The Silent Hour

by Michael Koryta

  While all of this was the focus for me, the police and prosecutors were more interested in what Darius had to say about his nephew's associates. Cash was dead—his network was not. Mike London told me that he was hearing Darius might get a hell of a deal if he rolled on enough people.

  I didn't know how to feel about that.

  Joe was around often, but he wasn't himself. Anytime he spoke, it tended to be to make a joke, things like suggesting he and I be the stars of a TV commercial for MetroHealth's trauma unit. It was a forced sort of good humor, and while I knew he was worried about my condition, I also sensed something else in the quiet that filled in the spaces between jokes. He was angry.

  It wasn't until the day before my release that he was in the hospital room alone with me. Always before Amy had been around, or my sister, or a cop or a nurse. That afternoon, though, Amy had left for a few hours, my sister was on a plane for Seattle, and the cops and nurses had other concerns. Joe sat in the chair under the window. We talked for a few minutes before he lost that false comedic air.

  "This is how you like it, right—" He waved at the bed, at the monitors around me.

  I smiled. "Sure. My bed at home doesn't have any of this stuff."

  He wasn't smiling. "You're okay lying in that bed with me in the chair next to it. That's all right with you."

  "What do you mean—"

  "Exactly what I said—it's fine with you if you're in the bed and I'm on my feet. Just like you were okay going to see Alvin Neloms alone, nobody aware of what you were doing, because I wasn't there, Amy wasn't there, nobody you care about was there."

  "What are you talking about, Joe—"

  "You think that if there's nobody around you, then there's nothing for you to fear. If nobody gets hurt but you, then who cares, right— You can deal with that. You can't deal with the other."

  "I have dealt with the other."

  "Not too well," he said. "Not too well."

  I twisted my head on the pillow, turned away from his gaze.

  "You sent me home," he said, "and then went back over there alone. Why—"

  I didn't answer.

  "We could have talked to Darius," he said. "It's what we'd gone over there to do. Then you backed off, said it was a bad idea, that we should pass it to Graham. Told me that, went home and said the same thing to Amy, and then loaded your guns and went back alone, without a word to anyone. I'd like you to explain why you did that."

  I reached up and rubbed between my eyes, sucked in a gasp of pain at the movement. It still caught me off guard. I'd spent six days lying here with nothing to think about but the damage the bullets had left behind, and still the pain caught me off guard.

  "I guess you're not going to explain why you did it," Joe said. "So I'll go ahead and explain for you. You went down there alone because you're afraid for everybody around you, and not yourself. It's so much easier to isolate yourself, right— Nobody to worry about then. Well, there are a handful of people—poor misguided souls like Amy, like me—who would tell you that's a pretty damn selfish idea."

  "You've got a hell of a bedside manner. Should have been a doctor, maybe a chaplain."

  "I'm not worried about my bedside manner," he said. "You're fine. Took two bullets. I've taken two of them myself. So if you expect me to sit here and sponge off your forehead, forget it. You'll get better. You're getting better."

  I turned back to him. "What do you want me to say, Joe— Apologize for not bringing you along to get shot again—"

  "I don't want you to say anything. I want you to understand something."

  "What's that—"

  "What you're doing to yourself, LP."

  "I don't know what that means."

  "Let me ask you this. Why'd you decide to quit the job back in the summer—"

  "I told you—I was tired."

  "Tired of what—"

  "Everything."

  "No. You gave me the phrase, said it right to my face—collateral damage. Ken Merriman got killed, and it was too much. After what had happened to Amy, what had happened to me, it was too much. I understood that. Amy understood that. So we supported you, didn't question it, let you quit. I didn't think it was the right thing for you to do, but I—"

  "You had already quit, Joe. Don't remember that—"

  "I'm also sixty-two years old! I did thirty years as a cop; you did five. Don't see any differences there—"

  Neither of us said anything for a few seconds. When he spoke again, his voice was softer.

  "I didn't think it was the right thing, but I didn't argue because I don't know that there are many things more deeply wrong than one person telling another how to live. So I let you quit. Now, a few months later, you're in here because you couldn't quit."

  "Should be a little easier to make it stick now."

  Now it was his turn not to answer.

  "You remember the way Dunbar looked when we went out there and showed him the Neloms connection—" I said. "You remember how he went into his bedroom and found his files, Joe— In his bedroom— A man who has been retired for years— He was obsessed. And wrong."

  "And a different man than you."

  "Yeah— I don't know about that. Don't know how different he is from you, either, if you hadn't forced yourself to disappear, forced yourself to quit this work. He's what waits at the end of the tunnel."

  "Something you need to understand, Lincoln— There are a lot of tunnels, and you do your own digging."

  Neither of us spoke after that. He stayed in the chair until a nurse came in and gave him an excuse to leave.

  * * *

  Chapter Forty-five

  We didn't have another conversation like that. The next time I saw him, there were other people around and he was back to his forced cheerfulness. I'd never seen him so funny, in fact. He seemed like he should have his own late-night show.

  I stayed at Amy's apartment after I was released. The stairs were easier to negotiate there, and her place was more open, had better daylight. That sort of thing matters to you when you spend most of the day sitting around.

  I was coming back fast. That's what the doctors and the physical therapists told me. Coming back faster than I had any excuse to, in fact, largely because I'd been in outstanding shape at the time I'd taken the bullets. All those obsessive workouts were worth something, then. Good to know.

  Amy and I talked about the shooting often, but always in a journalistic fashion—how strong the case against Darius was, what the potential legal ramifications for me might be, things like that. At first I wondered if she was keeping that sort of distance for my sake, and eventually I realized it was for hers. In the silence that grew after one of our conversations, I told her that I was sorry.

  "You're sorry—" she said. "For what— Getting shot—"

  "For putting you through all of this."

  She gave a sad smile. "One of the last things you said to me, the night before you went over there, was that you had to do one last thing, and it had to be done alone."

  "I remember."

  "Look how well that turned out. In your head, I suppose you were protecting Joe. Probably me, too."

  "Oh, no, Joe's shared his psychological insight with you."

  "You think he's wrong—" she said. "You have the nerve to look me in the eye right now and tell me that Joe was wrong with what he told you in the hospital—"

  I didn't speak.

  "Exactly," she said. "You know that he's right—and you know that if a bullet went just a few inches in a different direction, I'd be alone right now, remembering that last night we were together. You think that would be a good memory for me— I couldn't stop thinking about it while you were in the hospital. I decided that it would have made a hell of a fitting epitaph for you. 'He had one last thing to do—alone.' Heaven knows it would be alone."

  I didn't say anything.

  "I don't think I can explain just how that memory resonated with me while you were in the hospital," she said. "How perfect
ly and tragically symbolic it seemed. If you had gotten killed out there, and you almost did, that moment would have stayed with me. You know why— Because it felt like you were telling me, "I have this one last thing to do—alone—and then I can love you without walls'"

  "Damn it, Amy, you know that I love you."

  "I do, but I'm trying to tell you something that you need to understand— you can't protect everyone you love from harm. From the world. Trying to do that will break you, eventually. It will. And you know what— Something bad will still come for the people you love. You can't stop that, and it's not your job to try. It's your job to be there for us when it does."

  It was quiet for a moment, and then she said, "Trust me, Lincoln, bad things will happen to the people you love. I'm staring at my boyfriend right now, and let me tell you, he's a pretty pathetic sight. Bullet wound, all bandaged up, can't even get off my couch under his own power."

  "I can, too."

  "Prove it," she said and walked to the bedroom.

  On one of those long days while Amy was at work and I was sitting in her living room alone, I got out a legal pad and a pen, and I sat down to try writing a letter to Ken's daughter again. It came easier this time. I wrote five pages, five pages of apology and sympathy. Then I read through it and thought that it was all wrong, and I threw those away and started over. I left in a few paragraphs of the old stuff, but then I focused on the case. I told her as much as I could. I told her what sort of detective her father had been, how dedicated, how patient. How he had waited day after day to check out a hunch, and in the end the hunch had been right. I couldn't tell her more than that, but I could at least explain that much.

  He was a good detective, I wrote, because he stayed at it. Because he craved the truth above all else, above even himself. Certainly above himself.

  This time, I mailed the letter.

  Late in the week after my release, Joe called to say that Parker Harrison was leaving daily messages at the office. I took down his number and called him back. He asked if he could see me in person, and I gave him the address, and he told me he'd be out in twenty minutes.

  It took fifteen. I'd already made my way down to the door and was sitting on the bottom step waiting for him. The steps were difficult. My right leg still screamed if it took the bulk of my weight. I opened the door when he arrived, and I shook his hand, and we went back upstairs. It was slow going. He followed me and didn't say a word.

  When we got up to the living room, I fell into my designated corner of the couch, and he sat on the chair across from me. He reached out and handed me an envelope.

  "This first," he said. "I tried to bring it to you at the hospital."

  I opened the envelope and found a handwritten letter inside. It was a woman's handwriting. Alexandra Cantrell. When I read it, I wanted to laugh. It reminded me so much of the letter I'd written to Ken's daughter—the tone, the words, even some entire phrases. There was a lot of gratitude there, awkwardly expressed. There was also, I discovered when I turned the page over, a phone number and a promise.

  If you need or want me to speak to the police, to the media, to anyone, I will do it. This number will reach me, and all you have to do is make the call. I owe you more than I can express, and I feel deeper guilt and agony over the things that have happened to you than you are probably willing to believe. If there is something I can make right, then this is the number to use.

  I finished the letter and then folded it again and slipped it back into the envelope. Parker Harrison was watching me.

  "I know what she offered," he said, "and it was sincere. If you'd like her to come forward, she will. She wanted to at the start, but I talked her out of it. I told her to wait."

  I nodded.

  "Will you ask her to come forward—" he said.

  "I don't really see the point. It wouldn't give anyone who matters anything new. It would take some things from Alexandra, though. She's already had a lot taken."

  That seemed to please him. He looked at the floor for a moment and then leaned forward and said, "Lincoln, the things that happened—"

  I held up my hand. "Stop, Harrison. I don't want or need apologies. You could explain some things to me, though."

  "Of course."

  "Why did you hire me to begin with— Were you worried about being connected to that corpse and wanted to find Alexandra in case you needed a witness—"

  He smiled. "Do you know how many times you've asked me the same question— How many times you've asked why I came to you— I told you the truth the first day." "Not all of it."

  "No, not all of it. I apologize for that. My reasons, though… those were honest."

  "Then why wait twelve years—"

  "I'd thought about doing it earlier but always talked myself out of it. Then Joshua's body was found, and I thought it was time. I wanted to speak to her again."

  "Ken tried to talk to you during his first investigation. He said you ducked him. Didn't you remember who he was, though—"

  He shook his head. "That was twelve years earlier, Lincoln, and I never spoke to him, just ignored the calls and messages. His name meant nothing to me. Then Alexandra made contact, told me that the police were focused on me, and that you were working with them, and she thought I should probably stay away from you."

  I recalled the day he'd fired me, how he'd gone straight to the phone when I left. It hadn't been Alexandra that he called.

  "You talked to Dominic throughout this. Why—"

  "When she left, Alexandra asked me to give him a message."

  "To tell him that she wouldn't speak to him again, and he shouldn't look for her," I said. "Yes, that's what she told me. Why did Ruzity go to see him—"

  "To threaten to kill him if he looked for her," he said. "I hope you understand that promise didn't come easily for Mark, or lightly. He loved Alexandra, though. The reason I didn't want you to visit him to begin with was that I knew it could go badly, for everyone. He's doing well, though. Ever since he left Alexandra, he has been doing well."

  "Why'd you talk to Sanabria after you fired me—"

  "To tell him that you'd been working for me but were not any longer, and if any harm came to you I'd hold him responsible."

  He'd called, in other words, in an attempt to protect me.

  "Quinn Graham said you two didn't have contact for years, but then you did again when the body was found."

  He nodded. "I said that I wouldn't go to prison for him. That I'd talk to the police if they came to me, regardless of his sister's decision for silence. He told me then, as he had before, that he hadn't killed Joshua. I found myself, for the first time, starting to believe him. I needed to know the truth, and I needed to talk to Alexandra. So I came to you."

  "Because you'd read about me in the papers."

  "Because I thought you were the right person for the job," he said. "It's the same thing I told you at the start—it was about how you viewed the guilty. I thought you would be able to look past the things that others would not."

  "I didn't, though."

  He made a small shrug, as if it didn't matter, and I shook my head.

  "No, Harrison. I don't think you understand how badly I failed to be what you hoped I would be. I distrusted you from the start. That never changed."

  When I said that, he dropped his eyes and looked at his clasped hands and was quiet for a time.

  "I've never asked anyone to forget what I did," he said. "I haven't tried to forget it, either. It demands to be remembered. I carry it with me. I deserve that."

  "We all like the idea of rehabilitation," I said. "I just don't know how many of us actually believe in it."

  That made him smile, for some reason. "It only takes a few, Lincoln. Alexandra was enough for me."

  "Have you talked to her—"

  "A few times. As I said, I talked her out of going to the police the day you were shot. I told her to wait."

  "I'm glad," I said, and I meant that sincerely. I saw no gain from wha
t would happen if she reappeared. Not for me, or anyone else. Let some mystery linger for the rest of the world. The world probably needed it.

  "I have another question for you," I said.

  "Yes—"

  "What happened to Joshua's ring, the one Dominic left with the body—"

  "It's at the bottom of Pymatuning Reservoir." He frowned. "You know, if Alexandra hadn't made the decision she made, her brother might have gone to prison. It was a good way to frame him. It might have worked."

  "Yes. It might have."

  There was a brief silence, and then he reached in his jacket and withdrew something wrapped in newspaper and passed it to me. It was heavy in my palm.

  "What is this—"

  "Mark Ruzity wanted you to know he could do other things with a chisel than what he showed you the first time. I think it's his version of a thank-you. Maybe even an apology."

  I tore the paper loose and found a beautiful, small piece of granite. Across the front, carved in small but clear letters, it said, Lincoln Perry, PI.

  "It's for your desk," Harrison said.

  "Yeah."

  When he got to his feet I started to do the same, but he waved me off.

  "Don't make that trip down the stairs for me."

  "The trip's good for me, Harrison. It's no fun, but I need it."

  I followed him down the stairs, and when we reached the bottom I put out my hand and shook his.

  "Thank you," he said. "For what it's worth, Lincoln… everything I hoped about you at the start, I still believe now."

  He left then, and I turned and took a deep breath and started up the steps again. Back in the living room, I sat down and read the letter from Alexandra one more time, then picked up the nameplate Mark Ruzity had carved and held it in my hands.

  Lincoln Perry, PI.

  For my desk, Harrison had said. That's what Ruzity had in mind when he carved it, at least. I wondered, though, if it wasn't really the smallest headstone he'd ever done.