by John Hart
Leslie was the first to speak. “Private practice seems to suit you.”
“It’s great when you have the right clients.”
Michael Adkins laced his thick fingers, leaning forward. “Don’t you mean ‘client’?”
“Quite right.” Jack unzipped the backpack, pulled out a file, and slid across four copies of the same document. “Our settlement demand. Nonnegotiable.”
Adkins looked at it without touching it. “One million dollars.”
“Only if it’s paid within three days. After that, it triples.” Adkins scoffed. The other lawyers looked blank, and Jack smiled more broadly. “You represent the county. Am I not in the right office?”
Leslie was the only one to return the smile. It was still dazzling. “I think you’re ahead of yourself on this, Counselor.”
“You flew a helicopter into my client’s home—”
“A cabin, I believe.”
“A cabin built with his own hands, a labor of love.”
“Yet, liability has not been established,” Leslie said.
“That will come at trial, of course. Destruction of private property. Excessive force. Intentional infliction of emotional distress. Malicious prosecution. Don’t get me started.”
“Please—”
“Your sheriff’s department has been harassing my client since he was a child. The pattern is well established—”
“Your client has a criminal record,” Adkins interrupted. “What you call persecution I call law enforcement.”
Jack looked at the senior partner, and his smile took a bitter edge. “Captain Lee used civilians—”
“Civilian trackers,” Adkins interrupted.
“Armed civilian trackers.”
“What? He wouldn’t!”
Jack slid more documents from his file. “Sworn statements,” he said. “Timmy Beach. Bob Brinson. A few others.” All four lawyers flipped through the pages. “Two guards at the jail have confirmed that my client, when confined on suspicion of William Boyd’s death, was held in unduly coercive circumstances, and that Sheriff Cline actively conspired to deny his right to counsel. Their statements.” He slid over more pages. “I’ve not deposed Bonnie Busby yet, but she’s aware of the sheriff’s long vendetta against my client. She’s a good person. I think she’ll tell the truth, once subpoenaed. Bottom line, if this goes to trial, the county will lose a fortune. You know it. I know it. Let’s not even discuss the bad publicity or the political fallout.”
No one spoke the deeper truth, but it was there nonetheless. Juries in Raven County drew heavily from the rank and file of blue-collar workers, men and women who lived outside the city limits. To people like that, Johnny was a hero; and county government, the enemy. Jack smiled every time he pictured himself in front of that jury. Michael Adkins seemed to understand that reality, too. “A million dollars…”
“You’re getting off easy.”
“This is all very fast.” Adkins waved a hand over the documents as if to conjure them away. “Very unusual.”
“Indeed.” Jack stood, and zipped up the pack. “You’ll want time to discuss. I’ll wait outside.”
It took less time than Jack imagined. They sent Leslie to find him by the large window with views down onto the city. Her skin was the same as always, perfect and pale and slightly flushed. Her eyes shone when sunlight struck them. “Nice job, Counselor.” Jack shrugged. It wasn’t over yet. “They want you to take half.”
“Not a chance,” Jack said.
“I told them you wouldn’t. I’m supposed to be playing hardball.”
“So, we’re good at a million?”
“Adkins won’t shake your hand on it, but yeah. A million, plus the normal bells and whistles.”
“Nondisclosures, waivers?”
“The usual.”
“I need the money in three days.”
“I’ll have the paperwork tomorrow.”
Jack nodded. His first real client. His first case. He started to turn, but Leslie wasn’t finished. “Have you seen him since … you know?” She touched his hand, but Jack said nothing. She moved closer, and brought the usual smells. Perfume. Her hair. “What happened out there, Jack? I mean, what really happened? All those bodies. The stories? People say it goes back a hundred years or more, that even now no one knows for sure how Boyd or the sheriff died, how Colson Hightower drowned in eighteen inches of water.” Jack shook his head, but her color was up, and she was even closer. “They say there are things not even the coroner will discuss. They say the place is haunted, that Johnny is not like the rest of us—”
“Come on, Leslie.”
But she moved even closer. “I know people in the sheriff’s department, some in the state police, too. A few of them have spoken to me about Verdine Freemantle and what they found in the bottom of that old grave—”
“Leslie…”
“They say that whatever was buried with Luana Freemantle defies explanation, that there’s good reason the coroner won’t discuss it. Grown men are scared, Jack. They don’t know what to believe.”
“What are you suggesting?”
“These are seasoned officers, men too hard for fairy tales or children’s stories.”
“That’s all they are, Leslie, just stories.”
“But who could live in a place like that? Who would? Come on, Jack. Whatever happened, you were there. You saw it.”
Jack looked down on the city. She was right. He’d seen things.
“I’d love to pick your brain,” she said. “You know. Once all this is done.”
Leslie squeezed his bad arm, and Jack thought about that as he drove a dozen blocks to buy bourbon and cigars. He thought about their nights together, those eyes in the dimness. She was a mercenary soul, but lived the life without regret. Maybe he’d see her again, or maybe not. Whatever the case, the choice would be his.
At his apartment, he thought about the money he’d won for Johnny’s future. His next job would be to convince Johnny that a conservation easement made sense. It would cut his taxes to pennies on the dollar, and Jack smiled, thinking of the argument he’d make. It’s why he’d gone to law school: to have the answers, to help people who mattered.
Pouring a glass of bourbon, he took it onto the roof and stared north toward the Hush. In two days, he’d have dinner with his friend, where he’d ask about the bodies and the cave and all the other things on which the people in town had fixated. He’d want to know about the deaths and the fear and the stories told by those who’d survived. He’d present the darker questions, too, the private ones about what he’d seen and heard that night, disturbing ones about the old creature they’d dug from that muddy ground. He’d ask about Verdine and Johnny’s secrets and all the things that made the Hush matter so damn much. But Jack would get few answers, and he was okay with that. They’d come later, or not at all. All Jack knew for sure was that Johnny Merrimon was the best friend he’d ever had, and that he’d been exactly that since they were boys. They had years for those questions, a lifetime.
Jack could be patient.
He’d get there in the end.
Tipping back the glass, he finished the bourbon, then stooped for a pebble that was white and smooth and small enough to sting without drawing blood. He bounced it on his palm, then put it in his pocket.
* * *
Marion died in the last hour before dawn, and Johnny was with her when it happened. He cried about it more than he was proud to admit, but John’s memories remained his, and it seemed sad to him that she’d had so much life and so little living. Fifteen months of marriage. An eyeblink with her child. By noon, the second grave was dug, but Johnny lingered with the shovel. It was still hot in the Hush, still windswept and vast. The hillside was a good place for Marion, too, he thought. She’d slept belowground for so many years. Was this really any different? John was with her. The earth was the same. When the grave was smoothed above her remains, he thought of markers for the first time. Their old stone still stood
in the family cemetery where the manor house had been. BOUND IN LOVE, FOREVER SOULS. Those were the words Johnny remembered, and thought few could be more fitting.
Maybe he’d bring the marker here.
Maybe he’d carve the final dates.
Johnny spent two more days in the hills, and when the sun was low on that third afternoon, he went to the cabin at last. It was basically gone; the helicopter was still there. None of that troubled him, though. He’d build another cabin. He had the cave. Righting one of the camp chairs, he brushed off the seat and then the table. He turned his face to the warmth of the sun, and in the stillness thought at last of his future. Until that moment, he’d thought mostly of Marion and John, of the past and of Cree, who was out there somewhere. Only late at night had he worried for himself, only when he was at his weakest.
What if he faded?
Breathing deeply, Johnny reached out for the Hush, and felt so much of it. He knew Jack was a half mile from the church, and whistling. He knew rain would come tomorrow, and that stone was cooling in the shade two miles north. Cree had said the land was steeped in power, and that Johnny, too, was steeped.
Maybe that word was bigger than he thought.
Maybe nothing would change.
Johnny kept his face to the sun, and though his eyes were closed, he followed Jack’s progress as he wound through the swamp, slipping and cursing, but undeniably eager. Maybe this would last forever, Johnny thought. And maybe it would fade. Right now, though, just now, he was as happy as he’d ever been. He had the Hush, and his friend was close. They’d drink bourbon and smoke cigars and tell the old lies. They’d stay up too late, but have coffee in the morning, and fish the dark waters. Johnny felt it all, an eddy in the current. He saw the pebble move from Jack’s pocket to his palm. He waited until the arm went back, then, smiling, said, “Don’t do it, old friend.”
ALSO BY JOHN HART
Redemption Road
Iron House
The Last Child
Down River
The King of Lies
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
JOHN HART is the author of five New York Times bestsellers, The King of Lies, Down River, The Last Child, Iron House, and Redemption Road. The only author in history to win the Edgar Award for Best Novel consecutively, John has also won the Barry Award, the Southern Independent Bookseller’s Award for Fiction, the Ian Fleming Steel Dagger Award, the Southern Book Prize, and the North Carolina Award for Literature. His novels have been translated into thirty languages and can be found in more than seventy countries.
Visit him online at www.johnhartfiction.com, or sign up for email updates here.
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CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Epilogue
Also by John Hart
About the Author
Copyright
THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION. ALL OF THE CHARACTERS, ORGANIZATIONS, AND EVENTS PORTRAYED IN THIS NOVEL ARE EITHER PRODUCTS OF THE AUTHOR’S IMAGINATION OR ARE USED FICTITIOUSLY.
THE HUSH. Copyright © 2018 by John Hart. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.stmartins.com
Cover art: design by Ervin Serrano
Cover photographs: man © David & Myrtille/Arcangel; trees © Jake/Monodrift/Getty Images
The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
ISBN 978-1-250-01230-2 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-250-18495-5 (signed edition)
ISBN 978-1-250-20049-5 (international edition)
ISBN 978-1-250-01229-6 (ebook)
eISBN 9781250012296
Our ebooks may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at 1-800-221-7945, extension 5442, or by email at [email protected].
First Edition: February 2018
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