Hush (44 page)

find him, and now he's dead. I got a claim against him too."
Despite his rough manner, and body odor that grew stronger as he stood there,

Ruth offered to help him.
"Is it your car, your home?"
"No, it's my sheep."
"Your sheep?"
"Yeah, my damn sheep! Thirteen of them. My dog, too. He killed him just as sure

as I'm here."
The shepherd's voice softened when he told her about little Bucky and the pound,

but he bristled as soon as he started to explain how Jack had plowed his pickup

right through the flock.
This struck a chord with Ruth, who recalled that Celia had mentioned just the

other day that she'd dropped Jack's truck off at Marty's Body Shop to get some

work done on the front bumper. She said she planned to sell it.
"Let me see what I can do, okay?" Ruth tried to smile and hold her breath at the

same time.
"I want something done, and fast. Oregon's too damn crazy. I'm going back to

California."
"Can you come see us tomorrow?"
The shepherd promised he'd stop by, and shortly after they opened the following

day he walked through the door. Ruth handed him a generous check that Celia had

authorized over the phone. He snatched it up and stared at it for several

seconds.
"I thank you. This is fair, even if it don't bring back little Bucky."
Ruth tried to appear sympathetic as she backed away from the counter and fanned

the air.
"Sir, Mrs. Griswold, she's the wife of the late owner, she had us make some

calls to make sure there's enough money to replace the sheep and buy two prize

Border collies."
He glanced at the check. "Yeah, I can see that, and that's just what I'm going

to do. You tell her that." He turned to the door, then looked back. "She's a

little lady, ain't she?"
"Compared to me she is, but that's not saying much." Ruth laughed, and the

shepherd left smiling.
Ruth and Helen ran the agency while half a dozen potential buyers looked it

over. Celia hoped it would sell quickly. She had no interest in running the

business, and she didn't need the income; Jack had insured himself for two

million dollars. But she did plan to stay in Bentman, at least for a while. She

had fought for her own life, and now would fight for Davy's.
She had rented a room in a large Victorian in town. The two women who owned it—

older, longtime companions— treated her well; and Celia felt safer there, though

she doubted she'd ever feel truly safe again. Naturally, if her plans worked out

she'd want to find a house of her own. A small one would do nicely as long as it

had a yard.
She parked her boxy little car and limped up the courthouse steps. A sheriff 's

deputy was walking out and held the door for her. He smiled and asked how she

was doing. She nodded and said fine. She had done and said that many times since

the night Jack was murdered.
"You still up on the ridge?"
Celia shook her head. "I moved to town. Why, Jim, you want to buy my place?"
The deputy chuckled. "No, thanks, I think I'll take a pass."
"That's what they all say."
She asked if he'd seen Judge Walters this morning.
"Just a few minutes ago, heading down to his chambers."
The warmth of the old building felt good as she stepped inside. Indian summer

had ended, and so far November had been cold and wet. As it should be, she

thought. The Portland paper said the drought was over, and that the long rainy

season had begun.
Juvenile Court Judge Harry Walters had scheduled Davy Boyce's hearing for ten

o'clock. Celia had given herself extra time because she was determined to talk

to the judge beforehand. It was nine-thirty when she knocked on his door. A long

moment passed before he opened it.
"Harry, I wondered if I could speak to you for a minute or two."
Judge Walters paused before inviting her in.
Harry Walters bore a slight resemblance to Celia. Like her, he was short,

willowy, and graceful in the manner of athletes blessed with a low center of

gravity. She'd heard he was a long-distance runner and raced in the marathon up

in Portland every summer. Good training, she thought, for trying to solve the

endless problems of troubled children.
Celia claimed one of the two leather chairs in front of Walters's desk. A bronze

scale of justice perched on the corner to her right. She noticed the blindfold

and the extended arm.
Judge Walters pulled out his swivel chair as Celia glanced around the room.

Though she'd known him for years, she'd never been in here. Dark paneling

covered the walls, and the light that drifted through the closed window painted

the room gray, like the day, the sky, her mood.
"So, Celia, how are you doing?"
She didn't answer his polite question. Instead, she fixed him with with a direct

look that concealed her apprehension.
"I want Davy."
"Boyce?" The very sound of disbelief.
She nodded, and Judge Walters, relaxed and gracious only seconds ago, now glared

at her.
"Celia, I can't believe you're doing this. You know I can't talk to you about

the case unless everyone's present— the lawyers, the juvenile court

counselor ..." His eyes cut sharply to the door, as if to reassure himself that

it was still closed. 'could be disbarred for even meeting with you like this. I

had no idea that's what you wanted. I know what you've been through, but

that's—"
"No, you don't know what I've been through!" Celia shot out of her chair and

leaned forward. "And you don't know what Davy had to go through with Boyce, but

I do, and that's the point." She pounded his desk hard enough to rattle the

scales of justice. "I know what he went through because for one night I had to

go through it too. And if anyone's earned some extra consideration it's that kid

whose life you're going to be deciding on out there."
She snapped her fingers at the door but never looked away from Walters, who

stared at the phone to his right. Celia feared that he'd call for a sheriff 's

deputy to have her removed. But then he asked her to sit down and lower her

voice, and she took this as her cue to continue. She spoke quickly.
"Harry, he's talking to me. He's not talking to anyone else, and he needs

someone to talk to. That's critical. Otherwise it's like his mind is in a prison

except for the hour or two a day when we get to work together. The rest of the

time he's locked up, and this is one kid you don't want to lock up. That's all

he knew with Boyce. If he doesn't get full-time care he could spend the rest of

his life in courtrooms. He doesn't deserve that. He deserves a good life, and I

can give him that."
The springs sounded in Walters's chair as he rose. "I know he's responding to

you, there's no question about that." He walked over to the window and stared at

the street. It had started to rain. Fat drops splattered against the glass.

Celia heard tires on the wet pavement, their sibilance and the silence that

followed.
"Harry," she said softly as she joined him, "more than anything he needs love,

and I've got that." Her voice broke, and she turned away as the tears came,

tears of rage, tears of sorrow, too, and tears for the man Davy might become if

he didn't get the help he needed soon.
Walters placed a hesitant hand on her shoulder, and Celia pinched the bridge of

her nose and wiped her eyes.
"He sure didn't get any love from Boyce," she added in a husky voice.
"No, he sure didn't." The judge's hand dropped from her jacket, and then

traveled to his chin as if he didn't know what to do with it.
"And the Kentsons can't do that much for him." Celia had met Davy's foster

parents: fiftyish, good-hearted, but not especially bright or competent. She

thought Walters must know all this too. She stood with her back to the window

while he reclaimed his seat.
"They're good people," Walters said without much feeling, and Celia allowed that

this was true.
Walters started to say something, then paused. She watched him study his

appointment book before eyeing her carefully.
"This conversation is off the record, right?"
"Absolutely." She returned to her chair and sat down.
"All right, just so you know, I've looked at the staff reports and I do think

Davy would be better off with you."
Celia released a deep breath. "I can't tell you how happy I am to hear—"
"Not so fast. It's not that simple. If we grant you custody we're probably going

to have serious problems with some of the reporters who covered this case. It

could put the court in a very awkward position. You must know that."
She nodded. The killer of the stepfather taking custody of the son, that's what

worried Walters because that's how the world would see it. Celia blamed only

herself. She had lied to protect the boy, and now was trapped by the kindness of

her deception.
"Celia, those tabloid shows would be chasing Davy down the street again. I can't

expose him to that. Once was more than enough."
She didn't need any convincing on this point either. She'd been appalled by the

attention generated by the Boyce case, and the headlines— in print and on TV—

that had followed. All that bizarre activity had terrified Davy, but she thought

they could wait out the most irksome reporters because they also seemed to have

the shortest attention span. She mentioned this to Walters.
"But if we play the waiting game, that means I can't grant you custody for a

while."
"I know," she said glumly, "but if it keeps Davy from having to go through all

of that craziness again, then it's worth it. Give it a few weeks, give it a

month or two, if you have to. The reporters will forget about us. Something else

will get their juices going. What's Bentman to them anyway? Some dying timber

town, that's all. Then give me custody, do it on a trial basis if you have to."
Judge Walters thrummed his appointment book, then flipped the pages forward. He

studied his calendar.
"I've got him down for a review in January. We could do something about giving

you custody then."
Celia reached across his desk and shook his hand.
"Harry, you're a good man."
"But a lousy judge. I shouldn't be doing this."
"I think you're a great judge."
"My colleagues will have my hide if word ever gets out."
"Don't worry, it won't."
*
At two minutes to ten Celia walked into the courtroom. She spotted Davy sitting

at a table with his attorney, the young woman Judge Walters had assigned to him.

A long black braid ran down the middle of her back. Davy's hair looked very

short next to hers. Yesterday at recess he complained about his crew cut, and

Celia had rubbed his head and said that he could have any kind of haircut he

wanted.
"That's your choice."
Davy beamed when he heard those words, and reached up nervously to feel his

hair.
Now he turned around slowly. She thought he might be looking for her. She had

told him she'd be there. She vowed always to be there for him.
When their eyes met, she smiled. So did he. And then she said a quiet prayer.

For Davy. For herself. And for the baby she nursed within.