The Wicked Hour

by Alice Blanchard

  “Now? Sure,” he said congenially. “I’m in the neighborhood. Timothy Harrison. I keep telling him, that tree branch is going to come crashing down any minute now. It’s a liability.”

  “Now’s good,” she said.

  “Be right over.”

  Five minutes later, the doorbell rang. Instead of flannels and jeans, tonight Max was wearing a white shirt, a bomber jacket, and black trousers. “Dude, what’s up?” he said, breezing into the house and taking a seat on the living-room sofa. He was the kind of guy who was comfortable any old where. Outside, a moonlit fog curled through the woods.

  “I want your opinion,” she said, spreading out the Polaroids Bella had sent along with her letters, before they’d stopped arriving years ago.

  Max picked up the Polaroid of eighteen-year-old Bella that came with the first letter. Bella was seated on the floor, leaning against a white wall and smiling at the camera. She seemed happy and relaxed, but too pale for the California sun. This was before cell phones and selfies. Bella had never mentioned who’d taken the pictures. They were all close-ups, from her shoulders to a few inches above her head, so you couldn’t see the rest of her surroundings, just the white wall behind her.

  The next two Polaroids were similar—close-ups of Bella leaning against a white wall—except that in Polaroid number two, you could see a strained sadness in her eyes. In Polaroid number three, Bella’s eyes looked dead. To the contrary, her letters insisted she was perfectly happy with her vagabond life and having lots of fun adventures. She never asked Natalie about herself or the Misfits. She merely reassured her old friend that she was okay and sent Polaroids as proof of her existence. After about a year, the letters stopped coming.

  “I remember at the time being satisfied that Bella was alive, although it left a kind of unease in me,” Natalie confessed. “I figured she’d embraced a druggy lifestyle or something, which would explain the change in her appearance from picture to picture. The police processed everything, but they only found Bella’s fingerprints on the envelopes and contents. She sent similar letters to her father, and it was persuasive enough that the police finally dropped the case. I let it go, too. But there’s always been something about the entire incident that irked me … beyond losing a friend. Something about these pictures—her facial expression, the tragic lines of her face, or … something.”

  Max leaned over the grouping on the coffee table and studied them. Then his shoulders slumped and his stomach protruded like a beach ball underneath his button-up shirt. “She doesn’t look happy.”

  “No. But I’ve been learning a lot about the violin culture lately … and it’s given me more insight into Bella’s troubled nature.” She placed her hands on the curved wooden arms of her chair and said, “She used to run away a couple of times a year, and her father would panic. She’d tell me about his demands … how many hours he expected her to practice a day, what kinds of sacrifices she needed to make, how she couldn’t ever be like the other kids. Occasionally, she’d run away just to blow off steam. I understand now what Bella was going through, what was causing her moodiness and depressions.”

  Max made an absentminded movement with his hand that distracted her. “Did I ever tell you about the time Mr. Striver called my dad for an estimate on the termite damage to his house?”

  “No,” she said, curious about this one-eighty.

  “Well, the foundation was infested with termites, and some of the structural beams were compromised. I mean, let’s be honest. Bugs were flying out of the walls. Mr. Striver just let the whole thing go to pot. So we called in an exterminator, and my dad did some repair work to the beams, but Mr. Striver refused to pay beyond a certain point, so we abandoned it with quite a bit more work to be done. Which is crazy. My dad tried to convince him to complete the job, but Mr. Striver couldn’t see the whole picture. He might as well not have spent a dime, rather than stopping the work midstream. All those bugs just kept on reproducing.”

  Natalie frowned, wondering what his point was.

  “Long story short, he exposed himself as a shortsighted guy. Someone you can’t rely on for anything. Bella wasn’t looking for freedom. She was looking for consistency. For stability. For the kind of parent who’d get rid of the termites once and for all … not let them take over the house.”

  “That’s a good observation,” she said.

  “And after Mr. Striver died, a relative—a distant cousin or something—sold the house to an unknown buyer. It’s in a blind trust now. Whoever bought it hasn’t bothered to fix it up, either. You can hire an exterminator once a year, but the bugs come back.”

  “So it’s vacant?” For the longest time, Natalie hadn’t thought about Bella’s old house, which was located across town near the old railroad tracks.

  “Apparently. Like I said, a blind trust owns it. I don’t know what the owner plans on doing with the property. Maybe they’re gonna perform satanic rituals at midnight, who the hell knows? They paid a lot of money for it, too, so I hear. But there’s no evidence they want to flip it. They’re just letting it sit there.”

  Tucking this bit of information away, Natalie asked Max, “What do you remember about the night she disappeared?”

  He sighed and loosened his collar. “Oh God, I don’t know. Bella was this quiet, beautiful girl who spoke through her music, which was awesome. She was a sweet kid with a mischievous sense of humor. It was always a little weird to me that Nesbitt Rose, the Boo Radley of our neighborhood, had such a huge crush on her. Bobby used to call him pootard—remember? Cruel, but hey. Nesbitt scared people. He used to spy on us. Remember that? He’d skulk around town, terrifying everyone by carrying dead animals by their necks. At the time, I figured he must’ve done something to her that night.” He darkened. “That night sort of ruined my life.”

  She rested her hands in her lap. “How so?”

  “After Bella disappeared, I stopped practicing the piano. I figured that if something could happen to Bella, after all the hours she put in practicing, considering how hard she worked—you know? So I quit. I gave up on music. I shouldn’t have, but I was young and stupid. Eighteen. What did I know? I partied hardy in college. Majored in business. I wanted to become a millionaire by the time I was twenty-five. I thought it would be a cinch. Thought I was a genius. Wasted my time. Women liked me—I don’t know why. But I’ve never had any problems in that department. And so what did it all add up to, Natalie? I can’t even remember Moonlight sonata all the way through. You believe that?”

  Natalie frowned. “Max, what do you think happened to her?”

  “For real?” He wiped the sweat off his brow and leaned forward. “I never bought into the idea she went to California of her own accord. I think she would’ve told us if she was leaving that night. Challenged us. Dared us. Why keep it a secret? Also, Bella never would’ve left you hanging, Natalie. She loved you. You two were like sisters.”

  Natalie nodded, but she knew that sisters could keep awful secrets from each other. “I agree it doesn’t add up.”

  “Right after she disappeared, there were rumors going around that she got kidnapped by bikers. But you’re the detective, Natalie. What do you think happened?”

  She chewed on her lower lip and said, “Something’s definitely ‘off’ about these Polaroids. In the beginning, she’s smiling, but by the end, she looks devastated.”

  Max nodded eagerly. “Yeah, I noticed that, too.”

  “Those dead eyes. And the wall behind her,” Natalie went on, “looks the same in every picture, despite the fact that each of her letters were postmarked from a different locale … almost as if it’s the same white wall in each photograph.”

  “Yeah, you’re right,” Max said, studying the pictures on the coffee table. He landed his index finger on the first Polaroid. “Same white wall with the same crack in it.”

  “There’s a crack?” She leaned forward and studied the images.

  “Speaking as a contractor, over time, you can see the effect
s of gravity on the walls of a building. And it’s unique to each wall, almost like a fingerprint. The weight of the floors above it, plus people and furniture will produce a ‘turning effect,’ also called a ‘moment.’ If the moment is large enough, the wall will collapse. But if the moment is small, then the wall will resist collapsing. Right here, you can see tiny flaws and cracks in the wall, due to tension and compression forces.”

  “Is it the same wall?” she asked breathlessly.

  Max sat very still, studying the Polaroids. “It certainly looks that way.”

  Her phone rang, jarring them both.

  It was Hunter. “Natalie, I have something to show you.”

  35

  As soon as Natalie pulled into Hunter Rose’s driveway, lightning cracked and torrents of rain poured out of the night sky. Drop after drop became a blur, then a downpour. Raindrops joining raindrops—splashing and flying to earth, forming rivery bands of water that threaded and braided their way downhill, feeding the wildflowers, feeding the oak trees.

  She grabbed her umbrella from the backseat and hurried across the front yard, wind blowing in her face. She rang the doorbell, and when no one answered, she put her hands up to the glass and stared into the front hallway, where the shadows were tinged with shafts of muted light filtering in through the windows.

  The door was unlocked. She took a tentative step inside, the old hinges creaking. “Hunter? It’s Natalie.” She paused on the threshold. The house was dead quiet. She picked up a queasiness she couldn’t shake, and it burned in the pit of her stomach.

  Behind her, a male voice called out, “Hello?”

  She turned in the doorway and saw Hunter walking toward her through the rain. He held a big black umbrella and wore a long black trench coat, like a spy in a British drama. “Oh, there you are,” he said.

  “Sorry. Your door was unlocked.”

  “It’s this way.”

  “What’s this way?”

  “Something my security guard found. Follow me.”

  She stepped outside and closed the door behind her, and they headed for the meadow on the western side of the property, beyond the garage where Hunter stored his collection of vintage motorcycles. They crossed an overgrown field toward the woods and spotted a deer in the rain. They watched as it paused with its delicate nostrils sniffing at the wind. After a moment, the deer tensed and bounded into the woods, its tail flashing white.

  “What’s this all about? What did your security guard find?”

  “A person drove by my property tonight, while one of my security guards was doing his rounds. The driver slowed down and chucked a violin case onto the side of the road, then sped off.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “You just missed Assistant Chief Gossett,” Hunter told her while they walked. “He and a couple of officers have already assessed the scene. They talked to the security guard and took pictures of everything.”

  “Who’s got the violin?”

  “Gossett took it with him.”

  Natalie bit back her anger and asked, “Did your guard see the vehicle?”

  “It was too dark and foggy. He couldn’t make out the license plate, just a pair of taillights. He figured it was kittens.”

  “Kittens?”

  “Sometimes people drive by the property and toss a bag of kittens into the woods. As you know, there are lots of farms around here. Farms with rats. Cats eat the rats. All those farm cats get pregnant and have litters of kittens. Instead of drowning them, the farmers will dump them on my property. I do charity work for animal organizations, so they know I’ll take good care of them. But it pisses me off. People are lazy shits.”

  Natalie stopped walking. “Why did you lie to me, Hunter?”

  He folded his arms. “Lie?”

  “You were never going to give me those tapes. Why did you say you would?”

  He watched her with quiet intensity. “It was a misunderstanding between me and my attorneys. They didn’t communicate the information because, to be honest, I hate talking to lawyers. They’re so fucking boring. I didn’t realize you weren’t in the loop when we spoke yesterday. And by the way, Natalie—why aren’t you in the loop? Don’t they trust you?”

  She bristled a little. “No. They’re protecting your party guests, but in doing so, they’re slowing down the process and cramping my style.”

  “Well, if it’s any consolation, my attorneys are sharing everything that’s pertinent with the assistant chief. We’re not holding anything back. But I promise to keep you in the loop personally going forward.” He glanced around at the woods, then lowered his voice. “Some people will do anything to preserve their reputations. Part of the problem is that, well, Natalie … you’re too high profile right now, because of the Crow Killer case. You’re drawing too much attention to my wealthy, publicity-shy guests.”

  She rolled her eyes. “This case is drawing its own attention.”

  A dense forest of old-growth oaks, birches, and firs surrounded the property. The wind was gaining strength. He looked at her without smiling. “Do you remember Aesop’s fable about the rabbit and the hound?”

  “Is it the same thing as the tortoise and the hare?”

  “No, this is different. Would you like to hear it?”

  “Sure, why not,” she said sarcastically.

  “One day, the hound was out chasing a rabbit through the woods. After a while, he grew tired and gave up. He let the rabbit get away. But the blue jays were watching, and they mocked the hound mercilessly, laughing at him because the rabbit had outwitted him. But the hound replied, ‘That rabbit was running for its life. I was only running for my dinner. That’s the difference between us.’”

  “So who’s the rabbit?” she asked. “And who’s the hound?”

  “You’re the detective. You tell me.”

  “Am I supposed to be the fucking rabbit in this scenario?” she demanded to know, but he ignored her and took a weedy path into the woods.

  “It’s this way,” he said.

  She followed him along the path, where wet leafy branches swayed in the wind, spilling big drops of rain onto their umbrellas.

  “We know that Morgan went to your party with Russ Swinton,” Natalie said, ignoring his mind games. “I need to know who else she talked to at the party. Who she engaged with.”

  “Do you know what imposter syndrome is?” Hunter asked her.

  Again with the mind games.

  Natalie nodded. “It’s when a person doubts their own talent and accomplishments and believes they’ll be exposed as a fraud. It’s basic insecurity one-oh-one.”

  “The thing about powerful, wealthy men is … they aren’t any more confident than the next guy. They aren’t any less self-loathing. It’s true we have more options, but not when dealing with things that normally come up … a rich man’s toilet will back up, just the same as a workingman’s. A rich man will wait on the phone for customer service just as long as a workingman has to.”

  “Or else you could hire someone to wait for you,” she added.

  “True. But it’s still waiting.”

  “Why do you have this need to convince me you’re like everyone else, Hunter?” she asked. “Comparing yourself to the workingman?”

  He cracked a smile. “Because I can be paralyzed with fear and get night sweats just like anybody else. I can make mistakes and lose it all, if I’m not careful. It’s true, what they say. Money doesn’t solve everything.”

  “Okay, fine,” she said irritably. “We’ve established you’re an ordinary human being like Joe Schmoe down the block, only you happen to be hiding behind a team of high-priced lawyers. Got it.”

  He gazed at her with contempt. “I’m not hiding anything. I’m cooperating fully with the police.”

  “Oh, come on. You’re covering up for your rich buddies. Helping to preserve their reputations. You just admitted it.”

  “You think I’m that predictable?”

  She paused on the woodsy path.
“I have no idea what you are.”

  “Seriously?” He paused for a moment, and she recalled the summer they’d spent together, when Hunter was a cool college guy with his straight-leg jeans and his John Lennon glasses and his dog-eared copy of Nine Stories by J. D. Salinger.

  “Do you honestly think I lead a life of endless partying?” he said angrily. “A life of prestige and status-seeking? Oh, the sad struggles of the self-made millionaire. I’m not saying it’s a burden to have money. The perks are amazing. I wouldn’t trade it for anything.” He waved a dismissive hand. “But I haven’t exactly turned my house into party central. I think parties are for extroverts who want to show off or else reinforce the belief that they’re fuckable. It’s an ego thing.”

  “And yet every year, you throw one of the most anticipated parties in town,” she shot back.

  “Right. Because it’s good for business. I need to impress these people and keep them receptive to my business plans. I hate politics, but it turns out that I’m good at it. Look, I understand I’m only where I am now because I lucked out. I was born to wealth. My father was a real estate tycoon straight out of a Monopoly game, with the twirly mustache and evil monocle and everything. He bought lots of prime real estate when it was cheap, and I’m basically set for life. Every year, my parties have gotten wilder, because the unwritten rule is you have to outdo the last one. The goal is to have everybody talking about it the following day. They look forward to it every year. But to be honest with you, I’m bored to death with my guests. They’re shallow and uncurious, for the most part. The rest of the year, I lead a fairly quiet life. I read philosophy. I’m a snob. I collect paintings and rare antiques.”

  “So you’re a self-reflective rich guy,” she said. “Trapped in a web of his own making.”

  He smiled and looked away. “I don’t control any of this. The cream doesn’t rise to the top in this town—only yes-men rise to the top. It’s disgusting. So I deal with it.”

  “Is that how you rose to the top? By being a yes-man?”

  “No, I invented the best security software on the planet,” he said. “But I can’t afford a bunch of bureaucratic enemies. That’s a death by a thousand cuts. Yes-men. Suck-ups. Call them whatever you like.”