The Secret Hour

by Luanne Rice

  “Daddy,” Maggie said, starting to cry. He thought she was upset because he'd grounded her, but that wasn't it. “I don't want you to be mad . . . I don't want to disappoint you . . . please give me another chance. I'm sorry!”

  “I can be mad and still love you,” John said, clutching his daughter. “I love you, Mags. I don't want anything bad to happen to you!”

  “It won't,” she sobbed, touching the fringe on the white scarf Kate had given her. “I'm brave—I can take care of myself.”

  “I know,” John said, his fingers brushing the scarf. “But you're still grounded anyway.”

  Maggie seemed about to say something more, but then she just turned and ran up the stairs, into her room. It was dark out now; when she turned on the lamp, John hoped she'd remember to pull her curtains.

  He stood very still, his heart pounding. A memory of standing in that back parking lot with Kate surfaced. Kissing her had felt so right. As if they needed each other somehow, had been brought together for more than just that moment in time. He stood in a house that didn't belong to him, with two kids who wanted only to go home, and he closed his eyes and thought of Kate.

  Kate had returned to her office to pick up some things; after what had happened to Willa's postcard, she had become hyperconscientious about checking her mail. Although her assistant had promised to forward everything, promising-looking or not, Kate occasionally had to stop in and see for herself. Her office was empty, waiting for her to return to work. Although she'd taken an open-ended leave, being back whetted her appetite to return for good.

  She sat in her office, staring at all the reports and queries that had come in during her absence. Quota reports from various shellfish commissions up and down the Eastern Seaboard, requests for the Academy's pollution studies from two towns in Maryland. Her work had always been vital to her, but she hadn't been able to concentrate in months.

  She knew she couldn't still; not yet. Looking through the stack of mail, satisfying herself there was nothing from Willa, her attention was immediately caught by a postmark: SILVER BAY CT. Feeling excited, she decided to wait to get home to read it. Saying good-bye to the other staff members, she took the elevator down.

  The National Academy of Sciences was located in a large, modern building at the corner of Twenty-first Street and Pennsylvania Avenue. Walking outside, Kate pulled her green coat tighter. Some nights she loved to walk all the way home: past the White House, down to Constitution and the bare-branched cherry trees, along the Mall with the huge, friendly Smithsonian buildings—tourists strolling along in any weather, the Capitol dome lit up, glowing, lighting her way home.

  But tonight, feeling the need for immediate shelter and wanting to read the letter, Kate walked to the taxi stand and got into a cab.

  Her town house was located on Capitol Hill, just off Massachusetts Avenue. Since her trip to Fairhaven, the street name itself was a thorn—it caused her pain just to look at the sign. The cab driver dropped her in front, and she ran up the tall steps, unlocked her heavy black door, and walked into the cozy brick building.

  Bonnie was overjoyed to see her. Kate dropped her satchel, then walked around turning on lights. After moving out of the house she had shared with Andrew, she had refused to take anything from their days together and had furnished her new place with her own taste: furniture from secondhand shops on the Eastern Shore, her grandmother's braided rug from Chincoteague, beautiful watercolors of dunes and bays.

  Sinking into her chair, she pulled the small blue envelope from her satchel. Her name was printed in large, childish letters, the rest of the address filled out in sharp adult handwriting.

  Just looking at the postmark, SILVER BAY CT, her shoulders relaxed. Energy seemed to flow from the paper into her fingertips, as she opened the letter and began to read.

  It was a thank-you note from Maggie, for the white scarf. Teddy had added some words of his own. Kate read the letter through twice. Although John hadn't included a message, she found herself staring at his handwriting on the envelope. Maggie must have asked him to address it for her.

  Holding the letter in one hand, the envelope in the other, Kate closed her eyes. She thought of her sister's secret escape to New England, of her brother, alone in his oyster shack in the pines woods of Chincoteague. Family could be so elusive. Her own family seemed lost, but this strange, strong sense of connection was coming from a place she never would have expected. . . .

  “Brainer says hello,” she said out loud, to Bonnie.

  As if that had just made her the happiest dog in Washington, the Scottie jumped up into the chair beside Kate and began to lick her paws. The two of them sat together, dreaming of the north, listening to the wood snap and burn. Kate felt the warmth of her little dog and remembered John holding her.

  She wondered what he'd thought, addressing the envelope.

  Did he remember their kiss? Did he wish they could do it again?

  Kate closed her eyes, holding the envelope to her chest. She had never felt quite this way, and it upset her. She hardly knew John O'Rourke. He was on the “other side,” the lawyer for the person she suspected of viciously taking her sister away.

  But he was more than that. He was a single father who had lost his wife in the worst way possible. She had died suddenly, on a lonely road, possibly on her way home from being with someone else. Kate understood the strong emotional twist that must have caused John. Love, betrayal, and then disappearance altogether: It seemed impossible to bear. At least, Kate couldn't begin to.

  chapter 16

  Because Dr. Beckwith hadn't called John at home—one of his patients had had a crisis—the two men met in Providence the next day. John, curious to see the latest in the doctor's expanding operation, drove up to his clinic.

  “Surprised you find time to testify,” John said. Looking around the office, he had Willa Harris on his mind. Where had she gone? Did their mutual client have something to do with her disappearance? How was Kate surviving, back in Washington, still not knowing the fate of her sister?

  “I know,” Beckwith replied ruefully. “So many people, so much need. As you know, I work primarily with sex offenders. Society would like to just lock them in a dungeon, but they're people, too. Call me crazy, but I think I can help.”

  John nodded, and the doctor laughed.

  “Clearly I'm preaching to the converted; we're on the same team. I know you're very busy, so let's start out with a tour of the latest. Funding has been up lately, so there are additions since your last visit. When was that, anyway?”

  John frowned, thinking.

  “Must have been three years ago now. When you worked on the Caleb Jenkins case.”

  “Rudimentary, compared to what you'll see today. How is Caleb, by the way?”

  “His mother says he's doing well, working for his father.”

  The doctor nodded with satisfaction. “That's great. Makes me feel good about my testimony, to know we helped a boy avoid jail time for, essentially, pulling a prank. Now he can get on with his life. If only it was that simple for some of my other patients . . .”

  John nodded.

  “Let me show you the basics of what I do here now. And, from the start, let me say that I believe our client to be beyond the help I offer other men less ‘entrenched' in their obsessions . . . over the months, I've gotten to know him quite well.”

  “I know. I appreciate your involvement.”

  “My pleasure,” Beckwith said. “It's not every day I get to work with someone like him.”

  For some reason, John couldn't reply. The words wouldn't come, and he felt slightly sick.

  The Beckwith Study's offices were located in the university's only high-rise building. The foundation, federally and privately funded, occupied the entire twentieth floor, overlooking the colonial brick buildings of College Hill, the candy-colored houses of fishing families on Fox Point, and Narragansett Bay shimmering down to the Atlantic.

  In contrast to the glorious views outside,
the study's offices looked inward at unimaginable worlds of violence, fantasy, and paraphilia. The doctor showed John video rooms, role-playing rooms, a machine designed to measure sexual arousal, and a lab filled with the stench of rotting fish.

  “What's that?” John asked.

  “Oh, one of my negative feedback methods.” The doctor grimaced. “I teach my patients to associate vile smells with their violent fantasies. Hook them up to a monitor, start them talking about their rapes . . . measure their arousal. When it peaks, I bring out the dead fish, and the smell breaks the erotic feelings.”

  “That works?”

  “Takes years, but yes—sometimes. The patient no longer gets an erection from the fantasies.”

  “Really . . .”

  “These people—mostly men—are sent to me as a last chance. They've served prison time; most of them are court-ordered for treatment, and none of them believe it will help. Teachers who molested students, dentists who touched patients, men convicted of rape . . .”

  “My clients,” John said dryly as they toured the floor. “And this is how you ‘help.' ”

  “Yes, by reworking their fantasies. I try to deprogram them, then start over. See, sex is a mysterious thing. People spend very little time actually having it. Their thoughts, their fantasies, are where the trouble begins. Each of us—every human being on the planet—is born with a powerful sex drive. If we weren't, the species would have died out long ago.”

  “I don't think our clients are overly concerned with propagation of the species,” John said. Another wave of queasiness passed over him. He knew the feeling was emotional; it had been building for some time now, ambivalence for the work he did, the people he represented. He wanted to turn and run, take the elevator downstairs, get out of here. But he forced himself to stay.

  “No. And when their desire gets linked to inappropriate people or behaviors, it still needs to be satisfied. And they hurt others, hurt themselves, get arrested, wind up here. I'm a behaviorist. I try to link their bad desires with unpleasant consequences—like the smell of dead, putrid, rotting fish.”

  “Hmmm . . . ,” John said, remembering Psychology 101, how Ivan Pavlov had rung bells at feeding time, training his dogs to salivate and grow hungry at the sound—training them to expect pleasure. Concentrating on scholastic memories pushed his own conflicts from his mind.

  “Exactly,” Dr. Beckwith said. “Society wants retribution. They want these sexual offenders to serve long prison terms, and then, since Megan's Law, they want to keep track of them. All fine, but not solving the problem. Locked up in prison, they spend years refining the same deviant fantasy that got them locked up in the first place. Your client is a prime example.”

  “In what ways?”

  “Shall we go into my office and discuss his case?” Dr. Beckwith asked, leading John into a large suite facing west over the brick-and-granite city—surprisingly not the better, million-dollar view of the bay. A young woman with short brown hair and grad-student-style clothes sat at an outer desk, typing on a computer.

  Closing the door behind him, Beckwith gestured for John to take a seat across the wide desk. He pushed some consent forms across, and John read them, noting that Greg Merrill had granted permission for Dr. Beckwith to discuss his case.

  “We both know that Merrill is where he belongs,” Dr. Beckwith said. “Behind bars, locked up, for the rest of his life.”

  “However long that might be.”

  “Exactly. He fits the formulaic criteria of state law; he's a violent predator who has offended repeatedly. The question is: Does he have a mental disorder that makes him commit his terrible crimes? Again, I think we both know that he does.”

  “The State doesn't, though. When the prosecutor delivered his argument at the sentencing hearing, he said, ‘You've heard a lot about extreme emotional disturbance, but that's just an excuse for a man who likes to kill teenaged girls.' ”

  “I know, I've read the transcripts.”

  “I have to tell you,” John said. “I have a daughter. When I think of Merrill from the perspective of a father, I want him to stay right where he is, on death row. But as his counsel . . .”

  “You've done the right thing, coming to me,” Beckwith said, leaning forward, hands folded on his desk. He was an elegant man, with neat white hair and patrician features.

  John was silent, waiting for him to go on.

  “Greg Merrill is, in many ways, a typical serial killer. Extremely bright, quite personable, an innocent demeanor—permitting him to attract his victims.”

  John was silent, listening, thinking of Willa Harris.

  “But inside, something quite different. Your client is off the charts on a scale of psychological disorders. He can't subdue his fantasies. They haunt him constantly, even today, through the medication. He fits all the DSM-IV criteria for paraphilia, with more added. He not only wants to rape, and eventually kill his victims . . .”

  John looked away.

  “He wants to possess their souls. His fantasy includes keeping them alive in the breakwaters for one hour after he's stabbed them. He sits with them as the tide rises, until the last possible minute for him to walk away and not get wet. Always just out of sight of the beach, of boats passing by.”

  “Why?” John asked, focusing on the doctor's eyes.

  “So the women can feel how close they are to death—and, at the same time, to help and rescue.”

  John waited while the doctor continued.

  “He feels the primal pull of the tides . . . the sea, to Merrill, is female. An all-giving, all-taking-away mother. She nurtures, then she consumes. His particular pathology includes hatred for his own mother. She was very controlling and possessive, but she worked long hours at her job to take care of her boy. Merrill thinks if he can keep his victim alive for that time, as the water rises around them both and they share that primal experience, then she will belong to him forever.”

  “He really believes that?” John asked. “It's not just a metaphor . . . he's not just gaslighting us?”

  “No patient,” Dr. Beckwith said with an amused smile, “gaslights me.”

  “Sorry,” John said. “I should have just spoken for myself. I've been manipulated by the best in the business. Believed a client's story totally, then found out he'd been lying the whole time.”

  Beckwith shook his head. “Merrill can't lie about this. It's too important. His need for control over the girls is paramount, and I see it in the way he abducts them, holds them prisoner in his van, tapes their mouths, hurts them repeatedly, kills them slowly.”

  “Keeps them alive for that last hour, letting the tide rise . . .” John said, aching with the thought of Willa gasping for air, waiting . . . God, the image was horrendous, and he dreaded to think of Kate hearing this.

  “Yes. In a way, he considers the sea—his mother—his accomplice. Although he denies this vehemently, he needs ‘her' permission. He allows her to complete the act.”

  “He's very intuitive,” John said, shaking himself out of thinking about Kate's pain. “He already knows that you want to create a new category for him. He says you think of him as a ‘zombie-maker.' ”

  The doctor smiled sadly at the black humor. “Sorry to disappoint our mutual client; he wouldn't be the first. Dahmer had a fantasy of creating a zombie of one of his victims. No, what makes Gregory Merrill distinctive is his need to dominate women while, in fact, being submissive to one.”

  “The sea,” John said, wondering whether Willa Harris's body was hidden in a breakwater somewhere. “The rising tide.”

  “Precisely.”

  John checked his watch. He had a busy afternoon, and then he planned to unground Maggie and take a bike ride with her. “So, we have a sexual disorder–mental illness defense to take to his next hearing.”

  “Most certainly.”

  “Thank you, Doctor,” John said. Shaking his hand, he walked out of the inner office. Standing in the vestibule, he waited while Beckwith's a
ssistant made copies of the consent forms.

  He thanked her and the doctor, and then he took the elevator down. Returning to his car, parked on Thayer Street, he bought a coffee for the drive home to Connecticut and thought about what he and Beckwith did. The doctor wanted to help people, to understand them better.

  John wanted to do that for Kate.

  Since hearing her grief, locked in her car in that Fairhaven parking lot, he had felt something unlock and release in his own body. He was a defense lawyer in an untenable position.

  Hearing Beckwith talk about his clients, John had felt even greater disgust and hatred building inside. Since taking on Merrill's case, he had spent time getting to know the victims, understanding them—to the best of his ability—as young women with hopes, dreams, families who had loved them.

  He knew their names and recited the list. But regardless of his desire to humanize them, he had never met any of them before. He had never held one of their sisters, kissed her in the cold, November wind.

  John's work was no longer just theory: not just a psychiatric defense. Not just family members sitting across the courtroom, hating him for defending their loved one's murderer. This family member had a name, a face, eyes that looked right into his soul: Kate.

  Regardless of whether her sister had met up with Greg Merrill, John knew that he was defending the sort of evil that had destroyed her family's life. Teddy always badgered him about it: “Merrill did what they say he did—murdered girls, ruined families. He deserves what's coming to him. Everyone says he does, Dad.”

  He reached into his pocket to pull out Kate's card. He would call her, ask if she'd gotten the kids' letter. He'd ask how she was doing, whether she had gained any relief since returning home, tell her he hoped she was okay.