By Patti D. Thomas (1966 words)

That can’t be Paul. He’s working. And why would he be here? I must still be groggy from whatever they used to drug me. Muted voices outside seized Lucy’s attention. The only light in the shed was from a low-wattage bare bulb hanging from a cord. Looking around she saw the nearest window was cracked open a sliver at the bottom. She butt-scooted closer and carefully rose to her knees, staying to one side of the dirty pane of glass.

“Hey, buddy. How they hangin’?” Shaking her head, Lucy couldn’t believe her ears. It was her husband’s voice but not his words. A successful attorney, Paul was intelligent, educated, and articulate. Even around his friends, he rarely used profanity and became uncomfortable when anyone else did. He’d always professed to detest macho sexual jokes.

Another man whose voice Lucy couldn’t quite place responded with a low chuckle. “They’re sure hanging tighter with you here, baby.” Muffled laughter followed, along with short groans. 

 Suddenly a hand tightly gripped Lucy’s throat. It took her a full minute to realize it was her own. Jesus, this can’t be happening! The walls tilted and her vision blurred. She forced herself to stop hyper-ventilating by using Lamaze breathing techniques. “Urgent work matters” caused Paul to miss several classes. Now she questioned whether the late night meetings had all been secret liaisons with other men. How could I not know this after six years together?

Lucy had always been incredulous about the Secret Life episodes on a popular TV psychologist show. Over cocktails B.E. (“before Eleanor” as she called that free and easy time), she and her co-workers laughed over the stupidity of the wives who missed what were surely obvious signs of their husbands’ crazy behavior. 

“I know, right?” Amanda said one evening, “Like I wouldn’t miss $20,000 from our account that Mike’s spending on hookers and gambling, especially since I do all our banking!”

After her second martini, Sarah suddenly turned to Lucy and, stifling hiccups, said, “Oh, honey! I just thought of something. You know all those ‘late nights’ Paul has to work? He’s probably dressing up in drag and parading down a catwalk in a gay bar!”

They all laughed uproariously at the image of Paul trading in his three-piece suits for a red sequined gown and huge blonde wig. 

Now, sitting on the shed floor, she felt like an idiot. Paul takes care of all the banking. I don’t even know how much he makes. He gives me a generous allowance each month for anything Eleanor needs and—panic hit her like a sledge hammer. Jumping to her feet, Lucy threw herself at the door, shoving it open. Over her richocheting thoughts, she hadn’t heard the rain. The torrential sheets coming down caused her to gasp and look skyward.

“What the fuck?” Paul cried. “Lucy! What are you doing in there?”

Again, Lucy struggled to re-focus. The two men stood, water running from Paul’s stylish leather hat and the other man’s umbrella. In the faint light and his collar pulled up, she suddenly realized he was one of the men from the writers’ retreat. She quickly scrolled through a mental list of the single men, but no one fit his height and frame.

Paul wore the long oilskin coat which she’d always loved because of the way the cape made his broad shoulders even broader. Now she wished she had her gardening claw so she could rake his face with it. 

“What am I doing here? Are you serious? This raggedy-ass place is where you sent me! The question is what are you doing here? And where is our daughter? Where is Eleanor?” The rain let up a bit and a full moon shone through a break in the clouds.

“Eleanor’s fine, Lucy. You know I would never do anything to hurt our baby,” Paul stood with his palms up.

“Oh, gee, Paul, sorry if I insulted you. But I just eavesdropped on you and your little boyfriend here. So I don’t have any fucking idea who you are and what kind of person you are. Other than a fraud and a liar, that is.”

“Let’s get out of this rain,” Paul said abruptly. Before she could respond, he ran past her into the open door of the shed. Folding his umbrella, the other man followed. As he hurried past her, Lucy finally realized his identity.

Stunned, she reluctantly followed them. God, someone tell me this is a nightmare.      

From only a few feet away, now in the light, the truth was undeniable. 

“Peter!” her voice reached a pitch only dogs could hear. “Wha-what about Jane?”

“Well, what about you, my dear?” he had the gall to smile and gesture dramatically, as if the whole scene was somehow amusing. “Those of us with certain—how shall we say, predilections—must have our cover stories, mustn’t we?”

“Cover stories? Is that all I am? For six years—” 

“Sorry to interrupt, but Lucy, in answer to your question, Ellie is with mom and dad’s housekeeper, Jasmine. Well, of course, you know Jasmine. She’s very sweet and loves children.”

Why does he seem so damn calm? He’s just gotten caught red-handed as a pathological liar and acts like it’s just another day.

Lucy stepped back against the wall and allowed herself to slide down, ignoring the splinters poking through her clothes. Once she was on the floor and leaning against the wall,  she stretched her legs out in front of her. Her breath came out in puffs from the cold, but now that she knew her daughter was safe, she allowed the emotional wave to wash over her.

“Why are you here, Paul?” she asked wearily.

From a corner of the shed, Peter found a stool and a rickety old chair. He arranged them across from Lucy. 

“I couldn’t get through to Peter on the phone because of the storm. We had…some important business to discuss. It couldn’t wait, so I drove up.” He stated this as if it made perfect sense and was a completely logical response.

Lucy surprised the two men by laughing. She dropped her head forward and covered her face, laughing uncontrollably. When she finally looked up, she was grinning. A skittering sound in the rafters caused her to squint into the darkness above. Rats, no doubt.

“I guess you’re more his type than I am, huh Petey-boy? Peter and Paul. How very Biblical of you.”

“Actually, darling, before I met your handsome husband through his law firm, you would have been more my type. I’m very fluid in my tastes, you see. Jane has her friends and I have mine. As I shared with my fellow writers this weekend, I am a connoisseur of life, a bon vivant.” 

“You’re full of shit.” 

At that, Paul laughed heartily. “Well, she’s got you there, Peter, I must say.”

“So, boys,” the vitriol in her voice made Paul grimace, “What happens now? Clearly, there’s no reason for me to stay here any longer.” She looked at Paul, now casually resting his hand on Peter’s leg, as if they were all friends sitting around a living room, chatting.

The men exchanged looks, and Peter raised his eyebrows.

“Your wifey has a point, Paul. Obviously, the roads are clear enough for you to get through.”

Paul held up one arm and did a bicep curl. “I am strong, like ox!” he said in a bad Russian accent. 

Loud snorting made them jerk their heads toward the door. Before they could get to their feet, the door flung open. The girl, Jennifer, pointed a shotgun at the men. Behind her was Ed Tremayne, waving a pistol. God, he’s hot, thought Lucy. Kind of like an older James Bond. Why, if I wasn’t married, I’d…oh wait a minute…

Charging past the two humans came Wilbur and his cousin. Once Paul was on the floor, Wilbur stood on his chest, happily chewing on a mouthful of oilskin. A few feet away, the other boar licked dripping blood from the side of Peter’s face. One tusk had a red smear. The whites of Peter’s eyes now dominated the lovely blue that had been directed at Lucy’s husband. Both men had exchanged their arrogant smirks for grimaces of terror.

“I overhead enough of a conversation up at the house to learn you were here, Lucy,” Ed spoke with confidence. “Still don’t understand the whole scheme, but twenty years as a Navy SEAL taught me to read between the lines.”

He nodded to Jennifer. “Jen, I got this. Can you find us some rope?”

The girl spun and ran out the door, coming back only a minute later with several coils of rope of various thicknesses. When Ed looked impressed, she smiled proudly. “Hey, it’s a farm! Pigs, we got. Shotguns, we got. Rope, we definitely got.” 

Jen called off the pigs and kept the shotgun pointed at the men until Ed was finished hog-tying them. How appropriate, Lucy thought. Even from where she stood, she could see the ropes were tight. The men couldn’t move an inch. She smiled.

Into the shed stepped Charles. “Oh, hey,” feigning shock. Chuck may have been a great cop, but he was no actor. “What’s going on here?”

“Change of plans,” Peter got out before Ed shoved a balled-up bandana into his mouth.

“Margaux knows about Peter and me! Don’t let her talk!” Paul got out before Ed could get his gag in place. 

“I’m going back to the house and talk with the others. Jen, you keep an eye on these two until I get back?” 

“No problem, sir!” she snapped her boots together and offered a crisp salute.

Before he left, Ed pulled a revolver from a chest holster and gave Lucy a quick lesson. “This one’s a cinch, really. Remove the safety right here,” he demonstrated, “And you’re ready to rock and roll. Got it?”

Lucy smiled into his deep brown eyes. She spoke softly, aware she was flirting, she spoke softly, “No problem, sir.”

The pigs looked sleepy after all the excitement. Jen rolled in a wheelbarrow full of fresh straw for them to bed down in, along with a thick blanket.

“They’ll be fine here until Ed returns. You can lay with them if you want, Lucy. They like to be sung to.” She spread the straw in the opposite corner from where the men lay tied. Peter was asleep and snoring. Next to him, Paul’s face was furious, teeth grinding into the cloth in his mouth. 

Jen settled into the old chair, shotgun resting across her lap.

As Lucy unfolded the blanket, both pigs stretched out on their sides and were dozing instantly. The same skittering sound she’s heard earlier, now closer, made her search the near-darkness. A tiny creature scrambled up her blanket-covered legs and into her lap. She didn’t bother to swipe it away. What the Hell is a mouse going to do to me after what I’ve already gone through tonight?

Wilbur began twitching and grunting in his sleep, soft worried squeaks. Lucy turned on her side and stroked his cheek, humming. He sighed and calmed a little.

“Hush, little piggy, don’t you cry, momma’s gonna sing you a lullaby…” Behind her, she felt Wilbur’s cousin scoot so that his back pushed firmly against her own. Lucy looked across the shed at Jennifer. The girl’s head rested against the wall, but one foot moved in time with Lucy’s singing.

As Lucy and the pigs fell into a deep slumber, a small fur-and feather-covered mound made its way from Lucy to Wilbur until it was perched on the pig’s wide cheek. 

Into his ear, Mowly whispered, “Rest softly, my friend. Quiet, piggy, quiet.