9
RATS IN THE well would make Ackroyd a sick man, but a dead cat in the well would make him something worse, especially when he found out it was his own cat.
Upending the bag, Pomeroy dropped the three rats beside the trail, then shoved the empty bag into his back pocket and started to climb back down, anxious not to move too fast and scare the cat. Then he stopped, thought again, and went back up after one of the two freshly dead rats, which he picked up by the tail, nearly gagging at the rubbery feel of the rat tail pressed between his fingers.
He went back down, smiling in the cat’s direction, holding the rat visible. The cat watched him, its tail flicking back and forth now. Pomeroy took the bag out of his back pocket with his free hand, although he wasn’t quite sure what to do with it. He had killed small animals before by putting them into a plastic bag, then shoving the mouth of the bag over the exhaust pipe of a car. The carbon monoxide put them right out. It was very humane.
A live cat would tear the bag to shreds, though. He looked around for something to hit it with. He didn’t like the idea of the animal suffering. There was nothing close by, and he didn’t want to go looking for something. The cat would get away.
He decided just to grab it by the tail and slam it into the wall of the house. That would stun it long enough for him to get it up the hill and drown it in the water tank. The cat wouldn’t suffer at all that way.
Pomeroy spoke to it, dropping the bag and flexing the fingers of his right hand. He laid the rat carefully on the wooden porch, and the cat batted at it with its paw, as if it wanted the rat to get up and run.
“That’s right,” Pomeroy said softly. And then, quick as a snake, he grabbed the cat’s tail and spun around toward the house, snatching the cat up off the porch. Surprisingly, the cat retracted, balling itself up, latching on to his forearm with its claws. Then there was the sharp, hot pain of teeth fixed into his bicep as the cat scrabbled up his shirt, clawing the sleeve to ribbons.
Pomeroy trod backward across the porch, stepping on the rat, trying to yank the frenzied cat away from his neck and face. The creature sank its teeth into his hand, lacerating the soft skin of his palm, and when he tried to fling it away, it held on long enough to tear out a piece of flesh. Then it let go and dropped, somersaulted forward, and raced away into the underbrush.
He held his fist closed. His whole hand throbbed. The rat’s head was crushed where he’d stepped on it, but he forced himself to pick it up anyway, by the tail again. He grabbed the bag off the ground with the same hand and walked stiffly back toward the trail to the water tank. Blood trickled down his forearm from the scratches, but it was the bite that ached, and he could feel blood leaking out of his closed fist onto the edge of his hand.
Next time he’d be ready for the cat.
After climbing back up the hillside, he located the other two rats, forced himself to pick them up, and then had to put them down again to push back the little trapdoor in the lid of the steel tank. He put his lacerated hand into the icy water, flexed it, and gasped when the cold pain lanced up his arm. He pulled his hand out, closed his fist again, and dropped the rats into the tank one by one before pushing the door shut.
He tucked the bag into his pocket and started down, holding on to roots and branches with his free hand to steady himself. There was no sign of the cat anywhere, but he bent over to pick up a grapefruit-sized rock just in case it showed its face. When he straightened up, there was a woman not twenty feet in front of him, walking on the road.
“Linda!” Pomeroy gasped. His throat constricted and for a moment he was afraid he would pass out. Then he saw that he was wrong. It wasn’t Linda. Same blond hair, tall. Jesus, same build. It was her mouth, too, the full lips …
For a moment he allowed himself to imagine that it was Linda, and he pictured her alone in her bedroom, unhurriedly sorting through the things in an open dresser drawer. Now she had come to him alone ljke this, out of the forest, having finally noticed him, understood him. He would forgive her, and together they would go into the trees….
Now that she was closer he could see a certain suspicion in the woman’s eyes, and he smiled brightly at her and nodded.
“Haven’t seen Mr. Ackroyd this morning, have you?” he asked. Before she could answer he said, “My name’s Adams. Henry Adams.” He almost shoved his hand out for her to shake, but his palm was slick with blood again. He dropped the rock behind his back. She seemed to have visibly relaxed when he mentioned Ackroyd’s name. Thank God she hadn’t been standing there two minutes ago when he was dropping rats into the water tank.
Or had she?
He stopped himself from turning to look at the tank.
“Name’s Beth,” she said.
She looked so much like Linda that he nearly couldn’t trust himself to speak. He had never had a chance to explain himself, his love for her. Beth—her name filled his mind.
Then he realized that she was looking at him uneasily, and he made himself smile again. “I was just thinking that I knew you,” he said. “You remind me of … of a woman I knew once.”
“I’ve got a common face,” she said. “What happened to your hand? It’s bleeding like crazy. My boyfriend’s place is right up the road. He’s got a first-aid kit. You ought to put some hydrogen peroxide on that and bandage it up.”
“Naw,” Pomeroy said. He was pretty sure why she had mentioned the boyfriend. She was attracted to him, but was a little too modest to be open about it. She just wanted a little space at first, and that was all right.
Or maybe she had seen him up on the hill, and was threatening him with the boyfriend. He tried to read her face, looking deeply into her eyes. He couldn’t see any suspicion there, or any fear. She trusted him.
“I tried to pet Mr. Ackroyd’s cat,” he said, opening his hand now, “but the darned thing took a swipe at me. First time that’s happened. We’re old friends.”
She nodded. “You ought to have someone look at it, old friends or not. Cat scratches as deep as those are dangerous.”
“My car’s just up the road,” Pomeroy said, falling in beside her and heading toward where the Thunderbird sat at the turnout. “I’ve got a first-aid kit in the trunk. Maybe you could help?” He looked her over, his eyes stopping for a moment on her breasts. She glanced at him and he pulled his eyes away, embarrassed. “Where you headed?”
“Just out walking,” she said.
“Like a ride somewhere?” He could sense that she understood him, or at least would be open to the idea of … He couldn’t define it too clearly. He wondered if she lived nearby, maybe in one of the isolated houses out here in the canyon.
“No, thank you. I’m headed up toward the ridge, actually. I like to walk. Walking gives me time to think.”
He considered asking her to drive his car for him. He could plead cat bite, say he was feeling shaky. But maybe it would be too much too soon. “What’s your sign?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” she said. “I think it’s neon.”
Pomeroy laughed. He liked that, a woman who could joke. He had worked hard to develop his sense of humor. That was invaluable for a salesman. It was a very human thing, a sense of humor, and was attractive to people.
“You live out here?” he asked.
“No,” she said. “My boyfriend does.”
“How about you? Where do you live?” He pictured her in a small house, lace curtains, far enough from the prying eyes of neighbors so that she wasn’t fastidious about her privacy. He wondered what her habits were when she was alone. Linda had been very free when she thought she was alone, very uninhibited.
“Locally,” she said.
They were at the Thunderbird now, and he opened the trunk and took out the first-aid kit he carried. The canyon was full of hazards—snakes and animals. He liked to be prepared. It was the boy scout in him.
Beth dabbed the cut with a gauze pad soaked in liquid from a little spray can of antiseptic. The bite was ragged and deep, but the bleeding had nearly stopped. She covered his palm with another pad, fixed it in place with tape, and then wrapped his hand with a strip of gauze bandage.
Pomeroy barely noticed the throbbing in his hand now. Her face was close to his—closer than Linda’s had ever been. Beth trusted him. She cared about him, for him. He cocked his head and smiled at her, putting his whole heart into it.
She stepped away. “There you go,” she said. “You still ought to see a doctor. Bacterial infections are pretty common in cat bites.”
He nodded. “I will. Thanks. You know, it’s a pleasure to meet a beautiful woman out walking like this. Quite a surprise. Sure I can’t drop you somewhere?”
“Very sure,” she said. “Thanks for asking.”
Near the parked Thunderbird she stepped off the road and onto a trail that angled down toward the creek. He could see that it wound away upward on the other side, and there was a cut in the steep mountainside where the trail lost itself in the brush. Pomeroy unlocked the car, and got in, watching her as she crossed the creek. Almost at once she was lost from view. He should have gone along with her. She would have enjoyed his company.
He started the engine, certain that he would see her again. Synchronicity had brought them together. He could sense it. This was meant to happen, to make up for … for what had happened before.
The cat bite throbbed worse than ever. Beth had been right about seeing a doctor. That had been good advice. He would keep an eye on his hand. Right now, though, he had a couple of other things to do.
He smelled dead rats and realized that the plastic bag was still tucked into his pants pocket. So he wound down the window and threw it out before driving away west, toward civilization. Things were going well. Even the damned cat bite had paid out. He grinned suddenly, anticipating his phone conversation with Lance Klein.