The Hush Read online

  An empty clearing.

  No cold.

  But he knew where the nothing had gone, and it was to the trail that led south.

  Boyd was on the trail south.

  His friend.

  Pulling himself up, Kirkpatrick felt the battle inside, a great war between the man he’d been and the one he’d just become. He wanted to warn his friend, and wanted to run away. So great was the conflict, he actually whimpered, and that was the sound that decided him. He staggered to the southern trail, and onto it. Right foot. He would break. Left foot. He would fail.

  He ran when Boyd started screaming.

  The run took him along the trail, and the weakness disappeared. He was James Kirkpatrick, who’d never backed down or quit or lost a fight. So joyful was he in the rediscovery of self that he didn’t feel the trail under his feet or the air that tore down his throat. He was a man, goddamn it, and his friend was afraid or hurt or dying. So he ran harder, faster. He covered the half mile in minutes, then rounded a bend in the trail and felt it break against him—everything he knew, everything he’d dreamed himself to be.

  The clearing was a slash of switchgrass and mud, and water so burnished and black, it was metal. In the air above that water, the nothing had nailed his friend to an invisible cross. He hung in the air, arms out and stretched tight, his legs equally bound. And though no thing touched Boyd—no nails or wood or wire—Kirkpatrick would swear until death that his friend was crucified. Blood welled from his palms and feet. His eyes wept the same red tears. He hung ten feet above the water, screaming beneath whatever pressure unhinged his sockets and twisted his bones. Kirkpatrick looked for the nothing; couldn’t find it. He saw mud, a rifle, the corpse of a gut-shot boar.

  “William.”

  His hands opened and closed.

  “William, my God.”

  Boyd heard him the second time. The screaming stopped; the jaw worked. “Kill it.…”

  Blood ran from his eyes and dripped off his chin.

  “James, kill it.”

  Kirkpatrick stooped for the rifle, and in the weight of it found the will to work the bolt and feed a cartridge into the chamber. He looked for the nothing, but the nothing found him first. Water rippled, and a shimmer parted the grass. Cold came with it, and with the cold, a face. A stroke of nothing made the smile. Gray holes were the eyes, and in the eyes was a darkness that moved and mocked and knew. It knew the child he’d been, all the regrets and fears and hidden failures. It dredged out the truth of his mother’s death, that it wasn’t the cancer that killed her, but a vomit-stained pillow and the strong hands of her only son. It knew how he’d wanted her to die, and dreaded it, how she’d begged and soiled herself, and how the bare-knuckle fight that followed was not about respect or money, but the horror of killing his mother, and of being alone in such a dim and shabby world.

  “No.”

  The rifle slipped from nerveless fingers. He’d hated her, and loved her. She’d asked him to do it.

  But you wanted to—

  “Stop it!”

  Kirkpatrick covered his ears, but the voice was inside and sounded like the boy he’d been.

  You hated the smell of her and the sound of her and the way she touched herself when she drank—

  “Stop it! Stop it!”

  But the voice didn’t stop. It rolled through him and deepened, and there was laughter when it said, Run little boy, run.

  And that’s what James Kirkpatrick did. He ran away from his friend and his past; he ran until Boyd screamed again, and even the screams were lost; then it was his breath and his sobbing, and a voice in his head that was his alone. You’re no son, it said. You’re no kind of man, and no fucking friend, either.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Johnny knew someone was in the Hush long before he heard the shot. He felt it like a touch, and that’s how it happened sometimes: a sense of intrusion. The gunshot changed that. It gave direction, distance, certainty.

  Three miles, he thought.

  West and north.

  Bottom of the hills.

  Snatching a rifle off the wall, Johnny took off at a sprint. Barefoot in cutoff jeans, he was light and quick and, when he found the body, unwinded. Slowing when he saw it, Johnny dropped into a crouch and studied the clearing. He saw much, but felt little: heat in the blood, a gathering of flies. The body lay twisted in the shallows, part of it in the water, most of it on bruised grass. It looked wrong, he thought. How the arms bent. Looseness in the shoulders and hips. Blood made a mask of the dead man’s face, but Johnny knew him.

  William Boyd.

  He stood above the body and understood all the wrong inside: the spiral fractures and crushed organs, how he’d chewed his own tongue bloody. Johnny turned away, and was nearly sick. He’d known violence and death, but never like this; he’d never felt it like this. The man’s eyes were pulped, and his bones, in places, twisted to fragments.

  Fighting the nausea, Johnny studied the dead boar, the clearing, the prints in the dirt. Most matched the boots on Boyd’s feet, but others belonged to a heavy man with a long stride and a high arch. He’d come and gone on a game trail. Running, Johnny thought. Sprinting.

  Touching the tracks, he wondered if he should follow them or stay with the body. It was a tough question. Coyote were denned up a quarter mile east, but the wind was moving that way, and the smell of blood with it. Other carrion eaters were close, too: buzzard and possum, hawk and crow and skunk. Even in the waters, the eel were stirring. Leave Boyd too long, and he’d be as picked over and flyblown as the boar, dead beside him.

  “Shit.”

  The bigger issue landed on Johnny like a rock. William Boyd was dead on his land. That was a problem, and it left no choice. He had to follow the runner.

  Pulling Boyd from the water first, Johnny covered the man’s face and arranged the body as best he could. It would make no difference to the coyotes, but there it was.

  After that he focused on the tracks.

  They led north toward the river and were easy to follow, so that’s how Johnny moved, fluid and smooth and easy. He discovered the camp first and took the time to search it, finding ammunition and gear, but no second rifle. That meant the runner was armed, so Johnny moved with greater care. He didn’t need to catch anyone, but wanted to see the man’s face, at least.

  That was about the sheriff.

  About what would come next.

  A mile into the hills, the tracks joined the river and followed it upstream. When the water bent, Johnny cut the corner and looked down from a stone bald three hundred feet above the valley floor. He saw the man below, how he ran and fell, then dropped the rifle, snatched it up, and fell again. The next time he rose, he moved slowly and unsure, and even from the bald, Johnny saw blood on his face. He was talking to himself, or yelling. Johnny watched him follow the river until another hillside stole the view away.

  After that Johnny took his time.

  He knew where the guy was going.

  * * *

  Leon was behind the bar when he saw the white man stumble out of the brush. He was dressed to hunt, but dragged his rifle by the barrel, the stock of it hopping and skipping across the ground behind him. He appeared first from a band of river birch and wild cherry, then dropped into a gully and clambered up the other side. From a distance, he looked all kinds of wrong: the limp, the filth, the bloody skin. Leon had been drinking, so he blinked a few times to make sure of what he saw.

  Still there. Still white and walking …

  Nope.

  He fell. Got back up.

  Leon took quick stock of the bar. He had a few drinkers at the tables outside, some old-timers in the horseshoe pit. “Alvin.” He shrugged off his apron and gestured to the only person inside. “Watch the bar.”

  “What’s in it for me?”

  “Have a drink.” Leon’s eyes were on the white man as he pulled a bottle of his cheapest bourbon and put it on the bar. “Have two.”

  Leon dropped his apro
n on a counter, then cleared the bar and went outside. The sun was only a hand above the trees, but the force of it was like a hammer. Leon shaded his eyes and looked across a hundred yards of scrub.

  The man went down; stayed down. Leon sighed, then stepped out onto stony soil, checking the tree line, the river. Closer to the fallen man, he slowed, not much liking white folks or guns or trespassers. When he got close enough, he stopped. The man was facedown, barely conscious. Stooping until his knees popped, Leon pried the gun away and moved it to a safe place. When nothing happened, he rolled the man over, twitching once as the man cried out and what looked like a broken arm shifted.

  Leon said, “Hey, man. You okay?”

  He wasn’t. Cuts and scratches covered his skin; his eyes showed half-white. To Leon, he looked like a man who’d run hard through miles of rough country. His clothes were torn, his lip split. Leon put him in his fifties. Expensive watch. Expensive rifle.

  “Can you hear me? Do you have a name?” The man’s mouth moved, but the sound was thin. Leon leaned in. “Say again.”

  “Crucifixion. Crucified.”

  “You’re not making sense.”

  “He was crucified. Jesus Christ.”

  “Yeah, man, okay. Jesus was crucified.”

  Leon rocked onto his heels, thinking of problems he didn’t need.

  “Want me to call the cops?”

  That was Alvin, who’d appeared unexpectedly. Leon couldn’t hide his annoyance. “I told you to watch the bar.”

  “Yeah, but it was just two drinks.”

  Leon stood. He didn’t want cops in his place, didn’t want the questions.

  “Where’d he come from anyway?”

  “I have no idea.” Leon looked at the trees and saw movement. “Well, shit.”

  It took Johnny Merrimon three minutes to cross the same broken ground. Barefoot and shirtless, he carried a rifle, a neutral expression. “Hello, Leon.”

  Leon nodded. “I suppose you know something about this?”

  “Yeah. Maybe.”

  “Where are your clothes?”

  “I wasn’t planning to see people.”

  “Were you planning to shoot them?”

  Johnny ignored the sarcasm, stooping beside the fallen man to check his eyes, the pulse at his throat.

  Leon pointed. “Looks like he broke his arm.”

  “He took some hard falls. Has he said anything?”

  “Yeah, Jesus died on a cross. Do you know who he is?”

  “No idea.”

  “Then why were you following him?”

  Johnny straightened. “It’s complicated.”

  “A little or a lot?”

  “We’ve got this one down, and another one dead in the swamp.”

  Johnny hooked a thumb in that direction, and Leon felt the sweat go cold on his neck. He thought of history and his grandfather, how even old and half-blind he clutched his fingers on Leon’s wrist hard enough to make the boy cry. You stay out of that swamp, boy. You stay out or I’ll give you something real to cry about.

  “You okay?” Johnny asked.

  “Bad juju.”

  “Bad something.” Johnny put a hand on Leon’s shoulder. “I’ll need to use your phone.”

  * * *

  An hour later, they were gathered beneath a purple sky: the sheriff and three deputies, two paramedics, Leon, Johnny, and Clyde Hunt. Hunt’s badge meant little this far out in the county, but he and the sheriff went way back. They’d hated each other for a lot of years, then found their way to grudging respect. None of it would help Johnny when Boyd’s name came out.

  “I need to know why he was out there, tracking the victim and carrying a gun.”

  The sheriff’s voice carried to where Johnny and Leon stood. So did Clyde’s. “Listen, Willard—”

  “Don’t Willard me, Clyde. I know he’s your boy and all, but I’m not leading my men into that swamp in the dead of night based on his word alone, not without knowing more. He says a man’s dead. I’ve got no corroboration.” The sheriff gestured at the ambulance, where paramedics worked over the injured man. “He’s incoherent. We don’t even know who he is.”

  “Just hang on a second, all right.” Clyde waved over one of the paramedics. “What do we know about this guy?”

  “He’s midfifties, and fit. Most of his injuries are superficial lacerations and contusions. The arm is broken. Could have been a fall. Could have been defensive—”

  “Defensive?” the sheriff interrupted.

  “He could have fallen on a rock. Someone could have hit him. Until he talks, it’s a guessing game.”

  “Has he said anything else?”

  “Still talking about crucifixion and cold; and that’s the funny thing. He has a lesion on his face.” The paramedic touched a cheek and looked apologetic. “It sounds crazy, I know, but I think it’s frostbite.”

  “In a swamp in this heat?”

  “I’ve been doing this a long time, Sheriff. I’m pretty sure it’s frostbite.”

  The paramedic went back to the injured man. The sheriff lifted a cap, scratched his head, and looked at Johnny. “Listen, Clyde. Let’s forget my history with your stepson, okay. Even if I’d not arrested him once already, it’s hard to live in this county and not worry about his mental state. People wonder what it did to him, losing his twin sister like that, losing his dad.” He gestured at Johnny and squeezed his cap between two hands. “He lives out here alone; he’s done time. Part of me thinks he’s dangerous, and the other that he’s batshit crazy. That being said, this is where we are. So I’m asking you cop-to-cop. Can I believe what he’s telling me?”

  “If he says there’s a dead man out there, that’s what you’ll find.”

  “You’re certain?”

  “Johnny wouldn’t lie about something like that.”

  “Yeah, shit. That’s kind of what I figured. Mr. Merrimon.” He raised his voice and called Johnny over. He’d already questioned him about the body, and the answers had been typically brusque. Part of that stemmed from the bad blood between them, and part from the kid’s nature. He was unpredictable, untrusting, and he had a real hard-on about trespassers. None of that made the sheriff feel good about what had to happen next, not at the end of the day and the edge of so much blackness. “Johnny.”

  “Sheriff.”

  “Word around town is that you know the swamp like I know my own face. Is that true?”

  “It is.”

  “Could you lead me to the body?”

  “Yes.”

  “Even in the dark?”

  “In the dark with my eyes closed.”

  “Any chance a helicopter might get in there.”

  “Not if you want it to land.”

  “So you’re my only choice.”

  “If you want the body out before scavengers pick it to the bone.”

  “Christ, this just gets better and better.”

  “Actually,” Johnny said. “I think it’s about to get worse.”

  “Son.” The sheriff got angry. “If there’s something you’re not telling me, now’s the fucking time.”

  Johnny looked at his stepfather; kept his eyes there. “Can I talk to you?”

  “Clyde—”

  “Willard, give us a minute.” Clyde led Johnny away from the sheriff, the deputies. When they were alone, Johnny told him the rest.

  “It’s William Boyd,” he said. “The dead man.”

  “What?”

  “It looks bad, I know.”

  “‘Bad’ doesn’t touch it, son. You have a history. You fired on him eleven times—”

  “That’s why I didn’t tell the sheriff. I wanted you here—”

  “Jesus, Johnny.”

  “How bad is it?”

  Clyde ran a hand through his hair. In the gloom, the sheriff was watching them. “You’re positive it’s Boyd?”

  “Yes. I’m sorry.”

  “Tell me exactly what happened.” Johnny repeated the story. The gunshot. How he found
the body and followed the tracks. “That’s it?” Clyde said. “That’s everything?”

  “Just like I told the sheriff.”

  Clyde walked away; came back. “He won’t overlook your history with Boyd. He can’t.”

  “I knew as much when I called him. Look, I did nothing wrong—”

  “You should have a lawyer.”

  “I did nothing wrong.”

  “Damn it, son. That’s not the point.” Clyde paced, thinking of his wife, another arrest, the boy he loved like a son.

  “We need to go,” Johnny said. “If we don’t, there’ll be nothing left.”

  * * *

  Two hours into the hike, the sheriff still carried tension in his shoulders. “He didn’t have to call us, Willard. He could have left the body out there.”

  “I’m too tired for this conversation, Clyde.”

  Everyone was tired. After Johnny dropped his bomb on the sheriff, they’d waited another hour for more men, and the sheriff had made his reasons plain. “If I’m going into the woods with him, I want more men. End of discussion.”

  That was the attitude, and it infected every one of the sheriff’s men. Even the medical examiner looked sideways at Johnny.

  “Willard—”

  “I said shut the hell up.”

  And that’s how it went. Johnny was the enemy, and Clyde was, too. The hike made it no easier. The terrain was broken stone, and then mud. The bugs tormented everyone but Johnny.

  “The camp is just ahead.” Johnny parted the vines, and men filed onto dry ground. “I searched it earlier. There’s not much to see.”

  “You tampered with my scene?”

  Johnny put his light on the sheriff’s face. “I didn’t tamper with anything.”

  “Son, you’d best take that light out of my eyes.”

  Johnny gave it a beat, then lowered the light. “Another half mile,” he said. “Then you’ll have your body.”

  The sheriff left two men at the camp and followed Johnny deeper into the swamp. Johnny hated all of it: the noise and dislike, the strange men and their ignorance. He heard them even when they whispered.

  What a shithole.

  Who would live out here?

  “Are you okay?”

  Johnny ignored his stepfather’s question. “Are you?” he asked, and it wasn’t rhetorical. He felt Clyde’s revulsion, too, and the unasked questions that followed.