Hush (37 page)

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