The Secret Hour

by Luanne Rice

  Now, a day later, staring at Maggie's letter in his out box, he was no further away from thinking about Kate's lips on his.

  “Good afternoon, Counselor,” came the gruff voice from the door to his office.

  “Hey, Dad,” John said, rising to shake his father's hand. “Come on in. What brings you downtown?”

  “Had to stop by the pharmacy, get some medicine for Mae—my—bunions. Hurting like hell, they are.”

  “Come on, Dad,” John said, grinning. “You're shopping for Maeve. I know, so quit trying to hide it. What's going on between you two, anyway? You can tell me.”

  “Mind your own business, you whippersnapper,” his father said, trying to look stern but unable to keep from smiling.

  “Okay, have it your way.”

  His father nodded, glad that was settled. “I went to the courthouse, but there's nothing going on today. Time was, not a day went by without some lawyer or another arguing a case. First me and my colleagues, later, others coming before me to be heard . . .”

  “Those were the days, right, Dad?”

  “Right, John. What about you? You still hung up with Merrill?”

  “I wouldn't say ‘hung up.' We're making progress.”

  “How do your partners feel? Their star defense man tying up all his time on such thankless work?”

  “In all honesty, they're divided,” John said. Gesturing for his father to sit down in the Windsor armchair—bearing the seal of Georgetown in gold across the back—John leaned back in his desk chair. “Pretty much right down party lines. Those who oppose capital punishment are supportive, those who don't are getting impatient.”

  His father chuckled. “I can imagine. You're a young buck, well known in the community, supposed to be bringing honor on the firm. Instead, you're pissing off the whole state, trying to save a man no one wants to see saved.”

  “I know.”

  “They're judging him for his crimes, missing the main point: He's still a human being. He has the right to the best defense possible under law.”

  “Try to get the brick throwers to see it that way.”

  “I know, I know. It's unfortunate you had to hang your hat on such a loathsome example. People round here all know someone who knows someone who knew one of those girls . . .”

  John nodded, thinking of Kate. He thought of kissing her, and then he thought of what he'd told her. He felt himself redden, and his father caught him at it. Now he had the old man's attention. His father stared, peering, waiting for John to speak.

  “I did something . . . questionable,” John said.

  “Yeah?”

  John nodded slowly. Standing up, he walked across his office and gently closed the door tight. “I'm glad you're here, Dad. I've needed to talk to you about something. Something important.”

  His father tilted his head, just waiting.

  John took a deep breath. His gaze took in all his diplomas and certificates, his gallery of family photos—from his parents' wedding picture to his and Theresa's, to Teddy's first-grade photo, Maggie with her first tennis racket, both kids on their bikes at Paradise Ice Cream . . .

  “I breached lawyer-client confidentiality,” John said.

  His father's eyes widened with surprise. The Judge puffed out his cheeks, nodded gravely, said, “Go on.”

  “It wasn't someone from court, no one previously connected with the case . . .”

  “Merrill's case?”

  “Yes.”

  John gazed into his father's eyes, needing guidance, fearing disapproval. It was worth it to him to swallow his pride, get this off his chest and hear what his dad had to say. Another man might ask whether the indiscretion might come back to haunt him, but not John's father. The issue of true—inner, spiritual, moral—culpability was much greater to the Judge than the possibility of being caught and punished—as it was to John himself. Still, he found himself answering as if his dad had asked the question.

  “I don't think she'll tell . . . something makes me believe she'll shield me.”

  “A woman?”

  John nodded. “The sister of a woman who's missing. Been missing for six months . . .”

  “A long time,” his father said with sorrow in his voice. “A very long time to be wondering.”

  “Yeah,” John said. “That's what I thought.”

  “So, what'd you do?”

  “We met,” John said. “In Fairhaven, Massachusetts—by accident. A huge coincidence. She had given me a tip that made me ask Greg Merrill about a place he'd been that wasn't in the record—a story he'd never publicly told. I went there to check it out . . .”

  “And so did she.”

  “Right. Her sister had been there, too, around the same time, it seems.” John closed his eyes and saw the girl's window, the candle-lit procession, and Kate's river eyes. He felt the kiss again—he couldn't help it. The feeling filled him, making him wish she was here right now, that he could do it again. He physically flinched, and he knew his father had seen. “I had to tell her,” he said. “I couldn't let her go on wondering.”

  “You did the humanitarian thing,” his father said.

  “Really? You think so?”

  “Yes, but you're not off the hook. The larger humanitarian act is always to represent your client—adequately. No, better than adequately. To the best of your ability. Without even the suggestion of impropriety.”

  “What I did was improper.” A statement, not a question.

  “Absolutely.”

  “What do I do, Dad?”

  His father stroked his chin, pondering the question. “Don't know.”

  “Did you ever talk to Mom about cases?” John heard himself ask.

  His father started, as if shocked. “Yes, of course I did. Spousal privilege supercedes all others in my book. Did you ever talk to Theresa about them?”

  John's shoulders tensed slightly, and he forced himself to keep his face neutral. His marriage was something he never talked about—couldn't bear to discuss since her death—even with his dad. The pain never went away—and neither did the shame. “Not really,” he said.

  “Then why the question? Is this woman someone you confide in regularly?”

  “No,” John answered, staring at Maggie's letter.

  “Who is she?”

  “No one, Dad,” John said, his heart racing as he stared at Kate's name, remembered how she'd felt in his arms. “She's no one important. What do I do?”

  “Well, you never repeat the behavior, for starters.”

  “I won't. I already know I won't.”

  “Good. You check your motives—which, from what you told me, were good. You consider turning yourself in to the Bar Association, throwing yourself on the mercy of their Grievance Committee.”

  “Of which I'm a member,” John said, feeling disgusted with himself.

  “Yes.”

  “After due consideration, much soul-searching, you weigh your options and decide against ruining your career. You—and this is the critical factor—decide against leaving Maggie and Teddy without the financial means to go to college and law school. You then give yourself a swift kick in the ass, call yourself terrible names, and vow never to do it again.”

  “Thanks, Dad,” John said, feeling a weight lift from his shoulders, a grin spread across his face.

  “This woman's sister—Merrill killed her?”

  “I don't know.”

  “How're you going to find out?”

  “I'm working on that.”

  “You'd better cover other bases as well. The missing woman's sister—she got a husband? A lover? A brother?”

  “At least two out of three,” John said, thinking of Kate's ex-husband and her brother. He hoped there wasn't a lover.

  “Check 'em out. Run police checks on them—call Billy Manning. Where did the missing woman live?”

  “Not around here,” John said. “She was from down south, in New England on a visit.”

  “Where'd she stay?”

&n
bsp; “Some inn in Newport; the East Wind locally.”

  “I'm sure Felicity took good care of her. No trouble there . . .”

  John kept his gaze steady, noting he made no mention of Barkley. It hung between them, the fact his father knew that John's wife had had an affair with one of his best friends.

  “Get Billy on it.”

  “I think Greg Merrill took her, Dad. Pretty sure, anyway. The time and place work with both parties, and she fits his profile.”

  “He's only admitted publicly to killing the seven women he's been convicted of,” the Judge said.

  “Right,” John said.

  “A lot of us judges figure that's just the tip of the iceberg,” his father said. “You don't have to say—I wouldn't want you to. But a predator like that . . .”

  John nodded. He had wondered himself. Greg had only admitted to killing seven; he'd been caught because those women had had families, husbands, people who cared about them. What about the women who had no one? Prostitutes, runaways . . . even Willa Harris had fallen through the cracks because she'd been semiestranged from her sister at the time of her disappearance.

  “Don't tell me—I'm not asking you to divulge anything. Just questions to ponder. How about his signature? She fit that too?”

  Every serial killer had a private, personal stamped signature, and John had told no one—not even his father—of Merrill's. “Her body's never been found,” he said. “So I don't know.”

  “God,” his father said, shaking his head again. “I hope she turns up. It's hell on the families to not know. To have to imagine the terrible things that might have happened. To not have a grave to visit.”

  Again John pictured the procession of Portuguese fishermen and their families, carrying candles, singing hymns in the dark cold night, honoring their dead in the little neighborhood graveyard. The scene had been harrowing, yet somehow beautiful.

  It had led John to kiss Kate.

  And here it came again, starting up: the thoughts, the feelings, the longing. Sitting in his own office, his father right across the wide desk, speaking of professional infractions and killers' signatures, all John could think of was Kate Harris. Of where she was right now, how she had felt in his arms.

  John hoped she didn't have a lover. He wished he could take her pain away, all of it. He knew what she must have gone through with her husband. He wished he could wipe all that away, and he wished he could spare her the grief of knowing/not knowing what had happened to her sister. Of what Merrill had probably done to Willa. Of everything, John most wished he could spare Kate that.

  chapter 15

  That night, John had scheduled a telephone meeting at home—or, to be more precise, at his father's house. He hadn't spent enough time with Maggie and Teddy lately, and although he had to consult with Dr. Beckwith, he wasn't going to work late another night at the office.

  The irony was, he was the only one there. Teddy had some after-school sports stuff going on, Maggie had left a message she'd gone for a bike ride, and—John was amused to read the note—his father had taken Maeve out for a night off from cooking, to the Clam Shanty for some chowder.

  John decided to make beef stew. This—along with chili—was his specialty. He had learned the recipe from a soccer teammate in college, and the recipe called for lots of beef, very few vegetables, and beer. When he made it for the kids, he cut the beer in half. They loved it.

  As it got darker, he began to—not quite worry, but feel concerned. The sun was still up, but it was that thin November light that made his mind jump around. Where could Maggie and Teddy be? Standing at the kitchen window, he kept glancing up the street. Here came a car—no, a truck—slowing down, turning into the driveway. Teddy got out, and as John craned his neck to see the driver, he recognized Hunt Jenkins, the soccer coach.

  The side door slammed, Teddy dropped his book bag on the floor, and he came into the kitchen.

  “Dad!” he said, sounding happily surprised to see his father so early.

  “Hi, Ted.”

  “What're you doing home? It's not even dinnertime yet!”

  “Notice who's cooking dinner?”

  “Yeah! Beef stew?”

  “Yep.”

  “Where's Maggie?”

  “She left a note about taking a bike ride,” John said. He wasn't worried, but he'd definitely started to feel concerned. Teddy's question made him look out the window, but then he decided he was being paranoid. “You got a ride home from Mr. Jenkins?”

  Teddy nodded, opening the refrigerator. He reached inside, pulled out the milk bottle, untwisted the lid, started to lift it to his lips, locked eyes with his father and thought better of it. Filling a glass, he said, “I was at the gym, signing up for an indoor winter league. Mr. Jenkins is running it with the Riverdale coach, Mr. Phelan, and their friend, Mr. Davis. It was late, and he was driving this way, so he gave me a ride.” Glass halfway to his mouth, he looked over. “Is it okay I signed up?”

  “Sure,” John said. “It's a good thing.”

  “Maybe I'll get good enough to win a soccer scholarship.”

  “That would be great.”

  “Mr. Jenkins says I'm on track. He wants me to start working out with weights, though. To build myself up.”

  “Yeah?” John asked, stirring the stew.

  Teddy nodded, downing his milk. “He said he'd train me himself. He has weights and stuff at this gym he belongs to. Mr. Phelan and Mr. Davis go there, too. I guess it's a gym for jocks.”

  “What's wrong with the school gym?”

  “Nothing. It's okay. I just thought, maybe working out with them would help me with the scholarship . . .”

  John jabbed a cube of beef with a fork, testing it. His stomach tightened, drawing all the way into his backbone. Didn't two grown men have anything better to do than training a high school boy with weights?

  “Know what I mean, Dad?” Teddy asked. “I don't think it costs that much, but I could ask.”

  The stew bubbled on the heat; the meat was done. John let out a long exhalation. His work was getting to him. Too much time spent with guys like Merrill, with doctors like Beckwith trying to explain the ins and outs of aberrant minds. If Teddy's soccer coach wanted to teach him to lift weights, how screwed up was John to assume there was some bizarre motive behind it?

  “Sure, Ted. Go for it. Just don't turn into the Rock, okay?”

  “Don't worry, Dad—I won't go steroid on you.”

  They both laughed. The phone rang; when John saw Sally Carroll's name on the caller ID, he hesitated before answering. It was probably Bert, calling for Teddy. But since he was closer, he picked up.

  “Hello?”

  “Johnny, it's Sally . . .”

  “Hey, Sal. How's it going?”

  “Delightful. Just fabulous. Lost out on a house sale—the buyer bought in Black Hall instead. I said to myself, ‘Sally, you need a drink, and you need a very old dear friend to have it with.' My new boyfriend seems to have dropped off the face of the earth for the night. Naturally, I thought of you.”

  “Sorry, Sally. I'm fixing dinner for the kids, and then I have a phone conference. Maybe another time.”

  “Well, okay,” she grumbled. “You know, I almost didn't find you . . . I knew you'd been staying at your father's, because Teddy told Bert. But I just saw Maggie riding her bike up your driveway—”

  “Our driveway? You mean at home?” John asked, walking back to the window, looking outside.

  “Yes. She might have been cutting through from the Nature Sanctuary, or the lighthouse road. I'm not sure. But I thought you might like to know. It's getting dark, and I don't like to see her on her bike at this hour. . . . I know Theresa would want me to tell you . . .”

  “Thanks, Sal,” John said. Hanging up the receiver, he returned to the window. Long shadows fell across the street and yard. The streetlights flickered on, shuddering like candle flames, then shining steady and bright. The hour of dusk had come, and Maggie wasn't home, and h
is heart began to pound.

  John leaned his forehead against the cold pane. He stared down the street, in the direction she'd be riding from. Almost unconsciously, he reached for his car keys. He had a sick feeling in his stomach, and his hand was on the kitchen door when he heard her wheels crunching on the gravel outside.

  “I'm home,” she called, coming in the front.

  Teddy looked up, smiling, as she walked into the room. John leaned against the door, glad she couldn't see his heart pounding against his ribs.

  “Hi, Dad,” she said, her cheeks and nose bright red, running across the room to give him a hug.

  “Hi, Mags.”

  At his tone—which he couldn't control; even to his own ears it sounded cold and angry—she looked, up frowning. She stuck her hands into her pockets.

  “What's the matter?” she asked.

  “Were you just at our house?” he asked.

  Her jaw dropped open, and he could see in her eyes the shock of being found out by her father.

  “You were, weren't you?”

  She nodded, gazing at him. “Not exactly our house,” she said. “But the dirt roads in the Nature Sanctuary—”

  “Maggie,” he exploded. “What did I tell you? Did you cross Lambert Road on your bike?”

  “Yes, Dad, but—”

  “There's no but about it! A truck could kill you, crossing that road—you know how fast they drive there? And it goes straight under I--95 . . .” He bit his tongue, turning away from her.

  The interstate was a corridor for all sorts of criminals. Drug dealers up from Florida, corporate smugglers transporting goods in eighteen-wheelers, pedophiles trolling for unsuspecting kids . . . Client after client had named I-95 in their stories; the highway itself might as well have been an accomplice, an accessory before and after the fact.

  “I'm sorry, Dad!”

  “Sorry isn't good enough, Maggie,” he said. “You're grounded.”

  “Daddy!”

  “Hey, Dad—she didn't mean anything,” Teddy interjected. “We both miss the house, the beach . . . I've gone back there a few times, too.”

  “You want to be grounded, too?” John asked. “Keep it up.” His head ached. The kids were being pulled—another compulsion, this one not too mysterious—to their home. The employment agency hadn't called, so John had gotten complacent about not having a baby-sitter. It was so much easier, safer, to stay here with his father and Maeve—a built-in family. He thought of Theresa and felt twin waves of rage and grief wash over him.