brushing against her lips.
She ripped the rat off her head, felt its spongy sodden body in her hand, and
threw it to the side. She heard it splat against the wall like a wet towel as
she gasped again and gulped a mouthful of the foul water. She spit it out, and
coughed and gagged with revulsion. Then she worried about him, had he heard her?
She listened to his footsteps, louder now. Keep pumping your legs, she urged
herself, keep pumping. Don't give up. You can hike for miles, you can do this.
She was counseling herself and paying strict attention to the lazy way he had of
walking when she saw herself standing by the tank with Jack, before she'd made
her overture, talking about whether it could get clogged up. Of course, the
intake line. It's back there. She looked over her shoulder. Somewhere.
Slowly, reluctantly, with the sure knowledge that her legs could not last
forever no matter how much she willed them to, Celia made her way around the
tank. She dreaded running into the rats and didn't want to touch anything in
that foul darkness down below, that bottomless well of water where she hoped the
beasts were buried. Her stomach muscles and buttocks were balled into knots,
clenched like fists against all that was cold, dark, and dead. She moved slowly,
as if through a swamp. She heard him walking by on the driveway, cocky, she
thought, like he's king of the roost; and as she listened to him draw closer she
got angrier.
She guessed she was near the intake line, reached out, and found the heavy
rubber tube. She also found a spider web. She tried to shake it off, couldn't,
and plunged her hand into the water.
She grabbed on to a clear spot, and finally rested. What a relief. Now she could
wait him out. Her body followed the lead of her arm and drifted toward the line.
But as she drew closer she had to endure a new horror when her legs parted a
jellied mass of fur. In the midst of this she also felt something sharp, and
knew with a sickening dread that these were the claws scraping her skin as the
rat bodies swirled up around her. Dozens of claws, dozens of tails, dozens of
dead rats eddying around her legs and bottom and belly and breasts.
She choked down her terror and squeezed the intake line to keep from screaming.
She had all she could do to bear her silence, and then she heard it. A
squeak-squeak. Again, squeak-squeak. Slowly she turned her head to the side and
looked right into the beady eyes of a live rat crouched on a brace for the
intake line. A sliver of reflected moonlight revealed its whiskers twitching no
more than six inches from her face. Suddenly it rose up on its hind legs, bared
its horrible teeth, and clawed at the air between them. Celia gasped audibly and
pushed away, and that's when she noticed that Chet had stopped moving.
54
Jack drove up the winding road to the ridge. Yes, he would go home, and if Celia
asked him about the ring he would lie to her one more time. But a white lie.
He'd tell her that on the way out of town he'd forgotten to stop by the office
to pick it up. She'd believe him. Sure she would. She was always giving people
the benefit of the doubt. God knows, it had worked in his favor more than once.
Then he'd hope like hell that Helen would be considerate enough to return the
damn thing when she came to work on Monday. She was, after all, still an
employee.
He reached the ridge and started south, marveling over the beauty of the clear
night sky and full moon. He knew the road well and once more pressed hard on the
gas pedal. He took the curves like a pro, whipping up curtains of dust with each
quick turn of the wheel. He whizzed by the stumps that only a week ago stood as
proud ancient pines, and sped toward the meadow. Here he was coming home earlier
than expected. Why, in mere minutes he would hold his wife in his arms and know
the comforts of home. He couldn't wait to see the look on her face. These warm,
happy thoughts left him so distracted that he didn't see the lamb until it was
too late. He slammed on the brakes but heard a distinct thump as he skidded to a
stop. Then a pathetic bleating overpowered a song by Jim Croce as a plume of
dust drifted over the truck.
He turned off the radio and sat there grimacing, about to get out and inspect
the damage (he figured the fender might be banged up pretty bad) when he saw
sheep looming through the billowing cloud. The entire flock had risen from the
meadow and started wandering over to the truck, their long lugubrious faces
staring vacantly at him. Up ahead the moonlight also revealed a man stepping out
of the shadows. He quickly joined the woolly procession. This had to be the
oddball shepherd Celia had told him about. Jack reached for his wallet, figuring
on making a quick on-the-spot settlement. How much could a lamb cost, assuming
it was a total loss. It sounds like it. The creature's constant— and murderous—
bleating was beginning to get on his nerves.
He hoped the shepherd didn't prove overly sentimental about animals. That could
drive up the cost of this little mishap. Jack saw that he had five twenties, a
ten, and some singles. More than enough, unless the shepherd tried to get
greedy. Just let him. He knew how to handle injured parties who tried to press
their luck. He had long experience with those kinds of people. You just had to
set limits, firm limits.
When he finished counting his money he saw that the shepherd had made his way
past the flock and now stood in front of the pickup staring at the injured lamb.
Jack could see him clearly in the headlights, a strange-looking man with a big
fuzzy beard and lots of hair. Actually, a grotesque-looking man. Jack changed
his opinion the moment the shepherd turned his eyes on him, and if he knew
anything about human nature— and as an insurance salesman he prided himself on
having a keen sense about people— the shepherd was not a happy man. Jack had
seen the same expression on the faces of certain policyholders when they picked
up their claim checks and learned for the first time what "pro-rated" really
meant.
As the shepherd started walking up to the cab, Jack's urge to dicker with him
vanished just like that. Poof, it was gone. Now his only urge was to peel right
out of there, but the flock blocked his way, and even if they didn't it would
mean running over the lamb. Of course, that would put an end to its incessant
bleating.
He decided after seeing the shepherd's grim face that he wouldn't even get out
of the truck. He'd crack the window an inch or two, and see how it went. Celia
had said he was a weird one. No sense taking chances.
He glanced at the door lock, relieved to see it in place, and forced himself to
smile at the...well...angry-looking man standing beside the cab.
"Hi," Jack said, managing a perky tone that he hoped would ease the tension.
"What happened?" the shepherd slurred.
Oh great, Jack thought, drunk and stupid.
"One of your sheep was wandering around the middle of the road, and I guess I
must have hit it. I'm sorry. I didn't mean—"
"You must have been moving faster than a rooster in the henhouse." The shepherd
swayed as he spoke.
"No, not at all. It was out in the middle of the road," Jack repeated. "I tried
to stop, I did, but it was too late." He felt silly talking through the cracked
window and knew it made him look fearful, so he rolled it down. But he regretted
this when the shepherd cozied up to the door.
"What the hell you doing up here anyway?" He scratched his bead. "It's the
middle of the night."
"What am I doing up here? I live here."
"You do?" the shepherd asked keenly.
"Yes, I do," Jack insisted, mistaking the shepherd's interest for awe. "I've got
a place up the road a couple miles from here. With some acreage," he added with
noticeable self-regard.
The shepherd nodded. "You also got yourself a little lady that drives a little
car?" He leaned his head right in the window, and the cab filled with the stench
of cheap wine and rotting teeth.
Even as he willed himself to be still, to be silent, Jack felt himself nodding
and realized he'd been had.
"So you're the one"— the shepherd poked Jack's shoulder—"that took little Bucky
to the pound."
"Little Bucky?"
"Yeah, you are. You're the one all right." He rested his hand on the back of
Jack's neck. His grip felt as dry and rough as the inside of a peanut shell.
"It's a funny thing, ain't it?"
"How's that?" Jack said nervously.
"How you do one dumb thing and it makes you do another."
"What do you mean?" Jack figured as long as he could keep him talking the
shepherd wouldn't do anything with that goddamn hand. He tried to shrug it off
gently, but failed.
"You go and take little Bucky to the pound for no good reason and get him
killed, just like that." He snapped his fingers, a sound as hollow as the hole
in Jack's stomach. "And me? I don't have no one watching my sheep at night." His
hand returned to Jack's neck, grasping it even harder. "So one of the little
ones goes wandering off and you run him over with your damn truck." He looked
toward the front of the pickup where the lamb continued to bleat piteously. "You
know what's gonna happen now, don't you?"
"I think so. I pay you?"
"Yeah, that's right," the shepherd said with sudden anger. "You pay."
55
This time the light in the corner of the tank did not disappear. It remained
steady, a star that never blinks on a night that never ends. Celia listened
intently as the crunch-crunch-crunch of gravel turned into a softer, much more
menacing sound: the crackle of boots crushing dry grass. Then the wooden cover
opened, and he pointed the flashlight right at her. After so much darkness, she
had to look away.
He threw what appeared to be a heavy sack into the tank. It made a big splash,
and several seconds passed before she could make out Pluto's body floating in
front of her.
"When the cat's away, the mice will play."
Chet started laughing. He was damn near giddy. This was as good as it gets.
Finding her here was a goddamn gift or something.
He could just make out her gown drifting up around her body, but not much else.
Fucking water is dark. That's okay, she's not going anywhere. Helpless, that's
what she is. No more of this running around, no more misbehaving on me.
He shook his head reproachfully, which she saw in the haloing light. But when he
spoke he tried to make a joke about her bathing for him.
"Nice of you," he added.
She didn't respond.
"I guess I could leave you in there, but that wouldn't be any fun." Chet was
wild with joy. He'd never known a woman to be so completely at his mercy. This
was as good as it gets.
She treaded water and the dead rats swirled around her body, their fur as slimy
as egg whites. She cringed. He saw this.
"Pretty cold down there?"
Again, she did not respond. She watched Pluto drifting away and felt a sudden
need to hold her cat. But she shouldn't show weakness. Not now, not here, not
with him. She had to take control...somehow...and give this man everything he'd
earned. Everything.
"Help me," she pleaded. "Help me out of here."
56
"Little Bucky come back and bit you right on the ass, didn't he?"
The shepherd leered at Jack, who was sitting on the ground in no condition to
respond. The first kick had nailed him in the stomach and knocked the wind right
out of him. That came after the shepherd had dragged him out of the pickup.
Other kicks to the back, chest, legs, and head had followed, along with a
vicious punch to his jaw that had loosened a molar and finally landed him on his
butt about twenty feet from the truck.
Now he hugged his aching ribs, which competed with his aching back for most of
his attention. The shepherd staggered sideways as he tried to straighten out
what looked like a length of wire he'd pulled from the rear pocket of his filthy
jeans.
Christ, that asshole's strong, but Jack could also tell that the shepherd was
drunk and definitely had trouble standing up straight. He'd mumbled something
about tying him up, which no doubt explained whatever he was doing with that
wire. But Jack knew he would resist this to the death because he had no
intention of letting this scummy shepherd wire his hands and feet together so he
could slowly torture him over some dead dog and a stupid lamb. At least the
woolly critter had finally shut up. Thank God. Maybe it was dead too. They're
just animals, for Christ's sakes. But Jack could see there would be no reasoning
with Mr. Personality.
The shepherd lurched forward, and Jack flinched.
"Put your hands behind your back." Or words to that effect. The alcohol had
tangled up his tongue.
Sweet Jesus, here we go. Jack's entire boy washed with adrenaline because
this...this he would not do.
"Why?" His voice cracked and he sounded as if he was whining. He hated himself
for this.
"Why?" The shepherd repeated Jack's question with considerably more force,
despite his drunken state. " 'Cause I want you that way. Hands back here. Come
on, come on."
Incredibly, he gestured impatiently at Jack, like a tired cop about to cuff some
miscreant. He even prodded him with his foot. Jack wanted to snap it right off
his leg.
The shepherd moved behind him, and when Jack felt him reach for his hands he
twisted around, lunged for his legs, and managed to tackle him. He flushed with