever went on. Safety in numbers. She supposed it was all harmless
and normal. It was something sixteen-year-olds did on Saturday
nights.
But Patricia never
went.
She wasn’t inhibited,
nor self-conscious about her body. If anything she felt the
opposite. Not only had good grades allowed her to skip a grade, it
seemed that her body had all but skipped adolescence and hastened
toward womanhood faster than the others’. Many times, in the
showers after gym class, she felt certain some of the other girls
spied her naked body and full bare bosom with strained envy. It was
fine with her. “What are you afraid of?” one girl had asked in
objection. “Patti, in Agan’s Point we skinny-dip every weekend, so
don’t be a prude. If I had your body, I’d show it off every chance
I could!″
But Patricia would
have none of that. Showing off wasn’t her nature. She hadn’t even
come close to having sex yet—it was something she’d save for the
right man. Most of the other girls seemed a lot less choosy, and
even this young, Patricia saw that as a pitfall. She wanted to go
to college, forge a career, while most of the local girls rushed to
get married right after high school and start having kids.
Not me, she resolved. These girls would
wind up living here their whole lives and never even know what
opportunities might be waiting for them out in the rest of the
world. Patricia was determined not to miss out on what was out
there simply to have a routine life in the place she was
born.
As for sex . .
.
She’d never had it,
nor had she ever noticed in herself any trace of the sex drive that
seemed to propel everyone else. She’d dated a few boys, but only
once got past French-kissing. One twelfth grader she’d kind of
liked from her geography class had gotten her bra off one night at
the old Palmer’s drive-in, but the film—something about killer
worms—had grossed her out more than scared her. He’d clumsily
groped her breasts and sucked her nipples for a few minutes, then
evidently spent himself in his pants. He’d also tried to rub
between her legs but was only rubbing just below her navel. She
hoped he did better in high school geography than he did in female
geography. In other words, this excursion left her uninterested.
The local boy she’d most been expected to date seriously was Ernie,
but when she was asked about the prospect, her response was always
akin to: “Ernie’s been my friend since first grade! He’s like a
brother! I could never date him!” Only later, just before she
graduated, had she learned how badly he’d pined for a romance. She
simply wasn’t interested in Ernie—or in any boy, for that matter.
Even when friends described their experiences “doing it” (and the
fabulous multiple orgasms that always
resulted), her response was typically a frown. Masturbation seemed
ridiculous, at least from the descriptions she’d heard.
What if someone saw me? And what could
possibly be that great about it anyway? When she’d been
younger—fourteen or so—she remembered leaving volleyball
practice—and being late—so she’d cut home through the woods, where
she’d accidentally happened upon a boy from Hodge’s Hardware Store
coupling naked with one of the Squatter girls. So that’s what sex is, she presumed, unshocked and
unimpressed. The boy’s fastidious performance of lovemaking had
lasted about three minutes, whereupon he’d re-dressed quickly and
left. But the Squatter girl remained, one hand alternately kneading
her breasts, the other playing with her sex. Her body had flexed,
her back curling backward in a noisy finish that only left Patricia
amused and absolutely convinced she had no need to do this to
herself. Why? If I made all that noise, my
parents would hear!
Ultimately, by the
end of the eleventh grade she found all the talk of boys and dating
and junior proms and sock hops—and sex—to be annoying. I guess I’m just different from everyone else, she
concluded, and didn’t feel at all unusual about it. In not being
sexual, she never once thought she might be missing out on
anything. But what she wouldn’t miss
out on was life, her career, the future. Sex would have to
wait.
It was right before
school would let out for summer—for some reason she remembered
that—and she recalled nothing sexual about her motive, the business
about skinny-dipping. She and Judy had gone to a late double
feature at the town theater. She’d asked several friends to join
them, but, alas, they were all going on to another skinny-dipping
party. She and Judy had both passed on the invite—electing instead
to go see Star Wars, which everyone was
talking about—but regrettably they were forced to sit through some
grueling first feature about an Egyptian cannibal in the catering
business. Patricia found the schlocky farce hilarious in its bad
production, but Judy had left halfway through, too revolted by the
hokey violence and fake blood that looked like house paint.
Star Wars was fun, though, and
exciting. However, while walking home . . .
. . . Patricia got to
thinking.
Maybe I’ll try it, she dared herself. In case I ever decide to do it with my friends, I’ll know
what it’s like. It wasn’t sex she was considering; it was
merely skinny-dipping.
I’ll try it alone first, see if I like
it.
But where? Everyone
else was out at the lake in Luntville. I know, she thought. She saw the sign right there
as she walked along Point Road:
BOWEN’S
FIELD.
There was a pond
there, and the field itself was almost entirely surrounded by
woods.
Perfect.
Her parents were at
the fire hall tonight—bingo—and would be home late. The heat and
humidity were sky-rocketing as the summer deepened; Patricia was
sticky with sweat just minutes after leaving the cool movie
theater. A late-night dip in the pond is just
what I need.
She cut through more
woods, her sandals snapping twigs. Peepers cheeped like parrots,
and she had to walk slowly, keeping her eyes on the ground for
toads. Then the woods broke, and there she was. . . .
The clearing opened,
ringed by tall trees. The moon was just edging over the tallest
oaks. Bowen’s Field was a little-used municipal lot: mainly county
softball games and holiday gatherings. Picnic grounds with tables
and grills dotted the area, and off to one side was the
pond.
Patricia looked
around guardedly. No one around. She felt satisfied. She walked off to the
trees, then thought nothing of skimming out of her shorts and top.
A moment of hesitation; then the rest came off, panties and bra
dropped atop the sandals. And one last look around . .
.
Everyone else is skinny-dipping in Luntville, and I’m
skinny-dipping here. . . . Simple. There was no need to be
self-conscious or embarrassed—she was a logical girl. So she
shrugged her bare shoulders, then, and walked nude across the
field. See? No big deal. She giggled.
When she looked down at herself, the only shock was how white she
was. She was fair-skinned; she didn’t tan well. Her natural hue
touched over by the moonlight made her look ghostly.
The warm air caressed
her skin as she moved on. Another giggle: I’m
walking naked in public! The night’s heat licked up and down
her body.
Cicadas buzzed in
their unique drone. The pond lay flat and still before her, a solid
black mirror with the moon’s reflection floating on top. Mud
squished up through her toes when she stepped in, first to her
ankles, then to her knees. She lifted her foot and took the next
step, which should’ve brought her hip-deep, but—
Splunk!
—she dropped into a
surprise gully deeper than she was tall. She sprang back to the
surface, laughing, then began to dog-paddle around. Where the
night’s heat had felt heavy on her skin, the cool water felt
absolutely luxurious. A sudden liberty swept her as she let the
water devour her: No one knows I’m here; I’m
totally alone. She liked that feeling, a forbidden
independence—being naked and by herself, as though the world
existed solely for her, and she were its only inhabitant. The moon
looked down, a luminous voyeur. Her flesh felt buoyant; cool water
rushed between her legs and over her stomach and breasts. She
smiled to herself, kicking out farther, totally tranquil in the
water.
Patricia was at
peace. . . .
It was some sort of a
sack, canvas, or maybe several layers of burlap; she’d never
figured out what it was exactly. And she never saw it
coming.
He must’ve been in
the water the whole time. Waiting? But that was impossible, because
no one knew she was out here. She’d told no one she’d be
skinny-dipping tonight; in fact, she hadn’t even made the decision
until after leaving the theater. Nevertheless, as she’d turned to
come back closer to the pond’s edge, a heavy, wet sack was pulled
over her head from behind and tightened immediately by a
drawstring. It couldn’t have been more effective. . .
.
It smothered her
scream.
A strong arm girded
her neck. Her attacker was breaststroking back to shore, Patricia
in tow, but as he did so his hand plowed into her most private area
as though it were a squeeze ball. Fingers tried to wriggle in. Each
time she attempted to suck in a breath and bolt out a scream, the
wet sack sucked against her lips, and all she could do was wheeze.
And when they reached the edge and her ankles began to kick through
mud—
Thwack!
—a fist hard as a
stone knocked her unconscious. Deathlike blackness filled her mind.
Was she dead? No, but as her consciousness began to trickle back,
her previous terror had been supplanted by an all-encompassing
nausea. She opened her eyes but couldn’t see. It wasn’t the sack;
instead, the only thing she could figure was that a wide strip of
tape had been pasted over her eyes. When she tried to move, her
wrists and ankles rose . . . but only an inch.
She’d been tied
down.
More of her senses
began to fall back into place. Her eyes had been taped but her
mouth hadn’t, and just as she sucked in a deep, deep breath to try
another scream, a palm slapped across her lips.
Then something very
sharp and very pointed pricked the side of her neck.
“Feel
this?”
A coarse
whisper.
“It’s a knife. If you
make any noise at all, I’ll cut your throat.
Understand?”
She felt burning hot
yet immobile, as if frozen solid. At first the terrified paralysis
wouldn’t even allow her neck muscles to work.
The knife point
pricked a little harder.
Patricia
nodded.
Next: “If ya bite,
I’ll cut‘cher tongue out ‘n’ slice yer big tits off and leave ’em
on yer mama’s doorstep. Understand?”
Patricia
nodded.
The clammy palm left
her mouth, only to be replaced by a slavering mouth. At least her
rapist was passionate—he wanted to kiss first. The dirty mouth
sucked her lips, a tongue pushing through. Reflex caused Patricia
to squeeze her eyes shut in spite of the blindfold, and from there
. . .
Her mind went
blank.
More reflex, more
defensive instinct. Earlier it was the moon, but now, blinded and
lashed to the ground, she became her own voyeur, sight replaced by sense. It was as
though she were watching herself with her mind. Her mouth fell open
and she simply let him do it—Don’t fight your
rapist, she’d read in a women’s column once—so she admitted
his tongue, tasting liquor and bad breath. The tongue continued to
slaver, his drool falling into her mouth. Then the strange mouth
sucked her own tongue out, sucked it hard, and that was when she
noticed the gap.
His two front teeth
were missing.
Eventually the
abominable kiss ended; the mouth lifted, then fell right back to
her breasts. Wet, ugly suction drew each nipple between the gap in
his teeth, and the tongue began to whirl furiously. She could feel
that he was naked himself—that hot, hard weight pressing down. All
the sensations and mental images collided with revulsion, but
Patricia now was disengaged, her own self not part of what was
happening.
He never said another
word.
She simply lay there
and let him molest her, her belly sucked in, her arms and legs
pinned out straight as steel rods. Her nipples buzzed now from the
furious tendings of his tongue and the way the gap in his teeth
isolated the dark areolae. A moment later he sat upright as though
her stomach were a seat. His scrotum lay like a hot bag of pudding
on her belly, his manhood no doubt inflamed by his own demented
desires. His hands opened and closed over her breasts, intent, as
if he expected to wring out milk. The sensations hurt; she imagined
handprints bruised into her flesh. Next, his fingertips closed on
her nipples, tweaking at first, then grinding. Patricia’s hips
squirmed beneath his weight as he twisted her nipples as if turning
screws into a wall.
The weight began to
shift. He kneed himself backward, off of her. Was he done? A
foolish question. Of course he wasn’t done—he was just beginning.
Only now did she realize how widely her legs had been parted. Hands
gripped her upper thighs, and then the mouth lowered.
Oh, God . . .
Her revulsion
collapsed on her like a brick wall against the fiercest wind. The
most secret and personal part of her body was brazenly invaded by
the detestable tongue. First the tip traced around the opening of
her vagina, stimulating the outer ridges, then delving up and down
the groove. It was a long tongue, too, evidenced by how deeply it
delved inside after each revolution. These ministrations lasted for
a long time, until she thought the body she was perceiving so
distantly would go nuts and simultaneously choke on
vomit.
Could she actually
feel the moonlight on her skin even with taped-shut eyes? Patricia
could almost see herself writhing, half in arousal and half in
utter repugnance.
The mouth rose and
its new target was no surprise. . . .
Now the wicked
suction drew over the assailant’s true target in a variety of
movements: back and forth, up and down, then hard circles. And all
the while it continued to suck, drawing the nugget of her sex
through the gap in the front teeth—a macabre inversion of
fellatio.
The sensations rose
and rose. Loops of rope abraded her ankles and wrists, and every
muscle in her body began to clench up; a feeling she’d never
experienced seemed to sear into her, something scalding hot but
delicious. Then that detached kernel of her consciousness—that
seemed to be spectating the crime from afar—snapped back into her
brain like something yanked inward off a cord, and at last the
thing that all those sensations had been building up to . .
.
. . .
broke.
Patricia went out of
her mind, and that was all she remembered.
Some early risers
found her at sunup. When the duct tape was peeled off her
eyes—taking quite a bit off her brows—she dizzily saw that she’d
been staked to the ground. She felt humiliated and insensible,
naked and laid out for all to see. A man who’d been walking his dog
gave her a light jacket to wear until the police came.
Of course her
assailant had raped her after his oral invasion, yet she remembered
none of it. She could feel her virginity ruptured between her legs,
but at least there was little blood, and she recalled no pain. But
she could feel the sperm deep in her like some devilish slime. Her
mind spun in rings of disgust; she couldn’t have felt dirtier than
if she’d been defecated on. Worse were the pitying looks in the
eyes of the people who’d found her, as though she were crippled, an
elderly invalid who could no longer control her bowels. “Poor
girl,” a woman said. “Like to kill the sick animal that did this,”
said a man. But Patricia could barely even cogitate. Eventually a
much younger Chief Sutter arrived to take her home. Her mother and
Judy were aghast, Judy breaking into tears when she’d heard what
happened. Chief Sutter couldn’t have been more considerate in
dealing with the sensitive aftermath of physical examinations and
questioning. There’d been no DNA profiling back in those days, no
way to type her assailant with technology, just a vaginal smear for
rudimentary disease screening. And Patricia supposed—even now,
after the passage of over two decades—that if anything could be
worse for her than the rape itself, it was her father’s reaction
when he’d learned of the details.
“Skinny-dipping!” he
bellowed, red in the face when he’d gotten home from the crabbing
docks. “Runnin’ around with no clothes on like a common tramp!
Life’s hard enough, and now I got a daughter shitting on our good
family’s name, makin’ us look like trash!” He slapped her in the
face with a sound like wet leather snapping. “How could you let
something like that happen?”
The words were worse
even than the blow; Patricia felt as though she’d been shot with a
gun. Tears flooded her eyes, and when she looked to her mother for
support . . . her mother just looked back with a face set in
stone.
So long ago, she thought now, looking at the poster
on the wall. I’d forgotten all about it, until
I came back here.
Enough of this . . .
She shook off the
flash of despair, focusing instead on the bag that Chief Sutter had
given her. I guess the desk is as good as
anyplace, she thought, and tucked it back in the bottom
drawer. The recollection of her father—and Bowen’s Field—seemed to
hasten her out of the cramped room, but before she would leave, she
made an abrupt decision.
She tore the poster
down and crunched it up in her hands. The gesture provided little
satisfaction, but that was better than nothing. She was about to
drop it in the small wastebasket by the desk when something caught
her eye.
Something
inside.
An envelope and a
crumpled letter.
Perhaps the only
reason she’d noticed them at all was because the items were the
only things in the basket.
She picked them out,
focusing. . . .
The envelope was
addressed to Dwayne, handwritten, not typed. There was no return
address; the local postmark was dated one day before Dwayne’s
death. Junk mail wouldn’t be handwritten, but it was obviously
something Dwayne had opened, looked at, and immediately
discarded.
Her curiosity pecked
at her, though she couldn’t imagine why; Patricia wasn’t ordinarily
nosy. The bastard’s dead, so it’s not like I’m
invading his privacy, she reasoned.
Paper crinkled as she
uncrumpled what she could only guess was a letter, but she saw in a
moment that it was not really a letter at all.
Just a sheet of paper
with one word inscribed neatly at the top.
Wenden.