Hush (18 page)

appeared out there at all, he'd been stalking her.
She glanced around the small observation room, as if the mere thought of the man

could make his fleshly presence real.
But why would he be stalking you? Isn't that a bit much? A little melodramatic?

That's what her mother used to accuse her of: Stop being so melodramatic, Celia.

Stalking did make her think of bad movies in which women acted as the perfect

foils for homicidal maniacs, but it also forced her to remember the horrifyingly

true stories of women hunted and killed by the crazies of the world. There were

lots of real-life horror stories, though some of them taunted memory more

painfully than others. The grisly photographs of Nicole Brown Simpson's body

came quickly to mind, and Celia shuddered once again over the lesson some men

had learned from that case.
Then she recalled the weird remark Mr. Boyce made when he held the snake, just

before he tried to cut off its head, about not having any patience for the

things that scared him. Was that a coincidence too?
She rubbed her arm again and forced herself to focus on Davy. The boy looked up

as Mrs. Tucker's aide, Allison, started handing out supplies. The teacher's

voice melted into the observation room.
"Now, I want each of you to either write about your family or draw a picture of

them," the teacher said. "You can do either— write or draw— but I want you to do

it about your family."
Davy's eyes followed Allison hungrily until she gave him his paper and pencil.

Celia recalled how as a child she'd also been greedy for her own materials

whenever a new project had been announced.
"This ought to be interesting," she whispered.
"He looks like he might cooperate." As Tony spoke he pulled on his bottom lip, a

nervous gesture that Celia had taken note of only recently.
"Actually, he's been drawing well all week. Today I'll have him do the House,

Tree, Person Drawing."
This news did not rouse any response from Tony, but Celia tried not to let it

bother her.
"I haven't really had a chance to review his work yet. Tomorrow I'll have him do

the Family Drawing, and I'll look them over this weekend. By then I think we

should have all we need for a comprehensive evaluation."
"We've got you on call, right?"
"You do, but Jack's taking off for Trout River for two days, so I'll probably

have some time to work. Frankly, each of Davy's pictures gets creepier and

creepier."
"Creepier?" Tony repeated superciliously. "Now that's a professional term."
She refused to respond. She wasn't going to let him get to her, not this

morning. "By the way, I need to talk to you about something that happened

yesterday."
But Tony already was reading his beeper and opening the door, pausing long

enough only to say, "It's the district office," before disappearing.
She turned back to Davy, who was gazing at a child's picture hanging on the wall

just a few feet from his desk. Tears began to roll down his cheeks. She took a

second look at the picture and saw a roughly drawn woman holding a little boy's

hand.
Mrs. Tucker walked over to Davy and spoke softly to him, too softly to penetrate

the one-way mirror.
As the teacher studied the picture, Davy slowly lowered his eyes to his desk.

His every move appeared to require some effort until he focused on his pencil.

Then, in a sudden flurry of motion, he gripped the yellow barrel and raised his

arm. Celia pounded the glass to warn Mrs. Tucker, but it was too late.
Davy stabbed at his teacher, who surprised Celia— and no doubt the boy as well—

by swiftly deflecting his attack and pinning his wrist to the desk.
Celia exhaled with such relief that she felt empty. She certainly hadn't

expected the stout Mrs. Tucker to react that quickly. But neither Celia nor the

teacher was prepared for what came next.
Davy lunged forward and savagely sunk his teeth into her arm. Even behind the

glass Celia could hear his ferocious grunts as he chewed on the ample flesh just

below Mrs. Tucker's elbow. The teacher gasped and released Davy's wrist, but

that only enabled him to use both hands to hang on to her as he ground his teeth

deeper into her arm.
Celia rushed into the classroom as Mrs. Tucker made desperate and wholly

ineffective attempts to wrench herself free. Celia took hold of her arm and

forced it in the opposite direction— right into Davy's face— which clearly

angered the injured woman.
"What are you doing?" she shouted.
Celia didn't even consider responding because Davy's mouth had begun to open

under pressure, and she saw how she could break his bite. Using both hands, she

jerked Mrs. Tucker's arm down toward his chest, which finally freed her. Davy

turned away, as if in shame.
Mrs. Tucker stepped back and stared at her bloody wound as Celia gripped the boy

firmly by his shoulders.
"Davy, I think we need to go to containment right now."
Curiously, she did not fear Davy at all, not even when he clearly eyed her left

hand. She simply did not believe he would try to bite her after her show of

force. She was wrong.
"Do you hear me?" She raised her voice and shook him gently. She wanted him to

look at her. He wouldn't.
She glanced at Mrs. Tucker. "Please have Allison get one of the child

therapists, and you better get yourself some medical attention."
Davy's teeth had left a clear impression on the teacher's skin, like a cookie

cutter with scalloped edges. He'd drawn a lot of blood, and before Celia turned

back to the boy she saw a stream run down Mrs. Tucker's arm and drip off her

wrist.
Davy did not appear at all agitated by the panic and commotion he'd caused. He

sat unmoving, with his head still turned to the side, as Allison rushed out the

door and Mrs. Tucker moved hastily to the front of the class.
"Davy." Celia stepped around his desk to try to make eye contact with him. "Are

you going to walk out of here on your own or do you want some help?"
He looked at her with a stony expression, hate or fear or something else, Celia

couldn't tell. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Ethan hurry into the room

with Allison, and she heard Mrs. Tucker telling the students in a remarkably

collected voice that she had to leave to see a doctor.
"Allison," the teacher added, "will take over for me."
"Ethan," Celia addressed him without taking her eyes off Davy, "we need to go to

containment right now. We're going to see if Davy will take my hand and walk out

with us."
She released her hold on his shoulders but the boy would not take her hand. She

then tried to guide him out of his seat, but this proved no more productive.
"Ethan," she said in the same authoritative voice she'd been using all along,

"would you help me take Davy to containment?"
Ethan moved swiftly to the other side of the boy's desk, and the two of them

shifted his chair all the way back to the wall with the one-way glass. As they

did this Davy locked his hands on the plastic seat. They quickly unpried his

fingers and picked him up. Ethan held Davy's legs, and Celia stood behind him

and wrestled her arms around his upper body. He chose that moment to strike a

second time, baring his teeth so suddenly that Celia had to thrust his body to

the side and pin his arms tightly behind his back to avoid being bitten. But

this time he did not make any noise, no groans moans or utterances of any kind;

and when she foiled his attack he ran out of steam and hung between them like a

clothesline.
They carried him out of the classroom as the other students and Allison looked

on quietly. They negotiated the cement walkway back to the main building, where

they carefully descended the stairs to the containment room.
Celia freed her hand to open the door, and the awkward threesome entered the

room. They lowered Davy to the dark sponge mat that covered the floor. Every

surface of the eight-foot-square room had a cushioned covering.
The boy tensed as they laid him down between them, but made no attempt to break

free. They continued to hold him as they began to breathe together audibly.

After about a minute Davy started to relax. Celia watched Ethan as he looked

intently at the boy, and wondered what kind of a father he'd make. A good one,

she decided. Despite his dark humor, he was kind to kids.
She spoke in a soothing voice:
"Davy, everything is okay. We're going to keep you safe. This is a safe place

where you can't hurt yourself or anyone else."
She stroked his head as she talked, and when her eyes indicated to Ethan that he

could leave, he mouthed, "Are you sure?" She nodded.
He released Davy's feet, and the boy immediately drew them up to his body in a

protective posture. He lay still as Ethan walked out of the room.
Celia let her arms go limp, though they remained draped around Davy's chest.
"Davy, let's try breathing together, okay? I'm going to take a deep breath, and

you see if you can do it too. Then we'll blow it out slowly, okay?

One-two-three."
She drew in her breath in a deep, exaggerated fashion and exhaled in the same

manner. Then she did it again. A second or so later he joined her.
"That's good. Now let's do it together. One-two-three."
She felt the boy breathing with her, and after a few moments he rested his head

against her chest. She craned her neck around his head and saw for the first

time that he appeared calm. She leaned back against the padded wall, and a smile

spread across her face.
*
Davy let her take his hand as they left the containment room, and he held on to

her all the way upstairs to her office.
"Go ahead, grab a seat," she said cheerily.
He settled in the child's chair by the big table where he'd been drawing all

week long. He looked at her openly and expectantly, and when she spoke he

watched her keenly. For the first time since meeting Davy she sensed that he

wanted to be at the Center, and maybe even with her. She was surprised by how

much this pleased her.
She handed him a pencil knowing this was a calculated risk after his attack on

Mrs. Tucker, but she wanted to rebuild trust with him as soon as possible.

Besides, he'd made his preference for pencils clear during every drawing

session. As she handed him a sheet of blank paper she told him to think about

the place where he felt safest.
"Whenever you're scared, like you were in that classroom, or whenever someone's

mean to you, I want you to think about the one place that you'd like to go

because it feels safe. Got that?"
Davy didn't reply, of course, but she talked on as if he had.
"Good. Now I want you to draw that place, Davy. It's important."
He moved his head up and down. She thought he might have been nodding, but

couldn't be sure. Then he leaned over and went to work.
26
Chet heard the chain saws and knew that if he started cutting, the loggers would

hear him too. Too bad. A whole string of stumps all lined up by the side of the

road waiting for him. Just waiting. And he couldn't cut them. Look at that one,

all fat and round and standing there saying, Cut me, cut me, like some dumb-ass

hitchhiker with sweat meat stacked up all over her body. Come on, get in. You

need a ride? Yeah, sure, I'm going that way. He'd picked them up...and dropped

them off. One, two. Maybe more. You lose track. Once they're gone, they're gone.

No use to remember.
He'd have to move on, get away from the sound of those saws. He thought he

should do that with Davy, too. Leave Bentman. Get the hell out. Every goddamn

day he's drawing pictures— of what? What's he saying? It's like he's talking

Russian all of a sudden. They don't mean shit to me but they could be saying

anything to her. Everything, even. There's no telling with that kind of talking.
But it doesn't matter, he told himself. Doesn't matter one bit, not if she's not

listening. And if she straightened out her thinking, she won't be listening. And

if she didn't? Hell, then she won't be listening either. He'd given her life. It

was His to take away.
The dirt and gravel road curved to the west, and when he spotted the long

driveway to his left he smiled without knowing it. He realized with a start that

he'd driven up the county road the back way and hadn't even known where he was.

He sure as hell did now. The name on the fence post saying to all the world

"Griswold," like she didn't have a thing to be afraid of.
He pulled on the parking brake and let the truck idle. He walked up the drive

till he could see the house. He had time for a good long look. Nice. He'd burn

it down if he had to. He could see the flames licking the walls, cedar turning

black as night, crumbling and falling on top of her, a huge smoking mess, the

flesh roasted right off her bones. All the evidence burned away, her blood

bubbled to ash. Go ahead, find the cuts. Like finding the white when the snow

melts.
His smile spread till he felt it all the way down to his crotch, rich and thick

with joy.
He turned away and started back to the truck. He stopped at the fence post to

look at the sign. It had been there awhile; he could tell by the rusty nails

holding it in place. He pulled and felt it start to give. Then he jerked it hard

and split it right down the middle, right where those nails were. The only part

still hanging was the "Gris," and even the top of the s was missing. He liked

the way it dangled there, like it might not last for long. A hard wind could rip

it right down. It could. It could.
27
Stevie bulled his way through the kitchen door of the Center and headed straight