". . . had been home, Officer, I might have done something. It might not have happened."

(Sure.) ". . . wish to sign as a Conscientious Objector?"

". . . opposed to violence of any kind?"

". . . would not raise a hand to protect your ..."

". . . could not kill another human being."

". . . never had no b.a.l.l.s ..."

Thoughts, Words. His brother's face. Billy Sylvester smiling, taking his lunch money . . . using a candy wrapper off the yard to pick up dogs.h.i.t . . , "Smile when he eats it, p.u.s.s.y."

His own face. Smiling an insane Sardonicus grin. p.i.s.s running down his leg.

All the images of the past, all the terrors and fears and excuses of a lifetime came tumbling out of Montgomery's subconscious and rolled down the stairs of his memory and came to rest in an unceremonious heap.

He was trembling when he put the last items in the cart and rolled it to the checkout counter.

"You okay, son?" Pop asked. "You look peaked."

"Coming down with (the lack of b.a.l.l.s blues) some kind of cold probably."

"Time of year for it. Weather changes so d.a.m.n much. Rain one minute, dry the next. Cold then warm."

"How much?"

"Let's see." Pop tallied it up on an ancient cash register. "Thirty dollars and twenty-three cents . . . don't take no checks from outa town. Nothing personal."

"Understand." Montgomery took out his wallet, gave Pop three tens, dug the change from his pants pocket.

Montgomery took the bags, one under each arm, and started out.

"Come back."

"Will do."

On the way to his car he thought: Why have all these things so long buried, all these fears, suddenly come out of their graves to rattle their chains? What's with all this internal conflict? It was as if it had lain in ambush all this time, waiting for a good time to strike.

To hit him while he was down.

Well, he wasn't going to let stupid, insane fears from the subconscious ruin his life. This was the twentieth century. Man was civilized and no longer needed to carry a big club and beat his chest and spurt his enemy's blood.

My G.o.d, just a few years back there had been Woodstock. The Age of Aquarius.

A time of social enlightenment.

And a time of wars, riot and hate.

And let's not forget that not too long back a nasty little personal thing happened.

Your wife got raped.

All right, all right, it happened. It's bad. We'll get over it. But what can I do besides comfort and help Becky along? Christ, I'm not a caped crusader. I'm just an ordinary man whose wife was unlucky enough to get raped. That's all, I'm just unlucky . .

And a coward.

". . . never had no b.a.l.l.s, Monty."

Montgomery put the groceries in the back of the Rabbit and got in. The old man, Pop, was standing outside the store with an RC in his hand, leaning against the building, sipping slowly, watching.

Does he know I'm a coward? Can you smell it on a person? Is there truly such a thing as the smell of fear?

Montgomery cranked up the car, looked back at Pop and smiled. The old man lifted his RC in friendly salute.

Waving at Pop, Montgomery pulled onto the blacktop, not looking back to see if the old man had returned the gesture.

A chill shook him, seeped down to the very core of his existence. With a twist of his shoulders, he tried to throw it off, but it remained.

You're going crackers, he thought. Crackers. You're not responsible for what happened.

You weren't there. If you had been, things might have been different, (clear as a bell, the vision of Billy Sylvester smashing the dog t.u.r.d in his brother's face) might not have happened.

All blood under the bridge now. Forget it.

Said softly to himself: "There is nothing to fear. Nothing to fear. Nothing to fear at all."

But the chill did not leave him.

NINE.

Becky read Cosmopolitan all of five minutes before she tossed it against the wall.

Its pages fluttered noisily and colorfully before striking the floor like a dead bird.

Once, that magazine of near-exposed b.r.e.a.s.t.s, chic fashion and advice had seemed so mature, worldly, modern and entertaining. Now it seemed little more than a three-hundred-page advertis.e.m.e.nt for s.e.x and its trappings.

s.e.x.

If there was one thing she was not interested in, it was s.e.x. No, thank you very much, it's yucky, get it off my plate. No, she was dead to that. Did not want any man touching her body in any manner- friendly or otherwise. Even Monty's hands, once familiar travelers on her personal terrain, seemed to crawl over her flesh like slimy worms. His body, close to her at night while they slept, the touch of it was reptilian or rather what the word had come to represent, something repulsive, frightening and evil.

She wondered if her repugnance to Monty's touch was merely because of the rape, an act of man, a gender to which he belonged. Or was it something deeper? Some bacterialike culture that had existed all along and was just now at the height of its gestation. His cowardice? Could it be that?

Had the rape caused her to look at Monty in a new light?

She had grown up in a "sophisticated" environment; grown up thinking the measure of a man was not in the bulge of his bicep or the heat of his temper. And certainly that still held true. But perhaps this modern concept sometimes went too far, was used by men like Monty to cover up their weaknesses. The old "I've got nothing to prove" might have an addition, "and I'm glad of it, because I'm scared to death."

Grinning to herself, she thought: If my old sociology professor (also Monty's) could hear me now. He'd label me a cultural throwback, a sociological r.e.t.a.r.d.

Yet, why had she cheered when she'd read about a woman and her children being attacked by three men in broad daylight (even while a large number of "modern men"

watched) and along comes this 240-pound truck driver who immediately attacked all three bare-handed?

Cheered even more when she read that he had broken the arm of one. Ruptured another.

Shattered the last one's jaw.

All this while a group of "modern men," "civilized men," had watched in gape-jawed stupidity. She made herself a cup of instant coffee and tried to put such thoughts out of her mind. She was being far too harsh on Monty and she knew it. But she knew that at the bottom of it all, there was more than just a little truth to her feelings.

After a few sips of the coffee, she realized that it was not what she had wanted after all.

She looked out the window. It was beautiful. The day was turning out fine.

October and seventy degrees, and it had been fairly chilly just an hour ago.

It wasn't going to be a day for worry and introspection. It was a day to be outside, to be warmed by the rays of the sun.

She poured the coffee in the sink, went back to pick up the Cosmopolitan,, straightened its damaged pages, placed it on the table and went outside.

A gentle wind blew across the lake, billowed her loose sweatshirt and baggy pants (she had not been able to wear anything tight since the rape; reminded her too much of her s.e.xuality, made her feel vulnerable), whipped her hair.

There were a lot of birds about, flittering from one tree to another, chirping, celebrating the warmth of a late fall day.

There was a squirrel out by the little storage house, quietly nibbling on something, but keeping a wary eye on Becky's progress.

Becky stooped to one knee, made a clucking sound at the squirrel and held out her hand, absently running thumb and forefinger together.

The squirrel wasn't having any of that s.h.i.t. It hadn't stopped its nibbling, but it was giving Becky a suspicious eye.

Becky rose to a half-crouch, moved toward the squirrel, still making the clucking noise, still working thumb and forefinger together.

The squirrel allowed her to get within six feet before turning and darting up a pine, the morsel still in its mouth. Halfway up the tree it stopped, leaned out, held only by its remarkable claws, and looked down. It made a sudden chittering sound, then, like a jet, it was gone; a brown flash lost among evergreen pine needles.

Becky smiled wryly. Smart little b.a.s.t.a.r.d, aren't you? Well, have it your way.

She turned, started back toward the house, but stopped at the shed. Exploring its interior just might give her something to do, something to keep her mind off things. Eva had said there was a key hidden in a magnetic key box, attached beneath the metal steps.

She had told Becky that there was fishing equipment and tools stored in there. Neither were particularly interesting to her, but it was something to do. Becky groped beneath the steps for the key box.

" gonna cut her c.u.n.t out ..."

She stood upright. What the h.e.l.l was that? Oh G.o.d, not again. She could feel the sweat running down her face and neck. Oh please ". . . ram it all the wag up her a.s.s ..."

not again. She stood with her teeth clenched, silence inside her head.

The pines whispered. The lake gurgled. She bent once again to the steps, found the key box. Put the rusted key in the lock ". . . wanta be first..."

turned it, pulled the lock loose ". . . up her a.s.s ..."

and went inside. The tin shed was hot, cluttered. There were a few tools: hoes, shovels, an axe, a hammer, a saw. There were some long plastic rod and reel cases hung on the wall.

That made her think of something Dean had said: "It's isolated up there, but people around those parts are honest. Why, we've had that stuff up there for the past three years. Safe as it can be. Wouldn't be nothing to snapping that old rusty padlock if they took a mind to."

For some reason she could not explain, that memory struck a note of fear in her, something important that she couldn't quite put together. It was all too vague . . . too symbolic.

". . . ram it all the way up her a.s.s . . ."

In the corner of the shed she saw something she couldn't quite put a name to, but it was familiar ". . . ram it. . ."

her brother had owned one of those awful things, back when she lived in Gladewater. She could remember them taunting her with it, and with what they had collected between its metal jaws. It was a frog gig. A spring-c.o.c.ked device that snapped ". . . all the way up her a.s.s . . . "

together on an unsuspecting frog-a device for acquiring frog legs. In the case of her brother, a device for inflicting torture on the harmless creatures . . . and then using it to chase her around, sometimes with the poor frog still squirming between the sharp claws, struggling with painful futility.

". . . isolated up there ..."

She backed out of the shed as if the gig were something alive. The mere sight of it ". . . up her a.s.s ..."

made her want to vomit. Trembling, she replaced the padlock and returned the key to the box beneath the steps, got away from there quick.

She turned toward the lake, walked out to the dock, hoping somehow the sight of the calm lake would calm her as well.

Potpourri thoughts gathered, flapped like bats in her skull. She could not shake them.

". . . cut her c.u.n.t out..."

". . . all the way up . . ."

". . . be first..."

". . . isolated up there ..."

". . . all the way up her a.s.s ..."

Becky sat down on the dock suddenly, placed her hands over her ears.

No good. Voices bounced around in her head; racquetball game of voices.

Images now: Dock gone. Lake gone. Trees gone. Sky turning dark.

She stood in darkness, alone, among the pines. No! Not alone. Something was there with her. Shadows. Shadows that moved among the tree trunks, scuffled across the dry leaves and rust-colored pine needles.