The Secret Hour

by Luanne Rice

  “We'll have tea another time,” John said, rising, setting his cup and saucer down on the doily on the small mahogany table beside his chair, bending down to pet the Scottie. “Looks like this beast is ready for a walk.”

  “How right you are,” Kate said. “Would you like to join us?”

  “Sure,” John said. “Brainer came along—he loves the car. Think your dog would mind some company?”

  “Not at all,” Kate said. She took a heavy dark green wool jacket down from the brass coatrack and, pulling it on, opened the front door. A gust of cold air swirled up the bluff, into the house. John ran over to his car, opened the door, and let Brainer out. Grateful, the big golden retriever ran in circles, stopping to say hello to Kate and the Scottie.

  “Brainer, meet Bonnie, Bonnie, meet Brainer,” Kate said.

  “Brainer's shiny and clean tonight, thanks to you,” John said, watching her.

  “Thanks to Teddy,” she said, correcting him. “He has a very fine-tuned sense of responsibility. You have a nice son.”

  “I do,” John said.

  Cold air swept up the bluff, making John pull his jacket closer. October stars blazed in the clear sky overhead, reflected in the dark waves and Kate's eyes. He stopped, stood still, and held her gaze.

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  “I told you: Kate Harris. I'm a staff scientist for the National Academy of Science—in Washington. I'm a marine biologist.”

  “I went to law school in Washington. That's a long way from here.”

  John listened to the white pines rustling overhead. Waves crashed on the rocks below, dragging loose stones over the moraine as they swept out to sea. The line of breakers glowed, one long white thread stretching along the coast in the darkness, interrupted by breakwaters jutting out from shore, illuminated by the lighthouse beam. There was clearly plenty here for a marine biologist to be interested in.

  “Why did you lie?”

  “I didn't lie,” she said, chin tilted up as she stared into his face.

  “You don't work for the Sea and Shore Employment Agency.”

  “I never said I did.”

  “You told me to send your check there—”

  “No,” she said firmly. “You said you would, and I decided not to correct you. You'd been making assumptions all over the place—all of them wrong. Since you wouldn't give me a chance to explain myself, I figured I should let you run with it.”

  “You said you were there for the job!”

  “No,” Kate said, shaking her head vehemently. “I said I would stay with your kids, that's all. When I got to your house, the police were there, you were bleeding from the head, Teddy and Maggie were frantic. You needed help.”

  “You should have told me you weren't a baby-sitter.”

  “I realize that now,” she said. “But everything was crazy—I really did just want to help. And since I know I'm trustworthy, I figured I'd just explain later.”

  The East Wind and abutting lighthouse property were on about fifteen acres, so Kate dropped Bonnie's leash. The two dogs ran together, sniffing along hedges and circling granite boulders. John heard them scuffling through fallen leaves; he had a memory of autumn Brainer-walks with Theresa, and his heart tightened. “You still haven't told me what you were doing at our house at eight this morning.”

  “I know,” she said, drawing in a sharp breath.

  “So?”

  Kate crouched down, calling Bonnie by clapping her hands. Brainer responded too, and she rewarded them with treats from the pocket of her wool jacket. Standing above, John saw her face in shadow. Her cheekbones were high and fine, her eyes bright.

  “You still haven't told me how you happened to walk straight up to my room and knock on the door,” she said.

  “I represented the Jenkinses' son last year,” he said carefully. “He'd ‘borrowed' a neighbor's motorboat, and the neighbor pressed charges. Felicity's grateful; when I called the number on your card and asked if you were there, she told me you were staying in White Sails. I just walked up.”

  “She must think you're a good lawyer,” Kate said.

  “I told her she shouldn't be giving your room out to anyone else who calls,” John said, ignoring her statement, thinking of how vulnerable women—people, really—were in this world. He leaned toward her, feeling unexpectedly protective and attracted, both at the same time.

  “So, are you?” Kate asked. “A good lawyer?”

  Standing on the bluff, bundled up against the cold wind, John felt his stomach clench. His heart sank a bit. Was that it? Did Kate need a good defense lawyer? John looked at her small frame, her wide eyes, her freckled nose, and knew that anyone could be guilty of anything.

  “I am,” he said, his back straighter, his voice harder. “I'm a good lawyer.”

  “You went to law school in Washington?”

  “Georgetown.”

  She nodded, seeming to take that in.

  “Do you want me to represent you?” he asked. “Is that why you came to my house? To ask me?”

  Kate didn't reply right away. John watched her carefully. Sometimes people who needed defense lawyers weren't completely forthcoming right away. They were wrongly accused, or they hadn't meant to commit the crime. Or they had meant to, but they hadn't expected to get caught.

  Very few people thought of themselves as criminals, even when they'd been caught red-handed. The label never quite fit. No matter what their crime, the end usually justified the means—someone had betrayed, cheated, tricked, or maligned them. It was always something. So John waited, staring at Kate, wondering what her story would be.

  “That's not why I wanted to see you,” Kate said, her voice suddenly soft. “I don't need you to represent me.”

  “Then why do you care if I'm a good lawyer or not? Why did you come to my house this morning?”

  The night was very dark; stars were everywhere, all the way down to the horizon, the sky enclosing John and Kate like a great inverted bowl. The sea air was salty; it must have stung Kate's eyes, because she suddenly wiped away a tear. More came, filling her eyes. John stared, his heart beating harder.

  “I came to see you because you're Greg Merrill's lawyer.”

  “Merrill? What does he have to do with anything?”

  Kate swallowed. The dogs had run back from the thicket along the cliff, begging her for more treats. She seemed not to notice. Bonnie was jumping up, nuzzling her hand, and Brainer sat patiently, waiting for her to offer. Kate just stood there, tears running freely down her cheeks, until she turned to look John straight in the eye. Her face was filled with grief, as if she knew that whatever she was seeking was already lost, but she cleared her throat and spoke anyway.

  “I think he killed my sister,” she whispered.

  chapter 5

  Blinded by her own tears, Kate let John O'Rourke lead her to his car. It was a Volvo station wagon, and the minute he opened the door, both dogs bounded inside. Brainer leapt into the backseat, and Bonnie followed behind. They sat together, tongues hanging out, waiting to go for a ride.

  John started up the car. Until Kate felt the heat start to pump out, she hadn't realized how cold she was. Thinking about Willa, imagining what might have happened to her, always made Kate cold. Her thoughts were jumbled, but she felt that if her sister couldn't be warm, neither would Kate. The radiator, scarcely cooled off from John's ride over, did its work, and in spite of herself, Kate began to feel the heat right away.

  The stereo had been left on; a song by Suzanne Vega drifted out, sweet and sad. Kate remembered how her sister had loved her music. Willa used to listen to it in her bedroom, white curtains blowing in the salty wind. “She sings about loss,” Willa had said, explaining it to her older sister, sitting on the edge of her twin bed. “She knows what it's like, just as we do. . . . She's one of us. Thank God I have you, Katy.”

  “Thank God I have you,” Kate had whispered back.

  Now, sitting in John O'Rourke's car, she held on to her
seat and focused on not crying. Her love of the sea had led her to become a marine biologist, but she was on leave from her job in Washington. How could she oversee the fragile balance of ecosystems and tidal zones when all she could think about was Willa?

  “I can't talk to you,” John said quietly, facing forward.

  Kate didn't trust herself to speak yet. She wished the music would finish, so the memories would stop and her emotions would quiet down. The sad melody opened up all the wounds of the past months, and she felt the pain all through her body.

  “Greg Merrill is my client; it's not ethical for me to discuss his case with you, with anyone.”

  Kate took a deep breath. The last notes played, the last guitar chords finished. She closed her eyes, forcing her voice to be calm. “I wouldn't want you to breach any confidences,” she said, floundering as she reached for the right words. “You wouldn't have to tell me anything—just listen to my questions and help me rule him out . . .”

  “Discussions with my client are privileged,” John said. “And privilege is an all-or-nothing deal. I can't just pick and choose where to apply it.”

  “I understand.”

  “Why come to me anyway?” John asked. “You can go to the police. Or to the state prosecutor's office. If you have any suspicions, they can help you.”

  “I've talked to all of them,” Kate said.

  “And they couldn't help you?”

  She shook her head. A lighthouse beam slashed the sky. She knew, from the chart, that it was Silver Bay Light. The tower sat on a headland overlooking a long breakwater, built of locally quarried gray stone, with a dogleg in the middle. The breakwater protected Silver Bay Harbor.

  “He never used that one, did he?” she asked, watching the white beam rake the sky.

  “Which one? What are you talking about?”

  “Merrill. He never hid a body in the Silver Bay breakwater—and you'd think he would. It must have been perfect—so long, hard to see from shore, with so many apertures between those rocks . . . easy to get to at low tide.”

  “This conversation is over,” John O'Rourke said, opening his car door. Both dogs, sensing that the ride was scrubbed, let out barks of disappointment.

  “Please,” Kate said, swallowing. She reached for his wrist and held it. Slowly he turned his head to look at her; she saw that his eyes were hard, guarded. She had blown it by bringing up Merrill and the breakwater. Keep him out of it, Kate told herself. Talk only about Willa.

  John had one leg in, one leg out of the car. The lighthouse beam swept the sky again; she watched him follow it with his eyes, then come to rest on the front side of the East Wind Inn. Someone stood just inside the front window. The curtain moved slightly, and a shadow tilted against the light.

  “Please,” Kate said. “Give me just five minutes of your time.”

  John didn't answer, but he pulled his leg in and slammed the car door. Still watching the front window, he shifted into reverse, turned around, and then drove down the long driveway. Excited and happy, the dogs ran back and forth, their noses pressed to the windows. As Kate looked over her shoulder, she saw the curtain drawn back, Felicity's face peering out the window.

  “Keeping track of every move,” Kate said. “Thanks for driving away. I appreciate the privacy.”

  “Just say what you have to say,” John said. “If you bring up my client again, I'll drive you right back.”

  “Don't worry,” Kate said. “I don't want you to violate your code of ethics. I won't ask you anything about Merrill—” She caught herself and bit her lip. “I won't mention him again. Just my sister . . .”

  “Teddy told me you spoke of her to him,” John said.

  Kate smiled, thinking of Teddy O'Rourke. “I saw a lot of myself in Teddy,” Kate said. “He loves his little sister.”

  “Yes, he does.”

  “I loved—love,” she corrected herself, “mine. Willa is twelve years younger than I am. When she was born, I thought my parents had brought her home just for me. She was like having a living, breathing baby doll. . . . I never wanted to put her down. I used to cry because I had to go to school, had to leave her at home for the whole day.”

  “Teddy used to do that.”

  Glancing over, Kate saw John nodding. Heartened, she continued. “My mother used to say she'd had two families. My older brother and me . . . and then Willa. Willa was her ‘unanticipated treasure.' My mother was forty-five; she hadn't thought she'd ever have another baby. And then Willa came along.”

  “So, you loved her,” John said sharply—hurrying her through the story?

  “Yes. And when my parents were killed in a car accident, I took over. Willa used to say I was almost like her mother. I'd moved from Chincoteague to Washington, D.C., by then—first for school, then for work. Willa stayed with me. . . . We used the insurance money to send her to a private school in Georgetown. Weekends, we'd head home to Chincoteague.”

  “What about your older brother?”

  “Matt. Well, he . . . let's just say he wasn't eager to take on the care of a ten-year-old. That's okay . . . Willa and I never held it against him. He's an oysterman, totally freewheeling. Pocomoke's about as far as he likes to get away from Chincoteague, but he's always been there if—when—we've needed him.”

  “What happened, Kate?” John asked.

  His tone was sharp, urging her along. He'd hear her out, say he couldn't help her, and drive her back to the East Wind. Kate steeled herself; she would state her case, and get him to help her—privilege or not. She didn't know how yet, but Willa's story was too important for someone—even a hardball lawyer like John O'Rourke—to ignore.

  “Six months ago, she headed for New England . . .”

  “And?” he asked, waiting.

  “And she disappeared.”

  John kept his eyes fixed on the road. When Kate didn't say more right away, he shook his head. “No one ‘disappears.' It's impossible.”

  “Willa did,” Kate said as they drove through the small town, the church's white steeple lit up with a spotlight. The lighthouse beam seemed to follow them as they sped along the main street. Stars burned in the black sky. Everything appeared illuminated: a good sign, Kate thought.

  “She might wish not to be found,” John continued. “Something might have happened to her. But she can't have disappeared without a trace. Phone records, voice mail, voice prints, DNA, credit card trails, E-mail trails . . . there's always a trace.”

  “There was,” Kate said. “You're right.”

  “Where did it lead?”

  “Right here,” Kate said, her voice low and her throat sore.

  “Here? To Silver Bay?”

  “Yes. Six months ago. Just before . . .” she glanced over, not wanting to say Merrill's name; refusing to give John any excuse for stopping their talk.

  “Before my client was arrested.”

  “Yes.”

  John drove in silence. They'd left the center of town, and now drove out the eastern shore road. It wound past coves and marshes, over small bridges and along a narrow abutment. The car heat had felt good, but now Kate felt herself sweating. Rolling down her window a crack, she smelled the pungent odor of low tide. The tide flats were exposed, all those shellfish and dead marine creatures rotting in the cold air.

  She watched John's face carefully. Was he mentally reviewing his files, trying to remember whether Willa's name had come up anywhere, in any part of the investigation? Was he trying to summon up the face of a girl who had looked like Kate, only twelve years younger?

  “I don't recall seeing her name in any of the materials . . . if she was here then,” John said carefully. “Why didn't you contact the police?”

  “Because I didn't know she'd been here . . . at that time.”

  “I don't understand.”

  “We tracked her to Newport, Rhode Island. She was . . . getting over a bad love affair.” Kate could hardly get the words out; they rasped at her throat like sandpaper, as if they could ma
ke her bleed all over again. “She'd driven up from Washington, checked into an inn there—a bed-and-breakfast, really. Very much like the East Wind.”

  “One of the old mansions?”

  “Yes, on Ocean Drive. Just around the bend from Breton Point.”

  “She told you she was going there?”

  Kate shook her head. “No. She didn't tell anyone. But after she'd been missing for a week, and I hadn't heard from her—”

  “A week's not very long to get over a bad love affair,” John shot out.

  “No, but it's six days longer than she and I had ever gone without talking,” Kate flung back. “She had never not called me for a whole week. I was worried after the second day . . .” She drew a breath, remembering the terrible circumstances. “And getting frantic after the fourth. I called Matt, and he convinced me to wait, to give her space. . . . We'd had a fight, you see, Willa and I. . . . That was so rare.” Kate's eyes filled with hot tears, but she brushed them away before John could see.

  “How did you find out she'd been to Newport?”

  “Like you said, a credit card trail. I called the D.C. police; they found them. And phone records. She'd called the man—her reason for running off in the first place, but she couldn't stay away from him. She called him every day. . . .”

  “But not you,” John said. His tone was suddenly soft, and by the way he turned his head to look, Kate knew that he understood her pain. The lighthouse beam flashed through the car, illuminating his eyes.

  “Not me. She didn't call me once.”

  John nodded, and she thought she heard him let out a long, low breath. His knuckles were white on the steering wheel—did he know something he wasn't saying? Kate's pulse began to race.

  “Then what? After you tracked her to Newport?”

  “The police said she'd checked out of Seven Chimneys Inn on Tuesday, April fifth. She made a call to Andrew—her . . . lover—that night, and again the next morning. Then, nothing. No phone calls, almost no credit card activity. On Thursday, her Texaco card was used in Fairhaven, Massachusetts. On Friday, her MasterCard was used at a camping supply store in Providence.”