by John Hart
It was a good life for a child, but destined to end. Her great-grandmother died first, then her grandmother two years after that, and her great-aunt six months later. When the girl’s mother finally came to take her home, it was the first time they’d seen each other in four years. They drove to a big city and a tall building with a pool that smelled nothing like the swamp. The new husband was nice enough, but the girl used words he couldn’t understand, and that bothered him. She’d listen to the arguments at night, his voice angry, her mother’s pleading. The girl spoke up when she could, but in the end, they broke her. They took her to church and a therapist, and scolded her when she cut her skin or danced at sunrise or spoke the strange words. It wasn’t until she was nine that she saw the same scars on her mother’s arms and legs.
“I’m sorry,” her mother said. “I shouldn’t have sent you there.”
“I want to go back.”
“You’ll never go there again.”
But the girl dreamed.
She dreamed of old women and the Hush, and even now it was like paint on canvas. She paused once, and looked back at the white man who owned the land but knew nothing that was real. He stood before a slat-sided building and thought it a church, when it was not a church at all.
Not the gentle kind, at least.
Not the kind he meant.
* * *
It took Cree two hours to reach the crossroads, and from there she caught a ride that took her south and west to the city. Her mother opened the door before the key could turn, and the lines of her frown were sour. “You went again, didn’t you?”
Cree pushed past; threw down a bag. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“That place is money for us and nothing more.”
“So you say.”
“Did you go to the tree?”
“Maybe.”
“The church?”
“The white man was there.”
“Johnny Merrimon? Did he see you?”
Cree turned down the hall that led to her room. Other than her mother’s breathing, it was quiet in the small apartment. The second husband was gone. So were the third and the fourth.
“Don’t walk away when I’m talking to you.”
But Cree did. She closed her bedroom door, and locked it. Her mother wanted to sell the Hush. The girl wanted its secrets.
It was an old argument.
CHAPTER TEN
For five years, Johnny’s life in the Hush had been defined by fundamental immersion. A dawn sky was a meal, a step in the river a swim. But the girl had walked within eight feet of the place he’d sat, and he’d not felt a thing. That scared and angered him. He was possessive. He admitted it.
Could he actually lose the Hush?
Returning to the cabin, he read the pleadings three more times. The stack of papers was thick, the text so dense, it could have been a foreign language. Tossing them on the bed, Johnny went outside. He needed perspective, and could think of only one place to go that wasn’t in the city. A long walk through the hills took him to an open-air bar that leaned beneath a sycamore tree on the bank of the river three miles north of the swamp. More shed than actual building, the place was old like the county was old, a slat-sided, unpainted sprawl with views across the river and into the hills. A single room had windows and a plank floor; the rest of it was a tin roof and dirt and not much else. Johnny loved it because—except for his whiteness—no one looked at him twice. Of course, the whiteness thing took a while to sort out. This far north, the only things thriving were resentment, poverty, and a few small farms that still survived from the sharecropper years. A handful of businesses struggled nearby—a grocery, a one-pump station—but the swamp pushed in from the south and state game lands from the west and north, effectively inoculating the small corner of Raven County from anything remotely similar to progress. But that’s why Johnny loved it.
No air-conditioning.
No asphalt.
The first time Johnny emerged from the woods, people had stopped talking, stopped drinking. A dozen people had stared at him as if at a ghost, and Johnny thought that made sense. There was nothing behind him but fifty square miles of swamp and woods. He was young. He was white. Johnny had ignored the stares, though, threading between tables and chairs until he was in the single room and the old bar was hard beneath his elbows. The man behind it was tall and heavy-shouldered. He wore a faded shirt and blue jeans stained with pig blood and grease. “I think maybe you’re lost.”
“I’m never lost.” Johnny put a twenty on the bar, and the bartender glanced at it.
“Where are you from?”
“That way.”
He pointed, and there’d come a moment where it could have gone either way. The bartender held the stare, then looked across the room and met every eye out there. It took a minute, maybe more. When the bartender shrugged, people went back to talking, and he dug a beer from a metal chest behind the bar. “You got a name?”
“Johnny.”
The beer hit wood. “Might want to step lightly,” he’d said; and that was it, which was good.
Johnny was seventeen at the time.
No kind of legal.
* * *
Now it was different. Johnny was a regular; he was an outcast and one of them, the white guy who lived as poor as anyone else and wasn’t scared to share a bottle. “Leon.” Johnny nodded at the big bartender. “How we doing?”
“No complaints.”
Johnny leaned on the bar. It was twenty minutes after four o’clock. Outside, two of the tables were taken. Leon put a Red Stripe on the bar, and Johnny said, “Make it a bourbon back.” The big man upended a shot glass and sloshed in an ounce of Jim Beam. “And one for you,” Johnny said.
“All right.” Leon poured another shot and clinked his glass against Johnny’s. “Things unseen.”
It was a traditional toast at the old bar, and had nothing to do with ghosts or spirits. A single bridge connected Leon’s place to the world beyond the river. That made Leon’s a good place to do most anything illegal. Moonshine. Stolen cigarettes. If it wasn’t drug- or gang-related, Leon would facilitate almost anything. He took a cut for his troubles, and it would stay that way so long as things remained under the radar.
“A question,” Johnny said; and Leon nodded cautiously. In six years Johnny had never asked a question. “The swamp.”
“What about it?”
“What can you tell me about the people who used to live there?”
“We don’t talk about that.” The big man leaned on the bar. “Bad juju.”
“Seriously?”
He nodded solemnly, and Johnny hid the surprise behind a sip of beer. Leon lived hard and didn’t seem the superstitious type.
“Why do you believe that?”
Leon drummed his fingers and looked beyond Johnny to the river, the forest. His unhappiness was plain. So was the conflict. “Do you know why I served you the first day you came here?”
“No.”
“I was curious.”
“About what?”
“About anybody that walked into my place from that side of the bar.” Leon pointed at the wilderness, then took a towel from the sink and began wiping down the bar. “How old do you think I am?”
“Fifty?”
“Fifty-seven,” Leon said. “And a man can learn a lot in that many years. Some things he sees himself, and others he hears about from people he trusts. My father was like that. A smart man. Cautious. He ran this place his whole life. I grew up here.”
“What’s your point?”
“Most people tend to use the bridge.” Leon tilted his head, and Johnny glanced at the rusted, one-car bridge. “No one’s ever come here from the other side. No roads that way. No houses or people or reason to be there.” He refilled his glass and drank the liquor down. “No one goes in the swamp. That’s what my old man taught me. No one goes in and no one talks about it.”
“Because it’s bad juju?”
“You�
�re too ignorant to use that word.” Leon poured another shot. “And too damn white by far.”
* * *
For the next ten minutes Johnny nursed the beer, thinking of the Hush, the girl at the church, William Boyd. Johnny knew why he wanted the land. He’d trespassed there a half-dozen times, and Johnny had tracked him, once, for three days. He’d stayed back during the daylight hours, but come close at night, hoping to divine some deeper truth. Much of what made Hush Arbor special remained a mystery to Johnny, even now. Maybe Boyd knew something more, some kind of reason. But the talks, at night, were of trophies and size and how a hunt was like business. They wanted the blood, the win, and always the trophy.
“Leon.” Johnny lifted the empty bottle, and the big man fished another from the chest. “Can I use your phone?”
Leon stripped the cap with an opener the size of his fist. “You don’t have your cell?”
“Is there even reception out here?” The big man grunted and moved a phone onto the bar. It was black and old and dense as a rock. “Rotary. Nice.”
“Just keep it short.”
Leon moved down the bar.
Johnny dialed his best friend’s cell.
* * *
Jack took the call in a crowded hallway outside the ninth-floor conference room. The air was cold. He was sweating. “This is not a good time, Johnny.”
“I want you to meet me at Leon’s.”
Jack moved out of the crowd; found a quiet spot by a plate glass window with views of the city. “They hate me at Leon’s.”
“They hate the suit and the German car. There’s a difference.”
Jack licked dry lips and looked at the door to the conference room. Leslie was inside. So was every partner in the firm. “Listen, when I said this was a bad time—”
“Do you know anything about Luana Freemantle’s niece?”
“Her niece? What?”
“Never mind. We’ll talk when you get here.”
“About the timing…”
“Just come when you can. I’ll wait.”
The line went dead, and Jack stared at the phone in his hand. As friends, they were almost never out of sync. But Johnny’s single-mindedness had this rare effect.
Jack was frustrated.
And he was angry.
“Jack, are you ready?” Leslie Green broke the plane of the door and moved to Jack’s side.
“I don’t think so.”
“Just listen to them,” she said. “Think about tomorrow, the next twenty years of your life. This doesn’t have to be a problem.”
“It feels like one.”
“Trust me. They don’t bite.”
Inside the conference room, a mahogany table stretched twenty feet across an expensive rug. Nine partners sat at one end of the table. Leslie pointed at Jack’s chair, which sat alone at the other end. “Seriously?” Jack said.
“It’s just how it’s done.”
Jack sat; drew his chair close to the table.
“Are you comfortable, Mr. Cross?”
That was Michael Adkins, the senior partner. A broad man with silver hair, his fingers were flat on the table surface, his suit charcoal gray and immaculate. In forty years before the bar, he’d won eight-figure verdicts, taught law school, argued before the Supreme Court. Looking at him made Jack feel like an associate in his second week of practice. “I’m very comfortable. Thank you.”
“Since time is money for all of us, I’ll cut to the chase. You’re friends with Johnny Merrimon. We understand that. We understand there’s history there. Childhood. Similar backgrounds. The, ah … unpleasantness involving his sister and your brother.” Adkins lifted a hand, and every partner nodded in silent accord. “Ms. Green also informs us that Mr. Merrimon has asked for your help in an appellate matter. Under no circumstances are you to offer that help. Mr. Merrimon is not a client of the firm. He will never be a client. Are we clear?”
“This is because of William Boyd.”
“If Mr. Boyd requires the service of this firm, we intend to provide it. Having Mr. Merrimon as a client would create needless confusion.”
“A conflict of interest.”
“Precisely.”
Jack glanced at Leslie. She looked away, but not before he saw the glitter in her eyes. “Mr. Merrimon came to me for assistance. I told him I would consider the case.”
“Have you done any research?”
“No.”
“Started a file? Accepted payment? Rendered any kind of legal opinion?”
“Of course not. He just came to me.”
“Have you discussed his matter with any associate or partner of this firm?”
“Ms. Green is aware…”
Adkins lifted the same hand and nodded with such calm assurance that words dried up in Jack’s mouth. “Ms. Green stands with us on this matter.”
“Is that right?”
Jack could no longer hide the anger. Adkins accepted it with a gracious smile. “The law loves a rainmaker, Mr. Cross. Bring in enough business, and nothing is beyond a lawyer’s grasp. Money. Power. Prestige.” He nodded again, the picture of reason. “We’re not asking you to act against your friend’s interests. Just speak to him. Make sure he’s aware of the truly exceptional nature of Mr. Boyd’s offer.”
“I’m sure he understands the meaning of thirty million dollars.”
“Then your job is doubly simple. Convince your friend. Explain to him that unless he accepts Mr. Boyd’s offer, he will face Ms. Freemantle’s appeal alone or find the means to hire some other firm. I understand he cannot afford that expense?” He made it a question, but Jack tightened his lips, and Adkins smiled dismissively. “Once Mr. Merrimon understands the nature of his position, perhaps the wisdom of a clean, quick sale will become more obvious.”
“Do you require an answer now?”
“We’re not unreasonable. Take a few days.”
“Very well,” Jack said. “I’ll think about it.”
“Excellent.”
“And if tomorrow I choose to help my friend?”
“In that case, Mr. Cross, I believe you’ll find solo practice a cold and bitter place.”
* * *
Jack watched the partners file out, all except Leslie Green. She waited by the door, then touched his arm and held him in the room until they were completely alone. Jack looked at her fingers, then at the wide blue eyes. “I suppose this means you won’t be helping my friend.”
“The firm has never had a female senior partner. I’d like to be the first.”
“And then there’s the money.”
“There’s always the money.” Jack looked away, and she trailed her fingers across the fabric of his suit. “Don’t go against them, Jack. They’ll ruin you. Even if you quit, they’ll bury you for spite.”
“Good luck landing William Boyd without me. He only cares about the firm because he thinks Johnny will listen to me.”
“Just think of the possibilities: all that money, a corner office. You could ask for a partnership, and they’d seriously consider it.”
Jack hardened his jaw, but said nothing.
“Listen.” Her hand was back on his arm. “I know what Johnny Merrimon means to you, but I can be your friend, too. Boyd will be our client. We’ll work him together.”
“You do appellate work. I do bankruptcy.”
“So we’ll bring in some other lawyer. All that matters is the relationship. Yours. Mine. Mr. Boyd’s.”
She pressed into him as she turned to leave, and Jack wondered if she’d meant the touch to be so sensual, thinking she probably had. The perfume of her hair was on his clothing, like a fog.
In the elevator down, Jack ignored the looks he got from paralegals and assistants and, in his office, paced behind a closed door. Leon’s was a sixty-minute drive. He had work to do.
“Shit.”
More elevator. More strange looks. Heading out of town, he rolled down the windows and opened up the engine, driving north toward the swamp, the
n east through a world of shimmer and blacktop and faded paint. For a while he was at peace, but the closer he got to Leon’s, the more that peace faded. Johnny was an impossible friend, really. The secrecy and demands, the way he always called the shots. It shouldn’t be like that anymore. Jack had the job, the prospects, the education. Other than the Hush, what did Johnny have?
Secrets, Jack thought.
And me.
“Shit.”
It was becoming his favorite word.
* * *
The last turn before Leon’s was a left onto a rutted-out dirt track. Jack drove slowly to protect the chassis, but even then he bottomed out over and over.
“I’m not going to say it.”
The bridge to Leon’s may have been painted once, but was mostly rust and splintered wood, a narrow span over a stretch of river that slowed before tumbling through the hills to fill the swamp below. Jack disliked everything about Leon’s. He hated the heat and the bugs, the smoke and cold stares and the smell of roasting pig. The distrust there was old and bitter, and based entirely on the color of his skin. Okay, maybe the car didn’t help, and the suit was no bonus. But people disliked him at Leon’s, and that was one more reason to be unhappy with Johnny. He sat at a table under a covered porch, lolled there as though he owned the place, feet pushed out in the dirt, one arm over the chair back and a beer in the other hand. He waved once, but Jack was thinking about colors. The building was gray wood on brown dirt, and the cars looked about the same, all red metal and dust and cracked glass. A dozen faces turned Jack’s way as he crossed the bridge and parked beside an old truck, locking the car from long habit, and cringing when the alarm chirped.
No one spoke.
Everyone stared.
Under the first roofline, the temperature dropped ten degrees. Jack passed a table; nodded at the two men there, the braless woman in ripped jeans and a worn-out T.
“Excuse me.”
He squeezed past the table, dragged a chair from his path, and crossed hard dirt to a second covered area with three tables and a step up onto a plank floor where the bar and more tables showed deep in the shadows. Johnny sat near the back wall. To his right was the river, its water churning under a haze of smoke from the pig cooker out back. Leon loomed behind the bar inside, and a barefoot kid was throwing horseshoes in a sandy pit under the closest trees. The only sounds were cicadas and wind and the clank of metal.
