The Hush

by John Hart

  Eighteen small doors.

  He counted them.

  How many bodies?

  This is why he’d steered clear of criminal law, because it was too real, and too permanent: the death and incarceration, the foundations of despair on which such things were invariably built.

  Jack suppressed a small shudder, embarrassed—even alone—by the dread he felt as the refrigerators fell behind and white light spilled from a second row of windows. A sign extended above a wooden door, and announced the office of the medical examiner for Raven County. Stepping inside, Jack found an office like many others. There were closed doors and filing cabinets, as well as space for secretaries and assistants. The only real difference was the smell. Whether it was embalming fluid or exposed organs, Jack had no idea.

  “Hello?”

  No one answered, though lights burned brightly throughout the space. Moving past desks and a cluttered office, Jack discovered an open door that led to an antechamber and a second door, beyond which were tables and jars and focused lights, all of which were a blur to Jack.

  He couldn’t look past the body.

  It lay on a metal slab, the skin discolored by bruising or dirt, the abdomen cracked open, with some organs out and others still inside. He saw a liver on one scale, and what looked like the heart on another. Beyond the body and the metal table, the room faded into a greenish gloom that hinted at more tables, other gear. Hunt was there, in the dimness. So was Trenton Moore, the medical examiner. They were arguing.

  “You can’t be here, Clyde—”

  “We’re talking about my son. I have a right to know—”

  To Jack, the voices barely registered. His world was meat and skin, the pale gray of an open sternum. He wanted to look away, but could not. The top of the skull had been removed. One arm bent at an impossible angle. The ribs looked shattered.

  Jesus …

  He crossed himself from an almost-forgotten habit of childhood. There was no mystery of life on that table, just muscle and tendon and marbled fat. Most of the face was missing. The smell was liquid.

  Stumbling back, Jack felt his way along the wall and to a table where the view was entirely hidden. He spread his hands on cool metal and worked to breathe through his mouth alone, trying to unsee the shattered bones, the places where flesh had been chewed and shorn off and ripped. Ten seconds passed. Another five.

  Steady, he thought, but was not. He was on the slope, and the slope was taking him down. He felt it on the crosstown drive: a blur of lights and mirrors and shadowed buildings. Jack could not explain the cold in his heart, but thought it might be the most genuine emotion he’d ever known.

  The ruined body.

  The hard questions.

  At his building, he took the stairs three at a time until the apartment door was locked and the world around him silent. For long seconds he stood in the darkness, then looked down on the city street. Cars moved, but normally. The night was just the night. Turning on a single lamp, Jack poured a drink that went down fast. He told himself that an explanation would come, that Trenton Moore’s hard work was justified and that the reasons for Boyd’s death would, in the end, make some kind of sense; but Jack didn’t believe it.

  Something terrible moved in the Hush.

  He tried for a long time to dissuade himself of that notion, but Johnny was not right, either. He was lying, keeping secrets. Jack considered another glass, but called Leslie Green instead and asked her to come over. She’d use him and he’d use her, but that was okay. After what he’d seen at the morgue, Jack needed someone soft and human and real; he needed someone warm.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Hunt woke before dawn, and his first emotion was relief. In the bed beside him, Johnny’s mother slept at last, and for that Hunt was thankful beyond words. His night with Katherine had been hard. Her only son faced a murder charge, and Clyde could offer no assurances. The weeping had been brutal, the anger that followed, irrational.

  She wanted Clyde to fix it.

  He couldn’t.

  Moving with exaggerated care, Clyde extricated himself from the bed, relieved to find his feet while his wife still slept. She required rest, and he needed space to think. The day would matter more than most. He had to find the best possible attorney. He needed to raise cash, try again with the medical examiner, the district attorney. He needed to see Johnny, too, but mostly he wanted to speak with James Kirkpatrick, the survivor. If quick answers were to be found, that’s where Hunt would find them. Maybe Kirkpatrick knew something. Maybe he was the killer.

  Slipping from the room, Hunt dressed in the hall, then made coffee and took a cup onto the front porch, where he watched the silent street, the dew on pale grass.

  A newspaper waited beyond the gate.

  Clyde was not eager to see it.

  For the length of a cup, he stared at the blur of it, hating how it lay there, unassuming. It was paper, wrapped in plastic, a simple thing. But cops talked, and that meant Johnny was page one. Hunt knew it.

  Draining the last sip, he sighed and stepped off the porch. The walkway was white gravel, the gate painted the same color. It opened silently, and Hunt bent for the paper, waiting until he was in the kitchen to break the fold. The headline was three inches tall.

  “LITTLE CHIEF” ARRESTED IN DEATH OF BILLIONAIRE

  They’d run two pictures of Johnny, side by side. The first was ten years old, the same iconic photo that had made Johnny famous from one side of the country to the other. He was thirteen, his face streaked with berry juice and ash, his chest covered with blood and feathers and rattlesnake rattles. He was in a car as grown men pulled him out. Beside him was the girl he’d saved.

  Tiffany Shore.

  Hunt remembered.

  The second photograph was a booking photo taken after Johnny shot up William Boyd’s camp. In it, he had the same cheekbones and black hair and impenetrable eyes. He was unsmiling, and looked dangerous.

  “Damn it.”

  Hunt hated the pictures because they made Johnny seem damaged and capable, especially in light of the original assault against Boyd. The first two paragraphs spoke of that history and of the DA, who looked disturbingly out of touch. People wondered if warning signs had been missed or ignored, and if—had Johnny faced a harsher charge—William Boyd might still be alive. Such questions were inevitable; it was the nature of things. Beyond that, the reporter had little. But what he had, he used well.

  The body on Johnny’s land.

  A manhunt in the swamp.

  Clyde read it again, more carefully. No mention of Luana Freemantle or possible motive. That left room for doubt, and any doubt was good.

  Moving quietly, Hunt checked on Katherine, then disconnected the phones and drew every curtain in the bedroom. He wanted the room dim and quiet, because he knew what was coming. Reporters would camp on the street. The phone would ring off the hook. It was only a matter of time.

  Locking the front door, Hunt took the paper with him.

  His first stop was the hospital, and it was close. He drove a mile down treed streets, then crossed a four-lane and turned into the medical district, passing the offices, clinics, and pharmacies that grew like mushrooms in the shade of the tall building. After parking in the deck, Hunt crossed a sky bridge that took him into the hospital one floor above Reception. Stairs took him down, where he flashed the badge and put his questions to a round-faced woman behind a cherrywood desk. “James Kirkpatrick,” he said. “What doctor and what room?”

  Keys rattled, and the woman said, “Ah. Seventh floor.”

  Clyde disliked the answer enough to frown. “Seven? You’re certain?”

  “Psychiatric, secure. Dr. Patel.”

  Hunt thanked the receptionist, then went for the elevator.

  Psychiatric, secure …

  Kirkpatrick was on suicide watch.

  * * *

  Finding Dr. Patel took Hunt thirty seconds in the elevator and five minutes outside a locked door. “I’m sorry, I’
m sorry.” The doctor came from behind, coffee in one hand and a bagel in the other. “They told me you were here. It’s just that cafeteria.” He juggled his coffee, bagel, and key card, pushing his right hand out at Hunt. “Vijay Patel. Nice to meet you.”

  Hunt took the offered hand. “We’ve met before. The jumper.”

  “Right, right. Sure. Four years ago. The teenager. You’re here about James Kirkpatrick?” He waved the card at a black box by the door. When the door clicked open, he tipped his head left and held the door with a foot. “We can talk in my office. Mind if I eat while we do it?”

  In the office, Dr. Patel sat on the business side of an overflowing desk. He made room for the coffee, the bagel; and Hunt tried to gauge the man. Early forties, he had light brown skin and a touch of gray at the temples. Heavy glasses rode an average nose. The forehead was narrow, the chin soft. The overall effect was one of pleasantness. The slight bemusement. The easy smile. It seemed to fit what Hunt already knew of the man. He worked for the county and made county wages, but the diplomas were from Davidson and Duke and Harvard. He was either a giver or a classic underachiever. Hunt was thinking giver.

  “I’m sorry about the mess. My daughter plays summer league hockey. I’m the assistant coach.”

  He said it off the cuff, but it confirmed Hunt’s theory. “I need to know about James Kirkpatrick. Anything you can tell me.”

  The doctor leaned back and put a foot on an open drawer. “I thought Kirkpatrick was related to a county matter.”

  Hunt adjusted his assessment. A giver, yes. Stupid, no. “You’ve read the paper?” Patel lifted a newspaper from the desk. Johnny’s face. Page one. “Then you know why I’m here.”

  “The sheriff told me you might come by. I’m sorry for your family. I wasn’t here when Johnny’s sister turned up dead, but I know of your involvement, and that you married the boy’s mother. I’ve always thought it was a good thing. Hope from the ruins. A fresh start.”

  “It was a good thing. It still is.” Hunt paused, measuring the mood of the man across the desk. “Did the sheriff tell you not to talk to me?”

  “He suggested it might be in my best interest to simply avoid you.”

  “Yet here we are.”

  Patel smiled. “Family comes first for me, whether it’s mine or someone else’s. Were my daughter locked away, I’d move heaven and earth to get her out. So, Detective.” Patel sipped his coffee. “What can I tell you?”

  “Thank you, Doctor. I appreciate that attitude. Is Mr. Kirkpatrick on suicide watch?”

  “He is.”

  “Can you tell me why?”

  “Mr. Kirkpatrick tried to kill himself in the emergency room.”

  “How?”

  “Scalpel,” Patel said. “A deputy managed to restrain him in time.”

  “Is he sedated?”

  “He’s conscious, if that’s your question.”

  “May I see him?”

  “From a distance, if you like. I don’t want him agitated.”

  Hunt followed Patel to a second secure door, then down a scrubbed hall. It was quieter than Hunt imagined. He knew the secure ward could, at times, be chaotic. “We’ll remain in the hall.” Patel stopped at a closed door. Through a small window, Hunt saw a bed, a glimpse of restraints. “Agreed?”

  Hunt nodded, and the doctor opened the door. Inside, Kirkpatrick lay on his back, restrained at the ankles and one wrist, and by heavy bandages that secured his broken arm. His eyes were open, and his mouth moved. Every few seconds, he twitched. “Is he talking?” Hunt asked.

  “About the death of his friend, no.”

  Hunt watched for long seconds. Kirkpatrick didn’t blink. His eyes were bloody red, and wet. The cracked lips kept moving. “Has he been like this for long?”

  “All night.”

  “What’s he saying?”

  “It’s an apology of sorts, and one of the most desperate things I’ve ever seen, the same words over and over, the only thing he’s said since the sheriff brought him in.”

  “Nothing about the swamp?”

  “No.”

  Hunt leaned far enough to break the plane of the door. Kirkpatrick’s movements were spasmodic and irregular. His head jerked side to side. The scrapes on his face glistened with ointment. “What exactly is he saying?”

  “It’s heartbreaking, really.” Dr. Patel crossed his arms and leaned against the frame of the door. “The poor man thinks he killed his mother.”

  * * *

  Hunt stayed for another ten minutes, asking the same questions and getting the same answers.

  No, the patient had not spoken of the swamp.

  And no, Dr. Patel had no idea if he would recover enough to do so in the near future.

  “Imagine a crystal vase, Detective. Now imagine it dropped from a great height. Perhaps it can be reassembled, and perhaps not. Only time and effort will tell.”

  Hunt tried twice more, but the doctor knew nothing of Boyd’s death or Johnny or the cause of Kirkpatrick’s fractured mind.

  “Physically, he’s in acceptable condition. The rest…”

  Patel showed his palms, and Hunt swallowed the disappointment. “Thank you, Dr. Patel.” He handed over a card. “My cell number is on the back. Call me if anything changes. Anything at all.”

  From the seventh floor, Hunt took the elevator to the basement level and followed familiar halls to the medical examiner’s office. The door was locked, the space behind it lightless.

  “Damn it.”

  Hunt rattled the knob, then checked the time. Seven o’clock. Too early. Taking out his cell, he called Trenton Moore at home. No answer. Same with his cell. “Trenton. Clyde Hunt. It’s early. I’m sorry. Please call me as soon as you can.”

  Hunt wanted inside information, but knew from long experience that Trenton Moore responded poorly to both threats and entreaties. He would help or not, according to his conscience. This was the first time Clyde had ever disliked that quality in a man. He wanted to shake trees, break down walls.

  His next call went to Jack Cross, who answered on the second ring. He sounded alert and ready. “Jack, it’s Clyde. Can you meet?”

  “Absolutely. When and where?”

  “Sheriff’s department. Twenty minutes. It’s time we speak to Johnny.”

  * * *

  Jack replaced the phone on its cradle and slipped on his coat. He’d been planning to leave early, anyway. There was only one complication.

  “Leslie?”

  Jack knocked on the bathroom door, which stood partly open. Pushing it wide, he shoved hands deep in his pockets and stopped by the sink. Leslie was in the shower. She smiled through the glass. “Get in.”

  Jack shook his head. “I need to go.”

  “Ten minutes.”

  Jack was tempted. When she’d come over the night before, there’d been none of the awkwardness or quid pro quo he’d expected. She’d been in jeans and boots; and her face, in the dim light, had softened almost the second she’d seen his. He’d like to think it was affection that led her to kiss him the way she had, but deep down he knew better. He’d been distraught and shaken, and no kind of man.

  What he’d seen on her face was pity.

  Even now he saw hints of it.

  “Listen, Jack.” She wrapped herself in a towel. “Boyd’s dead, so the partners don’t need you anymore. That makes your position a little fragile. Do you understand?” Jack nodded, and she stepped closer. “Are you going to the jail?”

  “I’m meeting Detective Hunt.”

  She looked down, then showed the blue eyes. “Will you call me later?”

  He nodded. “About last night—”

  “We don’t need to talk about it.”

  “It’s just that you were … I don’t know. You were nice when you didn’t have to be.”

  “Did that surprise you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Women can do that, you know. Surprise a man.”

  She straightened his tie, smoothed
his lapels. Jack looked for the pity, but it was gone. “You never asked about Johnny.”

  “The timing was wrong.”

  “So why did you spend the night?”

  She leaned against him, kissed his cheek. “Give yourself a little credit.”

  * * *

  A little credit. It was a nice thought that made the day less grim. Would he trust Leslie with his life? No. But it felt promising, the unexpected gentleness. Maybe the day would surprise. Maybe the sheriff would, too.

  Skipping the car, Jack walked four blocks to the jail. The morning was strangely cool, the sky above heavy with gray clouds. Around him, the sidewalks were empty. Window glass reflected the stillness, the same low sky. A block from the jail, traffic began to thicken. The courthouse was on the same block. So was the sheriff’s department, the offices of a dozen different law firms. Jack saw squad cars and cops and men with briefcases. He was too new in the law for any of it to feel familiar, but the movement felt right: the courthouse and jail, the early churn of men and women who served them both.

  Clyde Hunt was at the curb, pacing the sidewalk beside an unmarked cruiser. When Jack got close, Hunt handed him a coffee and said a terse good morning. He looked tired to Jack, fresh-shaven but with pale skin and glassy eyes that spoke of a wakeful night. “Any news?” Jack asked.

  “It’s too early for the medical examiner, and the witness is … broken. I’ve called three different friends inside the sheriff’s department, but word’s come down to stay quiet. No one will cross the sheriff.”

  Jack stripped the lid from his coffee. “When you say ‘broken’…”