Hush (16 page)

such a simple and effective precaution. Why not go get it, girl? It could save

your life.
Okay, okay. She walked up the driveway and stepped up onto the deck, glad that

she'd made the effort to go back. If she hadn't she would have felt vulnerable

the whole time she was out. It definitely felt safer to wear the eye-catching

orange.
She put Pluto down on the deck and walked into the house. She barely glanced at

the closet door on her way into the kitchen to get a drink of water. She turned

on the faucet to let it run cold. As she took a glass down from a cabinet she

noticed an unusual odor, piny, yes, but something else too, something...sour.
She filled her glass and drank it halfway down before realizing that she was

smelling sweat, pine and sweat.
She lifted her arms and sniffed herself self-consciously. She shrugged and

finished her drink. She walked into the mud room and moved a boot back under a

shelf, most likely jarred loose during Pluto's wild scramble. Through the window

in the door she saw him sitting there looking back at her with his one eye.
She swung open the closet door, grabbed her vest, threw it on, and went back

outside. She hugged her cat and nuzzled his neck. "Okay, sweetie, we can go

now."
*
Chet stood in the hallway just off the living room listening to her every move.

When she returned to the closet he had abandoned only minutes before, he flooded

with victory, for he'd outsmarted her silly efforts to find him. He'd willed her

away when he'd stood behind the door, and had slipped from her grasp when she

returned. She would live...for now...because she had obeyed him. He'd given her

life with those few powerful words— Go, now, go!— and that life was the most

precious gift she'd ever receive. She had only him to thank, not the God above

but the God right here in this house, the God who had stood just a few feet away

and let her suck the air right into her lungs and swallow water and know the

elements a little while longer. Yes, He had given her life, and if He wanted to

He could take it away. The power was in His hands, and He had used it well.

Sometimes he gave them death, and this he willed too. He looked back at the

kitchen tile and mud room floor and saw the aftermath as he had seen it before,

the limpness of their bodies, when the only part that moves is the part that

tries to run away, the cooling blood that rolls across the floor.
He took a satisfying breath and knew the God within, fully, deeply, richly. He

felt the same glorious power when he murdered a boy and felt the young muscles

surrender, and the bones turn still as stone.
The God above might as well be dead.
When he was eight he'd pressed all of his wiry weight against a gray pigeon. The

wild beating heart had hammered insanely in his hands, like the pulse belonged

more to his palms than to the bird itself, and then he had felt it stop, a burp

so soft he'd almost missed the sacred moment; and that's when he'd learned the

most important secret of the universe: that when they died they were yours, and

through all eternity nothing would ever have the power to change that. Nothing.

Chet had the only power that mattered anymore.
Murder made him immortal. Death made him God.
He returned to the mud-room closet and pulled out one of Jack's coats, holding

it up as if taking the measure of the man.
He executed a fast search of the kitchen, throwing open drawers and cabinets and

finding no surprises. He hurried into the living room and gave it the once-over

before moving back to Celia's studio. He threw open the door and paused when he

saw her paintings, large and luminous, and the dozens of smaller ones by

children. He wondered if any of these were Davy's. He didn't see any Batman

pictures. Otherwise there was no telling. He stepped to the easel and looked at

the flower she'd been working on. He didn't know what it was called but he'd

seen bunches of them by the side of the road. They grew like weeds. Orange, like

those chickenshit hunters wore, on their caps, jackets, and dogs. But she'd made

it big. A flower bigger than a man's head and shoulders. He liked this, getting

a chance to figure out what she was all about by looking at her pictures. Even

up the score. He stared at it and stared at it, eyes unblinking, and then he saw

how she'd made the flower look just like their privates, their bottom parts. She

was a dirty one, all right. She was. The painting offended him and made him turn

away.
He closed the door, glad to be done with that roomful of filth, and walked into

the guest bedroom, where he rummaged through two bureaus with nothing but sheets

and towels. He noticed the dust, another disgusting flower painting above the

bed, then checked the closets and left.
He found her room, the one she shared with Mr. Griswold Agency. He rifled Jack's

armoire and Celia's big bureau until he found her underwear. He picked up a pair

of pale panties and studied its sheeny surface in the afternoon light. Then he

looked at the lacy front, the discreet leafy pattern that tried to hide what

could never be hidden, not from Him. He turned it inside out and held it close

to his open mouth, exhaling slowly, deliberately, until he was certain he'd

fogged the narrow panel. He ran his thumb over the moist strip before returning

it to the drawer.
He picked up a second pair and tensed them, pleased at the stretch. He tensed it

some more and a seam screamed as it tore apart, a deafening sound that rolled

like thunder and made him dizzy. But he let the pressure in his hands grow until

he heard another seam explode. And another. He watched the pink lace blow apart

in slow motion, bursts that ripped open the braided surface of the thread and

left it limp and cratered. Tiny bits of fabric swam up into the air and hung

like motes, twirling in the cold nothingness.
What had been smooth and silky now hung from his hands in pieces. But he had

touched her here in this room as surely as she had touched him in her office at

the Center. He had great power over her. He felt it in his hands and in his

heart. Even the appearance of the physical world had come under his command, for

he had frozen the arc of light and prized decibels from silence. A foolish

doctor had once called them hallucinations and tried to give him pills, but Chet

knew better. You hallucinated what you could not see, but he saw the world for

what it was. There was no question of this, for his eyes had the clarity of a

lens ground too fine ever to be fooled. And she would know this too.
He stuffed the remains in his pocket and ignored a gold watch that lay on the

bureau. He closed her underwear drawer and checked under the pillows and

mattress of the unmade bed before deciding that they did not have any guns.

Imagine that, living out here without them. They must think they're on Mars.
A creaking snapped the silence, and he looked toward the window by the head of

the bed. He did not like surprises. He listened closely as he crept over to it

and scanned the property. Nothing. He noticed the unlocked window and nodded.

From long experience he knew that people who live in the country rarely checked

them. If they're not locked today, they won't be locked tomorrow.
*
Celia put Pluto down by the entrance to their property. She watched him walk

around, pleased that he didn't favor the foot she'd stepped on. From the sound

of his screech she could have sworn she'd broken at least two of his legs, but

he was back to his affectionate self, rubbing up against her jeans and shedding

a considerable amount of his coat.
She dallied by the entrance for another minute or two, stroking Pluto and trying

to lure him along; but he would have none of it and paced by the fence post with

the small sign that said "Griswold."
"Okay, Pluto, God of the Underworld, do what you want but you're missing out on

all the fun stuff if you stay home all the time."
She crossed the county road to a deer and elk trail, one of dozens that

meandered through the forest; but she'd taken no more than a few steps on the

single track when she heard a crackling back in the dense vegetation that stood

between the driveway and the house.
The sound stopped as suddenly as it had started. She wondered if an animal was

caught in the brush, but had her doubts. Most animals are as silent as air. Then

she remembered that the scrub oak had started to fall. They'd seen a lot of that

since the drought set in. When the shallow root systems dried up, the trees,

never more than ten or fifteen feet tall, toppled easily. She wondered how many

would survive. The strong ones, she told herself, the strong ones would make it

through the dry spell.
She started down the trail, delighted by the smell of the earth, the pine sap,

the special fragrance of the forest itself.
*
Chet picked himself up and hastily brushed off the dirt and dry grass clinging

to his pants. He was surprised that he'd tripped and angry that he'd made so

much noise.
Now as he began to stalk Celia again, he moved as stealthily as any animal that

calls the forest home. Each foot settled squarely in front of the other. He

would not fall again.
*
Celia entered a densely canopied section of huge firs and pines shading a thick

carpet of ferns, and quickly came across the rotting tree that had blocked the

trail since a fierce windstorm blew it over three years ago. Like countless deer

and elk before her, she edged onto a new path that wove around the upended

trunk. She passed the dark root system, which rose high above her like the claws

of a giant crustacean. This was the first time she saw the resemblance, and she

found herself studying the unusual shape, wondering if it would make a good

subject for a painting. She pulled out a pocket sketch pad and started to take a

few notes. When she looked back up she noticed one of the roots slithering down

through the rotting mass. It glided silently and swiftly onto the ground. With a

start she understood that she'd been staring at a snake, and began to back up

blindly as the creature slipped through the grass and ferns.
She stumbled backward and fell into the thick undergrowth, saw the snake still

moving toward her and rolled blindly to the side in a surging panic. She

clambered to her feet, but even these brisk movements could not keep pace with

her racing heart. She sprinted up the trail, glancing back at least as often as

she looked ahead; and as she neared the road ran straight into Chet's arms.

Shocked, she tried to move away, but he held her firmly.
"Whoa, Mrs. Griswold, what's the matter? You're in some kind of rush, aren't

you?"
Chet spoke in a light-hearted manner, but his hands maintained their strong grip

on her upper arms. Celia became acutely aware of this as she breathlessly tried

to explain her fright.
"A snake," she gasped, "I just saw a snake." Even as she blurted this out she

knew how foolish she sounded, and now that she'd run away from the snake she

wondered why she'd been so alarmed.
"A snake?" He let go of one of her arms, much to her relief. "What kind of

snake? I know all about them. They're nasty things."
"A dark snake," she said calmly, now fully embarrassed by her behavior. But as

her fear subsided she became uncomfortably aware that Chet still held her left

arm. Subtly, she tried to move away from him. He did not appear to notice her

efforts.
"What are you doing here?" she said in a strong voice.
He shrugged, a movement she felt in her own body, then replied, "Me? I'm looking

for downed timber. Doing some salvage work."
"Forget it, this is all timber company or county land." She knew that Mr. Boyce

and his stepson had arrived in Bentman only recently, but surely he must be

familiar with cutting permits.
"That's okay, I take it where I can find it. Now let's take a look at that

snake."
When he tried to lead Celia back into the thick of the forest she made an

obvious, though unsuccessful attempt to pull away from him. He ignored her, and

for the first time she feared him.
"Let me go!" she demanded.
As she tried to twist her arm free she heard a logging truck and started waving

frantically toward the road before she could even see it. When the truck

appeared a moment later the driver waved back and tooted his air horn. That's

when Chet released her. She took three quick steps up the trail before he spoke

again, his voice as gentle as before.
"Okay, Mrs. Griswold, if you don't want to go you don't have to, but I'll be

glad to fix that snake that scared you."
"It's gone." She moved a few more steps away. "It crawled into the brush."
"You think so?" He smiled and shook his head wisely. "You might not see it but

that snake didn't go far. Snakes are sneaky that way, always just hanging around

waiting for something to eat."
Celia shuddered noticeably. "Look, I'm out of here."
She ran the last thirty feet or so to the county road where she finally felt

comfortable enough to bend over, catch her breath, and try to collect her

thoughts. As she straightened up she checked her back pocket and found her

notebook missing. She realized she must have dropped it when she ran from the

snake. But she wasn't about to go back and search for it, not with Mr. Boyce

around.
She started to walk over to the entrance to their property, heard rapid