by John Hart
She laughed at that, and leaned forward. “Bless your heart and get the hell out.”
“If you’ll just listen—”
“Please. I gave you three chances to be my friend.”
“Leslie—”
“It’s Ms. Green, actually. Now, go on.” She pointed. “Get out of my chair. Leave.”
Jack had no intention of doing either. He let his gaze wander the room, and found the book on a shelf behind her desk, its spine cracked, the cover well thumbed. Johnny had groupies; Jack knew that. Many were disturbed—the kind who wrote fan letters to Charles Manson—but not all of them. Some were moved by Johnny’s courage, others by the tragedy of his youth or the undeniable love he felt for his sister. Many were girls when it happened, but grown now and full of questions about this wild-eyed boy who’d captured the country’s imagination for so well and so long. They wondered what he looked like as a man, and what he’d become. Then there were those who understood what the feathers meant. They’d read the chapters on Indian lore and vision quests; they felt powerless in life, and wondered in their quiet but desperate way if young Johnny Merrimon had found some kind of key. How else the win over such dangerous men? How else the fame and glory?
“Would it change things,” Jack asked, “if I told you the client was Johnny Merrimon?”
“You’re joking.”
“Are you interested?”
“That depends.”
“On?”
“Two things. What kind of case is it?”
“You know about his land?”
“Only that he has a lot of it.”
“In the 1850s his family owned forty thousand acres up north in the county. Picture the vineyards outside of town, every subdivision built on that side in the past twenty years. His ancestors owned more of this state than just about anyone alive.”
“That’s in the book. I read it.”
“Then you know about Hush Arbor.”
“I know slaves worshipped there in secret, that some of them settled there after the Civil War.”
“Before the war, actually. It’s Johnny’s land now: six thousand acres, half of it swamp, the other half dry but stony and hard to reach. In the 1850s, Johnny’s ancestor freed a slave and gave him the entire six thousand acres. Isaac Freemantle. The first freed slave in Raven County. That’s in the book, too.”
“I remember the chapter. John Pendleton Merrimon stared down a lynch mob with a gun in one hand and a Bible in the other. What the book doesn’t say is why he cared enough in the first place.”
“I’m not sure anyone knows.”
“What about Johnny?”
“If he does, he’s never told me.”
Leslie sharpened her gaze, debating, measuring. “What does this have to do with an appellate case?”
“The deed conveying Hush Arbor to Isaac Freemantle had a reversionary clause returning the land to the Merrimon family when and if the last male Freemantle died. That happened ten years ago, and the land went to Johnny. A female descendant of Isaac Freemantle challenged the transfer—Luana Freemantle, a great-niece of some sort. She tried to take ownership, but Johnny won at trial. She’s challenging on appeal.”
“On what grounds?”
“I haven’t read the filings. I don’t know.”
“You’re his friend. Why not?”
“Because I am his friend—”
“And you don’t want to be responsible for losing his land. You’ll have to be tougher than that if you want to make partner at this firm. I’ve seen your transcripts, your application packet. You’re smart enough. Take the case yourself.”
“I can’t.”
Her lips twisted again, and Jack knew she saw all the way through him: the amount of risk and Johnny’s need, the nightmare fear that Jack would fail the only person in the world he loved.
“Will you help or not?”
She laced her fingers, seeming to enjoy the control. “I said there were two things.”
“Okay.”
“I have friends who’ve seen him around town, your friend Johnny. He’s a ghost, yes, but they’ve seen him at the hardware store, the grocery, late in the day, driving that old truck on Main Street. They text each other when it happens. A ‘sighting,’ they call it. So enlighten me, Mr. Cross. This young man about whom my friends speak so much—is he as remarkable as they tell me?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Handsome, yes—but a rule-breaker, too, and unlike other men. If it’s true, I’ll take the case.”
“Why would any of that make a difference?”
“I do appellate work and corporate law.” She leaned away, cool and collected. “How many men like that do I see in a day?”
CHAPTER FOUR
The next five days passed swiftly for Johnny. He slept in the tree, and woke rested. There were no fires or signs of fires, no sleepwalking or confusion. It was only September, but winter was out there like a line of cloud, and Johnny knew how quickly the good months would pass. Nights would chill; the leaves fall. Winter would come hard to Hush Arbor, and Johnny was too broke to buy anything but flour and salt and dried pasta. He wasn’t worried, though. The garden was twice its normal size, and he spent long days canning tomatoes and peas and beans. He ground corn for tortillas, and salted fish on long racks. Deer season opened soon, and meat would never be a problem. Nevertheless, he double-checked his stockpile of seeds, turned compost once a day, and planned the winter garden.
Then there was the matter of firewood. Six cords were already seasoned in a shed behind the cabin, but he’d need wood for the next season, too. So Johnny spent long days with a chain saw and an ax. He took dead trees when he could find them, preferably oak or ash, something hard. The blade work was a pleasure. Hauling tons of wood over broken ground, not so much. He strapped wood to his back and carried it as a mule might—uphill and down, back and forth through mud and over streams. By noon on the fifth day, he knew Jack was close. He tracked his progress from one island to the next, then through the last bit of open swamp. At the clearing he circled to Johnny’s blind side, ducking under branches and placing his feet with care. When his arm went back, Johnny smiled to himself and said, “Don’t do it.”
Jack stepped from the trees and pushed the pebble into a pocket. “It scares me how you do that.”
Johnny leaned the ax against a stump and dusted his hands. “It’s your smell.”
“Bullshit.”
“You’ve been wearing the same aftershave since you were nineteen. Six months ago you switched to a scented detergent. The question is, how could I not smell you coming?” Johnny smiled, but Jack looked unhappy, even miserable. “What are you doing here, Jack? Our next dinner’s not for nine days, and it’s at your place.”
“We need to talk.”
“All right. Let’s talk.” Johnny pulled his shirt from a branch and led his friend to the camp chairs beyond the cabin.
When he sat, Jack stayed on his feet. He looked at the cabin and firewood, the blue sky and racks of salted fish. He considered his friend for a long second, then said, “You know something, I think I’d rather fish.”
Johnny blinked once, then went into the cabin and came back with spinning rods and a tackle box. He led Jack to the water, loaded gear into an aluminum johnboat, and shipped the oars. “Are you coming?” Jack clambered in and sat very still as Johnny rowed them over deep water and toward the nearest island. When they were close, he angled the skiff to follow the line between deep water and the shallows. “What do you want to catch?” he asked.
“Doesn’t matter.”
Johnny rigged a line for Jack and pointed. “Cast for the shadow, right there along that line.” He held out the rod, but Jack’s eyes were on the dried mud in the bottom of the skiff. Johnny lowered the rod. “Do you want to talk, after all?”
“Not yet.”
“Then here.”
Jack took the rod and watched Johnny throw out a line. On the second cast, he hooked a largemout
h bass and reeled it in. “Seven pounds.” Johnny held it so sun glinted on its scales, then threaded a stringer through its gills and lowered it back into the water. “You fishing or not?”
Jack tossed out a lure, but the cast had a desultory air. Fishing in silence, Johnny caught another bass, a redfin pickerel. “You’re casting too far right,” he said. “Aim ten feet off that stump; let the lure settle. Give it fifteen seconds, then bring it in slowly.” Jack stared, dead-eyed, at Johnny’s face. “Go on.” Johnny pointed. “Ten feet off the stump. Trust me.”
Jack frowned and let the line fly. He gave it fifteen seconds, and the bass hit on the first tick of the reel. The strike was enormous: a silver-green flash and a ten-inch wave of water. The fish stripped twenty feet of line off the reel before Jack got it under control. Even then it took five minutes to land it. “There you go.” Johnny lifted the fish, which fought in his grip. “Twelve pounds, at least.”
“Let it go. I don’t want it.”
“Are you serious?”
“I said put it back.”
Johnny lowered the fish over the side, watched water swirl as it powered deep and down. “Okay, Jack. What’s the problem?”
“This.” Jack raised his voice, spread his arms. “All of it. How you know I’m coming, and how, even with your back turned, you know I’m about to throw a rock. How you catch fish like they want to be caught. And that.” He stabbed a finger at the water. “That damn fish. ‘Ten feet off the stump. Fifteen seconds.’ In my whole life, I’ve never even seen a twelve-pound bass. For God’s sake, the state record is only fifteen.”
Johnny studied his friend’s face. He was sweating and pale and breathing hard. “Are you finished?”
“Where are the bruises?”
“What?”
“Clyde said you were black and blue, cut half to the bone in a dozen places.”
“It was never that bad.”
“So, he’s a liar?”
“I believe the word is ‘hyperbolic.’”
Jack shook his head, still unhappy. “What are you doing out here, Johnny? Why do you live like this? Why are you passionate about this place?”
“Because I own it. Because it was my family’s.”
“That’s not enough.”
“Just ’cause, then.”
“That’s your answer?”
“Yeah, just ’cause.” It was an angry response, but Johnny let it stand. “Can we just fish?” He said, “Can we just fish and tell jokes and do like we always do?”
“No, we can’t.”
“Is this because of Friday night?”
“Of course it’s because of Friday night! Jesus Christ, Johnny! How can you even ask such a stupid question?”
“So I walked in my sleep…”
“It’s not just that.”
“Look, it happens sometimes.…”
“How many times?”
“Three.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Okay, fine—seven or eight.” Johnny put his own rod down. “Sometimes I go to sleep and wake up elsewhere.”
“Like where?”
“The cabin once or twice. Sometimes, the woods.”
“How about in the swamp?”
“What do you mean, ‘in’ it?”
“I mean in it. How often do you find yourself standing in the middle of this goddamn swamp?”
Johnny leaned away from his friend. The anger was real, but so were the hurt and the worry.
“Do you know how hard it was for me to come here?” Jack asked. “When I close my eyes, I see you in this swamp. I see mist and my breath. I still feel the wrongness and the cold. Something happened, Johnny, and it was something bad.”
“What, then? Tell me.”
“I don’t know.” Jack laughed darkly and made a motion with his fingers. “It’s a glimmer.”
“Then why are we talking about it? Let’s fish. Let’s have a drink.”
“I’m scared, Johnny. Do you understand? It’s broad daylight, and I’m terrified.”
“Jack, come on—”
“This isn’t a ‘come on’ kind of thing. You’re the best friend I’ve ever had, but something happened here that I don’t understand.”
“Jack—”
“Take me to shore.”
Jack pointed at the island, and Johnny rowed him to the trailhead on its northern edge. The boat slid into the weeds, and Johnny sat in silence because he had no idea what to say. Hush Arbor was his life, and Jack his only friend. When, finally, he opened his mouth, Jack cut him off with a raised hand. “Give me a second, all right?”
“Yeah, Jack. Sure. Whatever you need.”
Johnny watched the struggle on his friend’s face. Jack was torn and uncertain and honestly afraid. When he moved, it seemed to be with great reluctance, shifting on the seat to pull a business card from his back pocket. It was rumpled, one corner folded. Jack stared at it for long seconds, then sighed deeply and held it out. “This is for you.”
Johnny took the card. “What is it?”
“Leslie Green, an appellate lawyer. She’s good.”
“I don’t have money for a lawyer.”
“She’ll do it pro bono. You need to make an appointment, though, this week or next. I wouldn’t let it wait.”
Johnny tilted the card, and his eyebrows drew together. “Why would she take my case for free?”
“Just smile a lot, and try to look pretty.”
Jack stepped out of the skiff, but Johnny stayed where he was. “Why are you helping me?”
“You know why.”
Johnny looked away because the debt between them had always been an unspoken thing. “Thanks, Jack. It means a lot.”
“Don’t thank me, and don’t remind me. Meet with her. Handle the case. I don’t want to know anything about it. I hate this enough as it is.”
“Okay.” Johnny pushed the card into his back pocket. “You want me to walk you out?”
“I know the way.”
“Are we still on for dinner?”
“Next week. My place.”
“About this lawyer. She’s good?”
“Yeah.” Jack said it sadly. “She really is.”
* * *
Watching Jack fade into the woods, Johnny tried to remember what had happened to scare his friend so badly, but most of it was a blur. He recalled sensations, flickers of thought. Jack called them glimmers, and Johnny thought it a good word. What did he actually remember?
Distance and cold.
A void with him at its center.
Johnny couldn’t deny the problem. He rose from sleep and wandered the forest, and because of that he understood his friend’s concern. It hadn’t happened seven times or eight, but twenty times, at least. Sometimes he woke at the water’s edge or on some distant hill. Other times, he rose from bed to find mud on his feet, knowing as he did that it had happened yet again. Occasionally, a restless memory stirred, some furtive image. But even those passed when the sun rose. Besides, there was something else in the night, and it wasn’t frightful or cruel or unfeeling. That was the thing Jack would never understand about Hush Arbor.
The magic of it.
The power.
Rowing back to the distant shore, Johnny unshipped the oars and flipped the boat. Moving through the trees, he noticed insects in the leaf litter, a flutter of wings in a hollow tree. The sounds were crystal clear, the images exquisite. Twenty yards later he stopped and tilted his head, hearing ripples on water and kits in a den beyond the hill. A fox was moving through the forest a quarter mile to the east. It scraped beneath a cedar, dropped into a gully, and left prints in earth that smelled of red clay. Tilting his head the other way, Johnny heard scales on bark and knew, without looking, that a copperhead was uncurling beneath a log ten feet away. Not a hognose or a canebrake.
A copperhead.
A female.
He watched it appear on the trail, then slip into grass and whisper away.
It came a
nd went, this awareness. On strong days he could lie in his hammock and hear beavers chew a willow tree two miles down the second creek. He knew if birds were hatching and where, if ants in the dirt thought a storm was coming. When an animal moved in the woods, Johnny knew, without seeing, if it was a coyote or a mink, a marsh rabbit or a bobcat or a long-tailed weasel. When the awareness flickered, he felt half-blind, but even then could track a bear in total darkness. The awareness disappeared in its entirety only when Johnny left Hush Arbor, and even then, the loss was not a hard line. It began to fade when he closed the gate, weakened further when he reached the first blacktop. After that it diminished with time, until an hour later the line snapped and he was as unfeeling as everyone else.
Opening his eyes, Johnny stared at the glint of water through the trees. He knew where to find the swamp darters and the bullhead, the eel and the perch and the bowfin. When turtles broke the surface, he knew instinctively whether they were stinkpots or sliders or any one of a dozen others. It was a glimpse of shell, the pattern of ripples, a thousand tiny things. But it was more than that, too.
When Johnny was near the swamp, he knew.
He just, simply knew.
CHAPTER FIVE
The lawyer agreed to meet on Tuesday at one o’clock. When it was time to go, Johnny combed his hair, put on clean jeans and a shirt with a collar. His plan was simple.
Meet the woman.
Make sure she’d help.
He had no illusions about the stakes involved. Jack couldn’t take the case, or wouldn’t. Johnny was broke. That made the sit-down with Leslie Green the most important meeting of his life. Even so, Johnny hated leaving the Hush; he hated to leave it unprotected, but more than that he disliked the feeling of physical disentanglement, of a thread drawn through some secret organ. His awareness dulled as he passed the gate, but for another ten miles he could still feel the difference between healthy trees and those dying from the inside out. He could sense movement in the grass, life around him. Then it was subdivisions and lawn mowers and concrete.
After that it faded fast.
At the tall building downtown, the lawyer made him wait. Five minutes became fifteen, and Johnny sat unmoving beside a pale-skinned man who drummed his fingers on the side of a polished shoe. When the receptionist called Johnny’s name, he followed her through double doors and into a warren of halls and cubicles and offices.
