The Secret Hour

by Luanne Rice

  Caleb Jenkins.

  Kate saw his chest rise and fall, heard blood bubbling from his mouth and nose. She had never before seen him up close, but Kate knew. He resembled his father, but so much younger—just twenty-something. Kate didn't stop for regrets or doubts. Lifting her sister from the floor, helping her to her feet, Kate gave her the chance to stand with her arm around Kate's neck.

  “There are no more stairs,” Kate said as the fresh sea wind blew through the open door, sharpening their senses. “Grab on, and I'll get you to the car.”

  “Maybe I can walk,” Willa said.

  “Later,” Kate said, glancing back at the boy on the floor. “I want to get us out of here before he wakes up.”

  And so, lifting her sister once again—this time with her arms trembling and nearly breaking with effort—Kate held Willa close and ran down the sandy path toward the Judge's car.

  The vehicle, gleaming white with each flash of the beacon passing overhead, and with moonlight—for during her time in the lighthouse, the clouds had blown away and apart, revealing a huge silver moon over the sea—was still parked at the base of the road. Slowing down now, passing across the rutted and rock-strewn precarious section of path, Kate carried her sister carefully.

  When she reached the Judge's car, she glanced behind—no sign of Caleb Jenkins. Willa rested on her feet, taking her first painful steps in perhaps months, as Kate led her from the hood of the car to the passenger side. Opening the front door, Kate helped her sister inside. Then, running around the car, she began to climb in herself.

  Just then, noticing Caleb's van parked off to the side, she calculated. What if he came to, ran to his van, caught her before she got past the East Wind to the main road? Taking a deep breath, she ran over to the white Chevy van, “Jenkins Construction” lettered on the side.

  “Katy,” she heard Willa cry. “Hurry—don't leave me alone in here! We have to get away!”

  “I know,” Kate flung back, opening the van door.

  The keys were in the ignition. Palming them, she backed away. But her attention was caught by two things lying on the front seat. A gold necklace, a locket with the initials “AM” entwined in script: Amanda Martin.

  And a document, thick and official looking. Vellum bound, like one of Kate's Academy reports. Scientific, complete, expensive. Leaning over, to read the front title page, she saw:

  ASSESSING VIOLENT PREDATORS

  A Study of Gregory Merrill

  By Dr. Philip A. Beckwith, M.D.

  Wondering how Caleb had gotten hold of a psychiatrist's study, Kate grabbed it and jumped out of the van, keys in hand. Then, climbing into the Judge's car, Kate started the engine, threw her sister a wide smile, and backed out of the sandy parking area.

  “We made it,” Kate said. “I found you . . .”

  “Faster, Kate,” Willa screamed, weeping into her hands as if freedom hadn't yet hit her, as if she was trying to make herself compact because she wasn't used to all the space in the world. “The other one is coming!”

  Kate drove, eyes in the rearview mirror to make sure Caleb wasn't following, shocked by her sister's words. “What other one?”

  “That one back there . . .” she said. “He used to just feed me; bring my food . . . tell me the time. But it was the other one. . . . Oh, Kate, drive faster . . . he always comes at nine o'clock . . .”

  chapter 28

  John drove, as fast as he could, toward the lighthouse. Dr. Beckwith sat beside him, speaking in a shocked, bewildered voice—and John was just as shocked to hear the patient's name.

  “Caleb Jenkins?” he repeated, to be sure.

  “Yes. You see, Caleb presented with such mild symptoms of the disorder,” Beckwith said, visibly distressed, “I completely missed it the first time.”

  “There was nothing about a sexual disorder,” John said, recalling the defense he and Beckwith had developed.

  “Nothing overt, early on. An addiction to the Internet disturbed his parents enough to ask me to recommend a therapist; I said I'd take him on myself. That's when we uncovered what was really there, underneath.”

  “He'd drive to Providence?”

  “Yes. The longer we worked together, the more I realized that he had other . . . components to his addiction. A sort of comorbidity, if you will, of chat rooms and pornography.”

  “And he began writing to Merrill . . .”

  “According to Greg,” the doctor said. He checked his watch. “Faster, John—”

  John tried to get his breathing under control, to listen and learn as much as he could so he could do whatever necessary to save Kate. He felt as if he and Beckwith were racing against a clock, trying to get to the East Wind Inn before Caleb Jenkins's path intersected with hers, on her way to the lighthouse.

  “The Jenkinses sent their son all the way to Providence to see me, and this is the help I gave him. . . .”

  “They kept in touch with you,” John said, hitting the gas; the talking kept him from going crazy with worry for Kate.

  “Yes. The family was not without its own rather serious problems by the time Caleb began acting out. Mrs. Jenkins was coping with depression. Her husband had been unfaithful. . . .”

  John's stomach clenched with shame and fury, not wanting to hear that his colleague knew.

  “I'm sorry, John,” Beckwith said. “I do know about your wife and Barkley Jenkins.”

  “Felicity told you?”

  “Yes. And, later, Caleb.”

  John was silent, concentrating on the road. They weren't far from where Theresa had hit the deer, on her way home from being with Barkley. But that meant they were getting closer to the lighthouse—closer to Kate.

  “There's no need for you to feel ashamed,” the doctor said. “It's nothing you did, and certainly, adultery is rampant in America. But his father's infidelity had a profound affect on Caleb—an unleashing, if you will, of a great store of rage. In turn, that reached back to his father—defending himself against his son's derision. Barkley Jenkins is a very angry man.”

  “Like father, like son.”

  “True. Felicity wanted Barkley to see me as well—a sort of family counseling, I guess. Barkley refused. He suffers, as does his son, from a sort of free-floating God complex. Thinks he can do just about anything and get away with it. What time is it, John?”

  “Just past nine,” John said as he veered onto Redcoat Road, the access road to the old munitions well where the colonists had hidden arms to fight against the British. It merged with the road to the lighthouse.

  “Just in time,” the doctor said. And when John turned to look, he saw Dr. Philip Beckwith holding a pistol pointed at him.

  “What?” John asked, stunned.

  “You'd have figured it out anyway,” the doctor said as John drove into the unmarked sand road. “I knew you'd learned about Fairhaven, and from there it was just a matter of time until you made the connections between me and Caleb . . . and Merrill. They communicated through me, of course. I'd hoped to clean up before you did, but then tonight your friend decided to come out to the lighthouse. Perhaps she's with Willa now.”

  John didn't reply. With Willa: Was she still alive? The lighthouse beam was just over the rise, through the leafless trees. They were coming up fast on the bluff.

  “Which was it?” John asked. “You getting tempted by the men you were treating, or you being just like them to begin with?”

  “Shut up!” Dr. Beckwith roared, reaching across the seat to strike John in the face with barrel of his gun. John reeled from the impact, seeing stars. The car weaved down the road.

  “You idiot. If you'd just stayed out of it. If you'd just defended your client, not gotten sidetracked by that woman. You're as weak as the rest—under the thumb of some woman. . . . She's steered you straight away from your duty, letting your client down, meddling where neither of you belong.”

  That's what the doctor thought of as weakness? Helping Kate? John had never felt so real or alive as he did
right now, knowing that he had fallen in love with someone and that he'd die trying to save her life.

  Knowing there was no way he'd drive this maniac even a foot closer to where Kate might be, John hit the gas as hard as he could and crashed his car straight into a tree.

  The second Kate heard the crash and the car horn, she pulled off the sand road under the apple trees and doused the headlights. Willa was crying, begging her to get them away faster, but Kate motioned her to be quiet. Rolling down the window, she strained to listen.

  The car horn blared. Then it stopped, and she heard the sounds of car doors being opened, a voice shouting for someone to get out. Peering through the darkness, she saw two men standing by a wrecked car.

  “John!” she exclaimed, nearly flying out of the Lincoln. But just then the beam passed overhead and Willa caught her wrist, pulling her down in her seat.

  “It's him,” Willa breathed with terror. “The man with the white hair . . .”

  He had a gun. Kate slid down fast, so that only her eyes were visible over the dash, and she caught a glimpse of John's bloody face, the shiny barrel pointed at his head, the white-haired man holding the gun as the lighthouse beam swept over.

  The two sisters crouched low, watching the two men standing there. Hand on the door latch, Kate quietly popped it open and placed one foot on the ground.

  “What are you doing?” Willa whispered frantically.

  “That's John,” Kate said. “If it wasn't for him, I wouldn't have come back to Silver Bay . . . I wouldn't have found you, Willa.”

  “When we get somewhere safe, you can call the police,” Willa pleaded. “That other man—he's the one with Caleb!”

  “The one who hurt you?” Kate asked, feeling the intense fury and hatred build.

  “Yes . . . he came at nine. . . .” Her voice choked on tears. “What time is it now?”

  “Nine-ten,” Kate said, checking the clock on the dashboard. “He's late. And he has John.”

  “Don't go anywhere,” Willa pleaded, tears running down her bruised and bloody face. “Don't leave me here alone.”

  Kate felt torn—her sister needed a hospital, and Kate could barely stand the thought of abandoning her even for a few minutes. But she couldn't leave John to face this danger alone. It wasn't that Kate was brave or courageous or intrepid inside. But her heart had changed since coming to Silver Bay, and she knew that had everything to do with John O'Rourke.

  She had fallen in love with his daughter, his son, his father and his father's housekeeper, with his golden retriever, and most of all—and she knew this from the way her heart had started beating so fast, like a butterfly, in her throat and chest the split second she had seen his station wagon driving through the orchard and knew he had come for her—with the man himself.

  “I won't leave you alone,” Kate said to Willa, gathering up her knife and the rusty metal rod, giving her sister a quick kiss. “I'll be right back, but I have to help John. He needs me right now . . .”

  Looking toward the lighthouse, John saw Caleb's van. Parked at an angle off to the side, it stood alone—no sign of Kate or another car anywhere. John breathed a little easier, thinking she wasn't there.

  John's mind swam with all the times he had walked by here—on hikes with Maggie and Teddy, walks with Brainer. Was it possible—that for six months, Willa had been hidden here, under his nose? Kate had been right. Her sister was close by.

  The automatic prodded his side, and John knew the doctor was going to kill him. Beckwith glanced at the lighthouse, then toward the East Wind—probably gauging whether anyone would hear the shot. John knew that if he stepped foot inside the lighthouse, he would die. Two against one: Caleb and the doctor. The beam mocked him, flashing overhead, warning mariners away from the rocky point. The most obvious place on the shore, and John and the cops had missed it this whole time.

  Kate . . .

  He prayed she had already come and gone. She filled him with hope and tenderness—for never giving up, for never ceasing to believe in her sister—and the feeling made him stand taller and face Beckwith without flinching.

  “Okay,” the psychiatrist said, staring John in the eye, pointing to the drop-off just past the lighthouse. “Walk over to the cliff.”

  John didn't want to do anything that might make it easier for Beckwith to shoot him, send his body into the sea, but he needed to buy time. The sandy path was rutted, tufted with dried grass. Beckwith must have hurt his leg in the crash, because he limped painfully over the field.

  Suddenly, as John walked toward the lighthouse and bluff, the hair stood up on the back of his neck. He felt a chill run through his body, as if a cold front had just passed through, as if a ghost had just flown over.

  It was uncanny, and he felt the way he had in Fairhaven, when he'd been parked on one side of the empty lot, looked across, and saw Kate Harris—where she shouldn't have been, where the chances were one in a million for them to meet.

  Faraway places, two people in contact how? Through their hearts and souls, not through the spoken word. John had never had it with Theresa; he didn't even have it with his own kids. But he had it with Kate Harris, and knew—suddenly, with every nerve in his body—that she was here now.

  Clouds raced across the moon; the light passed over. Darkness, light, darkness, light . . . the field was illuminated by the moon and beacon, then dark again. The path was empty, then a shadow appeared. Coming closer, footprints crunching on the broken clamshells, the shadow gained a face.

  And a voice.

  “Hello, John,” she said, as if she hadn't seen the gun. And perhaps she hadn't . . .

  Beckwith dropped his arm, hiding his weapon behind his right hip.

  “Kate,” John tried to say. He wanted to warn her, scream at her to run—but if he did, and she took off, Beckwith would shoot her.

  “What a beautiful night,” she said, her Virginia voice soft and melodic. “I just missed the dunes and waves of home so much, I swear, I hoped I'd just walk up to the lighthouse and see a pony. What brings you and your friend out here on this stormy night?”

  “Same reason,” Dr. Beckwith said, filled with charm and appreciation. “Hoping to see a filly. . . . John, don't be rude. Introduce me to your friend. Perhaps we can invite her inside, and—”

  “Kate, get out of here,” John said, the words ripping out.

  Even as he spoke, Kate stepped between him and the doctor, laughter trilling from her lips, saying something about Yankees having no manners, bending slightly as if out of courtliness . . . John saw the metal rod protruding from the back of her pants.

  Kate extended her hand, saying to Beckwith, “Hello, there. I'm Kate Harris.”

  “I know your sister,” Beckwith said, bringing the gun up to her chest.

  Kate ducked away as John swung. Smashing the rusty, blood-soaked metal bar down on the doctor's wrist, John heard the bone crack and the gun fire—both at the same time. The bullet hit the lighthouse, ricocheting straight into John's thigh.

  He yowled in agony, the explosion searing flesh and bone. While Beckwith fumbled, trying to fire again, John charged straight at him. Kate had grabbed the doctor from behind, pulling his hair and trying to force him down. John was single-minded—had only one purpose in mind, on this earth, on this moonlit night—and that was to take Kate's sister's captor down. He pounded him with his fists, feeling the hot bursts of his own blood pour down his leg.

  The men fought, Kate rolling out of the way, the gun clattering onto the shell-covered path. John clutched the doctor, rolling with him down the grassy bluff, feeling the east wind sweep up from the rocks, salty and wet.

  “John, the edge,” Kate cried.

  Braking, trying to brace himself with his good leg, John stopped the roll three or four yards from the bluff's drop-off. He concentrated on battering Beckwith's face, hearing Kate shout, “He hurt my sister! He's had Willa this whole time.”

  “Hear that?” John asked, breathless, his leg burning, searing w
ith pain. “She knows what you did. You put her through hell!”

  “Make him tell you,” Kate cried. “Make him tell you what he did to her!”

  “I'm a doctor,” Beckwith said, his cheekbone fractured and bleeding. “If it wasn't for me, she'd be dead! Caleb took her from that lot, and he would have killed her long ago. Young men can never wait. They don't have the patience!”

  “Patience . . . this!” John shouted, smashing the doctor in the face.

  “What did you do?” Kate screamed, coming over to the cliff's edge, grabbing at the doctor's face and clothes. “You could have helped my sister, saved her. But instead you . . .”

  The doctor tried to breathe, wiping his face on the grass, looking down. He ignored Kate completely, as if she wasn't even there—as if she hadn't even spoken. Instead, he looked down at John's leg.

  “That's arterial blood,” he said calmly.

  John didn't speak. Teeth gritted, he felt the pulse in his femur, as his body pumped his blood out onto the ground.

  “You'll bleed to death,” Beckwith said, “if you don't get help right away, John.”

  Stars swam in John's vision, and he heard Kate gasp as she realized what John already knew—that the doctor was right.

  “I'm a physician,” he said. “I can help you. I need a tourniquet to start. Give me your shirt . . .”

  Had he been talking to Kate or John? John wasn't sure, but suddenly he knew he had to do something, or he'd die and leave Kate alone with the monster. With caution, eyes never leaving Beckwith, he started to strip off his shirt—because he wouldn't, for anything, have Kate do that for him, in front of the psychiatrist—and while he was tangled in the fabric, he felt Beckwith's fist shoot out and jab him in the throat.

  Choking and caught in his shirt, swearing at himself for being a fool and getting duped, he knew he'd die sending Beckwith to hell on the rocks below before he let him touch Kate. The moon and stars reeled overhead as he tried to get his balance.