The Hush

by John Hart

  He trailed off, but Hunt understood. “Kirkpatrick comes from West Virginia coal country, a wealthy man, self-made. It’s a brutal life, mining; and some deep, damn hollows in that part of the world. Most of those mines will ruin a man by the time he’s thirty. Coming from nothing. Getting rich.” Hunt’s eyes glittered. “Maybe one in a million can make that happen.” He put his coffee on the car, untouched. “Something happened out there, Jack. Something went down in that swamp, and it was bad enough to break a strong man’s mind.”

  “Maybe it was already cracked.”

  Hunt squinted at the jail. “Maybe.”

  “Maybe Kirkpatrick’s the killer.”

  “I’ve considered that. The sheriff won’t.”

  “Because he has his man.”

  “Something like that, yeah.”

  Jack followed Hunt’s gaze. The jail was six stories of concrete with hardened doors and slits for windows. Beside it, even the courthouse looked small. “Visiting hours aren’t till one.”

  “I’m a cop. You’re his lawyer.”

  Jack nodded, glad that Hunt was there. “All right. Let’s do it.”

  Inside the foyer, Hunt locked his weapon in a steel box and informed the officer behind the glass that he wanted to see Johnny Merrimon.

  “Name, please.”

  Hunt gave both names.

  “Reason for visit.”

  “Attorney–client conference.”

  Hunt used specific language, and to Jack it looked like a dance. Hunt knew the guard; the guard knew Hunt. Yet both men acted the part of a stranger. Body language was stiff, the words clipped. It ended unexpectedly, and badly. “I’m sorry, sir. No visitors are allowed this morning.”

  “What? Why?”

  “We’re on lockdown. Sheriff’s orders.”

  Hunt looked beyond the guard, then through barred doors, down still corridors. It was quiet, the guards relaxed. “I don’t believe you.”

  “There was a disturbance last night.”

  “What kind of disturbance?”

  “I’m sorry, sir. No one goes in. No one goes out. That’s all I can tell you. You’re welcome to wait.”

  He gestured at a row of plastic seats, and Hunt seethed. “For how damn long?”

  “Until the sheriff says.”

  Hunt choked down angry words, but his hands were shaking. Retrieving his weapon, he stopped at the exit and looked back. “You know this is bullshit, right?”

  Jack had no idea what he meant. “If there’s a lockdown—”

  “There is no lockdown. That’s the sheriff, keeping us out. It’s an old trick.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “Time,” Hunt said. “He wants time with Johnny alone.”

  * * *

  Two stories down, time did not exist. Lights went on and off. It didn’t matter. Johnny stared at the wall, but barely saw it. He touched the floor; felt nothing. Under the weight of that isolation, the anxiety grew worse, as did the headaches, the restlessness, the tension in his chest. Johnny pulled himself up, his palms slick on the walls, his heartbeat uneven. He tried to swallow. He couldn’t breathe.

  You’ve done this before.

  You can do this.

  The words were in his head, an echo. He felt his way from one corner to the next.

  The room was a box devoid of life, a hole that robbed him of the things he loved.

  Nothing is forever.

  Nothing lasts.

  He thought that was a lie, but footsteps sounded in the gray. Metal scraped. “Are you ready to talk yet?”

  Johnny told himself it was the sheriff’s voice. It came and went. Distant surf. Johnny turned another corner; saw grim eyes, an old man’s face.

  “Nothing…” He coughed, and tasted vomit. “I have nothing to say.”

  “You won’t leave this room until you talk to me.” Johnny swayed where he stood. “Speak up, son. I can’t hear you.”

  Johnny looked for the face, and started laughing.

  Speak up, he thought.

  He was already screaming.

  * * *

  When the sheriff came again, Johnny had walked the cell 967 times. He’d counted. Six steps, then four. Six and four.

  The emptiness.

  The coffin.

  When metal scraped again, he felt air move, and with it came the smell of sweat and skin and coffee. Johnny swayed where he stood. Nothing had ever smelled so good, and for that moment it was real—the realest thing he’d ever known—then metal scraped again, and Johnny was alone in the empty. He bit his tongue and pinched himself. He shuddered until his muscles hurt, then closed his eyes and paced the shape of his cell.

  Eleven hundred times.

  Two thousand.

  At some point, he drifted to a stop without knowing. When he woke, he was still on his feet. What was the count? He didn’t know, and that was another loss.

  He paced the room again, and mumbled in the quiet.

  One …

  * * *

  Hunt and Jack were on the sidewalk when the medical examiner called.

  “Clyde, it’s Trenton Moore. I got your message.”

  “Trenton, thank God.” Clyde nodded at Jack, who stood beside the unmarked cruiser. “I appreciate this.”

  “Don’t thank me yet. This is not your case. I can’t discuss specifics.”

  Clyde’s hand tightened on the phone. “Then why are you calling?”

  “Because I’ve known you for fifteen years. Because you asked me to.”

  Hunt closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. He told himself that Trenton was his friend, and that there were, in fact, rules about this kind of thing. It didn’t matter. “I need more than that.”

  “I know you do.”

  “Then talk to me.”

  A pause traveled down the line. Traffic noises. Faint music. “I’m meeting Bonnie and the sheriff at two o’clock at the DA’s office. It would be in your interest to attend.”

  “Bonnie will never allow it.”

  “Then be there when it’s over.”

  “Two o’clock. Jesus, Trenton. That’s half a day.”

  “I’m teaching a seminar in Chapel Hill. It’s the soonest I can get back.”

  Hunt looked at the jail, thinking of the sheriff and long hours, of the boy who was damn near his son. “Is it good news or bad?” The pause came again. “Fifteen years, Trenton. You said it yourself.”

  A sigh carried over the line. “If this gets out, I’ll deny this phone call ever happened.”

  “All I need is the bottom line.”

  “I have your word?”

  “Yes, Trenton. Please.”

  A final, horrible pause. “No way in hell your boy killed that man.”

  * * *

  When the connection broke, Trenton Moore put the phone on the seat beside him and wondered, seriously, if he’d be fired over the phone call. The sheriff was a narrow-minded man, the DA serious about rules. Either one could call down the thunder if word escaped of what was, in fact, a serious breach of protocol. Chain of communication. Chain of custody. The concepts were not dissimilar.

  The case came first: its sanctity, its cohesion.

  But Clyde Hunt was more than a friend. He was an iconic lawman, a straight shooter, and a man to admire. When Trenton had first arrived in Raven County—a slight, myopic man fresh from his residency—Hunt was one of the few who’d not laughed at his lisp, his effeminate manner, or his very particular sense of humor. Other cops had been crude and cruel, but not Clyde. Fifteen years later, they were friends. They had dinner once a month, coffee on the odd morning.

  Trenton turned up the radio, merged onto a state highway, and followed it north.

  He’d sacrifice a lot for Clyde.

  Thought maybe he just had.

  It took Trenton another hour to reach Chapel Hill and find the right building in the sprawl of the UNC Medical Center. The class was like many others he’d taught, but his mind wandered; he repeated hims
elf. On the ride back, he was still thinking of Boyd’s autopsy and of the sleepless night it caused. He ran through the findings as he drove: the bones and organs, the chill he’d felt as the clock ran from eleven to midnight and he’d sat, unmoving, and sought to distill his findings. How many times had an autopsy made him question the science he revered? How many times the superstitious chill? The answer was unsettling in its simplicity. Twice. That’s how often he’d been made to doubt the boundaries of rational thought. Twice in ten years.

  Both times involved Johnny Merrimon.

  And both times, the swamp.

  Arriving back in town three minutes before the hour, Trenton bypassed the hospital and went straight for the suite of offices occupied by the district attorney and her staff. That meant the rear entrance to the Courthouse Annex, the secure elevator to the third floor. In the hall, he pressed an intercom, announced himself, and was buzzed into a waiting area with four chairs and a sofa. Clyde sat on one of the chairs. Johnny’s friend Jack sat beside him.

  “Clyde.”

  Hunt nodded once, but said nothing, and kept his gaze level. Behind him, a secretary of some sort was watching through the glass. Trenton took the cue from Clyde, and walked past without another word. Resting his briefcase on a narrow ledge, he spoke through holes in the bulletproof divider. “Trenton Moore. Here to see Bonnie.”

  “She’s expecting you.” A second buzzer sounded, and Trenton walked through a metal door that opened into the secure offices of the Raven County district attorney. “This way.” The secretary led Trenton past filing cabinets and small offices. People kept their heads down, working. At the end of the hall, she knocked on double doors, opening the right side without waiting for a reply. “Trenton Moore.”

  The DA’s office reflected the woman who’d held it for so many years. Heavy furniture. Muted art. Behind the desk, Bonnie Busby almost disappeared into the dark colors. She wore a black watch, a black suit. Her mood was the same color. “Can you tell me why Clyde Hunt is waiting beyond that door?”

  Trenton stepped into the office. “Nice to see you as well. Sheriff. Captain Lee.”

  He nodded at the sheriff and his number two. No one smiled.

  “Did you tell him about this meeting or not?”

  Trenton sat. “Did he know of the meeting?”

  “He wanted to be part of it.”

  “It’s his son. That’s understandable.” The DA tried to intimidate with a stare, but the North Georgia childhood of a lisping boy had ingrained in Trenton a certain calm. He smiled easily, crossed his narrow legs. “Yours is not my only meeting of the day. Perhaps we can begin.”

  “Very well, Trenton. As you are the man of the hour…”

  She gestured graciously, but no one was fooled, the ME least of all. He opened the briefcase, passed out copies of the autopsy report. “The tox screen will take time, as you know, but my findings suggest its irrelevance.”

  All three scanned the report. The sheriff was the first to reach Trenton’s official summation. “Well, shit. Are you kidding me?” He scanned for two more minutes, then tossed the report on the floor. “That’s bullshit.”

  Trenton had seen similar reactions when a case went suddenly sideways. “Any other medical examiner will draw the same conclusions.”

  The DA closed her copy of the file. Her eyes narrowed, but her voice was even. “Walk me through it.”

  Trenton did just that. Every page. Every finding. It took half an hour, and it got technical. By the time he was done, even the sheriff was pale. “That doesn’t make sense.”

  Trenton shrugged. “The body doesn’t lie.”

  “And you’re certain no single man could inflict this kind of damage?”

  “Sheriff, I doubt a dozen men could cause this damage, not with their bare hands.”

  “Explain.”

  “William Boyd’s limbs were bilaterally dislocated at both the glenohumeral and acetabulofemoral joints, the hips and shoulders. The tendons were not just stretched, but ripped. That requires tremendous force, remarkable force.” Trenton lifted the report to accentuate his words. “There’s spiral fracturing in the humerus and femur, again bilaterally. In places the bones are bare fragments. The decedent has seven crushed organs, torn ligaments, intracranial hemorrhaging. Both eyes were crushed in their sockets, and that includes the optic nerve, which, as you know, lies deep in the skull. Injuries such as these require pulling force, twisting force, compressive force, perhaps at the same time. The report is incontrovertible. Johnny Merrimon could not have inflicted this damage. No single man could.”

  “Then what?” The sheriff leaned back, heavy on sarcasm and drawl. “How do you explain it?”

  “I’m sorry, Sheriff.” Trenton looked from one person to the next, then lifted his palms in the kind of transcendental awe he’d known only once before. “I’m not sure anyone can.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Johnny’s torment began with the sound of a metal door, and though the same door eventually swung wide, the suffering did not end so quickly or cleanly. He saw rust and flaking paint, but it remained at the end of a long, dim hall. Sound traveled even farther. Lips moved, but the words came later, echoes in the tunnel. “On your feet. Let’s go.”

  Guards fastened waist restraints and cuffs, then took his arms and lifted. Beyond the door were stairs that led up. His feet couldn’t feel them. “How long?”

  “What?”

  He tripped, but the guards held him up. He tried again, thinking the answer would be weeks. “How long was I in there?”

  “Twenty-seven hours.”

  Twenty-seven…?

  That wasn’t right. Days had passed. Many days. Johnny tried to feel his cheeks, but the guards wouldn’t have it. “Quit screwing around. Move your feet.” Johnny stumbled up the stairs, and from the subbasement took an elevator up an additional floor. In processing, they removed the restraints and gave him his clothes. “Get dressed. You’re being released.”

  Johnny slipped into his clothes like a second skin. They smelled of mud and black water, and that smell was the beginning. Two halls later there was light—real light—and a waft of air that tasted of exhaust and hot pavement. It was a start, but only that. Johnny knew what he needed. Another door. Blue sky. Home.

  The sheriff blocked the end of the final hall. He looked down with distaste, and Johnny straightened under the stare. Half blind, half deaf—it didn’t matter. This was animal.

  “Sheriff.”

  The sheriff was rawboned and lean, 90 percent hard eyes and bitter smile. “Give us a minute, will you.” He dipped a head at the guards, and they disappeared. He studied Johnny with a critical eye, took in the tremors, the cold sweat. “I’d like to understand you,” he said. “Can you help me with that?”

  “I thought I was being released.”

  “Oh, you are. But I like to take this moment sometimes, these last few seconds.”

  “Arrest me again or stand aside.”

  The sheriff narrowed his eyes. “You’re lying to me about something.”

  “About what?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Johnny saw a waiting room through a square of glass and, beyond that, a hint of open air.

  “What aren’t you telling me?”

  “I didn’t see Boyd die. I don’t know what killed him.”

  “How did you find the body?”

  “I told you—”

  “Yeah, yeah. You heard a shot and went walking. We both know that’s bullshit.”

  “I’m going to leave now.”

  “Don’t pretend this is over.” The sheriff gestured at someone unseen, and the steel door clicked open. “This is my card.” He actually handed one over. “Call me if you grow enough spine to do the right thing.”

  Johnny pocketed the card; blinked at the light beyond the door. He saw glass windows, a hint of green. Clyde and Jack were waiting. “Goodbye, Sheriff.”

  “Don’t kid yourself, Mr. Merrimon. I’m not going anywher
e.”

  After that came another blur. Clyde’s arms went around him; Jack’s hand fell on his shoulder. Words came, too, but Johnny was starving. “Home,” he said. “I want to go home.”

  “That’s good,” Clyde said. “Your mother’s waiting. She’s been worried, desperately, so…”

  He kept talking, but Johnny shook his head. “My home. The Hush.”

  “Don’t be silly—”

  “Jack, please. Will you take me?”

  “Come on, son…” But Johnny saw Jack’s car, and stumbled toward it. “Damn it, son. What about your mother?”

  “Tomorrow,” Johnny said.

  “She’s worried.”

  “Dinner, then. I promise. Jack. The door.”

  Clyde said, “Don’t do it, Jack.”

  “Jack, the door.”

  “I’m sorry, Clyde.” Jack keyed the locks. Johnny fell into the car. “He gets like this sometimes. I’ll talk to him about tomorrow.”

  “What am I supposed to tell Katherine?”

  “I’m sorry.” Jack spoke as he circled the hood. “Really, Clyde. I’m very sorry.”

  The car rocked as Jack got in. Johnny put his hand on the glass, and Clyde faded away. The car moved faster, and the world blurred. The city. The city’s people. “He deserved better than that,” Jack said.

  “Just drive.”

  Johnny’s forehead touched the glass.

  “What the hell’s wrong with you?”

  “Not now,” Johnny said.

  “Are you serious?”

  “Tomorrow, Jack. You, too.”

  Jack had other words, but Johnny didn’t hear them. Buildings fell away, and he watched them fall. A mile from the Hush, he felt the first stirring, like a fire in the cold. “Slow down,” he said.

  “We’re not there yet.”

  “Stop the car.”

  Jack rolled onto the verge and parked in the stillness. “Now what?”

  Johnny opened the door.

  “You’re getting out?” Jack asked. “Here?”

  Johnny looked back toward town, then in the opposite direction. A half mile farther, the road bent. Beyond that it turned again, then ran off from a dirt road that smelled of loam and grass and distant water. Johnny couldn’t smell it yet, but he would. “I’ll walk from here,” he said. “Thanks for the ride.”