The Secret Hour

by Luanne Rice

  “Three,” Theresa said, smiling, trying to back away. “I don't belong.”

  “Always did and always will,” Billy said. “Johnny made sure of that.”

  “You're the fourth musketeer, Theresa,” Barkley said. “Even Jen and Felicity know that.”

  “I'm honored,” Theresa said, smiling. John had felt so proud to be married to her. She looked radiant in her summer dress, tan and slim. Her eyes were glowing, as if she knew the secret of life, that it was a wild adventure, that she knew that these were her companions for the ride.

  “This is it,” Billy said, preparing to pop the cork. “Here's to John O'Rourke, Silver Bay's latest lawyer.”

  “And Billy Manning,” John said. “Silver Bay's latest cop.”

  “I've been on the force three years now.” Billy laughed. “Got a head start on you—I bust them and you'll try to get them off.”

  “I'll represent them,” John said.

  “Call it whatever you want, Johnny,” Billy said, holding the bottle. “For the first time in our lives, we're about to be on opposite sides. I'll kick your ass, too—don't think I won't.”

  “I'll kick yours back, Officer Manning,” John joked.

  “Just read everyone their rights, Billy,” Barkley said, “so John can't get them off on technicalities.”

  “I don't care what happens as long as we stay friends through it all. Here's to that, okay? This toast is to you—”

  “And you.” John nodded.

  “Don't leave out Barkley Jenkins, keeper of the light,” Theresa said with a laugh.

  “And Theresa O'Rourke,” John said, holding her close. “Love of my life.”

  “Cheers,” Billy said, the cork shooting into the side of the garage, the impact sounding like a pistol shot. The four of them laughed, passing the bottle of Mumms Cordon Rouge around. John and Billy's eyes met, silently acknowledging this crossroads in their friendship.

  John had kissed champagne from Theresa's lips; he could almost taste it still. He and his friend Billy had survived life's changes; he and his wife had not. . . .

  Now, standing in the Witch's Brew parking lot, the music was still audible through the bar's thick walls. John's ears rang, and his clothes smelled like smoke.

  “Spill it, O'Rourke,” Billy said now, staring at him.

  “It's not that simple.”

  “Nothing ever is. You think you'll get disbarred for talking to me? Well, fuck it. We both know that's not gonna happen.” Billy laughed, reminding John that they were friends first, cop and lawyer second. He was tall and dark, his face rough and angular, his nose still crooked from when he'd gotten hit with a beer bottle in eleventh grade; when he'd decided to join the state police, all their friends had teased him that he looked more like the bad guy than a cop.

  “Off the record . . .” John said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, what I'm about to ask you is delicate.”

  “Delicate for who?”

  “Me. My client.”

  “Ah.” Billy smiled. “Greg Merrill raises his ugly head.”

  “I didn't say that.”

  “You don't have to. You're running yourself so ragged working on his case, you got no room on your calendar for any other scumbag. What's his problem?”

  John hesitated. More cars drove into the parking lot. Although the two men were standing in back, far from the bright lights, John had the fleeting thought that a reporter could make plenty of a back-alley conversation between Merrill's lawyer and his arresting officer.

  “Don't worry, John. Ask me. It won't come back to bite you in the ass.”

  “I don't want to give anything up . . .”

  “Hey, I'm half in the bag. I probably won't even remember this conversation tomorrow. I'm an excellent forgetter of conversations, and you know it. Shoot.”

  “Willa Harris,” John said, ignoring the dig. His heart beating in his throat, he watched Billy's eyes. They didn't react, didn't even blink.

  “What's a Willa Harris? That a boy or a girl?”

  “Girl. Missing person.”

  “Huh. Doesn't ring a bell,” Billy said, frowning. “Round when?”

  “She went missing six months ago.”

  “Right at the peak of Greggie's run. Where'd you hear about her?”

  “From Kate Harris, her older sister. She came to see me a few days ago.”

  “Willa's still missing?”

  “Yes.”

  “How'd her big sister trace her here?”

  “A postcard of the East Wind,” John said. “Mailed from Silver Bay last April, but not received until recently. The sister's divorced; apparently Willa and Kate's husband had a thing going, and Willa needed to get away to think about it.”

  “Maybe Kate got jealous and—”

  “Doesn't strike me that way,” John said quickly.

  “Maybe the husband got worried. Willa threatened to tell, Kate was breathing down his neck.” Billy exhaled, shaking his head. “Wouldn't want to be there myself—the ham in a sister sandwich. Sounds dangerous.”

  John nodded. “Kate says she reported her sister missing back then, that the word went out.”

  “FBI?”

  “No. No suspicion of kidnapping.”

  “Huh. Well, you know how that works. I might have gotten notice, but if there wasn't reason to think she'd been in our area, I'd have passed right over the sheet. Maybe it was a different East Wind . . .”

  John shook his head. “Nope. I saw the card.”

  “And the trail stopped here?” Billy asked, frowning.

  “No—it went on to Fairhaven, Massachusetts, Newport, Providence . . .”

  “There you go!” Billy said, shrugging. “Why's the sister bothering you—as if I didn't know?”

  “Merrill.”

  “Obviously. He's the most famous serial killer in New England, the time frame works, why shouldn't he have been the one? Did you tell her he's but one of many such cuties plying their trade, that her sister's probably—”

  “No,” John said, for some reason cutting Billy off, not wanting to think of all the other predators out there, or of Kate's sister's fate.

  “You know, if the general public knew what we know . . . Ever think of that, Johnny?”

  “Not when I can help it.”

  “It's like that thing with sharks . . . You know from fishing, right?”

  “Know what?”

  “How people would be horrified to know what's swimming around them every time they go in the water. There's that old saw about most shark attacks occurring within ten feet of shore, in three feet of water . . . and everyone thinks that's because it's where all the swimmers swim.”

  John was silent, watching the beam of Silver Bay Light cross the sky, reflecting off the low, black clouds. There wasn't a star in the sky.

  “When, in fact, it's that sharks are everywhere,” Billy said.

  “I know.”

  “It's the same with freaking killers. Everyone loves it when someone like Merrill gets caught. That gives them their explanation for all the free-floating evil in the world. You serve up the Breakwater Killer and everyone breathes a sigh of relief. They vote for the death penalty, and they think they're safe from another monster.”

  “Careful—your liberal colors are showing.”

  “Bullshit. They can't juice him fast enough to suit me. I'm just saying, he's just another shark in the cove. Plenty more where he came from—they just haven't been classified yet.”

  “I know. So—nothing on Willa Harris?”

  Billy shook his head. “No. Tell me, though—are you asking on Merrill's account? Or the big sister's?”

  “I'm not sure,” John said honestly. He shook Billy's hand, ignoring the concern in his friend's eyes. The first freezing raindrops began to fall. They stung like ice, like tiny razors on the skin. He started toward his car, then half turned. “Ever been to Fairhaven?”

  Billy nodded. “Mass? Sure. I've bought fishing gear t
here. A great little store just east of the boatyards. Why?”

  “You know where the Texaco station is?” For some reason, asking the question made John's heart speed up. He swallowed hard, past the ache in his throat. He hoped Billy wouldn't say, At a convenience store, in a strip mall with a Laundromat . . .

  “I don't know, man,” Billy said. “You're on your own, there. You want me to call Fairhaven P.D.?”

  “Nah,” John said. “I can always call Information.”

  Billy waved, heading back into the Witch's Brew. The door opened, letting out loud music and voices. John caught a glimpse of people, of all those women at the bar. He had a picture of people having fun, trying to make a connection. He thought of Sally, and then of Theresa. Their girls'-nights-out had occasionally included the Witch's Brew on a Friday night.

  Then John thought of Kate Harris. He wondered what she was doing tonight. Was she, perhaps, inside right now?

  Something made him think she wasn't. He imagined the East Wind, perched on the high bluff overlooking the sea. It would be blustery out there with sleet driving in off the Atlantic, the lighthouse illuminating the low storm clouds and the building white waves. His fingers brushed her sister's picture, still in his pocket.

  His chest felt frozen. He thought of Kate Harris, a stranger who'd told him her story so easily—as if she'd needed someone to trust and talk to, as if John was that person—the second time they'd met. When Billy had gotten too close, trying to talk about what Theresa had done, John had pushed him away.

  Maybe it was only possible to talk about it with someone who had gone through the same thing. It was a very intimate thing, adultery. Between the married couple, one of the most private things there was. Making love, planning a wedding, conceiving a child, cooking your first holiday meal, going to your first PTA meeting: all things that bound a couple closer and closer, events that only they could share and know, memories they would take to their graves.

  Adultery could be part of that list. The shadow of all those shining times; the flip side of the bright coin of marriage. For infidelity to cut as sharply as Theresa's, there had had to be so many things in place: trust, hope, longevity, family, and love. If those hadn't been present, what difference would her cheating have made?

  John had loved her so much. He remembered back to law school; they had lived in a big, old Victorian house on Macarthur Boulevard, and John had ridden his bike to classes at the law center on Capitol Hill. She would rub his shoulders while he studied, he would bring her breakfast in bed on weekends. They had been so inseparable that she'd sometimes come to class with him, listening to Irving Younger's tapes on evidence, sitting through hours of contracts and torts.

  John never would have believed they could grow apart. It had happened slowly, without his even noticing. Anniversaries and birthdays, if not actually missed, then neglected. He had taken her for granted. And it worked both ways—sometimes he had felt more like a wallet with legs than a man. She bought, he paid. She adored the kids and raised them well; she made it possible for him to work late, to attend conferences, to not be there as often as he wanted to.

  Their sex life. He'd thought it was good. Better than the average small-town married-a-long-time sex life. They'd heard their friends, at parties, joking about spicing things up with dirty movies, massage oil, weekends at a motel with heart-shaped tubs. John and Theresa had laughed, slightly embarrassed that their friends had needed things like that. Wasn't what they had good? Maybe not frequent enough—someone was always falling asleep before they had the chance—but when it happened, worlds were rocked.

  At least for John they were. He had always been excited by Theresa. When she was young and thin, after she'd had the kids and gained some weight: It didn't matter. He loved her smooth skin, her beautiful face, her strong tennis-playing arms, her familiar scent. He'd climb into bed at the end of the day, and he'd take her in his arms and think his heart might break through his rib cage. She'd make his blood pound in his veins, and he'd kiss her lips.

  A man who made his living with words: memos, briefs, opening and closing arguments, direct and cross-examination, conference calls, interviews, depositions . . . with Theresa, he had tried to speak with his body. He had tried to show her, the best he could, how much he loved her with his hands, his mouth.

  There was a saying he remembered from Latin: Cor ad cor loquitor. Heart speaks to heart. That's how it had been for John, and how he thought it had been for Theresa. He hadn't known how she felt; sometimes it seemed he hadn't known her at all.

  Standing in the parking lot of the Witch's Brew, watching all the smiling, laughing, costumed people go inside, John couldn't help wondering whether there were husbands, wives, left behind somewhere this festive night. Sitting at home, waiting by the phone, trying not to watch the clock.

  He knew that those weeks, when Theresa was cheating on him, he had felt bound to her as never before. Because he had felt her slipping away, and she'd become even more precious to him than she'd been since the night he had proposed to her. He had reached for her, trying to pull her back, but it was like trying to hold a handful of sand: it kept running out of his fingers, back to the beach. By the night of her death, Theresa was already long gone.

  He had found notes in her datebook, to call Melody Starr, a divorce lawyer in Hawthorne. Had she? John didn't know, and he wouldn't ask. When he saw Melody in the hall at court, he said hello and tried to discern whether she was looking at him strangely, with sympathy or loathing. Had Theresa told her their deepest secrets?

  John didn't know, and he believed it didn't matter. Divorce lawyers were like the third parties: They were beside the point. The marriage—blissfully happy or falling apart—was between two people. It could break up only if one of the two wanted it to—if he or she had already started leaving. And Theresa's leaving had begun before the start of her affair.

  John wondered whether it had been like that for Kate. Whether her husband had already left before the affair with her sister. Once more, he looked at the photo of Willa Harris. Such a pretty, friendly, innocent smile. Hard to believe a woman like this would have an affair with her sister's husband. But, as John had learned the hard way, she was just the third party, and the third party was beside the point.

  He wanted to help Kate Harris find her sister. He wasn't sure why it felt so important to him, driving him to the Witch's Brew this cold Friday night when he'd rather be home with his kids, but it was. It had to do with answering questions, finding peace. Doing the right thing. Strange, how they shared a connection with Washington, and now with Silver Bay.

  He took a deep breath, climbed into his car and out of the freezing rain, and drove slowly over the slick, black roads toward his father's house. If there was any peace in the world for John O'Rourke tonight, it was there, with Maggie and Teddy.

  chapter 10

  Before leaving the East Wind on Saturday morning, Kate took pictures from her bedroom windows. She wanted to remember the view Willa had had, so she snapped photos of the rocky coastline, the breakwater, and the lighthouse—all contours softened by ghostly fog. Her time here had been bittersweet. Although she hadn't found out anything more about Willa, she had met the O'Rourkes.

  Forehead against the glass, hoping for a glimpse of Maggie or Teddy, she tried to see their house. It looked so quiet: no sign of Brainer running through the fields. She hoped they'd had fun having pizza last night, celebrating Teddy's victory. A memory of Willa playing field hockey—in the prim playing fields near Rock Creek Park, behind the gothic spires of St. Chrysogonus's School—filled her mind.

  Willa in her dark green uniform, waving her hockey stick over her head, thrilled because they'd won, wanting Kate and Andrew to be proud. Feeling like parents, they had taken Willa and her teammates to the Chicago Pizzeria. Everyone sitting at one big table, digging into deep-dish pizza, toasting with frosty mugs of soda.

  Willa had been sixteen.

  That night, Andrew had held Kate close in bed, maki
ng slow love to her with extra tenderness, whispering that when they had a baby of their own, they'd be ahead of the game, practiced in the care and raising of teenagers. He had told her he loved Willa like his own kid, that he was so blessed to have married into a ready-made family. Kate had glowed, unable to believe she'd found someone so special.

  Someone who loved her the way she was, took her the way she came: with a shy, beautiful, needy teenaged sister. For Willa had been just like a wild pony—cautious, hesitant, slow to trust, more suited to the dunes of Chincoteague than the brick sidewalks of Georgetown, happier with a paintbrush than a field-hockey stick.

  Andrew had won Willa over. He had worked out with her, doing drills on the field, encouraging her till she believed she was as good an athlete as anyone else. He had also praised her painting, insisting that one of her watercolors hang in his office. It was a small portrait Willa had done of Kate, sitting on the dunes one chilly day, her arms wrapped around her knees.

  The years had passed. . . . Willa grew up, became an adult.

  They—Andrew and Kate—had taken Willa to the National Gallery's East Wing for her twenty-first birthday. Together they had wandered through the small French paintings exhibit, past Monet's “Water Lilies.” They had admired the Hassams, the Metcalfs, the Renwicks. At lunch, in the small restaurant upstairs, Andrew had commissioned Willa to do a painting.

  “Of me and Kate,” he'd said, handing Willa the check.

  “Andrew, this is huge!” she'd said, looking at the amount.

  “Well, it'll be worth it. Me and the most beautiful girl in the world. To hang on my walls, for all to see.”

  Willa had beamed. Kate had been unable to smile. Her heart had felt so heavy that day. Andrew had been late the last few nights; she'd been unable to reach him on his cell phone. Although he had claimed to be working late, lining up a new job after the senator's inevitable loss in November, Kate hadn't believed him. His words said one thing; her gut said another.

  “Kate, he's so romantic,” Willa had said, leaning across the table to give her brother-in-law a kiss.