The Backwoods (42 page)

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Authors: Edward Lee

BOOK: The Backwoods
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This seemed the most likely place to check first; she had no idea where Felps was staying in town. From the road she could see his truck parked in front of the office trailer.
Gravel crunched under her feet when she walked across the lot. She climbed the short wooden steps before the trailer, then paused. It occurred to her to knock but . . .
She tried the knob. The door clicked open.
He must not be here
, she deduced. Darkness seemed clotted in the trailer. For some reason she wasn’t afraid of what she might find.
“Felps? Are you here?”
A voice rattled back. “Who is it?”
“Patricia White.”
A pause. “Thank God.”
“Trey’s dead. I know what happened, your plan, the people you paid to frame and murder Squatters, all of it.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
He must’ve been at the very back of the trailer; she couldn’t see anything. And his voice now was beginning to scare her. Something about it sounded so hopeless.
She felt around the wall for a light switch but couldn’t find one.
Damn, I can’t
see!
“Please come over here,” Felps stoically begged her. “There’s a gun in the top drawer of the desk. I want you to take it out and kill me. For God’s sake—please. Kill me.”
She never found the light switch, but in the little bit of moonlight coming in through a tiny window, she saw a flashlight sitting atop a file cabinet.
“Please,” Felps pleaded.
She snapped on the flashlight, pointed it, and . . .
Stared.
Gordon Felps looked normal at first glance, sitting in a comfortable office chair. But then Patricia noticed . . .
Oh
. . .
shit . . .
His sleeves were empty. She lowered the flashlight. The legs of his pants were empty as well. On the desk before him lay the letter she didn’t even need to look at now.
Wenden,
she thought
. Gone
. Gordon Felps’s arms and legs were gone.
“Don’t leave me! I can’t live like this!” he shouted.
But she was already backing out of the trailer.
“Come over here and get this gun and shoot me in the fucking head—I’m
begging
you!”
Patricia turned the flashlight off. She walked out of the trailer, closed the door quietly behind her, and walked back to her car.
Epilogue
 
What could she tell Byron? What could she tell anyone?
Nothing,
she decided.
She should never have gone in the first place.
I just want to go back to my life
.
Patricia knew she would never take it for granted again.
The highway breezed by. It seemed like she was driving away from the night, leaving its secrets well behind, which suited her just fine. This early there was scarcely any rush hour, even when she was all the way back to D.C. The smog and the ugly monolithic buildings and potholed roads couldn’t have made her happier to see. She’d figure out something to tell Byron later, something feasible to explain Judy’s death, and the rest of it. She didn’t want to lie, but with
this?
The truth wouldn’t do.
I’m going to forget about everything right now
, she promised herself. The resolution made her feel rejuvenated, and a monumental burden disappeared. When she parked the Cadillac in front of the condo, she felt giddy.
She walked quietly up the steps, and was careful to keep the keys from jingling when she unlocked the door and came in. The instant she stepped inside, she truly felt that she was home. She was back where she belonged.
She traipsed in, hoping Byron was still asleep.
I’ll slide into bed next to him and let him find me there when he wakes up
. It would be the best surprise. She’d be right there in bed next to him, two days earlier than he expected.
She kicked off her sandals. She looked around the living room—dim in morning light—and actually had tears in her eyes, she was so happy. Byron’s pretentious art prints on the wall delighted her now. The feel of the carpet beneath her bare feet titillated her. Even the air smelled comforting.
She began to unbutton her blouse when she entered the bedroom.
Her hand fell.
Her heart almost stopped.
Patricia stood there for a long time, looking at the bed.
Indeed, Byron was still asleep, and he would definitely be surprised to find that his loving wife had returned two days earlier than he expected.
You bastard,
she thought.
A woman lay in bed next to Byron. She looked young, early twenties, half of her skinny, naked body crooked out from under the sheets. A small, pert breast stuck out too, and she had some silly tattoo on her thigh. And as she lay all cuddled up nice and cozy next to Byron, she was snoring.
Patricia’s mind essentially switched off. There was no tirade, no lamp throwing, no profanity-laden shouts. There was nothing like that at all. Instead Patricia walked back out to the car, opened the door, and got in.
She didn’t drive anywhere. Had she had more presence of mind, she would’ve driven either to a friend’s or a divorce lawyer’s. But she didn’t even put the key in the ignition.
She didn’t know how much time passed when she finally said aloud to herself, “What am I going to do? My husband is upstairs right now—in my bed—sleeping with another woman. What am I going to do?”
The answer sat next to her on the front seat.
The clay pot.
The sacrament.
The Squatters had left it in the woods with her. But there was still a small amount left inside.
Patricia looked up at her bedroom window.
I’m going to go to the drugstore now, buy some paper, and buy an envelope. Then I’m going to go to the post office and buy a stamp.
And then mail a letter.
 
 
 
EDWARD LEE
has had over twenty-five books published in the horror and suspense fields, including
Flesh Gothic, Messenger
and
City Infernal
. He is a Bram Stoker Award nominee, and his short stories have appeared in over a dozen mass market anthologies, including
The Best American Mystery Stories of 2000
, the
Hot Blood
series, and the award-winning 999. His movie,
Header
, has been filmed and awaits release. Lee lives in Florida′s St. Pete Beach. Visit his official web-site at
www.edwardleeonline.com
.

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