The Secret Hour

by Luanne Rice

  Kate nodded, inching away. She put her hand on the doorknob.

  She stood at the threshold: not just of the house, but of something more. The children's voices—bickering, rising in volume—came through the screen. The hallway was in shadow, dark and filled with mystery and a weird sort of hope. Turning her head, she saw blue sky, high clouds, her car, the road. She could just climb right in, drive away before anything got started.

  “Kate?”

  Jumping, she turned to look back inside. The children stood there, holding their book bags, watching her. The dog wagged its tail. Her heart was like a small bird, caught in her chest, trying to get out. She felt it beating against her ribs, her collarbones, her throat.

  “Kate?” Maggie asked again. “Aren't you coming in?”

  Kate stared down at her feet. The toes of her black loafers touched the threshold. All she had to do was step over. The big yellow dog waited inside, his tongue hanging out in a big grin. And so, looking into Maggie's eyes, smiling, Kate turned the knob.

  “Yes, I am,” she said, and walked into the house.

  “Should we call you Kate? Or Mrs. Harris?” Maggie asked.

  The lady laughed. She was pretty, and when she shook her head, her straight brown hair swung around her face from side to side; Teddy O'Rourke watched, mesmerized.

  “I'm not ‘Mrs.',” she said. “Call me Kate—is that okay?”

  “Sure,” Maggie said. “We called the other baby-sitters by their first names, right, Teddy?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Good,” she said. “Now what?”

  “Well, school,” Teddy said, alert.

  “Right. Of course. I knew that. So, what do we do to get you to school?”

  “Bus,” Teddy said. Was she kidding?

  “Do you take the same bus? Or . . .” Assessing their ages, she looked from Teddy to Maggie and back again. “Different ones? There was only one bus for all the kids where my sister and I went to school . . .”

  “Different ones,” Teddy said.

  “Of course. I should have guessed. Okay. And what about . . .” She looked down at Maggie, straight at her wrinkled and now bloody soccer shirt.

  “I'm not changing, Kate,” Maggie said, hugging the shirt's folds of fabric around her.

  “No,” Kate said. “Who would? Great shirt.”

  Maggie's mouth flickered in a smile. Teddy had been stiff, on guard, since the brick came through the window. Having this new baby-sitter show up so suddenly—looking more like an associate at his father's law firm than any child-care person he'd ever seen, and not knowing about school—had made him feel funny, kind of suspicious. But making Maggie smile like this won her many points.

  “Five minutes till your bus, Maggie,” Teddy said, checking his book bag, pulling their jackets down off the coatrack.

  “Hmmm,” Maggie said, bending down to nuzzle Brainer.

  “Should I walk you to the bus stop?” Kate asked.

  “Thisssisssbrrrnnnrrrrrrrrrrr,” Maggie said with her face buried in the thick fur, and as Kate looked confused, Teddy translated.

  “She says, ‘This is Brainer,' ” he said, tugging on his sister's arm.

  “Would Brainer like to walk to the bus too?” Petting the dog, Teddy watched Kate's fingers catch in a twig-and-thorn fur tangle. She tried to gently work them out, and Teddy had a quick picture of his mother doing the same thing.

  “Imnttttttgooongggggtossscchoooooolllllll,” Maggie said, face pressed into Brainer's back.

  “Yes, you are,” Teddy said. “Do you want to stay back?”

  “What did she say?” Kate asked.

  This time Teddy didn't even have to interpret. Because Maggie raised her head, looked Kate straight in the eye, and said, “I'm not going to school.” Just then her school bus pulled down the block. Teddy heard it slow down for Maggie, then accelerate and drive away.

  Teddy felt panic rise in his chest. Maggie missed too much school. She was always faking a sore throat or stomachache, just to stay home. This time, she wasn't even pretending. Their father would be upset when he got home from work—Teddy knew he'd go straight to the office from the emergency room. The worst part was, Teddy couldn't even stay around to fix it; his own bus would be there in four minutes, and he had to leave.

  “Maggie, I'll drive you,” Kate said.

  “Come on, Maggie, get ready,” Teddy said sharply, gathering up her knapsack and holding out her down jacket. “You're going to school.”

  Maggie sat down hard, arm clenched around Brainer's neck. Her face was red, scrunched up, reminding Teddy of when she'd been a baby. Maggie had cried a lot. She'd always been too sensitive to hot and cold, to being hungry, to needing more sleep. Right now, she was being too sensitive to having their father at the hospital with a cut head. Maggie's tears were huge and clear, the biggest tears Teddy had ever seen.

  “I'm . . . not . . . going to school . . .” she sobbed, “until . . . I . . . know . . . Daddy's okay!”

  “He's fine,” Teddy said, crouching down, feeling the panic again. He had to reassure his sister, so he would believe it himself. “It was just a little cut.”

  “Mommy wasn't even bleeding,” she gasped. “They said she looked perfect . . . there wasn't a bit of blood anywhere . . . but she just sat down and died.”

  “That was different,” Teddy said, feeling ice in the pit of his stomach. “Mommy was in a car accident. She had internal injuries.”

  Maggie just squeezed her eyes shut, unable to keep those big tears from popping through.

  “Come on, Teddy—here comes your bus,” Kate said gently. Teddy felt her hand on his shoulder. It felt so small and warm, but so solid, he wished she would hold on forever. He wanted to close his eyes and disappear into the feeling, but Maggie needed him. So he stayed focused, staring at his sister.

  “Maggie,” he said. “Don't miss school.”

  “I don't care about school,” she wept.

  “Teddy,” Kate said, insistent. “She'll be okay. I hear your bus.”

  Crouching on the floor, Teddy felt torn. He was on track for getting high honors this term—his progress report had shown straight A's. He had perfect attendance, the first time since his mother had died. Today they were having elections for the eighth-grade dance committee.

  But how could he leave his sister with this stranger? She said she was their baby-sitter, but she'd seemed so vague about school. Teddy was clear about reality: His father was a top defense lawyer, so he knew the world was filled with killers, rapists, thieves, and victims.

  Kate didn't seem like any of those, but people said that Greg Merrill had seemed like the boy next door. That he had an open face, a friendly smile; that he'd gone to UConn and worked on the school paper. That he had made money house-sitting and walking people's dogs. People had trusted him to do that.

  Outside, Teddy's bus rumbled up the block. He heard it stop at the stop sign. If he stood up now, he'd make it. Kate's hand was still on his shoulder. She squeezed, pulling him to his feet.

  They were about the same height: The realization surprised him, giving him a jolt. Although she was an adult and he was only fourteen, Teddy looked straight into her eyes—dark green, shining like clear water. Teddy swallowed, waiting.

  “I know, Teddy,” she whispered.

  Teddy was frozen, captured in the moment with Kate Harris. Her river eyes glistened.

  “You know what?” he whispered back.

  “About loving your sister . . . about how you'd do anything for her.”

  “I would,” he said, casting a glance down at Maggie, still clutching the dog—poor patient Brainer, his once soft coat studded with dry rockweed, thorns, and probably ticks. The hopelessness welled up inside Teddy, and he forced himself to swallow it down.

  “I would do the same for mine,” Kate said. “Anything, Teddy. I know just how you feel.”

  “I can't go to school,” Teddy said, his throat so thick he could hardly talk. “If she doesn't.”
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  “Oh, Teddy,” Kate said, her cool water eyes warming up, making her smile. “That's where you're wrong. See, you're her big brother. She looks up to you. You have to be an example, to show her how things are done.”

  He heard the school bus pull out from the stop sign; slowly, it approached the house.

  “One day won't matter,” Teddy said unsurely, looking down at his sister.

  “You can trust me,” Kate said. “To take good care of her. That's what this is about, isn't it? You don't want to leave her with me?”

  “I don't know you,” Teddy said, meeting her eyes. The bus slowed down, gears grinding.

  “You're a good brother,” Kate said. “You love your sister the way I love mine.”

  He nodded.

  “So go to school. Be strong—for her. No matter how hard it gets, show up. I promise you I'll take care of her. You don't have to worry about that.”

  The bus stopped outside. Teddy's fingers twitched on his backpack. Maggie huddled with Brainer, face still hidden in his horrible messy fur.

  “Get your face out of there,” he said, yanking his sister's shoulder. “You want to get a tick bite on your face? Or scratched with goddamned thorns?”

  “I don't care if Brainer's messy,” Maggie cried out. “So am I. We're the same!”

  “That dog needs a bath,” Teddy said, his teeth gritted. “I swear, I'm skipping practice tonight to give him one. I'm gonna get rid of every tick, every goddamn tangle.”

  “Don't do that, Teddy,” Kate said softly. “Take care of yourself. I'll take care of Maggie and Brainer.”

  “Because you took care of your sister?”

  Kate nodded. “And her dog.”

  She stared at Teddy, and suddenly Teddy knew: They were the same. Kate was older, she was a woman and a stranger, but she and Teddy were exactly alike in the way that mattered.

  Teddy had no doubt that Kate was telling the truth: She loved her sister.

  And she would take care of Maggie—till Teddy got home from school, till their father came home from work. The bus driver blew his horn.

  “Okay,” Teddy said, making up his mind as the driver gunned the engine, starting to pull away.

  Kate threw open the door. “WAIT!” she called.

  The bus stopped. Teddy pulled on his jacket, hoisted his backpack. Maggie refused to look up. Words caught in Teddy's throat. He touched his sister's hair—nearly as grungy as Brainer's—and backed away.

  “You're my girl, Mag,” he said.

  She didn't reply, didn't raise her head. Kate held the door open, and Teddy ran down the steps. He tore across the yard, noticing the driver's open mouth, curious expression—the kitchen window was jagged with broken glass. Jumping up the bus's step, Teddy turned to look back at his house. Yellow leaves rained down from the trees in the yard.

  Kate stood in the door.

  Cold October sunlight struck her face, her brown hair. Her eyes glinted in the slightest of smiles as she petted Brainer. Teddy stared as he made his way to his seat, remembering all the times his mother had stood in the doorway, waving and smiling as the bus pulled away; Brainer had been silky and golden back then. Maggie chose that moment to peer around from behind Kate and wave.

  Kate didn't wave. Neither did Teddy. They were both staring at each other, but he had the feeling they were thinking of other people. Other people they missed, who weren't there anymore.

  The bus sped up, rounding the corner where the seawall dropped down to the rocky beach and breakwater, past the dirt road leading to the tall and lonely lighthouse, and Teddy's big white house disappeared from sight.

  The ER was a hive of activity. If John O'Rourke were another type of lawyer, he could be drumming up business left and right. In Exam Room 1, an old woman who had slipped and fallen at All-Save, was waiting to have her hip x-rayed; Exam Room 2 contained a child whose inhaler had failed, on oxygen and a heart monitor; Exam Room 4 held a drug addict, thrashing and moaning in withdrawal, waiting for a bed to become available in the detoxification unit. Pain equaled lawsuits.

  John, in Exam Room 3, heard everything. Waiting for the next in a parade of doctors, he tried to read the brief he'd brought from home. His head spun, and he felt sick to his stomach. Lowering the document, he could practically see his desk calendar looming before him and thought of how he didn't have time for this.

  Why couldn't he at least have gotten the kids off to school? In the midst of life's total insanity, he calmed himself by knowing he was a good father. Okay, so he gave crummy haircuts. But he had the main bases covered: food, shelter, carpooling. Child care. He hoped Kate Harris would turn out to be the best Baby-sitter X so far.

  “Hello, good morning,” a technician said, holding a wire mesh basket of vials. “The doctor sent me to get your blood. Roll up your right sleeve.”

  John complied, staring at the needle. His stomach flipped—he had always hated needles. When his kids got injections, cheering them to be brave, John would feel queasy inside. “Uh,” John said, stalling for time, “any idea when I can get out of here?”

  The technician chuckled. “What, you've got something more important than your health to worry about?” She glanced at his cut; a doctor smelling of coffee and peanut butter had closed it with cool hands. The local anesthetic was wearing off, and the sutures pulled his skin.

  The technician was taking her time. Had she recognized him? Was she going to stick him extra hard because he was Greg Merrill's lawyer? John gritted his teeth, waiting for the sting.

  Bang—the needle pricked his skin. He looked down at his blood, flowing through the tiny tube. Whoa—he felt like he was going to faint. Another reason his kids would laugh—to know that their dad hated the sight of blood. He looked away, up at the ceiling, felt immediately better, and then was hit with a memory of Theresa.

  They'd brought her here after the accident.

  John had been home with the kids. He had gotten the phone call, left Teddy to watch his sister, sped here to the hospital. Walking through the wide doors, into the bright room, running to the desk . . .

  John had known even before they told him: His wife was dead.

  It was one of those freak things: Although she had walked away from the wreck, hadn't gotten even one cut on the outside of her body, her chest had slammed into the steering wheel. The impact had severed an artery in her heart—cut it right in half—so she'd bled to death by the time the cardiac team even started their work.

  His beautiful wife. His golden-haired, blue-eyed Theresa. Such an old-fashioned, sturdy name for such a delicate, porcelain-skinned girl. She had been wearing such bright pink lipstick the night she died. Such shiny, cool, freshly applied lipstick . . . The memory of it jabbed him, unexpectedly, like a knife in the ribs.

  “Mr. O'Rourke?” the doctor said now, coming around the curtain with John's chart in his hand.

  “Yes?” John asked, dazed, still rocked by the sudden vision of Theresa's lips.

  “Your films look fine. There's no sign of concussion, although I'd like you to take it easy for the rest of the day and watch for symptoms. You're going to have a bad bruise—that can't be avoided, and I've called for a consult with a plastic surgeon,” the doctor said.

  “A what?”

  “A plastic surgeon. The cut was deep, and you're going to have a nasty scar. Might as well get it looked at now so you don't regret it later.”

  John shook his head, already reaching for his file. “That's okay. I'll live with it,” he said, thinking suddenly of the cop's bitter remark about a scar helping him to fit in at the prison.

  He signed the necessary release forms. Bending over the desk, he felt some of the staff watching him. When he pushed the papers across the desk and said thank you, he heard one secretary say to the other, “I wonder if he knows that one of the girls died here.” “After the killer left her for dead,” the other said, in a much louder voice.

  John's head began to pound. It's a hospital, he told himself. Many people die her
e. Theresa . . . He walked fast, out the wide doors. The autumn day was bright and crisp; the cool air slicing into his central nervous system, shooting his alertness up a notch.

  Patting his pockets for car keys, heading for the parking garage, he remembered his ride in the ambulance. Instead, he caught a cab dropping someone off. At first he gave the address of his office, then changed his mind and told the driver to take him home, to change out of his bloody shirt.

  Settling back, with nothing to do but be driven, the names came.

  Antoinette Moore, he thought. She was the one who had died at Shoreline General. John knew the case, the women, so well; they were inside him now, with him at all times. Antoinette, known as Toni . . . nineteen years old. A sophomore at Bushnell College, a long-distance runner in training for her first marathon. Petite, wiry, with short dark hair. Parents in Akron, Ohio. An older brother, two younger sisters.

  A close family, and they had sent her to Connecticut to die.

  She hadn't, at first. Merrill's pattern had been to wait until the waves came lapping at his victims' mouths, until they were about to bleed to death or drown, but that day he miscalculated the tide, and Toni became the only one of Greg's victims to live long enough to be rescued.

  He had left her, like the others, in a breakwater—in this case, a stone-and-wood jetty on private property, jutting into Stonington Harbor. He had slit her throat, wedged her between the weathered boards at the end of the jetty, and waited for the tide to take her away.

  He hadn't counted on her amazing strength, on her marathon-woman determination. Toni had hauled herself out of the wet-wood grave, throat bleeding, to crawl into the air, into plain sight. A lobsterman checking his pots had seen her, his attention caught by the crimson streaming from her body, thinking at first that one of his red buoys had gotten snagged in the jetty.