Hush (14 page)

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