by John Hart
Johnny had forgotten that, too.
* * *
So Johnny made a choice, and it wasn’t an easy one. In spite of what the shopkeeper said, selfishness had nothing to do with Johnny’s long absences from his mother’s side. When she looked at her son’s face, she saw the daughter, killed young, and the husband who’d died trying to save her. Johnny knew that truth because he faced it every time he chose to confront a mirror.
This is how my father stood.
This is how my sister would appear.
That all made sense, but Johnny was forgetting, too—not just how to live a normal life, but also the sound of Alyssa’s voice, the secret looks only a twin could understand. The past walked beside him as a shadow might, and every day that shadow stretched and thinned, the memories of childhood and family and how good it all had been. Johnny feared that when enough days had passed, the shadow would fade and pale until it was simply gone. Johnny dreaded that day more than anything else, so in the end, he did what the old man said.
He went to see his mother.
Katherine Hunt lived with her second husband in a small house behind a picket fence. Two blocks from the library and the original courthouse, it filled a shaded lot on the corner of Jackson Street and Bank. It had a good porch, good neighbors. Pulling to the curb, Johnny studied the bright windows, the gleaming paint.
“Are you staking out the place?”
Johnny’s stepfather came around a boxbush the size of a small car. He wore blue jeans and leather gloves, was dragging a tarp full of lawn clippings.
“Aren’t you supposed to be out catching bad guys?”
“No bad guys today.” Clyde Hunt dropped the tarp and opened a gate in the fence. He was in his fifties and fit, and wore his hair short. Clyde leaned on the passenger door, then dropped an eyelid and pushed a hand through the open window. “How are you, son? It’s been too long.” The big detective leaned closer, squinting. “Goddamn, Johnny. What happened to you?”
“It was nothing. Just. You know…”
Johnny retrieved the hand, but couldn’t stop his stepfather from looking more closely with those cop eyes of his. He saw the abrasions and the scratches, the way Johnny sat with one shoulder rolled inward.
“Step out of the truck, Johnny.”
“I just came to see Mom—”
“Your mother’s not here. Come on, now, son. Step out of the vehicle.”
Johnny thought about it, then switched off the engine and stepped from the truck. Clyde peeled off the leather gloves and watched him onto the sidewalk.
“You look a little busted up. What happened?”
“Nothin’.”
“Doesn’t look like nothing. Is it the ribs?”
“Why would you ask that?”
“Don’t bullshit me, son. I saw the way you were sitting, the way you walk. You don’t think I’ve had cracked ribs before? Come on, now. Let me see.” Johnny looked the length of the street, then lifted the shirt on one side. Clyde whistled low. “Goddamn, son. That’s a hell of a lot of damage. Was it a fight?”
“A fall.”
Clyde studied Johnny’s face, and the doubt was hard to hide. There’d been fights before: trespassers, the two hunters, the four months in jail. Johnny was stubborn, and rarely backed down. It caused problems. “Come inside, I’ll patch you up.”
Johnny lowered his shirt. “That’s not necessary.”
“It wasn’t a suggestion.”
Accustomed to obeyed orders, the big cop turned without looking back. Johnny watched him for three steps, then trailed him up the gravel walk and onto the shaded porch. Inside, they followed a broad hall to the master bath.
“Take off the shirt. Sit.” Clyde pointed at a stool in front of a sink and mirror. Johnny shrugged off the shirt and kept his eyes down as his stepfather rustled in a cabinet for hydrogen peroxide, ointment, and adhesive bandages. When he straightened, he stood for long seconds, watching Johnny stare at the floor, the wall, his hands. “Your mother does the same thing sometimes. Not as much as she used to, but it still happens.”
“What are you talking about?”
Clyde sat, and his voice was softer. “The way she gathers herself before facing the mirror. It’s just in the mornings, really, and just for a second or two.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Don’t you?”
Johnny faced the mirror and in his reflection saw the face of a dead twin. “Next week it will be ten years since we found her.”
“Thursday, I know.”
“Do you ever talk about it?”
“With your mother? Sometimes. Not like we used to.”
Johnny looked away from the mirror. “Where is she?” he finally asked.
“Your mother’s at the coast with some lady friends, and it’s a good thing, too. She’d have a heart attack if she saw your back like this.”
“It’s bad?”
“You haven’t looked?”
Johnny shook his head.
“Go on, then.”
Johnny twisted on the stool, saw bruises and dried blood and ripped skin.
“You’ve bled through the shirt,” Clyde told him. “I’ll give you another one.”
“Thank you.”
“This next part’s going to hurt.” He palpated the ribs, the spine. “Just hold still.” Johnny did, but it was hard. “All right. I don’t think any ribs are broken. Cracked, maybe. Definitely bruised.”
“Are we finished?”
“Not yet.” The cleanup took another ten minutes. When it was done, Clyde pulled a shirt from the closet and tossed it to Johnny. “You could probably use a few stitches, but the butterfly bandages should do the job if you take it easy for a few days. No pulling, all right? Don’t chop any wood or climb that damn tree.” Johnny shrugged into the shirt. Clyde leaned against the wall. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“It was just a fall. A careless mistake.”
“I’ve seen you make mistakes. None of them have ever been careless.”
“This one was. Just stupid, really.”
“What about life in general? You doing okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
“How about money?”
“The money’s fine, too.”
“How is that possible, Johnny? You don’t work. You don’t have plans to work.”
“Dad’s life insurance—”
“Your father’s life insurance, right. Let’s talk about that. You got a hundred thousand from the insurance company when you were thirteen. By the time you turned eighteen, it grew to what, about one-twenty? How much have you spent on lawyers? All of it?”
“I’m fine, Clyde. Really.”
“We’re here for you, son. Let us help you.”
“I said I don’t need money.”
“Only because you live on berries and roots and snakes…”
“It’s not like that, and you know it.”
“Okay, you have a garden. That’s nice. What if you couldn’t hunt or plant? What if you’d cracked your spine instead of a few ribs? What if that great swamp just swallowed you whole?”
“It didn’t. It won’t.”
“You can’t live like this forever.”
“Says who?” Johnny stood. “Listen, I appreciate the bandages and all, but I have to go.”
Johnny pushed into the hall, but Clyde caught him before he got to the front door. “Come on, Johnny. Wait, wait, wait.” Johnny did, just a second. But it was enough for Clyde to turn him, wrap him gently. “We just love you, son. We miss you and we worry.” He stepped back, but kept his hands on Johnny’s shoulders. “There’s no judgment here. Look at me, all right.” Johnny did, and felt the anger ebb. “Anything you need: if you want to come home, if you need money.”
“Listen, Clyde—”
“You want to go, I know. I can see that, too. It’s always Hush Arbor, always the land. Just tell me one thing before you leave. Help me understand.”
“What?”
“Why do you love it so much?”
He meant the silence and the swamp, the lonely hills and endless trees. On the surface it was a simple question, but Johnny’s past had branded him in a way few could ignore: the things he’d believed and leaned upon, the way he’d searched so long for his sister. If Johnny spoke now, of magic, they’d think him confused or insane or trapped, somehow, in the delusions of a difficult past. Without living it, no one could grasp the truth of Hush Arbor.
Johnny wouldn’t want them to if they could.
CHAPTER TWO
The lawyer’s office occupied the top three floors of a nine-story building downtown. The building itself was the second tallest in Raven County, and from the top-floor lobby Johnny could see the courthouse and jail, the banks and people and redbrick sidewalks. Bright metal winked on the street, and Johnny felt heat through the glass as he stepped closer and looked into the distance where houses showed beneath a canopy of trees.
“Excuse me, sir? May I help you?”
The receptionist was as polished as the marble floor. Her smile seemed real enough, but it was clear she was unused to clients in faded jeans and scuffed boots. “I’m here to see Jack Cross.”
“I’m sorry. Who?”
“Jack Cross. He’s one of your attorneys.”
“I don’t think so.”
“He started this week.”
“Sir, I would know—”
“Fifth from the top, thirty-third from the bottom.” Johnny dipped his head toward the directory on the far wall. “Thirty-seven lawyers. My friend is your newest.”
The woman glanced left, and for a moment her head tilted. “I’m sorry. Have you been here before?”
“First time.”
“How did you…?” She pointed at the list of lawyers and lifted an eyebrow to finish the question.
“How did I see my friend’s name?”
“And count the number of attorneys in this firm?”
“I have very good eyes.”
“Apparently.”
“He’s on the seventh floor. May I go down?”
“Give me a minute to sort this out. Would you like anything while you wait?”
“I’m fine.”
“Just a moment, then.”
Johnny watched her walk away, noted the fitted skirt and expensive shoes. He noticed subtler things, too. Beneath the perfume, she smelled of coffee and toner and men’s aftershave. A single nail was bitten to the quick. A few moments later she was back. “I’m sorry for the confusion,” she said. “We do have a Jack Cross who joined the firm this week. I’m not sure how I missed his arrival, but I did. He’s in our bankruptcy division. Seventh floor, as you said.”
“May I go down?”
“He’s in court with one of our partners. May I take a message?”
Johnny blinked, unsure why his best friend’s presence in court was so unexpected. He was a lawyer, after all. It’s why Johnny had come. “I’d like to leave a note.”
“I’m happy to deliver it.”
“May I leave it on his desk? He’s an old friend, and it’s personal.”
“Of course.” The receptionist pressed fingers against the skin beneath her neck, and left fine, pale ovals when she lifted them. “Seventh floor. Ask for Sandy. She handles clerical for the new associates.”
Johnny took the stairs down, and found Sandy, who was everything the receptionist was not. Frenetic. Mussed. Charmless. “Mr. Cross is not here.”
“Yes, you’ve said as much.”
Johnny followed her from one hall to the next, stopping each time she pushed into a cubicle or office to dole out files and hard advice.
You signed in the wrong place!
This is for Judge Ford, not Judge Randolph. Pay attention!
After the fourth office, she rounded on Johnny, smoothing gray hair behind an ear. “I’m sorry. What’s your name again?”
“Merrimon. Johnny.”
A moment’s confusion clouded her features. She’d heard the name, but couldn’t place it. “Are you a friend? Family?”
“I’m a client.”
“Mr. Cross doesn’t have clients yet.”
“Then, I’ll be his first.”
She remained unconvinced. Around her, keyboards rattled and clicked. Other assistants pushed other papers. No one looked up twice. “I’m more than able to deliver a message.”
“I’d prefer to do it myself.”
“Is there a problem of some sort?”
“Not at all. I’d like to see his office if I may, and I’d like the note to be front and center when he returns from court.”
“And your name is Johnny Merrimon?”
The name still tickled something deep. Johnny saw it in the eyes, the pursed lips.
“Why does that sound familiar?”
“I have no idea.”
She worked the angles, concerned that, despite appearances, the scruffy young man taking up her time might just be important, somehow. It took three seconds. When the decision broke, it went Johnny’s way. “I can’t leave you alone in an attorney’s office.”
* * *
The office was better than Johnny expected. Double windows looked down on the courthouse and the park beside it. Framed diplomas hung on the wall. The furniture was expensive and new.
“This is it. There’s paper on the desk.”
Johnny took his time because no one had expected much from the small, lost boy with the bad left arm. Jack had seen a girl die, and lied about the whys of it. He’d served time in juvenile incarceration, and spent more time than most in the shadow of Johnny Merrimon. But Jack didn’t end up where people thought he would. He wasn’t in prison or working at a car wash, wasn’t a drunk or strung out or ruined in some other way. Johnny thought that deserved a moment’s appreciation, so he ran a finger along rowed books, then lifted a photograph from the desk. It was the only one in the office: two boys at the river—Johnny and Jack, like brothers.
“Anytime now would be fine.”
The gray-haired woman was frustrated and tense, but Johnny kept his eyes on the picture of the boys. They were shirtless and grinning, both of them burned as brown as dirt. Behind them the river looked as motionless as stone, and beyond that was only shadow. It seemed as if the sun shone on the boys alone, and in some ways it had. There were no secrets between friends that age, and the differences were small: X-Men or Avengers, stickball or bat. Johnny could blink and taste his first beer, drunk warm on a flat rock in the center of the same river. Jack had stolen it from his father, and wanted to share it with Johnny. Boys to men, he’d said. First beer …
“Sir, I really must insist.”
Johnny gave it another second, then put the photo down. Squaring a legal pad in the center of the desk, he wrote his note in broad strokes. When he straightened, the woman read it without hesitation or shame.
I’m proud of you, Jack. You did it.
Now do the right thing or I break that pussy arm for real.
She read it twice, and a flush built in her neck. “Mr. Cross cannot help his deformity.”
“I’m aware of that.”
“Is this some kind of joke?”
Johnny offered the first real smile since he’d left the lobby upstairs. “Just make sure he sees it.”
* * *
An hour later the city was a glint in the rearview mirror. A bag rode the seat beside Johnny, and in it were the other things he needed from town: shampoo and cigars, hard cheese and brown liquor. Johnny pictured what was coming, and the smile stayed with him as he rolled through the trees and beside black water. In the clearing, he drove past a burnt shack and the old kitchen, standing alone. After parking in the same shed, Johnny left the truck and turned for the web of trails that would carry him through the swamp and into the hills on the other side. The route took him beside the cemetery and past forty-five markers, most of them ancient. Beneath an oak tree that was massive and gnarled, the oldest of the stones were small and unmarked. Joh
nny dreamed of them more often than he liked.
Hanged slaves under a hanging tree …
That was county history, and dark.
It was family history, too.
* * *
The walk to the cabin took thirty minutes, but for anyone else would be longer. A wrong step, and the mud would suck off your shoes. Another moment’s inattention, and you might not get out alive. Water moccasin. Copperhead. It was part of the reason he’d chosen to build the cabin where he had. No road led in from the north, east, or west. Beyond his property line was another forty thousand undeveloped acres, most of it state forest or game lands. It was possible to hike in—there were trails—but the old slave settlement was the closest you could get by car. To go from there to high ground meant crossing the swamp, and few had the stomach for it. It wasn’t just the snakes and mud. Trails turned around and faded and died. It was easy to get lost.
Not that it was all mud and black water. Land rose up in places to support hardwoods, never timbered. Five acres or thirty, the islands broke from the swamp like the back of some great creature, half-submerged. Between them, the trail grew spongy and slick and, in some places, was no more than a succession of hummocks. The cabin itself rode a finger of land jutting in from the hills to the north. A fifty-foot rock face backstopped the glade, the face of it like a bronze shield as sunlight stained the cabin yellow. It was a beautiful place, and Johnny kept its secret close. His parents had been twice, but didn’t care for the wild lands in the north of the county. Only one other person had ever seen the cabin. He’d helped Johnny pick the spot, helped him build it.
Johnny glanced at the sun, then checked his watch.
He laughed aloud, thinking of Jack in the middle of all that swamp.
* * *
“Damn it! God … bless. Fuck.”
Jack went down in the mud for the third time. It’s not that he didn’t know the trail—he did—it’s just that he wasn’t Tarzan or Doc Savage or any other purely fictional character who chose to live in the ass end of a jungle.
“Johnny…”
His feet went out again.
“Damn it…”
Breathing heavily, Jack dragged himself up and moved with care. He was still in his suit, the pants tucked into tall boots. The tie was off, but the jacket carried the same mud stains as the seat of his pants. He cursed again, wondering why mosquitoes loved him so much, yet found Johnny Merrimon somehow distasteful.