Hush (15 page)

swam in saliva, and he swallowed without thinking. He slowed and stared at the

young ones, and his memory tasted their roasted flesh. He knew he could butcher

one of them with his chain saw and be out of there in minutes. He saw the blood,

the torn fleece, the two legs of lamb safely in hand. Here, Davy, take them. But

then he caught sight of the mad-looking man with a heavy stick walking beside

the flock, and he choked the steering wheel and swore to himself. His hands had

grown itchy for action but there would be no lamb to butcher today, no leg to

drip fat from a spit, to turn crisp and sweet in the night air.
As he drove past the shepherd he looked him over carefully, and tugged Davy's

arm.
"Now that's a creepy son of a bitch. Don't ever let me catch you near the likes

of him."
Chet turned away, disgusted by the shepherd's appearance, and drove another two

miles before a house appeared up ahead on his right, barely visible through the

tall firs that rose just beyond the road. A row of much younger trees lined the

long driveway, but at the end of it he spotted an old tan car and knew he'd

found Mrs. Griswold.
He immediately braked and looked for a place to pull off. He figured if he drove

any farther he'd risk exposing himself to her. He saw another overgrown logging

road by an ancient pine off to his right, but the two-track quickly disappeared

into dense growth. Though he knew it was risky, he plunged into the thicket and

bounced hard off a fallen log. Branches and bushes raked the cab, and a long

limb from a deciduous tree brushed across his windshield and blunted his view.

But he drove ahead slowly, steadily, until the branch sprang back and showered

the pickup with dead leaves.
He found himself on an open stretch of logging road bordered on both sides by

walls of fir and pine. This is where he stopped. When he looked back he saw that

the trees and bushes had once again closed around the path. He couldn't have

asked for a better place to hide. No one passing on the county road would ever

see his faded green truck. He told himself he should explore the road he'd just

discovered and see where it went. But not today. He had other plans.
He turned to Davy but the boy looked sleepy, like he wasn't paying attention, so

he poked him. Not even hard, but the kid shrank back against the door. Chet

thought he looked all shriveled up all of a sudden, like his finger had stuck a

hole in his goddamn chest and the air had come rushing out.
"What the hell are you afraid of? I haven't hurt you yet, have I?"
Davy kept his eyes on him, wary as any creature caught in a corner. Chet saw his

fear and wiped his own face roughly with his hand. He could have kicked himself

for losing his temper. He knew that you can break a boy that way, and once they

break they're broke for good.
"Davy, I'm sorry." He waited to see the effect of his apology. None, goddamn it.

He tried another approach, putting his hand on Davy's knee, but the boy grew

even more rigid, and Chet retreated. He wasn't making any headway with this kid.

Usually after a week or two they'd at least start to see things his way. Buy

them treats and toys, be a good guy. Hell, he'd done all that, but this kid was

turning out to be a hard case. He decided to give up on all this pleading

bullshit for now. He could feel his anger and it didn't feel good.
"Now listen up. You remember what I said about touching things in my truck,

right? You never touch these keys"— he pointed to the ignition—"and you never

ever touch these." He reached under the seat and pulled out a pistol. The handle

caught on a second gun that slid out just far enough for Davy to see the end of

the dark barrel. Chet held up the pistol as he spoke.
"You ever touch these, I'll break your neck." Though his words were harsh, his

voice remained gentle, easygoing, and his smile sincere.
He rested the pistol on his lap and reached out the window. He snapped off a

thin branch, turned back to Davy, and casually broke it. "Just like that, I'll

bust you in two."
He tossed it back out and picked up the gun, shifting it from palm to palm,

feeling its weight, running a thumb over the chamber.
"These are nice. Very nice," he added approvingly, "but nothing," and now his

words filled with feeling, "and I mean nothing beats a blade."
He lowered the pistol once more and unsnapped the pearl button on his shirt.

With his index and middle fingers he tweezed out the single-edge razor that he'd

used on Davy's mom. The boy turned away, his eyes fixed on the windshield. But

he saw only glass, nothing of the world beyond— the trees, the leaves, or the

living bark.
Chet watched him and smiled even more broadly than before. He held the razor up

before his eyes and admired it, then rubbed the sharp edge against his face and

a soft scraping sound violated the cab.
"It's all in how you use it," he whispered, his voice almost gone now, a lover's

sound instead. "See, like this, it cuts my beard. But if I take it like this"—

he held the edge perpendicular to his neck—"it cuts me deep."
He could see that Davy wasn't watching, but didn't care anymore. He let himself

stare at the blade, tranquilized by its sheen, the steady pulse of its threat,

and remembered how sweetly it sank into skin.
His hands longed for that motion, like sex longs for touch, communion, sweet and

strain. He felt the urge sudden and strong, as he had with the boy's mother, the

way she'd brought it right out of him, like they'd both been born to that moment

and would forevermore. He opened his mouth and placed the blade on his tongue,

sharp edge forward, and lowered it to his teeth. Then he bit down slowly and the

blade disappeared. He looked in the rearview mirror and saw the way his lips

stuck out, flattened around the steel wafer. He peeled them back and stared at

the two sharp corners sticking out from between his teeth.
He held fast to the clean taste of steel before opening his mouth and lifting

the blade up with his tongue. He tucked the razor back in his shirt.
"I think they're overrated," his voice returned as he shoved the guns back under

the seat. "They're too damn loud, but it's good to know how to use them, and

I'll teach you when I can trust you. Know when that'll be?"
Davy remained lost in the glass, the windshield that froze his vision and held

his every thought.
"When you talk to me, that's when. To me. When I hear you say even one word,

then I'll know I can trust you and that's when I'll teach you how to use a gun.

Every boy should know how to use a gun, right, Davy?"
Chet shook his head. Even his amiability now sounded strained. "I guess it'll be

a while before you're ready to learn. That's fine, but I'll tell you one thing

you're going to do. You're going to sit there till I get back. I don't care how

long, you just sit there and don't move. I've got something I've got to take

care of."
Be nice, he reminded himself. Be nice.
23
Celia unlocked the door and found Pluto in his preferred position right in front

of her on the mud-room floor. She fulfilled her part of the routine by

scratching his ears, but she did this only briefly because she really did want

to hike for at least an hour.
She hurried through the kitchen, noticed the red light blinking on the answering

machine, and punched the "play" button. Jack's voice reached her as she flew

down the hallway to the bedroom.
"Hon, it's me. I'm running late. Something's come up and I'll be a bit. Go ahead

and start dinner without me. I'll just pop mine in the microwave."
"You and your damn dinner," she mumbled. She shed her athletic shoes and

searched under the bed for her hiking boots. As she laced them up she reminded

herself to grab her bright-orange vest out of the mud-room closet. She did not

want to end up impersonating a deer in some hunter's hair-trigger imagination.
She heard Pluto meow in the mud room and wondered what had set him off.

Normally, he wasn't the most vocal cat. He certainly had lost his explorer's

spirit. Sometimes he'd accompany her to the country road, but never any farther.

He seemed to have had his fill of the wider world before he ever moved in with

them. Jack put it differently. He maintained that based on Pluto's battered

appearance— one eye, scars all over his head, chewed-up ears— the cat had used

up eight and a half of its lives and was taking no chances with the little it

had left.
When Celia marched into the mud room to grab her vest she saw that the outside

door was ajar. This puzzled her, but not for long. She'd been in such a rush,

after all.
The closet door, which also had been closed, hung open a fraction of an inch as

well, but she didn't notice this, or that Chet was peering out at her through

the crack. As she tried to remember why she'd come in here— the outside door

distracted her momentarily— Chet tensed. He did not want to be discovered, he

wanted to do the discovering. He'd slipped in the house and hid in here so he

could spy on her, see how she lived, the furniture, hallways, and hiding places.

Guns, too. Under the pillow or under the bed? But most of all he wanted to steal

a little piece of her, the scent of her clothes, the sound of her toilet, the

way the silver handle flushed and the cabinet door squeaked open, the magazines

and sex toys she kept hidden away. Who was she? He'd listen in, look around,

he'd find out. Buy clues with his time like she was buying them from the boy.

Tit for tat, now how about that, Mrs. Griswold?
Celia finally remembered the vest but as soon as she weighted her foot and

reached for the closet door, Pluto let loose with an unearthly howl.
Chet froze, his concentration rattled by her sudden move toward him—what's she

doing!— and the feline scream. Celia also stood rock-still, startled and

unthinking, then looked down and saw that she'd stepped on Pluto's paw. She

hopped aside and tried to scoop him up, but he bolted away so fast his feet

slipped on the smooth surface and his body bounced off the closet door, slamming

it shut and leaving Chet in darkness.
He heard Celia's pathetic apologies as she chased the cat, but mostly his

thoughts raced as he tried to regroup. She was leaving, great, but she wanted

something in here first. What the hell does she need in here? It's too goddamn

hot for a jacket. He looked around but couldn't see anything in the dark. If she

did open the door he'd be forced to do something, and he didn't want to do that,

not without some more planning, though he smiled when he remembered a woman who

actually fainted on him, just collapsed like a column of sand when she reached

in for her coat and found him staring right back at her. But he'd brought her

around. You bet he did.
He heard her moving back toward the mud room and touched his breast pocket, felt

the razor and fished it out. He would do what had to be done. And if she doesn't

open the door? He brushed the razor against his jeans as if to strop the blade.

Well, then the afternoon would take another twist, one more to his liking,

especially if she was going for a walk in the woods.
As she approached he closed his eyes and silently commanded, No, no, no,

concentrating so hard that she'd have to hear him, obey him. Then he listened

and heard her words, the sickening way she spoke to her cat, baby talk, and he

imagined her cradling the beast in her arms. For the briefest moment he reached

for the handle, felt its cool welcome, and wanted to end all this

uneasiness...by...smashing the door into her. Take them both down. But he

checked himself and closed his eyes, and concentrated once more. Go now, go! He

believed he could make her leave, even as he believed in his other powers, the

ones that made him God.
Suddenly he smelled her, the soap she lavished on her skin or the shampoo that

bubbled in her hair. He inhaled deeply, delighted by the first discovery of the

day. The scent she gave off now belonged to him, and forever and ever it would

be his to relish and remember. She could never take it way. He owned it. Each of

these moments promised a gain, but as he started to inhale again he stopped

because he heard his breath and feared that she did too. There was, in fact, a

troubling silence on the other side of the door. He braced himself but the

handle that turned wasn't the one in his hand. It was the one for the outside

door, and she stepped past him. Just as quickly, it closed.
He cracked the closet door and watched her walk away, then turned to the

interior of the house, the broad wooden beams above and the blue ceramic tile

below, and felt a tingle in his stomach, like a spark of static electricity had

lived and died there in the space of a second.
Her house. And now mine too. He would take away pieces of her before he was

through, secret parts she wouldn't miss. Not now. Not ever.
He looked out the kitchen window and saw her turn down the driveway. That's when

he lost her to the trees. But not for long. He was a tracker from way back. He'd

find her, and then he'd find a way to wipe that smile right off her face, set

her thinking straight.
*
Celia cuddled Pluto and drifted halfway down the driveway before remembering her

vest. She stopped and turned around. She promised herself years ago that she

would never hike without it, not with all the hunters stalking the land. It was