The Silent Hour

by Michael Koryta

  "The job," I said. "What is it— What do you want from me—"

  He gestured down at the chair from which he'd just risen, and I sighed and nodded, and then he sat again.

  "I got out thirteen years ago," he said. "Spent the first year working for the most amazing woman I ever met. She was someone who operated on a level above most of the world. Kind, compassionate, beautiful. She and her husband built a house in the woods that was as special a place as I've ever seen on this earth, just a gorgeous, haunting place. If you go to it, and I hope you will, you'll understand what I mean. There's an energy there, Lincoln, a spirit I know you'll be able to feel. They came up with the idea for the home themselves, and it was incredible. Built underground on one side, so that when you came up the drive all you saw was this single arched door in the earth."

  He lifted his hands and made an arch with them, revealing tattoos on the insides of both wrists.

  "The door was this massive piece of oak surrounded by hand-laid stone, and it was all you could see. Just this door to nowhere. Then you could walk up over the door, stand on a hill, and even though the house was directly beneath you, you couldn't tell. There were trees and plants growing all over the place, and no sign that a home was under your feet. At the top of the hill I hey built a well house out of stone, styled in a way that made you think it was two hundred years old. There was no well, of course, because the house was beneath. If you kept walking past that, you'd come to this sheer drop."

  Again he lifted his hands, making a slashing motion this time. "That was the back wall. Two stories of glass, all these windows looking out on the creek and the pond and the woods. It was only from the back that you could see the house. From the front, it was just the door in the hillside. Alexandra wanted it to feel that way. She wanted it to be a place where you could escape from the world."

  I had a strong sense that he was no longer seeing me, that I could stand up and do jumping jacks and he wouldn't blink. He was back at this place, this house in the earth, and from watching his face I knew that he recalled every detail perfectly, that it was the setting of a vivid movie he played regularly in his head.

  "I helped them grow vegetables, and I kept the grass cut and the trees trimmed and the creek flowing and the pond clean," he said. "In the fall I cleared the leaves; in the winter I cleared the snow. No power tools, not even a mower. I did it all by hand, and at first I thought they were crazy for requiring that, but I needed the job. Then I came to understand how important it was. How the sound of an engine would have destroyed what was there."

  "Who were they—" I asked, and the interruption seemed as harsh to him as a slap in the face. He blinked at me a few times, then nodded.

  "The owners were Alexandra and Joshua Cantrell, and while I was not close to Joshua, I became closer to Alexandra in a year than I would have thought possible. She was a very spiritual person, deeply in touch with the earth, and when she learned I had Shawnee ancestry, she wanted to hear all of the stories I'd heard, was just fascinated with the culture. I learned from her, and she learned from me, and for that one single year everything in my life seemed to have some harmony."

  He paused, lifted his head, tilted it slightly, and looked me in the eye.

  "They left that place, that beautiful home they'd built, without any warning, just drove away and left it all behind. I never saw them or heard from them again. That was twelve years ago."

  It was quiet, and I let it stay that way. One of the reasons I didn't speak, truth be told, was that I could feel a sort of electric tingle, and I wanted to hold on to it for a moment. It came not from his story, which was intriguing but could also be total bullshit, but from the way he told it. The light in his eyes, the energy that came from him when he spoke, had an almost rapturous quality. There was a depth of caring in what he said that I hadn't seen often before. The depth of caring you could probably develop if you spent more than a decade in a cell and then were released to the place he'd just described.

  "I'm sure there's a simple explanation," I said. "One you could probably find with a little computer research. Maybe they overextended when they built that house, and the bank foreclosed. Maybe they moved to be closer to family. Maybe they decided to go overseas."

  "You think I haven't done computer research—" he said. "You think that's a new idea to me— I've researched, Lincoln."

  "You didn't find anything—"

  "Nothing. I turned up some addresses for people with the same name, wrote some letters, never got a response unless the letter bounced back to me.

  "Not all of them did— Then you probably got through to them and they didn't care to respond. No offense, Harrison, but correspondence with a murderer isn't high on most people's list of priorities. I can see why they'd ignore your letters. I tried to do the same."

  He spoke with infinite patience. "Alexandra would never have ignored my letters. She was a better person than that."

  "People change."

  "I have six thousand dollars," he began again.

  I waved him off. "I know, Harrison. You've told me."

  He looked at me sadly, then spoke with his eyes on the floor.

  "I need to know what happened. If it takes every dime I have, I won't feel that it was wasted. What I told you in my letters came from the heart. I see you as a storyteller. You take something that's hidden from the world, and you bring it forward, give us answers to our questions, give us an ending. It's what you do, and you seem to be very good at it. I'm asking you, please, to do that for me. Give me those answers, give me the ending."

  I didn't say anything. He shifted in his chair, looking uneasy for the first time, and I had an idea of how badly he wanted me to take this job.

  "You just want to know where they went—" I said. "Is that it—"

  He nodded. "I'd like to speak with her."

  "I won't facilitate contact for you. I believe there is a very good chance that one of your letters got through, and they did not wish to hear from you. If that's the case, I'm not going to pass along any messages or give you their new address. I'll simply tell you what I can about why they left."

  "The address is important to me, though, because I want to send a letter. I have some things I need to say."

  I shook my head. "I'm not doing that. The most I will do is tell them where you are and say that you'd like to be in touch. If they want to hear from you, they can instigate it."

  He paused with another objection on his lips, then let it die, and nodded instead.

  "Fine. If you find her, she will be in touch. I'm sure of that."

  "You said you weren't close with her husband," I said. "Perhaps you should consider the possibility that he didn't think highly of you, and that he's one of the reasons you haven't heard from her."

  "He's not the reason."

  "We'll see."

  It went quiet again, both of us realizing that the back-and-forth was through, that I had actually agreed to do this. I'm not sure who was more surprised. Harrison shifted in his chair and began to speak of the six thousand again, to ask me what retainer fee I would require.

  "None, Harrison. Not yet. I expect this won't be hard. What seems altogether mysterious probably won't be once I dig into it. Now, you gave me their names, but is there any chance you remember the address of that house—"

  "It's 3730, Highway 606. just outside of Hinckley."

  Hinckley was less than an hour south of Cleveland. I took a notepad out of the desk drawer, then had him repeat the address.

  "There's a stone post at the end of the drive that says Whisper Ridge," he said. "That's the name Alexandra gave to the place, and it was a good choice. Appropriate. It's the quietest place I've ever been. Alexandra said one of the contractors told her it was built in an acoustic shadow. Do you know what that is—"

  I shook my head.

  "I'd never heard the phrase, either, but apparently in the right terrain you can have a situation where the wind currents keep sounds from traveling the way they sho
uld. I have no idea if that's true of Whisper Ridge, but I can tell you that it's an unnaturally quiet place."

  "The house will give me the start," I said, not interested in hearing another spiel about the property. "I'll be able to tell when they sold it and whether there was a foreclosure involved. Sudden departure like that, one could be likely."

  He shook his head. "That's not going to be your start."

  "No—"

  "Well, the house will," he said. "The house absolutely should be. I'd like you to see the place before you do anything else, but there won't be any details in a sale that will help you."

  "You say that with confidence."

  "That's because they never sold it."

  You’re sure.

  "Yes."

  "Then who lives there—"

  "No one."

  I cocked my head and studied him. "Positive about that—"

  "I'm positive. I've had correspondence with the sheriff out there. The house is still owned by the Cantrells, the taxes are current, and according to him, it's empty."

  "It's been twelve years," I said.

  "Yes."

  "The house has just been sitting empty for that long—"

  "That's my understanding."

  "A house that is worth—"

  "Several million, for the house and the property. I know you expect this to be easy, but I have a different sense than that. I think it will be anything but easy."

  * * *

  Chapter Three

  I left the office a few minutes after Harrison did. I stood on the corner waiting to cross Rocky River and walk over to Gene's Place for some lunch, trying to enjoy the warm breeze and the sun and not dwell on the fact that I'd just agreed to work for a murderer. Not even an accused murderer, which was the sort of thing defense investigators did regularly, but an admitted murderer, a guy who'd sat across the desk from me and talked about the man he'd killed with a knife.

  I'd had him on his feet, headed toward the door, and now I was working for him. So what had changed— Why, after ordering him to leave, had I agreed to his request— I could pretend part of it was the story, the intriguing question he'd presented, but I knew that wasn't enough.

  You're looking at me with distaste, he'd said, and he'd been right. I was disgusted by him when he walked into the office, disgusted by him when he wrote the first letter back in the winter. He was a killer. He'd ended a life, shed innocent blood. I was entitled to my disgust, wasn't I— Then he'd looked at me and asked if I believed in his potential for rehabilitation, asked if I believed in the work I'd done with the police, and somehow in those questions he'd guaranteed himself my help. I didn't want to refuse him on the grounds that he was a lost cause. Didn't want to walk out of the office feeling like a smaller man than when I'd walked in.

  The light changed, and I crossed the street and cut through the parking lot to the restaurant, thinking that Harrison was a clever son of a bitch. It had been a nice play, that final question about rehabilitation, and in the end it got him what he wanted. Part of me felt honorable for my decision; another part felt manipulated. Played.

  Maybe I'd made a mistake. This wasn't the sort of client I wanted on the books. Granted, we hadn't signed anything, and I could always back out…

  "Joe will be furious," I said aloud, and then I managed a laugh. No, my partner was not going to be impressed with this story. I could hear him already, his voice rising in volume and exasperation as he explained to me the hundreds of obvious reasons why I shouldn't have taken this case. That alone could justify taking it. I had a hell of a time getting under Joe's skin now that he was in Florida. This one just might do it, though. This one just might have enough annoyance to bridge the miles.

  It should be simple, too. I added that to the pro side of the list as I walked into Gene's Place and down the brick steps beside the old popcorn machine that had greeted people just inside the doors for years. Honestly, it should take me no more than a day or two to determine where this Cantrell couple had gone. I'd give them a call or drop them a note and explain where Harrison was and what he wanted. If they agreed to contact him, fine, and if they didn't, I would still have held up my end of the bargain—and, hopefully, would have satisfied Harrison into silence.

  I ate a turkey club and drank black coffee and listened as people around me discussed what a beautiful day it was, how nice the sun felt. It had been a i old, angry April, with a late-season snowstorm that canceled the early baseball games and then settled into a few weeks of gray sky and chill rain. I hat looked to be behind us now, finally. Today's weather seemed to be an official announcement, winter waving a going out of business sign at the city, closed for the season sign, rather. It'd be back soon enough, as everyone in Cleveland knew.

  Still, today it was gone, and staying indoors seemed like a crime, unappredative. I had no real need to make the drive to see the Cantrell house—this thing could probably be wrapped up without leaving the office—but the day called for an outing of some sort, and this was the only one that had offered itself. I finished my lunch and left, walked back to Lorain and past the office and a few blocks down until I got to my building. I own a small twenty-four- hour gym and live in the apartment above it. The original plan when I got kicked off the police force was to make a living on the gym. Then Joe retired and coaxed me into the PI business, which was fairly easy to do based upon the meager profits the gym had been turning. A few short years later, Joe was gone indefinitely, and I was running the agency by myself. Man plans, God laughs.

  I stopped in the gym long enough to say hello to Grace, my gym manager, and then I got into my truck and headed south for Hinckley. The Cantrell house was supposed to be just off 606, which was a winding two-lane highway that cut through small towns and farm country. I came onto it too far south and had to backtrack. Ten minutes and one more turnaround later, I located 3730, a beat-up metal box on a weathered wood pole, the painted numerals chipped and peeling. The pole sat at an unnatural angle that suggested previous contact with a car. I wasn't surprised. Winter storms came in fast and hard out here, and the rural communities always had more roads than they had snowplows.

  The mailbox was on the opposite side of the highway from the driveway, which was identified, as Harrison had promised, by a stone post calling it Whisper Ridge. I turned off the highway and drove past the sign onto the rutted gravel lane. Well, it had been a gravel lane, at least. Most of the stone had either washed away or been beaten into the dirt, and grass was beginning to reclaim the drive. I made it about fifty teeth-rattling feet before I saw the gate.

  Parker Harrison hadn't mentioned the set of steel bars at least eight feet tall blocking the rest of the driveway, outfitted with an electronic lock. On either side of the gate was a metal fence with barbed wire at the top.

  I turned the engine off, climbed out of my truck, and studied the obstacle ahead. There was no need to risk setting off an alarm or angering a neighbor with an attempt at trespassing, but now that I was all the way out here I wanted to actually see the damn house. There had to be a way down to it; it just wasn't going to be as easy as I'd hoped.

  My first choice was to walk the fence line to the left, and that was a mistake. After battling through the undergrowth for about thirty feet, I ran into water. The fence went all the way to the edge of a creek that was maybe fifteen feet wide and at least a few feet deep. Wetter than I wanted to be, that was for sure. I backtracked and walked in the opposite direction only to find that on this side the fence ran into thickets of thorns and tangled brush. On second thought, the creek might not be that bad. It was closer to the drive, and Harrison had talked about the house looking out onto a pond and fountain, right— Well, the creek must feed the pond.

  I clung to that belief as I set to work ruining a good pair of shoes. Originally I'd had hopes of jumping from stone to stone, but it turned out ol' Lincoln wasn't as nimble-footed as he remembered. I splashed my way around the fence, grumbling and cursing, and then battled through more of t
he brambles until I came back to the driveway, this time inside the gate.

  From there it was an easy walk. It was a long driveway, at least a half mile, and it curved through a border of pine trees so that my truck was quickly hidden from sight. At one point a dirt offshoot led to the right, but I figured that probably led to some sort of outbuilding, so I stayed with the gravel, tramping along down the middle of the drive, stepping around the occasional hole or downed branch until it came to an end in a stone semicircle.

  At first I couldn't see anything but trees and ivy. It was very overgrown, and even though the sun was out, all the shade left it dark and gloomy back here. Then I saw the hill rising steeply in front of me, and the door in the middle of it.

  Harrison's description was dead-on. The door was a massive piece of oak encased in an arch of rough stone, and everything was so weathered and unused that it just blended right into the hillside.

  There was one wide, flat stone inlaid beside the arched door frame, with words carved into it. I walked closer, pushed ivy aside, and read the words.

  Whisper Ridge

  Home to Dreams

  October 2, 1992-April 12, 1996

  An epitaph for a house— I ran my fingertips over the carved stone, then across the heavy wood of the door, and let out a breath that I hadn't realized I was holding.

  "Unreal," I said, and it was. I'd never seen anything else like it. There was nothing here but a hill covered in ivy and groundcover and this single, solitary door with the words carved beside it. On a second read, I decided I was wrong—the epitaph wasn't for the house, which, still standing, lived on. It was for the dreams.

  I stepped away and looked around at the empty trees and the drive I'd just walked up. All right, the house was here, and he'd been honest about the door. Let's see about the rest of it.

  I walked up the side of the hill, which flattened out on top. A stone path was barely visible in the tall weeds, and I followed that until I came to the well house. It, like the door casing, seemed to be built out of hand-laid creek stone, and Harrison was right—it looked like it was two hundred years old. As I walked past I felt a strange, powerful need not to peer down into the well, as if something might come snarling out. I forced a laugh and shook my head and then went up to the edge and looked over, ignoring the prickle that climbed my spine.