John Hart - The Hush

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For Saylor and Sophiebecause there is such magic in the world, and such strong hearts to hold it

This book was delightful to write and bring to market, and Id like to thank all the publishing professionals involvedthe design team, production team, sales force, publicity team, editorial group, marketing team, publishers, all of you. Your work, as always, makes the difference. Mary Hart and James Randolph were kind enough to guide me in questions of the law. Both are consummate professionals. Any mistakes in the book are either intentional in order to further the story or entirely my own fault. Pete Wolverton and Jennifer Donovan deserve a special note of thanks, as do my writer friends here in town, John, Corban, and Inman. Esther Newberg gave early reads, and was invaluable, as always. Thanks as well to David Woronoff, Emlyn Koster, Melanie Soles, Leslie and Robert Ketner, and Bob and Anne Brinson. Erik Ellsweig and Jay Kirkpatrick continue their grand tradition of support, so a warm shout-out to them as well. A special note of appreciation goes to my friend John Grisham, who helped me launch the book in such a meaningful wayI owe you one, John. Warmest thanks, of course, to my parents, siblings, children, and in-laws, whove always been there to support, encourage, and keep me humble. You guys are the best. Other friends make life a joy, so to Neal and Chris and Rickthanks for bringing the metal. As always, final thanks go to my lovely wife, Katie, who walks the path beside me and makes it all so fun.

Johnny woke in the crook of a tree under a diamond-studded sky. The hammock around him was worn nylon, and the great oak a hundred feet tall. Even at sixty feet, its trunk was thicker than Johnny, its branches bent but strong. Johnny knew every one of those branches by feel: the worn spots from his feet and hands, the way they leaned out from the trunk and split like fingers. He could climb the tree in total blackness, find his way past the hammock to smaller branches that bent beneath his weight. From there he could see the moon and the forest, the swamp that rolled off to the south. This was his placesix thousand acresand he knew every stream and hill, every dark pool and secret glade.

He didnt always sleep in the tree. There was a cabin, but it felt heavy at times. Hed built it himself, so it wasnt the shape or size of it that pushed him, like a wind, to the ancient tree on its splintered hill. It wasnt the dreams or memories or any dark thing others might suspect. Johnny came for the views, and for the way they connected him to the land he owned. The tree grew from a knob of stone and soil that rose from the swamp to join a span of similar hills that cut a line between the wetlands and the thin-soiled higher ground that notched into the far, north corner of Raven County. From the hammocks crook he could see beyond the swamp and across the river. Climb another thirty feet, and he could see a glint of light that was the tallest building in town. That was eighteen miles in a straight line, thirty-seven if you had to drive. Roads this far north were twisted and crumbled, and that was fine with Johnny. He didnt care for people on his land, and had fired once on hunters too antagonistic to leave when asked politely. He didnt plan to hit themtheyd be dead if he hadbut black bear had a special place in Johnnys heart, and two mothers had been killed with cubs still in the den. Because of that, he marked the borders and tracked hunters, in particular, with sleepless determination. Police, of course, didnt see it his way, and neither did the courts. After the shooting, thered been a few months in jail and a firestorm of media. That was because reporters never forgot, and to most he was still the same dark-eyed child theyd made famous ten years earlier.

But Johnny didnt care if people thought him dangerous or strange. It hurt to see the worry on his parents faces, of course. They wanted him in the city and between four walls, but deep down they understood how life had lifted him from the dark pages of his youth and brought him to this special place. And it was special. He could taste it on the breeze, see it in a sky so heavy with stars, it made his eyes water to look up and marvel at the relentless depth of it. Beneath all that pure, white light was a purple forest that moved with a rhythm as familiar, now, as the beat of Johnnys heart.

This place.

His life.

Leaving the hammock, he let his hands and feet find their way to the smallest branches that would still take his weight. The trunk was thin so high, the horizon a purple line darker than the rest. He studied the canopy, then moved up the tree until the trunk was small enough to cup with both hands, and then with only one. It was dangerous to climb so high, but Johnny had a reason.

He was looking for fire.

* * *

Thered been fires in the wood before: campfires and lightning strikes; a burn, once, from a hunters dropped cigarette. Fires like this were different because Johnny, the next day, couldnt find a trace of them, not a charred twig or a burnt blade.

And hed looked hard.

The first time it happened was just like this: a cloudless sky and a whisker of smoke. Hed gone higher for a better look and seen a glimmer halfway up a distant hill that was two down in the line of peaks that ran north and west. Three sides of that hill sloped gently beneath a layer of pine and scrub; the side facing Johnny was a slab of weathered stone. Near its base, boulders littered an area the size of a city block, and from that ruin the rest of it rose: sheer walls and slopes of scree, then more piled stone and knuckles of trees before the final wall of broken granite pushed free. Thats where the fires were, somewhere on that weather-beaten face.

In three years hed seen the fire eleven different times. This was the twelfth, and Johnny took his time watching it. Paths ran between the boulders and up the shattered face, but the paths crossed and doubled back and petered out. It was easy to get turned around, so he gauged angles and approaches. He pictured the route he would take, and when he left the tree, he did it quick and sure, dropping the last eight feet and rising at the run. He was barefoot in cutoff jeans and no shirt, but his soles were hard as leather and his eyes sharp from years in dark woods. And this night wasnt close to dark. Stars speckled the sky, and from beyond the river a half-moon rose. Even then, most would find it hard to move at such speed, but when Johnny ran, it was for real.

And he was running hard.

A footpath took him to the river, and when the water spread, he followed a ridge that carried him to the second hill and up it in a hard, fast climb. At the top he paused, looking for smoke. The wind was right, and for a moment he thought he was too late, that the fire was dead and whoever built it, gone. It had happened beforea sudden void of scentand when it did happen, he wanted to throw caution to the wind and run blind, if thats what it took. The fire was a riddle, its builder a ghost. But life in the forest taught lessons beyond readiness and speed. Patience had its place, as did stealth and simple faith, and Johnny trusted his senses.