Hush (28 page)

hurried to its perimeter. From here she could look back and see the forest

clearly, which hadn't been possible when she'd been deep in its shadows. That's

right, she joked to herself, you can see the forest for the trees. She laughed

at how funny that old expression sounded, and then gazed across the meadow at a

pine that must have been at least a hundred years old. It rose above its

brethren and stood heavy with brown cones and bushy green boughs. Its simple

beauty filled her with wonder, and a restfulness flooded her with a rare sense

of well-being. The moment lasted as few pleasures do, and she felt a powerful

worthiness, as if the land had spoken to her in a strange and lovely language,

and she had been silent enough to understand it.
She saw a familiar boulder in the middle of the meadow, and climbed it as she

had many times before. She found her footing at the top, and though no more than

six feet off the ground she felt like a hawk that had caught an updraft from the

valley and hovered patiently for prey.
From this heady vantage point she surveyed the wild grasses that surrounded her,

and imagined the field mice, insects, gophers and moles, the vast invisible web

of life that stretched out for acres on all sides of her. She closed her eyes to

the sun and let it linger on her face, and knew that even Indian summer could

not last forever. She felt the rays settle on her chest where her dark top drew

them in, as if to store away the wealth that winter would soon squander.
She opened her eyes and decided to take off her clothes. She wanted to lie in

the meadow and feel the sun on all of her body. She looked around again to

reassure herself of privacy, and climbed down. But as she stepped off the

boulder she noticed how the shadows of the forest now stretched closer to her;

darkness was coming, and she had so little time. She abandoned the idea of

sunbathing, and instead looked to the light that still thrived above the trees.
"Stay," she whispered to the day, and with that wistful plea came a song she'd

first heard at a college concert:
"Won't you stay, just a little bit longer ..."
Those lyrics brought a rush of distant memories, and a sadness that washed away

the happiness she'd known only moments ago, for she saw in the lengthening

shadows of all these trees the inescapable passage of all good times.
38
Chet waited until she paused by the meadow's edge, then snapped the branch in

two. She turned around and searched the trees and shadows. He had all he could

do to keep from laughing. She'd never find him. This is good, this is real good.

She's not standing up on that rock anymore looking so goddamn high and mighty,

now is she? She's down here with the rest of us. Look at her. Who the fuck does

she think she is?
He tossed the branch onto the ground. Two pieces. Was just one. He liked

breaking them. They snapped just like necks.
He kept his distance but moved along as she stepped back onto the trail. Within

minutes he climbed to a rise about a hundred feet above Mrs. Griswold.

Everything sloped toward her and the valley floor. He figured if he found a rock

big enough he could roll it all the way down, maybe take her with it. But that's

not what he wanted, not by a long shot.
He could see her real good. Keeping track wouldn't be any kind of problem.

Watching was fun. It wasn't any fun if you didn't get to play with them, get

them good and scared. They all got scared. Sometimes they got so scared they

even tried to play dead. But you don't play dead. You're either dead or you're

not dead. It's like people saying they're "half dead." Bullshit. There's no such

thing as being half dead. None of this in-between shit. You're either up and

alive or you're down and dead. No ifs, ands, or buts about it. Of course, if

they wanted to play dead, fine. Then he'd play, too. While they were playing

with him, he'd be playing with them. He'd talk to himself. Why not? It was a

game. He'd say things to make them think he was scared, that he'd gone too far.

He'd sound panicky, like he was thinking of leaving. But it was a tease, and

like any good tease he'd string it out for as long as he could. He knew that for

them— tied up, messed up— each of those minutes went on forever. It was as if he

could feel the emptiness in the air all around them, those hollow motes of hope

as big as the sky, and that slim promise of survival he loved to break.
He'd keep a close eye on them while they played possum. But they always gave off

some sign of life, and when he grew good and tired of waiting he'd use his razor

to carve out the raw truth. That's when they'd stop their goddamn lying and

start screaming.
You don't play dead.
He watched her and figured she'd have to hike back the same way she came. He'd

scouted around and hadn't seen any other trails, so he sat on a log and waited.

Got all the time in the world, nothing but time.
"Time, time, time is on my side, yes it is ..."
A song from his teens. Mick Jagger. He was an evil one. Not a man, not a girl,

an in-betweener. Like her with that little-boy's butt, and that priest that

showed up after the old man left. Running around in a robe just like a girl,

talking about my misdirected youth. Misdirected. He was the one that was

misdirected. Miss this and Miss that.
Father Jim, plump and sweet, old and tired, had tried so hard to teach Chet

about the Church. That was the year he'd been an altar boy, and they'd had lots

of long talks in the rectory about Jesus and God and the Virgin Mary. Talk,

talk, talk, that's all he did. But it was Chet who ended up telling Father Jim

about good sin and bad sin.
No, no, the father had argued, there's only bad sin. But Chet knew better, knew

that if you were God you made all the decisions about sin, and if you made all

the decisions about sin, then you could make some sin good and some sin bad.

Simple. He'd explained this to Father Jim over and over again but he wouldn't

listen. Stubborn. He'd just sit there shaking his head until one day Chet told

him he could prove everything he was saying.
"Prove it? Now how you going to prove it, Chester?" He always called him Chester

even though Chet had asked him not to.
Chet had the most powerful urge to show Father Jim exactly what he meant, but he

couldn't do it to a priest, not in the rectory. So he'd forced himself to sit

there beneath the wooden crucifix and shrug his shoulders like he was stupid;

and Father Jim had patted him on the back and told him not to feel bad, that

questions about God had confounded great minds for centuries.
Chet managed to remain silent only because he knew that his most cherished

secret would one day make him equal to the universe itself, to that great black

ball of life and death folding and unfolding into eternity.
That day came a few years later when he met Susan Edwards in a trailer park

outside Lincoln, Nebraska. A single mom with six-year-old Ritchie. She worked a

warehouse job. No family nearby, no friends to speak of either, no one to miss

her; and no one ever did, near as Chet could tell. As soon as he cut into her he

confirmed his deepest belief, that murder made him immortal, and death made him

God. The experience of crushing to death that gray pigeon when he was a kid

paled when he silenced Susan's last struggling breath. This was a person, and

then she was no more. He watched the blood race down her chest and knew that she

would always be his. And in time so would her boy.
He'd kept her trailer, slept in it still, and met other Susans and their sons.

He learned that nothing was easier than finding a lonely mom trying to raise a

little boy all by herself. Spit twice in a crowd and you were bound to come up

aces. Spend time with them and you found the twin rewards of murder nesting deep

inside their home, for the mother gave you her blood, and the boy was the gift

she'd borne.
But now he'd run right into the most interesting challenge he'd ever known, a

woman foolish enough to think she could figure him out. He smiled because he

knew that she wasn't even smart enough to figure herself out. Look at her, she

doesn't even know if she's a man or a girl. Boy's hair, tiny ass, nothing on

top. Who does she think she is?
There she goes, hurrying down that trail, looking back. He waved. He knew she

couldn't see him. He liked to play with them. But he wouldn't play for long.

Play time was over. He could feel it in his guts.
But even so he picked up another branch and snapped it in two just to see her

jump. Goddamn, she did too. He laughed, and had a hard time keeping it down.

This is going to be fun, making her jump, jumP, juMP, jUMP, JUMP— higher,

higheR, highER, higHER, hiGHER, hIGHER, HIGHER...till she couldn't jump at all.
39
Davy stopped drawing and hugged the pad to his chest. It was starting to get

dark. He didn't like to be alone in the dark but he didn't want to be with Chet

either. He wanted his mother. He wanted her to come right now and get in the

truck and drive away so they'd never have to see Chet again. Davy stared at the

shadows, hoping she'd be there, but she wasn't. Then he had to look away because

the darkness scared him.
He'd been sitting there since Chet left, except for when he had to go in the

weeds. But he'd hurried because he didn't want Chet catching him because he'd

want to help, and Davy didn't want his help. He just wanted him to go away and

never come back.
He looked at his pad. He'd been working all day on Batman, but he didn't like

any of the pictures. They were no good. Stupid, that's what they were. He'd

balled up each one and thrown it on the floor, and now he kicked them around and

stomped on them, and the paper made that angry noise like when you crushed it,

like it's fighting back but can't, not really.
Maybe before it got really dark he could finish this one and get it right. He

almost had it done and thought the wings looked good, and the rest of it too. It

was the dark parts, he'd been messing them up for days, ever since he started.

They took a long time, especially where Batman's legs and stomach came together.

That's where it had to be black. It wasn't right if it wasn't black.
He bore down on the pencil and made it darker and darker. It got so thick that

it started to shine. Davy felt sure he was going to get it right for the first

time. It would be perfect. He kept moving the pencil back and forth, back and

forth, over and over again, and it got blacker and blacker, shinier and shinier,

and then...the pencil tore a hole in the paper, gouged right through it just

like all the other times.
Davy felt sick. He crumpled up the paper and threw it on the floor where it

landed on top of dozens of others, each with a hole where he'd tried so hard to

make it perfect, where he'd tried so hard to make it black.
40
Chet was furious with himself, as angry as he'd ever been. He'd let her slip

back to the house. Hell, he didn't even know she was back till she put the damn

lights on. Near as he could figure, she had hiked down toward the valley and

looped back around.
Okay, Mrs. Griswold, round one, it's yours. But that's it. He stood in the trees

and stared at the door, then the window above the bed, knowing that now he was

going to have to go in after her. So be it. He knew the layout, and he'd

certainly seen enough of her to know she wouldn't be a problem once he got

inside.
He stepped back when she cracked the door to let out the cat. What a useless

goddamn pet. It jumped off the deck, and he thought about killing it. Something

else for Mr. Griswold Agency to look for in all the ashes, the bones of a cat.
But Chet felt no urgency about the animal, and when he looked for it again its

black form had disappeared into the night without making a sound. He did admire

the cat's stealth. It reminded him of the speed and suddenness of his own

attack, the way he could seize and silence a woman in a matter of seconds. He

loved to feel the shock that came alive in his hands, the delicious way muscles

tense, skin stiffens, bones shake.
His mouth moistened and his crotch stirred. He would enter the house ...and then

they would be alone. The police called it home invasion, and that's how he

preferred to think of it too— invading. He was an... invader. He liked to invade

and take the last thing they'd ever give up, the very last thing. They'd fight

like hell for it. They just didn't know when to quit. He'd always have to tell

them, "Give up, this isn't getting you anywhere."
He heard his voice, his wise counsel, the way he'd always tried to reason with

them, but then reminded himself that it was better to save your goddamn breath.

They never listened. Never.
41
Celia rinsed the salad spinner and rested it on the dish rack. She checked the

stove clock and saw that it was already past eight. She'd procrastinated with

Davy's drawings, no question about it. Maybe it was simple avoidance. Throughout

the week she'd seen some disturbing elements in his pictures. Hardly surprising,

given his stepfather. He'd certainly turned out to be a strange one. Back on

Monday morning he seemed so concerned and interested, but by the time he picked

Davy up at noon he'd become sullen. The next time she saw him was late Wednesday

when he'd scared her with the snake, and then yesterday he was downright cagey: