The Silent Hour

by Michael Koryta

  She didn't answer.

  "Did you kill him—" I said.

  Now she turned, wounded. "Of course I didn't kill him. Joshua— I loved him so much. So very dearly."

  "Then what are you hiding from—"

  She stepped away from the well house and dropped down to sit in the grass, cross-legged. It was tall grass, rising well above her waist, but she settled into it comfortably and pushed her sleeves up on her forearms. She was wearing dark jeans and a gray fleece jacket, and there were simple silver bracelets on both wrists. She had to be near fifty now, but she looked like a college student settling down outside of a dormitory. If she weighed more than a hundred and ten pounds I would've been stunned, and her skin was weathered but still smooth, every thin wrinkle looking as if it belonged and added something that you'd miss otherwise.

  "Are you going to continue standing—" she said, looking up at me. "It makes me uncomfortable."

  So I sat in the grass with her, felt the moisture of day-old rain leave the ground and soak through my jeans, and watched the sun rise behind her as she told me the story.

  Alexandra's life was shaped very much by her father's, by the world of crime and violence that had surrounded her childhood. The money he'd left was something she'd viewed as an embarrassment at first and then decided to reinvest into the reentry program. Her vision for Whisper Ridge as a sort of work farm had not received the funding or support it needed. She decided to operate at a smaller level and use success to grow the operation in the future. It was at this point that she began to feel her husband's resistance.

  "Joshua was not a direct man in times of conflict," she said. "He wouldn't come out and tell me flatly that he didn't want to open our home to this, but I knew it was the case, and I pushed ahead anyhow. I thought he believed in the ideals, and that time would take care of the rest. It was a selfish thing to do, maybe. I've wondered about that a lot, and I think that it probably was, but at the time I could not imagine… I'm sure you know I could not imagine what would come."

  What came was an increasingly troubled marriage. Alexandra's version of events meshed well with John Dunbar's. She described Joshua as growing withdrawn and distrustful. Then Parker Harrison was hired, a move that exacerbated the problem at Whisper Ridge.

  "My relationship with Parker was very close," she told me. "I'd say that of all of them, of course, but not to the same level. Parker and I, we were similar spirits. I found his story truly tragic."

  "I believe the family of his victim would agree," I said.

  She stopped speaking and looked at me with a frown that was more sad than disapproving.

  "To say one is not to dismiss the other," she said. "Can you understand that—"

  "Can I hear the rest of the story—"

  "As I said, my relationship with Parker was special. We were so close. I think that fueled the resentment that was already in Joshua."

  "You say your relationship with Harrison was special. Was it also sexual—"

  "No, no, no. Absolutely not. Although during the first six months Parker was with us, Joshua's personality changed. I now understand this was when he was in contact with the FBI and being pressured to inform on my brother, but I didn't back then."

  "It wasn't the FBI," I said. "It was one retired agent with some bad ideas."

  "Nevertheless, my husband was withdrawing, and I finally began to understand just how much damage had been done. Then we began to discuss who would replace Parker, and Joshua told me that he wanted to do the interviews and make the offer, which was something I'd always handled in the past. I was confused by that but agreed, because I was so happy to see his enthusiasm returning. Then he decided on Salvatore Bertoli, who was very far from the profile we'd agreed upon at the start."

  "You didn't know Bertoli was associated with your brother—"

  "No. Salvatore didn't know who I was, either, because my name was Cantrell, and my brother and I were not close. We saw each other, but only rarely, and we did not discuss his… associates. All of that is in the past, though. My brother's crimes. He served two years, and when he got out his life changed. He kept no ties. Many who would've posed the greatest problems to him were in prison themselves, and the others accepted his desire to step away. My brother has not been involved with a crime in fifteen years."

  "There are police who would dispute that," I said. "I've met some of them."

  Her arms unfolded and she leaned forward. "What proof did they show— What evidence— What did they tell you that was current, not historic—"

  "Nothing," I said, and then, as the satisfaction crossed her face, "but some of those historic events included murder. There are people who feel those things are unresolved."

  The satisfaction disappeared, and she dropped her eyes again. "I'm sure that's true. All I can tell you is that he's not been involved in anything criminal in years, that he's led a life that benefits others. He's a businessman now, a generous one. You should see the charities—"

  "All due respect," I said, "I'm not here to evaluate your brother's tithing history. I'm glad you don't think he's killed anyone lately. I'd agree that's progress, but it's not what I'm interested in."

  I expected that would get a rise, some defensiveness, but instead she just considered me calmly. It was a gaze that made me uncomfortable, as if I fit neatly into a mold she'd been studying her whole life and understood well. When she began to speak again it was without rancor, leaving the subject of her brother behind.

  "I was losing trust in my husband and had none in Salvatore. I felt bad things coming into my home, and so I asked Parker to stay. I trusted him. That's the decision that put Joshua over the edge. I didn't see it at the time, of course, but apparently he'd had misgivings and was being bullied along by that FBI agent, Dunbar. When I said I wanted Parker to stay, though, it incensed him, and he decided to go ahead with it. The house became a very ugly place for a while, a distrustful, silent place."

  "I've talked to Dunbar," I said, "and he said he conceived the whole thing because he is certain that Bertoli witnessed your brother killing a man named Johnny DiPietro."

  "That's not true."

  "According to your brother."

  "No. According to Salvatore."

  "What—"

  "He told Parker," she said, "that he understood what Joshua was trying to do and that whoever had put him up to it was absolutely wrong, didn't understand who they should be after, but that it was someone who wouldn't hesitate to kill my husband."

  "It seems logical that he'd say that."

  "Perhaps, but Parker believed him, and Salvatore moved out."

  "At which point Harrison reported all of this to you," I said. "I'm supposed to believe you never chose to confront your husband about it—"

  "I did confront him," she said, "and we had a royal battle, a screaming raging fight, and it saved our marriage. It would have saved our marriage."

  Her voice faded, tears rose in her eyes, and she dabbed them away gently without shame. She looked hauntingly beautiful in that moment.

  "That night was when the silence broke," she said, "and everything that had been held secret was shared. He told me what he'd thought and what he'd done, and I told him how his silence had damaged us, and that night we made love like people in love for the first time in years—and we decided we were going to leave."

  "For good—"

  She shook her head. "No. For a few months, maybe a year. Joshua had been talking about it for a long time, urging for a trip overseas, and at the time I'd refused because I thought it would set us back in what we were doing here. That night, I agreed to it, because I thought that we had to get away to find a shared life again, so we could come back. Otherwise we were going to lose each other. Maybe we would have anyhow, but I like to think differently."

  She stopped talking then, and her mouth became a hard line. For a moment I thought she was angry, but then I realized the tears were gaining on her again and she was determined not to be overrun.

>   "Joshua also thought we had to leave for safety. After what Parker told us, he thought we could be in danger."

  "So you planned to leave," I said, "but you never made it. Your husband never made it, at least."

  She nodded. "We made calls about arrangements for the house, for the mail, all those things you need to do before going abroad. The last time I saw him, I was heading out to talk to a travel agent and asked if he wanted to come, too. He said he had things to do around the house and I should go alone. I was gone for maybe three hours. When I came back here, I found my husband's body."

  She was staring at the well house as if something were crawling out of it.

  "He was outside. Just in front of the door. He'd been shot, and there was blood all over the stone, and when I saw his body I was sure that my brother had killed him."

  "How did you know—"

  "Dominic gave Joshua a present when we got married. It was a ring, this horrible ring with an enormous stone that surely cost a fortune but could not have been less like my husband. He was not a man who wore rings. My brother, at that time, was. He was loud and flashy and wore expensive jewelry and to him the gift meant something. Joshua hated it, though, and the only time he ever wore it was when my brother was around."

  She folded her arms across her chest again, even though the wind wasn't blowing and the sun was warm on us through the bare trees, and said, "The ring was lying on his chest. Right there in the blood. It had been dropped in the blood and I understood what it meant. The ring had been a symbol to my brother, a welcome into our family, and Joshua had betrayed that welcome. So my brother killed him, and even as he lied to me about it, he left that ring as a message."

  "He was murdered here," I said, "and his body was left at the door."

  She nodded.

  "Then could you explain how he ended up in the woods in Pennsylvania—"

  She looked at me and then away, twisted her torso as if stretching her back, and spoke with her face turned from mine. "I took him there and I buried him."

  "I'm glad you lied about that," I said. "Because it tells me how bad a liar you are, Alexandra, and that's going to help me believe the rest of what you've said."

  She unfolded the stretch slowly, let her face come back around.

  "Parker Harrison buried him," I said. "Now tell me why."

  "To help me," she said. "To save me. He'd been gone that afternoon, and when he drove back in, with the truck all loaded up with mulch, he found me sitting there beside Joshua."

  "Why didn't you call the police—"

  "The police wouldn't bring him back, but they would ask me to stay here and face the investigation and the trial, to prosecute my brother, to deal with the media. All of that would happen if I stayed, and so much more. There were people like Parker, and like Nimir Farah and Mark Ruzity, and I knew the publicity would find them, and I thought that would be a terrible thing. I saw no good coming from it at all, and so much harm."

  "What about justice for your husband—" I said. "That meant nothing—"

  "Of course it did. My response was one of shock, I'll admit that. The idea of having to bear what would come… I decided I couldn't do it. That may seem like cowardice to you, and you may be right. I'll let you make that judgment."

  "Mark Ruzity was seen with your brother after you disappeared, after Joshua was killed," I said. "And Parker Harrison called him. Why—"

  "I asked Parker to pass along a message to my brother, to tell him that I was leaving, would never speak to him again, and that he should never look for me."

  "What about Ruzity—"

  She frowned. "Mark is such a good soul, but he struggles with his anger. He really does. He and Parker were close, and I told Parker that he could tell Mark only that I was leaving because of my brother's actions. I didn't trust his reaction to the details. Even so, I suspect Mark might have… given a more direct message to Dominic."

  “I’m sorry—”

  She looked up. "I suspect he threatened to kill him if he pursued me."

  I thought of the chisel against my forehead, and then I thought of the photograph Dunbar had taken, the way Ruzity had clasped his hand around Sanabria's neck, pulled him close, and whispered in his ear. There weren't many people who would threaten to kill a mob boss, but Mark Ruzity seemed like he could be one of them easily enough.

  "Harrison took the body," I said, "and you took off." "Yes."

  I shook my head, wondering now more than ever why he had decided to darken my door. He knew what had happened. What in the hell had he really wanted—

  "Did he know where you went—" I asked. "Did you have any contact with him—"

  "No."

  So maybe he'd just wanted to find her. Maybe he'd been honest about that much.

  "I had no contact with Parker," she said, "until this May. Until the day before Ken was murdered. That day, I called Parker to tell him not to trust you."

  "What—"

  "I told him that I was safe and well and that I knew he was looking for me but it would be dangerous for him to have any association with police and detectives. He'd buried my husband's body. It was easy to imagine he could be blamed. I said if anything happened, all he needed to do was ask me, and I'd come forward."

  The day before Ken was murdered. That was the same day Harrison had told me to quit, but then he'd asked that final question, asked who Ken really was.

  "Why didn't you explain Ken to him—" I said.

  "Ken was the only person who knew how to find me, and had known for years. Couldn't the police have charged him with something for that— I wanted to keep him out of anything negative."

  "Out of anything negative," I echoed. "He's dead. Your decision to leave your husband's murder unanswered is understandable, maybe even acceptable. This isn't."

  "I agree."

  "Yet you haven't contacted the police, haven't taken any action."

  "I didn't know what action to take. I've been gone for twelve years. I have a new life, in a new place. I don't want to destroy that in the way my old life was destroyed."

  "But you're the only person who knows anything."

  "Here's all I know: that on the morning before he died Ken Merriman left me a message—"

  "That's another lie. He didn't leave you a message, Alexandra. All the phone records were checked and rechecked."

  "He didn't use his own phone, or mine. He understood my reluctance to give that out, and so years earlier he created an account with a phone message service, some anonymous thing, and he used pay phones and a calling card, just as I did. It was the only way we were in touch. Never in actual conversation, always through an exchange of messages. Now would you like to hear what he said that last day—"

  "Yes."

  "He said that he believed the two of you were getting close to the truth of my husband's murder, and that it had nothing to do with my brother, and more to do with a car."

  * * *

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  “A car—" I stared at her, and I couldn't speak. A car. What car—

  "You don't know what that means—" she said.

  "No. I don't know, because he cut me out of it, went off alone on whatever theory he had and got himself killed."

  "He cut you out of it because he was waiting for my permission to tell you the truth. To give full disclosure. He thought you could be trusted."

  "Would you have given it to him—"

  She was quiet for a while before saying, "I don't know. I suppose so. I've told you the truth now."

  "Only because I found you." As I said it I realized Ken had told me how to find her. That constant insistence that she would return to the house if it were sold, that she'd have to see it one last time. Let me tell you, he'd said, the way he started so many sentences, if she's alive, she'll come back for one more visit before the place is sold.

  "You told him you'd come back here," I said. "When you found out your in-laws were making a claim on the property, you told him you'd come back
before it was sold."

  "Yes."

  He'd led me to her. Brought me here.

  "He'd known for years," I said, "and kept the secret. Why—"

  "All I told him was what I've told you, only with far less composure. It was my first trip back to the house, and I was already a wreck when he found me. Then that sense of being caught… he calmed me down, and he listened to me, and I told him the same story, only without some of the information I have now."

  "You told him all of this and then asked him to just go on and pretend he had no idea where you were."

  She nodded. "You disapprove, and I'm not surprised. Most people would share your opinion, I'm sure. Ken Merriman was not one of them. He understood when I told him that everything had been taken from me. There were two great loves in my life—my husband and my mission here. They were destroyed. Do you think the state would have continued to work with me— I'd gotten a man killed rather than rehabilitated. My work was destroyed, my husband dead, my brother responsible. I ran from it. I ran, okay— It was wrong, maybe, and weak, certainly, but it is what I did."

  I didn't respond.

  "I begged Ken Merriman to let me leave, and he did," she said. "He did."

  This would have been after the newspaper articles and the public complaints of Joshua Cantrell's parents. After immense damage to Ken's reputation and to his career. He could have played the ultimate trump card by producing Alexandra, silenced every critic and bought himself some amount of fame. It was a hell of a story, a hell of a mystery, and he could have brought it to light. Instead he chose silence, went back to that career of infidelity cases and insurance work, of financial problems and low respect. I thought of the time he'd told me that his wife was right to leave him, what he'd said about making a decision that seemed absolutely right at the time, then seeing the way it affected your family and wondering if it was a selfish choice.

  "Do you appreciate the losses he took for you—" I said. "What he gave up—"

  "Of course I do. He damaged his own life to protect mine."