Hush

by Tal Bauer

  “Will anyone be there now?”

  “No. It was never rented in summer. That was their time to go. The town postman would act as a caretaker when they were gone. He still watches over the place. The keys are in the post office, in their mailbox.”

  “Sounds like a plan. We need to leave around four in the morning to get past Villegas and the rest of the guys.”

  “You sure this is all right?”

  “I’m in charge of you. Villegas is in charge of the trial. Villegas has no real say over your protection, he just likes to pretend that securing the courthouse and the Hyatt means he can order you and me around. Doesn’t work like that. I’m above him.”

  “All right. Jailbreak it is then.”

  Mike laughed and kissed him, and then said he had to get everything ready. Tom told him where he kept the keys to his parents’ mailbox and asked him to grab jeans, t-shirts, and a few long-sleeve flannel button-downs. “Sexy,” Mike purred, kissing him one last time before he ducked out of the hotel room.

  He tried, but failed, to fall asleep early, and only passed out after one in the morning. Mike had texted that he was going to bed early to be ready to drive out of town before dawn.

  At three thirty, his phone, tucked under his pillow, rang. “Hey sleepy. Time to get ready.”

  Mike had a pillow in his car that he’d swiped from his hotel room for Tom to go back to sleep with. Tom grunted directions for the first half of the drive, guiding him west on Interstate 66 to the West Virginia border. He—like Etta Mae in the back seat—was asleep before they made it to the outer loop around DC.

  Hours later, he woke with the morning sun shining on his face and Mike holding one of his hands. Hills rolled by on either side of the car, with thickening trees rising from both sides of the winding blacktop.

  “Morning beautiful.” Mike squeezed his hand and then passed him a cup of coffee. “I picked this up for you when we got gas. They didn’t have fancy sugar syrups, but I did my best turning it into a diabetic nightmare.”

  He chuckled and took a sip, and then another longer swallow. “Perfect. Thank you.”

  “I need more directions soon. Good timing for waking up.”

  He turned Mike onto US-48 West, and then West Virginia Route 28 South. Oceans of forest rose into the mountains on either side of the winding road, waves and waves of pine and spruce, dotted with oak and patches of rolling meadow where trees had died years ago, and the sunshine let in had drawn forth bursts of wildflowers, riots of color that speckled the endless greenery. Tom rolled the window down, and the fresh breath of the forest rose on a cool wind, wild as it whipped through his dark hair. A hawk glided on a thermal far in the distance, the only sign of life.

  Mike shifted, glancing sidelong at Tom. “I, uh. Didn’t think we’d be going down West Virginia’s spine. Into this area.”

  “Problem?”

  Mike gripped the steering wheel. “I used to work here,” he said. “On the task force.”

  “Here? The Whitmore search was here? I thought it was farther south. In the Carolinas.”

  “We had some leads that took us north. I helped run this end of the hunt. What town are we going to?”

  “Lonely Pine Gulch.”

  Laughing, Mike shook his head. “Jesus. I had contacts there. Leads.”

  “Oh my God. Should we… turn around?”

  “No. It’s okay. They were friendly.” He shrugged. “As friendly as associates of sovereign rights groups can be to a federal marshal, the embodiment of everything they hate.”

  Tom squeezed Mike’s hand. “I guess both our pasts are coming back this weekend.”

  Mike squeezed back. He kissed Tom’s fingers. “I like my future more than my past.”

  “Me too.” Tom smiled, really smiled, as he gazed at Mike, lit by the sun falling through the pine branches, wisps of gold and emerald light dancing over his skin. “Me too.”

  They got the keys from the post office and said hello to Mitch, the ancient postman who had been delivering the mail to the town and the surrounding warrens for decades. Tom remembered him as an old man when he was a child. Mitch didn’t believe that he was “the Brewers’ scrappy lil’ kiddo”, but gave him a giant hug and looked at him like a grandfather might look at his grown children. He spent ten minutes filling Tom in on the gossip of the town, happenings about people he barely remembered and would never recognize.

  Mike, though, chimed in a few times. He remembered Rosa, and Old Jim Bailey, and Crazy Willy by the bend. He laughed when Mitch said Willy was the same old cuss he’d always been.

  “Still doing business?”

  Mitch peered at Mike. “Well, I dunno about all that. You know Willy, you can ask him yourself.”

  “I will. Willy and I go back a bit.”

  That seemed to satisfy Mitch, who wished them well and sent them on their way.

  Either he hadn’t read the news about the trial in DC, or he didn’t care about such federal things. He made no mention of Tom being a judge, or the trial, or Russia, or anything else. He didn’t bat an eye at Mike, either, who Tom introduced as a “friend”.

  Etta Mae sniffed the lot and did her business in a patch of grass and wild clover, and then wanted to follow her nose down a sloping ravine into a winding tributary off the main creek running through town. Her tail went crazy, and she locked her paws, practically pointing as she picked up the scent of a wild animal. Tom had to carry her back to the car.

  Finally settled, Tom turned a bemused gaze to Mike. “You and Crazy Willy by the bend go way back? My parents’ neighbor Willy? Crazy Willy with the rattlesnakes?”

  Mike grinned wide. “Those rattlesnakes are something else, huh?”

  “They live in the gulch between his and my parents’ place.”

  “It’s a small world after all.” Mike winked and backed out of the post office’s gravel parking lot as Tom groaned.

  Tom’s parents’ place was a small log cabin built into the forest at the start of a long curve winding around the middle of the rising mountain. Spruce and pine surrounded the cabin on all sides, and a long gulch split the right side of the property. Bright signs and triangle placards warned of rattlesnakes in the gulch, timber rattlers that lived in the rocks and the gullies. They didn’t climb up and try and escape, and as long as no one went down there, the rattlers and people were just fine with each other. Years ago, Willy had bred timber rattlesnakes and kept them in the gulch, feeding them rats and mice and bragging about his herd. As a child, Tom had played on the left side of the cabin only.

  A hill sloped to a gentle creek behind the cabin, a tributary off the main creek through town. Sycamores and poplars crowded the banks, mixing with tall river fronds and swaying grasses. At the end of the meandering creek, a golden meadow stretched to the edge of the next mountain that crowded in close to the town, as if both peaks were cupping Lonely Pine Gulch between them.

  Mike carried their duffels in and took them both to the master bedroom as Tom opened the windows and started to air out the place. Etta Mae went crazy, following her nose over every inch of the cabin, the porch, and the yard. There were too many smells to smell, and her tail beat a small windstorm behind her. She stayed close, though, always whipping around and looking for Tom or Mike and staying within eyesight. She was, at her little adventurous Basset heart, kind of a wimp.

  Crisp mountain air floated through the cabin, clean pine and riotous wildflowers, fresh water and mossy fern. He ended up on the back porch, built just above the creek, and watched the water tumble over ageless river rock. Mike followed, and he wrapped his arms around Tom’s waist and rested his chin on Tom’s shoulder.

  “Can I ask you something?” Mike’s voice was barely a whisper, but in the silence of the forest, he might as well have shouted.

  “You can ask me anything.”

  “You said— You said you weren’t strong enough to stay with Pasha. And that you left him because of everything… because of what happened to you.”


  Tom nodded, pressing back against Mike’s hold. He laced his fingers through Mike’s, holding his waist, one of his arms.

  “What about now? Are you going to leave us because of what’s happening now? It’s… the same kind of thing. People are finding out—” Mike buried his face in Tom’s hair. “I need to know.”

  Tom turned in Mike’s hold, his hands seeking Mike, grabbing his arms, his elbows, running up his biceps to his neck. He held Mike, tugging his face up until they were staring into each other’s eyes. There was fear in Mike’s gaze, naked, raw fear tangled with hope. And something else. Something that made Tom’s heart go wild.

  “It’s different now. And I’m a different man than I was back then. Back then, I was just starting my life. I thought other things were more important than following my heart. Being who I was. I didn’t have any role models. There was no one I could look at and say ‘yes, that’s how it works. That’s what I’m going to do. I can be like that.’ I was petrified of myself more than anything else.” He smiled, and his thumbs brushed Mike’s cheeks, his gently-growing stubble. “You’ve shown me how to live, Mike. How to be truly alive.”

  “I haven’t—”

  “You did it just by being you. By being the gay man I’ve always needed to see. You’re everything. You’re proud. You’re confident. You’re happy. You’re in control of your life. You are everything I ever dreamed of, in so many different ways.”

  Mike swallowed slowly. Tom watched the fear in his eyes turn to a blaze, an inferno, as his jaw clenched hard. “What are you trying to say to me?”

  “I’m saying that I want you. I want this. Us. A life with you. Even if that means I’m no longer a judge. That’s not the most important thing in my life. Not anymore.” Maybe he should go be a lawyer for “the gays and their organizations”, as his old professor had once said.

  It was time to embrace himself, everything about himself, and stop running away.

  He was still scared. Still terrified, actually. But it was worth it.

  Surging, Mike captured his lips, a kiss that was all of Mike’s restrained longing, his desire, his fear, and his hope, mixed into one. His hands rose, cupping Tom’s face, and he moaned as they kissed, half sobs that made him tremble. “Tom…” Mike breathed. “Tom…” He started to say something, but kissed Tom again instead, holding him close, as close as he could.

  Tom kissed him back, pouring every hope, every dream, every bitten-off whisper he’d uttered for twenty-five years into the meeting of their lips, the press of their bodies. This is exactly—exactly—what I want. And who I want.

  Mike was shy after, nuzzling his forehead against Tom’s and stealing kiss after kiss as songbirds chirped and the creek babbled on and on.

  Villegas stormed into Winters’s office, fuming. He hurled a balled-up sticky note onto Winters’s desk. “They’re fucking gone!”

  “Gone?”

  “Lucciano took Brewer in the middle of the night! Left that Goddamn note on my door!” The note had simply read: Getting him out of DC for the weekend. Back Sunday PM.

  Winters unwrapped the wrinkled ball of yellow paper and stared down at the messy handwriting. “Is the tracker still working?”

  Villegas exhaled. “Yes. It’s still transmitting.”

  “Follow them. Don’t let them know you’re there.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Get close to them.” Winters’s steel-hardened gaze bored into Villegas. “You know what to do.”

  Chapter 37

  July 30th

  “Hey Willy. Remember me?”

  Willy glared over the barrel of his shotgun at Mike and Tom. He had a raggedy beard, stained overalls, no shirt, and an orange trucker’s hat pulled over his thin hair. “Marshal? That you?”

  “Sure is me.” Mike held out his hand and smiled wide. “Been a while, Willy.”

  “Hell.” Willy slung his shotgun over his shoulder and grabbed Mike’s hand. “Thought you was getting on back to the city. Leaving all this behind you.” Willy smiled back at Mike.

  “I did. I’m working in DC now.”

  “Ooo, big DC fed.” Willy glared again, but snorted. “Who’s with you?”

  “You probably don’t remember me. The last time you saw me I was ten. Tom Brewer.”

  “You’re the Brewers’ boy?” Willy reared back, taking in Tom from head to toe. “You used to pet the turtles in the creek and stare at the fish for hours.”

  Tom laughed. “I did. And my mom warned me about your rattlers every single day.”

  “Those old things. They wouldn’ hurt a fly. Unless you went into their gulch.” Willy winked. “What brings you both out here? How’d a marshal and my neighbors’ gangly lil’ kid meet up?”

  Tom eyed Mike, but Mike spoke first. “We work together in DC. It’s hotter than hell out there right now, Willy. Thought we’d escape for a weekend.”

  “I told you, there ain’t nothing good in that city.” Willy wagged one dirty finger at Mike. “Not a damn thing. I told you.”

  “You did.” Mike grinned at Tom. “I’m doing all right, though.”

  Willy harrumphed.

  “Hey, you still in the business, Willy?”

  Willy’s eyes shone, and he glared at Mike, lips twitching. His beard, a mix of gray and white and dirt, trembled. “Depends on who is asking, marshal. You here as a fed?”

  “No. I’m here as a friend.”

  Willy stared at him for another long minute. Tom glanced between the two men, worry starting to chew at his stomach.

  “’Course I am, marshal. You think I’m dumb enough to give that up? Nah. Hell, I’ve expanded.” Willy waved for them both to follow him around his porch and down a set of old steps made of half-rotted railroad ties, built into the hillside. They descended into a grove on the far side of Willy’s house, shaded with thick branches. A leaning shed in bad need of a coat of paint squatted in front of two rusted-out trucks, their hoods gone, engines exposed, and tires long since rotted away.

  Willy disappeared into the shed and reemerged carrying two mason jars of crystal-clear liquid. “This is the good stuff, marshal. You paying?”

  “Of course.” Mike pulled out his wallet and forked over forty dollars. Willy passed him the jars. Mike unscrewed one. He sniffed it, and then pulled back, blinking. “You have improved.” He held the jar out for Willy to take a sip.

  Willy downed a hefty swallow, like he was gulping water, and passed it back, smacking his lips. Mike took a much more delicate sip, and then handed the jar to Tom.

  Tom felt the fumes before he took a drink. His eyes watered, and as the moonshine passed his lips, liquid fire bloomed over his tongue, through his mouth, and down his throat when he swallowed. He coughed hard, fighting his body’s reaction. Get it out, get it out! Mustering his dignity, Tom managed to keep the moonshine down. “That’s strong,” he croaked.

  Willy laughed. “Your folks bought two jars each summer, every year. Lasted them the whole season.”

  “I can see why.”

  Pocketing the money, Willy sent them away. “Go away, boys. Go get to fishin’ or doin’ whatever you came up here to do. I ain’t needin’ any feds in my business.” He smiled, but there was a weight to his words, an underlying tension that Tom couldn’t remember from his boyhood memories.

  Mike guided him back up the rotten steps to the gravel road. Willy was a little over a hundred yards away from Tom’s place, around the bend in the old mountain track. It was far enough away to feel like they were the only two people living in the forest, and might as well be a hundred miles apart.

  They spent the rest of the afternoon hiking down the creek, passing between hazy shafts of sunlight as they made their way to the meadow. Woodpeckers drilled for bugs in the fallen trunk of an oak, and buckeyes grew in scattered copses, their branches filled with twittering birds and fragile nests of newly-hatched babies. Sun-dappled wildflowers grew next to golden threads of wispy, waving weeds. Hickory trees shivered in the light wind, branches c
reaking far overhead. Etta Mae sniffed and sniffed, and then napped at the base of a sugar maple.

  There was only one rule for the day: no talking about the trial.

  That evening, Mike grilled burgers as Tom tried to drown a shot of moonshine in a quart of tangy juice. It still burned going down, but they shared the drink and a plate of burgers on the back porch by the glow of the old buzzing porchlight, its yellow gleam droning away and pushing off the impenetrable darkness of the woods. Etta Mae lounged on the deck, eyeing the plate of burgers before she fell asleep and started to snore.

  Eventually, they made their way inside.

  Mike guided Tom to the bedroom. He spun Tom into a slow dance, cheek to cheek, humming an old-time love song as he sneaked kisses. They stripped slowly, trading clothes for long, lingering kisses and soft caresses, the feel of fingers ghosting over each other’s skin. Mike trembled as Tom wrapped his arms around him, swayed him gently, and kissed the skin beneath his ear.

  They ended up in the sheets, silver moonbeams falling through the pine branches and leaving trails of light on their skin. Ribbons of cream and scattered starlight flitted through the bedroom, curled around their arms, legs, faces. In the whole world, it seemed like all the light had fled, vanishing from the hushed forest, and leaving only the twinkling stars and the occasional firefly.

  A glow curled over the bed, tickling toward Tom’s cheek, and Mike reached for it, for him, the pads of his fingertips shaking against Tom’s skin. He was buried inside Tom, making love to him slowly, slower than they ever had before. “Tom…”

  There was something in Mike’s eyes, something that looked like a dam was cracking in half. Something was pouring out of Mike, something he’d held back.

  “Tom,” he breathed, wincing. “Jesus, Tom… I love you. I love you.” He surged against Tom, kissing him, whimpering, trembling. “I love you.”

  The last piece of Tom’s broken heart and broken life slipped back into place, finally finding a perfect alignment. His soul caught fire, bursting with too much love, too much joy, too much happiness that had suddenly flooded his existence. Mike, and everything that he was, swinging into his life from out of nowhere. Rewriting his entire world. “Mike, I love you, too.” He grabbed Mike, trying to pull him closer, deeper. Tried to wrap his arms and legs around him so he never had to let go. “I love you, too.”