Her head bobbed and I couldn’t tell if she nodded in agreement or shook out a vigorous no.
The rat climbed from the bag and fell over the side before scrambling to its pink feet. Its balance was off, and it was clearly groggy but slowly finding its way back to the land of the living. It sniffed first at the bag, then the bowl, then Mrs. Carter’s belly button, its little snout disappearing before poking back up.
“There’s our little friend.” The rat scuttled around the edge of the bowl. “I think my son may be right. That gag is making it difficult to breathe, so I’m going to remove it to give you a chance to catch your breath. I’d also like you to answer a simple question, one that could put an end to all of this if you’re honest with me. Would you like that?”
This time, Mrs. Carter most definitely nodded.
Father considered this, then leaned in close, his lips pressed against her ear. “Was your husband sleeping with my wife?” The words came out in a hush, barely audible from where I stood.
Mrs. Carter’s eyes went wide, staring back at him. Father reached for the gag and pulled the cloth from her mouth. She spat out the wadded-up piece of cloth lodged in her mouth and gasped up the air, as if she had been submerged for hours. “Get that thing off of me!” she shouted. She bucked again, but it did little good. Her torso moved no more than an inch before the bindings snapped her back. She craned her neck but couldn’t raise her head enough to see what was going on.
I could see, though. I could see plenty.
The rat was coming around fast, shaking off the sleepy time and finding its sea legs. If rats were capable of suffering a panic attack, I was fairly confident this furry wonder had one in its immediate future. It circled the edge of the bowl, its twitchy little nose pressed to the space where the plastic met Mrs. Carter’s skin, pausing every few steps to inspect the plastic before returning to the perimeter search. The rat circled the bowl again, then again, each pass more frantic than the last.
“Oh boy, I think he may be claustrophobic. What do you think, champ?”
I nodded. “He sure is, Father! Look at him go! He’s getting angry!”
“None of God’s creatures enjoy captivity. Doesn’t matter if it’s a worm, a rodent, or the strongest of men. You lock up a living creature, even if you fill its cage with the most delectable of treats and a comfy place to rest its head, it’ll want to get out. This little bugger will tunnel right on through our dear neighbor for a shot at freedom. Can you imagine that? A hole running right through the middle of her. I bet it wouldn’t even kill her, at least not for a little while. I once witnessed a man live three days with a gunshot wound through his gut—I swear if the light caught it right, you could see clear through. Of course, this hole will be much bigger, so I don’t expect her to live on for days, but I bet twenty or thirty minutes wouldn’t be out of the question.” He shivered. “Can you imagine the pain of something like that? A hole as big as a man’s fist.” He raised his own fist and held it above her.
Mrs. Carter pulled at her bonds and kicked her feet with what little play in the rope she had, though this only made the rat more agitated. “Please get it away from me! Please! I’ll tell you whatever you want!”
Father leaned back in close. “The question I asked you was simple enough, but maybe in all the excitement you forgot or didn’t quite hear me, so I’ll repeat it—was your husband sleeping with my wife?”
Mrs. Carter shook her head. “No! No, no, no!”
Father gave me a wink. “What do you think, champ? Is she being honest with us or spinning a little untruth?”
“Ahh!” Mrs. Carter screamed, her eyes bulging and her face going flush.
I looked down at the rat. It had taken the tiniest of bites at the corner of Mrs. Carter’s belly button. Not enough to draw blood, but certainly enough to bring on the red and puffy. His head was raised and his little mouth twitched as he sampled his findings the way one might assess a fine wine.
Father clapped his hands, and the creature turned up to him, forgetting about his meal for a moment or two. “The little bugger is getting hungry. And he’s got a hankering for flesh. That sure is a good sign! I bet you must taste sweet—just the right amount of tender and tang.”
“You’re fucking nuts!” Mrs. Carter blurted out. She was gasping for breath again. Removing the gag was a good call. She surely would have passed out by now if Father left it in place.
“Please, get it off of me,” she said, tears streaming down her face. “I answered your fucking question, now get it off.”
“Language, my dear, language.”
“I’ll do whatever you want. I’ll tell you anything, just please—”
The rat bit down on her an instant before she howled the ugliest of screams. This time the rodent didn’t hesitate. Unlike the first bite, which had simply been exploratory, this one was driven purely by hunger. Father was right—the little critter had developed a taste for flesh. He took a quarter-inch chunk out of her abdomen. I stared in awe as the spot first turned pink, then red, then filled with blood.
“Oooh!” Father crooned. “Now we’ve got a ball game.”
Mrs. Carter gripped the sides of the cot, her fingers white as she tugged at the frame. She sucked in a gulp of air. I had heard the expression bulging eyes before, but until this instant I had never witnessed such a thing. Her eyes were bulging, though; they really did look as if they might pop right out of her head.
Then Father noticed the glass of water.
“Champ, watch this.” He tipped the glass and spilled the littlest of water drops on the bowl. It dripped down the side and pooled where the plastic met her skin. Not even a second passed before the rat sensed the water—it jumped from the opposite side of the little cage and shoved its snout at the edge of the bowl. It couldn’t reach the water, though—Father had taped the makeshift dome thoroughly in place. This seemed to frustrate the rat, and it began to dig, tiny claws slicing at Mrs. Carter’s belly with little concern for the woman’s screams. And scream she did. I thought the bite was bad, but—
Father ruffled my hair. “How’s that for fun!” Turning back to Mrs. Carter: “You see, Lisa, I know she’s been going over to your house, sometimes for hours at a time, and she comes home stinking of sex. She comes home stinking with the filth of sex, and she smiles at me as if nothing were wrong, as if she did nothing wrong. Well, we both know that’s not true, don’t we? I think we both know what’s going on here. When she killed him, she wasn’t trying to protect you, she was trying to protect herself. Am I right?”
I don’t think Mrs. Carter heard him. She drew breath in long, lingering gasps. Each one made wet, slurping noises as the air mixed with the tears and snot clogging her throat. Her eyes were fixed on the ceiling; she didn’t see me or Father at all anymore.