all during their afternoon session, and then made a point of closing his
sketchbook when she came up to him at the end of the hour.
If he didn't want her to see it just yet, that was fine with Celia. Honor the
child's feelings and sooner or later he'd honor yours. It worked in therapy, the
classroom, and at home, though Celia's knowledge of healthy family relationships
was strictly abstract. Her own feelings had rarely been honored by her mother.
But she brimmed with pleasure over Davy's progress, and found herself smiling
until she passed a gun shop with a huge sign in the window announcing, "Wanted:
Rifles, Pistols, Shotguns." Her spirits dimmed but as soon as she cleared the
town limits she brightened back up again. Hump day, that's what she called
Wednesday. Once you're over it, you're on your way to the weekend. No matter how
gratifying her workday had been, she liked her free time too.
She was glad they lived out in the country. At least she had some open space to
go home to. She regarded their house as a retreat, a place in the forest where
she could experience a little solitude every afternoon. The drought had sapped
some of the life from the land, but it hadn't affected her enthusiasm. And she
wanted to enjoy the late afternoon while she still could; daylight saving time
would end this weekend. She always remembered because it came right before
Halloween, guaranteeing an extra hour of darkness for all of Bentman's witches,
goblins, and monsters.
She finished up a candy bar as she headed south. When she came to Broken Creek
Road she made a left and started up the ridge. She passed a big gravel pit where
the county work crews had loaded up the golf-ball-sized rocks they'd spilled all
over the dirt road, an expenditure of taxpayer funds wholly for the benefit of
the timber industry with its huge logging trucks.
She could have done without the "improvements," preferring the ruts and dirt to
the gravel they'd put down. The sharp rocks tore up her tires— three flats so
far this year— and were slowly beating the underside of her car to death. It
scared her to think about breaking down so far from help.
The town receded steadily behind her as she gained the almost two thousand feet
of elevation to the top of the ridge. Wherever she looked she saw stumps and
slash, the mean remains of the timber industry. She guessed the loggers had
chainsawed at least three hundred trees in the past few days alone. Each of
their trunks had been sprayed with an ugly blotch of red paint to designate that
it was to be cut. It made her think of Mercurochrome, but there would be no
healing of these wounds, not in this life.
She turned on the tape player, Sinead O'Connor, and cranked up the volume. The
road wound through a beautiful stand of tall pines. She had delighted in them
since moving up to the ridge and was pleased to see they had been spared the
chain saws. So far. She knew they could be gone tomorrow with nothing but red
blotches on their trunks.
A fully loaded logging truck approached, forcing her to edge over so far that
she feared the Honda would slip off the road. Branches scraped the passenger
side until she crawled past an abandoned logging road that converged on the
right. There were dozens of these two-tracks all over the ridge, mostly
overgrown and overlooked, but not by everybody.
Chet stood with his chain saw about a hundred feet down the old logging road,
barely visible through the tangle of unruly growth. But he could just make out
the two vehicles, and he watched them passing each other with intense interest.
Davy sat in the pickup, sleepy from sun and boredom. His stepfather walked up to
the cab and leaned against the door. The boy never looked up.
"What do you know about that. Mrs. Griswold lives around here somewhere. Can't
be too far off. There's not a whole lot around here."
And to think he'd taken her for a town woman. There's just no fixing people
nowadays. He'd tried to find her address in the telephone book but all he'd come
up with was the insurance agency. He figured they were one of those secretive
types, don't want their address out there.
Chet stared at the dust rising from the road, dearly thankful to Mrs. Griswold
for this...this gift. He'd figured on having to spend at least another day or
two finding her place, maybe even tailing her home. Now he wouldn't have to.
He'd just follow the road. He'd find her. Hell, he always found them. Always.
And he already knew most of these old logging roads like he'd been born here. He
took a lot of pride in learning terrain quickly, and he was sure he could
outsmart a pack of bloodhounds if he had to, especially during the rainy season
when there would be streams to cut his trail.
He'd been born a century too late. He knew for a fact that he would've been
better off when they were first exploring the West. He could have been a
trapper, a hunter, killing all there was to kill and not having to worry about
any goddamn game laws or season for this or season for that. Open season all the
time on everything. Having...dominion— that was the word— over every goddamn
thing. He wanted... DOMINION...he didn't want to have to answer to those
assholes at the school, especially Mrs. Griswold with her smooth words sitting
around looking at those pictures and maybe figuring out what Davy's got stored
away in that head of his. Just what the hell is he saying? It's like the two of
them were playing some goddamn game and he was the only one who didn't know the
rules. That just wasn't fair. So he'd make new ones. That's what he'd do. Scare
the shit out of her. Done it before, I'll do it again.
He couldn't hear the Honda or the logging truck anymore. He'd watched them
closely and never saw the driver or Mrs. Griswold look his way. Too worried
about inching by each other. Good thing, too. He sure didn't want to get caught
poaching wood around here. Not with the plans he had in mind.
*
Up ahead Celia spotted the meadow with the orange poppies, but strangely most of
those bright patches of color had disappeared. She navigated the curve right
before the meadow, but had to stop short to let a flock of sheep cross the road:
"What the hell is this?"
She turned down the stereo, as if to concentrate more fully on the spectacle
parading past her. Then she smelled the sheep, a hellishly sour odor that
startled her and left a foul taste on her tongue. She quickly rolled up the
window and covered her nose and mouth with her hand and tried to understand why
they smelled so god-awful bad. That's when she saw the filth, the muck smeared
all over their fleece, a sordid and besmirched color. The wool looked like it
was rotting on their backs, as if they'd been penned tightly together for long
nights of sickness and defecation. Several suffered from open wounds, dark
gaping holes on their sides and backs that appeared putrescent and hideously
painful.
As the flock crossed to the meadow they began to eat the few remaining
wildflowers, munching on the orange blossoms, green stems, even the plants and
roots themselves. There must have been a hundred or more sheep trodding along,
grinding to dust the tender stalks that had managed to survive the drought.
Celia waited patiently with her hand over her nose, trying to smell the
chocolate bar she'd eaten on the drive home. But the stench overwhelmed such a
weak defense.
"How you doing?"
She jumped in her seat, frightened by the sudden appearance of a wild-looking
young man. He stood by her window, which she reluctantly rolled down.
"I'm doing fine. What's going on?" She dropped her hand to speak, and a
deeply-instilled sense of politeness kept it on her lap. But she paid a stiff
price for her good manners because as soon as he leaned toward the open window
another wave of vile odors assaulted her, rancid smells that seemed to ooze from
all of his openings. She thought it must have been weeks since he washed. Her
nostrils felt raped.
"Got here about a week ago from California. Drought chased us north. Trucked 'em
here and been grazing 'em all through these hills. Paid the timber company good
money for the right."
He spoke slowly, deliberately, like the developmentally disabled. This softened
Celia, but only a mite. He still stank, and behind him his sheep were casually
ravaging the prettiest meadow on the ridge.
"You've come to the wrong place, because the drought here—"
"Thought Oregon's wet."
She sniffed her nose, as if she had a cold, and ran her hand under it, finding
blessed relief in the faintest hint of chocolate.
"Wrong time of year and the wrong year," she replied, using as little air as
possible. She tried breathing through her mouth.
The shepherd leaned closer and picked at his straggly blond beard. Flakes of
dried-up food or dead skin— she wasn't sure what it was— fell onto her shoulder
and arm. She shivered with disgust.
"Wrong as wrong can be, I guess, and now my dog's gone. You see him?
Black-and-white feller? Lost him soon as we got here. Name's Bucky 'cause he's
all buck-toothed, but he can herd like no one can."
"Bucky?" Celia said feebly. She looked away. Oh shit.
"Yeah, that's what I call him, Bucky. Friendliest dog you ever seen. I'm hard up
without him. Can't hardly keep them sheep straight with him gone. Keeps them
cougars away too. Them cats hate them dogs, and with him gone my sheep been
taking a beating. Lost two lambs already. Cats drug 'em off like they was
nothing. They been tearing hell out of the herd." The shepherd looked at his
flock, then turned back to Celia. "You seen him?"
She winced when he asked that question, she couldn't help herself. And he
noticed. She could tell by the way he tilted his head and stared as if he was
studying her.
God, his breath stank too. It filled the driver's side of the car. She could see
the tartar caked on his teeth, and a greenish jell that covered his gums. She
shifted to her right to try to get a whiff of untainted air, but as she did the
shepherd leaned in until almost all of his shaggy head hovered over the steering
wheel.
"No," Celia finally found the courage to lie, "I haven't seen your dog. I didn't
even know you were up here till just now."
"We been here, that's for sure. Me and Bucky."
With her body scrunched over to the right, she started to ease the car forward;
but this didn't discourage the shepherd, who remained inches from her face, nor
the sheep still straggling past her car.
"He's a good dog, and I need him bad."
Celia nodded and tapped her horn softly, but the sheep didn't move. Neither did
the shepherd, who appeared unaware of her efforts.
"To tell ya', I think someone stole my dog. See, old Bucky, he wouldn't get
lost. He's too smart for that."
And you, Celia thought uncharitably, would be such a good judge of that.
"I'd sure like to get my hands on the son of a bitch that took him, too."
His eyes grew as large as hens' eggs, and Celia noticed the dirty hands he
wanted to use on her husband.
"Have you checked the—"
"Checked? Checked the what?"
She swallowed and paused. The shepherd pushed in even closer. His ghastly breath
and body odor pummeled her once more.
"The...the pound."
As soon as she said this, she wished she hadn't. What if they've already killed
the dog? What if they say some guy up on the ridge brought him in last week. Oh
shit.
"The pound? They got them a pound here?"
"Never mind, I don't—"
"Why'd he be at the pound?"
"Well, if he got picked up."
"Why'd he get picked up?"
"I'm sure I don't know. Perhaps someone thought he was doing your little Bucky a
favor and took him there." You're such a lousy liar, she screamed at herself.
"Who's that?"
"What?"
"Who's doing me a favor?"
"I'm sure I don't know that either."
"Is that right?"
The shepherd hardly looked convinced, and Celia honestly feared that at any
moment he'd take his filthy hands and shake the truth right out of her. Why the
hell didn't Jack just let her keep the damn dog?
"Look, I'm truly sorry about your little Bucky, but I don't know anything about
him."
She eased out the clutch and the car slowly rolled forward. She hit the horn
aggressively, and when the sheep finally moved out of the way she quietly cursed
herself for not doing this sooner. But even as she started to gain speed the
shepherd ran beside her, his head never more than a foot from her own, his slow
dull voice asking the same haunting question over and over again: "You sure? You
sure? You sure?"
22
Chet and Davy bounced along the short, rugged stretch of logging road until they
came to the T-intersection where Chet'd spotted Mrs. Griswold edging past the
truck. He turned right and began to climb the last one hundred yards to the
ridge. The steepness forced him into first, but that was okay because he didn't
want to overtake Mrs. Griswold, just find her.
Once he topped the ridge he followed the county road south. The sun was sinking
but there was still lots of daylight, which he needed. A series of gentle curves
carried him past a stand of pines that looked ripe for poaching. Then the road
leveled and he started to move faster, easing the old pickup through the
forgiving terrain until the meadow opened up to his left. A second later he saw
the sheep and felt his hunger. Meat, he said softly to himself. Meat. His tongue