Hush
James Patterson
The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Copyright © 2020 by James Patterson
Cover design by Ervin Serrano
Cover image (woman) by plainpicture / Ingrid Michel
Cover copyright © 2020 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.
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Grand Central Publishing
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First North American Edition: June 2020
Originally published in the United Kingdom as Hush Hush by Century, a division of Penguin Random House, 2019
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ISBN 978-1-5387-5113-8 (trade paperback) / 978-1-5387-5116-9 (hardcover library edition) / 978-1-5387-5215-9 (trade paperback large print) / 978-1-5387-5115-2 (ebook)
LCCN 2019954679
E3-20200428-DA-NF-ORI
Contents
Cover
Book Title Page
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
Chapter 101
Chapter 102
Chapter 103
Chapter 104
Chapter 105
Chapter 106
Chapter 107
Chapter 108
Chapter 109
Chapter 110
Chapter 111
Chapter 112
Chapter 113
Chapter 114
Chapter 115
Chapter 116
Chapter 117
Chapter 118
Chapter 119
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Chapter 1
SOMEONE TRIES TO kill me at least once a day.
I usually see it coming. By definition, people in prison aren’t the smartest creatures in the criminal kingdom. They tend to be violent attention-seekers, so they usually tell someone what they’re planning to do.
But I’m a dirty fighter. I’ll do what it takes to protect myself.
Sometimes the women are more discreet. I’d first been held at Stillwater Remand Centre, where someone caught me off guard on my third day and stuck a sharpened piece of fencing wire into the back of my neck, going for my jugular vein. I’d been tired and unfocused, worrying about my upcoming committal hearings. After the attack I’d been moved to a new remand facility, Johnsonborough Correctional Complex, to separate me from my apparent rival, but it became clear to administration not long after the transfer that everyone was my rival.
Today, I’d had the benefit of twenty-four hours’ warning before my attacker made her move. As the wake-up alarm sounded I was sitting on the floor, stretching my shoulders and strategizing a solid plan of defense.
The door to my cell opened in time with a hundred others, a rolling and clunking that almost drowned out the shouts of the guards. I put on my shoes and stood to attention.
Detective Harriet Blue. Inmate 3329.
Charged with a host of crimes. The main one murder.
I’d tracked, hunted, and killed a man named Regan Banks. Banks had been a serial killer who counted my brother among his victims, but that fact didn’t do me any favors. The law was the law, and as a cop I shouldn’t have acted like I was above it. Now I was in prison.
Any inmate who takes down a cop in prison is a hero.
But it was not going to be this cop.
Not today.
Chapter 2
DOLLY QUADDICH, MY cellmate, stepped into the count line beside me. She stretched her messily tattooed arms toward the ceiling and shook herself like a dog, but ended up looking no more revitalized. Dolly never looked entirely awake. She consumed more marijuana in prison than some junkies did on the outside.
“What’s for breakfast?” she asked, yawning.
“The same unident
ifiable slop they’ve been serving at Johnsonborough every morning for the past fifty years,” I said.
“Just making conversation, Haz.”
“Leave me alone today,” I said. “Go sit with the other dope-heads. I’ll see you in forty-eight.”
“Oh, man,” she whined. “Again? When the hell are you gonna change your name?”
Dolly knew what seeing her in two days meant. It meant I was going to have a fight, and I’d be locked up in solitary for that time. She hated being alone in the cell because she was afraid of the dark. One hundred and seventy women living within sneezing distance of one another, eight guards touring the block every fifteen minutes and all-night security lighting that stayed bright enough for inmates to read jailhouse magazines in bed did little to abate her nighttime terror. She was also convinced that if I legally changed my name, the prison population would instantly forget who I was.
I liked Dolly, but she was dumb as a brick and every time I got put in solitary she sold something of mine in exchange for drugs. I didn’t have a lot of things, so my few items were precious. Usually my deodorant went first.
I sat at the table nearest the back wall of the chow hall and shoved my plate of watery eggs, soggy bread and mystery mush aside. The chow hall was a good stage for a fight. I’d seen plenty of scraps go down here—food trays flying, scalding coffee searing faces, eggs splattering on walls.
Frida, today’s planned attacker, was small and wiry like me, but she had big hands for grabbing hair and gouging eyes, and a nose that looked like it had been broken more than a couple of times. I locked eyes with my challenger across the hall and her cronies looked over their shoulders at me. Everybody in the hall knew it was on. A fight is a good distraction, so it’s useful to know when one is on the cards. Fights tie up guards and direct the surveillance cameras to a certain place in the room. I knew when Frida and I got together there would likely be other incidents around the chow hall. Someone shanked. Drug deals made. A smattering of robberies of weaker inmates for food, drugs, or phone cards.
A woman at the head of the queue dropped her just-received tray from chest height, spraying food everywhere, drawing over the two guards in the room to assist in the cleanup. An inciting incident to kick things off. Frida stood and started moving down the aisle toward me. I was so focused on Frida as I got up and started walking to meet her that I didn’t even think about her strategy.
I heard the squeak of a rubber shoe on the tiles behind me a second before an arm came around my neck.
Chapter 3
I KNEW THE second girl by her smell alone. Mel Briggs hardly ever left the smokers’ corner of the yard. I reached up as she tried to drag me backward, grabbed a fistful of her hair and twisted out of the headlock, bringing her face down on my knee. The crunch of her nose on my kneecap was like a starting gun. The women around me stood in unison, a wail of surprise, horror, excitement rising up from every mouth. I landed an uppercut to Mel’s face while she was still bent double, in case she had any stupid ideas about recovering for a second run, then I dropped her limp body on the floor.
Three seconds. Frida hadn’t counted on me disposing of Mel so quickly. She had used the time to take out her shank, though, a long splinter of plexiglas wrapped in electrical tape. I’d never resorted to constructing a shank of my own in prison. I’m dirty but I’m not a cheat.
Frida swung the shank at me wide and hard, going right for the face, a novice move. If you want to fight with blades you need to dance close, hug your victim to you, go for the fleshy parts—the stomach, thighs, flanks. I leaned back, gave the shank an inch clearance across the bridge of my nose, grabbed Frida’s arm and shoulder as her balance shifted, and used her own momentum to drive her forward into a nearby table. Women watching dove out of our path. I grabbed her hair, lifted her head, and smashed her face into the table a couple of times. I could feel the impact reverberate through the steel tabletop, into the legs bolted to the floor.
The alarm above us had started wailing seven seconds into the fight. Guards shouted, trying to get through the wall of women near the counter. Red lights flashed on the ceiling. Eighty percent of the women in the room dropped flat on the floor as they were supposed to, hands over the back of their heads, fingers interlocked.
But Frida wasn’t giving up so easily, and neither were her friends.
I turned and received a palm in the face, the force of the blow snapping my head back. I grabbed a tray and batted the new challenger away with it, fell on top of her, shoved the corner of the tray into her eye socket and drove her head into the tiles.
Frida was there when I stood up again. I took a couple of jabs in the ribs and used the fury that the pain awoke, dumping adrenaline into my system, to lash out with a hard right to her cheekbone. I felt the skin split under my knuckles. I went for another blow as she fell backward away from me. Frida was out cold before she hit the ground.
The shouting of the guards was lost in the blaring of the alarm, the screams from the inmates still standing, and the ringing in my ears from the blow to the face. I stood and examined the blood on my hands, wondering how much of it was mine, as the guards swarmed me. The men swept my legs out from under me and shoved me to the ground. I realized Dolly was lying right beside me, having hit the deck when the fight started. We met eyes as I was cuffed from behind.
“See you in a couple of days, Harry.” She waved a finger clamped to her head.
“Don’t sell any of my shit, Doll,” I said as they dragged me away.
Chapter 4
TOX BARNES WAS sitting at a table with his feet up on the dancers’ stage at the Eruptions Club. The door opened behind him, far across the empty room. In the whiskey glass near his elbow he noted the reflection of a tall man with a thick frame, broad shoulders leading to a bulging neck and a boxy head. It was a silhouette he recognized. Tox shook his head and sighed, set the newspaper he had been reading on his lap and took a packet of cigarettes out of his breast pocket. He was going to need one.
The big man who sat down beside him said nothing at first. Tox lit his cigarette and exhaled as he picked up the paper again.
“Imagine the Telegraph trying to come up with a headline for this,” Tox said. “Deputy Police Commissioner visits Eruptions in uniform.”
“Eruptions?” Woods asked. There was no sign inside or outside the club to indicate the name of the establishment.
“It used to be called the Boobie Bungalow. It’s an improvement.” Tox grunted. “What the fuck do you want?” When he exhaled smoke at the commissioner, he noticed the state of the man beside him. He was worn and tired, his name badge askew and hands clasped tightly in his lap.
“I need your help,” Woods said. “I haven’t been able to contact my daughter in eight days.”
“Well, she’s not here,” Tox said.
“There has been no activity on the credit card I gave her, or on the phone number I knew her to have,” Woods continued, ignoring Tox. “I have a pair of detectives on the case, of course. But as the days are passing I’m beginning to think I have to go harder at this. Bring in the big guns. I need you, Detective Barnes.”
“Meh.” Tox waved the older man off. “You don’t need me.”
“I—”
“If you needed me, you wouldn’t have said you haven’t been able to contact your daughter. You’d have said she was missing. You’d have played it straight. But you, me, those strippers over there at the bar and every other human being with any kind of connection to current affairs in this country knows Tonya Woods is a crackhead and a washout. Eight days? She’s probably just had a good score and is on a binge. You’ll find her on your doorstep wanting money for a re-up on Monday.” He went back to his newspaper. “And don’t call me detective, arsehole. Not while I’m suspended, under your orders.”
“Look.” Woods leaned in close. “What happened with the Regan Banks case is over. I’m lifting your susp—”
“Over?” Tox sneered. “It’s not over. Not while
I’m suspended, Edward Whittacker’s suspended and Harriet Blue’s in jail. Over? Listen to you, you self-righteous prick. I bet you thought it was over when all the magazines stopped interviewing you about your magnificent work on that case.” Tox waved at the women standing at the bar, slender, tanned beauties in fluorescent-colored G-strings. “Britney, dump this idiot back out on the street where you found him.”
“Barnes.” Woods stood as the woman in towering heels started walking toward him. “My child is missing. And my grandchild is with her.”
Tox heard the strain in the old man’s voice. The rumble of genuine panic thrumming through the words. He’d heard it many times before in his career. He didn’t lift his eyes from the paper.
“I’ll go,” Woods said as Britney took his arm. “But I came to you precisely because of what happened on the Banks case. You, Whittacker and Blue—you found that man and you stopped him. I took credit for it, yes. I had you all punished for it, yes. But I’m a man with his hat in his hand here. I…I know it’s different this time with Tonya. I know she’s really gone.”
Chapter 5
WHEN DOCTOR GOLDMAN was dealing with more than one inmate at a time, one would be chained to a table in a tiny surgery while the other was seen to in an identical room next door. It was not the most secure arrangement. From the chair in which I sat, one hand cuffed to a ring on the edge of the table beside me, I could reach all kinds of things with my free hand—rubber gloves, cotton swabs, disposable rubber objects in packets. If I really went for it, I figured I could even get to the phone on the counter against the wall.
A guard whose name I had never learned was watching me silently from the corner of the room. I leaned across the table anyway, grabbed a jar of gummy worms and extracted one. She didn’t stop me, but she didn’t take one for herself when I offered.
I sat quietly memorizing all the extension numbers inside the prison, a game I played with myself now and then. There were posters listing the numbers on the wall of every office, classroom, and workroom. I closed my eyes and tested myself.
Kitchen, 312.
Infirmary, 457.
Cleaning store, 333. No, 334.
Bernadette Goldman, a short and plump woman with wavy auburn hair, came back into the room, tearing rubber gloves from her fingers. The inmate in the other room had caught a shoe in the face during the chow-hall fight. I’d been escorted to the medical rooms behind her, following a trail of blood that dripped from a cut above her eye. Frida and Mel Briggs had been transported from the prison to a local hospital.
