by Luanne Rice
“I can't believe it . . .”
“I know,” John said, his voice quiet and steady. “I'm sorry to tell you about it, to stir everything up. But I wanted you to know, in case you'd heard another body had been found in a breakwater, that it wasn't Willa.”
“You're really kind to call, John.”
Her words hung in the air; she could hear him breathing through the line.
“Not many people accuse me of kindness,” he said. “I'm a little surprised you would.”
“I can't understand why,” she said, a smile coming into her voice. “You showed your true colors in Fairhaven.”
“In what way?”
“You proved you have a big heart.”
“For a lawyer, you mean?”
“For anyone,” she said.
“I'm an only child,” John said. “But seeing you suffer over your sister made me think of Maggie and Teddy. I can't imagine either of them being without each other for any length of time.”
“It's hard,” she whispered, her eyes fixed on Willa's brushstrokes. “It's unbelievably hard.”
“Be brave, Kate. Maggie would tell you that herself. If you want the scarf, we'll send it back to you.”
“I want Maggie to keep it,” she said, staring at the picture, at the white scarf blowing in the wind. “Tell her to be careful . . .”
“I know. I have.”
“Because of what just happened, and because of everything,” Kate said, her mind swimming with the knowledge that shocking things happen every day; that you could walk home after work with an armful of tulips and find your world falling apart. That you could be too angry to say good-bye one day and never see your sister again.
“Good things happen, too, Kate,” John said. “Remember that.”
“You, too, John.”
“Next time we talk,” he said, letting out a laugh, “will you remind me of what they are?”
“I'll try,” Kate said, saying good-bye.
Sitting on her kitchen floor, she held tight to the phone. Her sister's dog lay in her lap; she heard the wall clock ticking and felt the heat beginning to come up through the vents. The house was warming up—or maybe it was just her heart beating so fast.
The white scarf in the picture shimmered across the room. Kate took it as a message.
The scarf was Maggie's now, connecting their two households. If John were still on the phone, she would tell him two good things: Maggie and Teddy. Brainer and Bonnie, too. Kate's sister Willa. And John himself. Six good things.
Her eyes filled with tears as she realized what a struggle it had been to come home without knowing what had happened. There was so much unfinished business. Was it true that Kate had never really forgiven her sister? She would never know, she now believed, until Willa was found. She had tried to make peace with her sister's mystery, told herself it was time to get back to her life.
But now that she was here, in Washington, it felt as if she was moving in the wrong direction. Her life—or, at least, her mind and her heart—were in Connecticut. The answers to Willa's disappearance were there, and so, Kate realized as she sat on the floor, holding the phone, were the people she cared about most.
Kate glanced at Bonnie and raised her eyebrows. She had the feeling the dog could read her mind.
“We have to do it, don't we, Bon?”
The Scottie wagged her tail.
Kate nodded, petting her back.
chapter 19
Billy Manning called to tell John he wanted to question Greg Merrill, to hear what he might have to say about Amanda Martin's murder. Although he obviously wasn't a suspect, he might have some insights into the crime; his cooperation would be noted for the record, and it might help at his next sentencing hearing.
John and Billy met at Winterham. The two men waited together in the prison conference room, while the guard joked with Billy about hanging out with the Merrill defense squad enemy, and Billy set him straight.
“Hey, John's all right,” the detective said. “We go back to high school together—we're teammates.”
“Huh,” the guard replied. “Looks like he's on the wrong team, now. Or at least a goddamn different one.”
“Watch it, buddy. O'Rourke's a good guy,” Billy said, as the guard left the room.
Waiting for Greg Merrill to be led in, Billy threw John a narrow glance. “Hear all that? You treat me right when Greg comes out, okay? Let me ask what I need to ask. Who covers you, buddy?”
“What makes you think I need covering?”
“Ahh, you're a white-shoe guy. You should've bucked your old man and joined the cops with me. We have the real fun—solving the crimes instead of undoing the investigations. Next thing, you'll be on the bench like your old man, wearing the black robes.”
“Just like you and your old man, Billy, wearing the badge.”
“Like father, like son. When's Teddy gonna join the family firm?”
John got quiet suddenly; Teddy hadn't said much lately. While Maggie danced around, begging to go home before Thanksgiving, Teddy had kept to himself, practicing soccer moves in the backyard after dark, doing push-ups in the upstairs hall. John felt the invisible wall between them, and he knew he had to do something to break it down.
Just then the door swung open, and two guards led Greg into the room. Shackled and cuffed, with a close-shorn prison haircut, his weight gain was particularly apparent today—his soft body stuffed into an orange jumpsuit one size too small. He gazed from John to Billy and back again. His time in jail had changed his looks completely; he had lost the appearance of the attractive, trustworthy young man who had lured all those young women into his van.
“Hello, Greg,” John said.
“What's he doing here?” Greg asked, staring at Billy. “Haven't I answered all their questions?”
“We meet again, Mr. Merrill,” Billy said, leaning back in his chair.
“What does he want, John?” Greg asked.
“He's here to question you,” John said.
“Tell me about Amanda Martin, Greg,” Billy said. “You must have heard the news that someone's walking in your footsteps.”
“I had nothing to do with it, as you must know. As for what I think of it—that's another story.”
“Direct him to answer my question, Counselor,” Billy said.
John was silent, waiting for Greg to speak. He caught Billy's impatient expression. Although old friends and former teammates, the guard had had it right before: John was on a different team now. John stared at his client, noticing the disturbance in his eyes, the way he stretched his neck like a turtle trying to escape his shell.
“You seem upset,” Billy said to Greg, leaning forward. “Want to tell me about that?”
“Why would I be upset? I didn't do anything.”
“Maybe you're jealous. That someone else can.”
“Hah,” Greg said, his face turning red. “I'm not jealous of him.”
“‘Him'? You say that like you know who did it.”
“I have no idea. None at all . . .”
Billy stared, as if he didn't believe him. Even John wasn't sure. He could tell that Greg was uneasy about something, eyes darting all around the small room as if he wished he could escape.
“Did you know Amanda Martin?” Billy asked. “Is there any reason to think of that her killer would have chosen the Point Heron breakwater? Was the time significant in any way you can think of?”
Greg leaned back, closing his eyes. Billy sat still, elbow cocked on the back of his chair. He looked casual, but his gaze was sharp as a hawk on the hunt. Silence expanded, and John found himself thinking of last night.
Kate's voice on the phone, when he'd told her about the latest victim . . . shocked, then bereft. John had lived around murder and its consequences for most of his life. He had tried so many cases, facing the victim's families in court, bringing out facts no parent or spouse or child or sister should ever have to hear; nothing had ever brought the devastation home to
him like Kate and her sister.
He had sat at his desk until late the night before—long after he'd called Kate. Papers spread out in front of him, he had spent time thinking about the new case. A breakwater, the stone structure at Point Heron; he stared at the photo in the late paper. A beautiful, lonely place of rock and water. Hard and soft, pain and peace.
Minutes passed, and Greg refused to speak. He just kept looking around the room. After a few minutes, John put his hands on the table and stopped the interview.
“Let me have a minute with my client,” he said.
“Jesus,” Billy said. “He's so proud of his whole Mensa thing—you'd think he'd want to help us catch this copycat guy . . .”
“You don't understand anything,” Greg said.
“No, I'm just a peon. Enlighten me.”
“You don't even have a basis for focusing on those questions: time, the breakwater. You're just asking them because you think you should—not from any intuition. . . .”
“Heh.” Billy laughed. “If I don't have intuition, I must not need it. I caught you.”
“I let you,” Merrill answered softly.
“You're the man, Greg,” Billy said. “You know it and I know it—that's why I'm here. Come on—tell me who this new guy is.”
“I'm presuming you don't mean his name. You want me to tell you who he is inside . . . what moves him.”
“Right. What makes him tick.”
“I'm not going to tell you anything. I'll talk only to my lawyer.”
“You heard him, Detective,” John said.
Greg just sat there, his lips getting thinner and thinner, till Billy left. John knew he'd call him later. Greg watched the door swing shut behind him, then looked up at John with fury in his eyes.
“Did he have one iota of comprehension of what he was doing?” Merrill asked.
“Detective Manning?”
“No! The person who did that—left that girl . . . I'll tell you straight out: no. No, he did not. It was a hateful act.”
“Killing Amanda?”
“Because it was meaningless to him. No doubt he lacks the understanding . . . the vision of what the breakwater symbolizes, what the rising tides mean. To him, a garbage dump would have sufficed.”
“He was copying you.”
Merrill exhaled impatiently, shaking his head. “That means nothing, because he doesn't get it. Dreams reveal everything, isn't that right?”
“I'm not a psychologist.”
“Try reading Freud's beautiful work about dreams, about the symbols and meanings and power. One flows into another, and no night is long enough to contain them all. Dreams are the wings, the sinews, the muscles, holding our minds together . . . and connecting mind, body, and spirit.”
John listened, knowing that his client was a madman. Greg Merrill's internal logic made perfect sense to him alone, but John needed to tap in and understand—even without Billy here—anything that might help him find out about other victims. About Willa . . .
“What do dreams have to do with Amanda Martin's death, Greg?”
“No one—as clever as he tried to be—can understand my dream of the breakwater, my vision of the sea. Freud, perhaps. Jung, almost certainly. But others? Not even the wisest, most gifted psychiatrist could truly comprehend. Not truly. Not with the clarity and compassion of real understanding.”
“No?”
“Certainly not the pretender, the poser, the other. Homage? Thank you anyway.”
“Tell me about Willa Harris.”
Greg looked up, surprised.
“Who?”
John stared at him. He had known his client for nearly six months, since right after the police caught him. And he would swear that Greg really didn't know. Reaching into his jacket pocket, John again removed Willa's picture and placed it on the table. Greg held it, looking closely.
“You've already shown me her picture. I told you, I don't know.”
“Are you sure?” John asked, his pulse thudding.
Greg nodded, a small smile touching his lips, a sad look filling his eyes. “I'm sure,” he said. “I wish I could help you, though. She must be very important to you, or you wouldn't keep asking me. Right?”
John didn't reply. He just took Willa's picture from Greg Merrill's hands and stared him down.
“Does it bother you at all? That another girl is missing? And another girl is dead? You're on your medication . . . is it working? Does this latest killing bother you?” John said, feeling out of control, his own blood pumping hard through his veins at Greg's coldness.
“John, are you all right?”
John's hands felt clammy. He had lost it—shouted at his own client, here in the interview room at Winterham. He was so sick of representing people without feelings or consciences.
Greg's smile widened slightly. “Of course it bothers me, John. How can you even ask that?”
“I don't know, Greg,” John said, his shoulders aching, feeling weary as he stood from the table.
“I need some stamps, John,” Greg said. “I've put in several requests, and they just won't—”
John didn't stay to listen. Suddenly he had a headache. His stomach was twisted in a knot. His children lived in this world, and Kate Harris's sister was still missing, and his client needed stamps. He had to see the sky, had to breathe some fresh air.
John O'Rourke was having an anxiety attack. Without saying good-bye to his client Greg Merrill or any of the guards, he walked steadily out of Winterham Prison without looking back.
The Judge knew something was up.
It was Tuesday afternoon, and John had come home early, dropped his briefcase at the door, and gone upstairs to lie down. Perhaps an hour had passed—long enough for him to get started on a good nap—when someone rang the doorbell. Answering, the Judge came face-to-face with a lovely young woman.
“May I help you?” he asked.
“Yes . . . I'm here to see John O'Rourke. I should have called, but I just got to town, and I was coming past the green and saw your street . . .”
“So you stopped by instead. How delightful of you,” the Judge said with admiration. She had fine skin with a light sprinkling of freckles across her nose, high cheekbones, and sensitive eyes the color of stone. They were beautiful eyes, and the longer he looked at them, the more he wanted to know the story behind them.
“Is John home?” she asked.
“It's a work day,” the Judge smiled. He was a poker player, never one to give something away.
“Yes, but I called his office. . . . They said he was out.”
“Hmm,” the Judge said, narrowing his eyes. It was moments like this that he wished Maeve were still able to handle the door. She used to turn people away before they even knew what hit them. But she was down in the basement, polishing silver for the Thanksgiving dinner, having a conversation with her sister and a few saints.
“Please?” the woman asked, smiling.
And then it hit the Judge: She was an applicant for the baby-sitting job! He hesitated, unsure of how he felt about this. Over the last few weeks, he had gotten very used to having the kids around. All three of them—Maggie, Teddy, and the biggest kid of all, his son John.
“Time marches on, doesn't it?” he asked the young woman.
“Excuse me?”
“For everything, there's a season. You're here for the job, right?”
“What job?”
“The baby-sitter position.”
A soft smile lit first her eyes, then her mouth. She looked amused and delighted, and she tilted her head. “It's still not filled?”
“Nope.”
“I got myself in quite a lot of trouble once before,” she said. “By not being completely forthright about it. So, no—I'm not here for the position. I'm just a . . . friend of John's.”
Although she had hesitated before saying “friend,” the Judge could see that she had searched for a word and that was the best she could come up with. He approved of her choic
e.
“I'll see if he's in. Who shall I say is calling?”
“Kate Harris,” she said.
“Ah,” he said, having to act as if he had no idea of who she was—when, of course, he had already guessed.
The Judge made his way up the stairs slowly, hoping that John had heard her voice and would come down on his own. But that didn't happen. The hallway was dark and silent. When the Judge got to John's room, he called through the closed door:
“John: You have a visitor.”
No reply. A soft knock, a louder knock.
“Kate Harris is here.”
Not a word.
“Perhaps you didn't hear me. KATE HARRIS.”
The Judge stood in the hallway, stymied. He hadn't walked into his son's bedroom when the door was closed since he was eight years old and in the middle of a temper tantrum having to do with a botched science project. He wasn't going to start up again now.
Brainer, inside the bedroom with his owner, whimpered softly, nose snuffing the space under the door. The Judge shook his head—John wasn't exactly setting the world on fire in the dating department, and the Judge thought Kate Harris would be a good person to start with.
But try to tell kids anything these days. Sometimes he felt like Maeve, lecturing her four sons Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John. They never listened, either.
“I'm sorry, Ms. Harris,” he said, hand on the banister as he descended the stairs. Reaching the vestibule, he gave her a half-smile. “My son is otherwise disposed.”
“Oh,” she said, sounding disappointed. “Will you tell him I was here?”
At the sound of her voice, Brainer—now that he had IDed her via acute canine sensory perception, let out a friendly bark from upstairs.
“Is that Brainer?” she asked.
“The very same.”
“Please give him my regards—and Bonnie's. Say hi to Maggie and Teddy, too. And Maeve. I have this note for Maggie . . .”
“Fine,” the Judge said, shaking her hand, accepting the note and placing it on the hall table, where Maggie would see it. “Where can I tell John to find you?”
“My home away from home,” she said. “The East Wind Inn.”
The Judge watched her walk down the steps to her car—obviously a rental; his legal mind was like a steel trap that had rusted only partially shut, and he kept a store of interesting facts, such as rental cars having lot stickers on the bumper and license plates beginning with the letters “CJ.”