The Silent Hour (10 page)

    "No."

    "So
where did you get with it—"

    He
looked down at his glass. Empty again. We'd gone through a few of them by now.
I'd lost track. Bourbon with a beer back can do that.

    "Absolutely
nowhere, Lincoln. I got nothing. I wanted to pursue it, but the parents didn't
have much money, and they couldn't pay to keep me running back and forth from
Pittsburgh. Originally they hired me because they wanted someone they could
meet with face-to-face, someone local, but I blew through their budget and
didn't turn up a damn thing, and I couldn't justify taking more of their money.
They didn't have much."

    "This
was twelve years ago—"

    "Eleven
years ago, by the time they pulled the plug."

    "So
what the hell are you doing up here now—"

    His
easygoing humor had faded, and he seemed uncomfortable. "You want another
round—"

    "I
want you to answer the question."

    He
was quiet.

    "Who
told you about me—" I said.

    "That's
what you're worried about— It was your buddy Sanabria."

    
"He
hired you—"

    "Didn't
hire me. I'd crossed paths with him briefly when I got started on this years back,
and apparently he hadn't forgotten my name. Called me last week to ask if you
were working with me or for Cantrell's parents. I told him no way to the former
and no idea to the latter. He seemed dissatisfied with that."

    "I've
seen that reaction from him, yes."

    "So
that was how I got your name, and I was curious, right, because this case
hadn't left my mind over the years, and it really came back to me when Joshua's
body was found. I did a little research on you, saw that you've done some major
work—some serious, serious stuff—and I thought, what the hell, why not drive up
there and make a pitch."

    "I
don't understand the pitch."

    "I
want to work the case, man. With you, ideally. Without you, if you say no.”

    "You've
got no client, Ken. What's the point—"

    He
braced both forearms on the table and leaned closer. "The point is I've
been in this business for fourteen years and never investigated anything that
mattered. You know what I've done, year in and year out— Insurance work and infidelity
cases. That's it."

    "That's
how you pay the bills. Isn't that the goal—"

    "No!
Bullshit it's the goal." He slapped the table and leaned away again.
"You're doing this just to pay the bills— Really— That's why you got into
the business—"

    "I
got into the business because I got fired, Ken."

    "I
know that. You got canned as a police detective, and you set up shop as a
private detective. Why—"

    "It's
all I was qualified for."

    He
blew out a disgusted breath and looked away from me.

    "I
get your point," I said. "This has more appeal than an insurance
case. If I here's one type of detective I've never trusted, though, it's a
glory hound."

    "That's
not what I'm after, damn it. That's not what I mean at all." He sighed and
ran both hands through his sandy hair. His face had taken on a flush, and his
eyes were beginning to show the booze. "All I'm trying to say is, in
fourteen years I've had just
one
case that really mattered, and I didn't
accomplish anything on it. Didn't find their son. Now the son has been found,
and he's dead, and I'd like to be able to tell them why."

    I
looked away from him, suddenly wishing I'd let him go for that next round.

    "You've
had cases like this," he said, voice soft. "I've read about you,
Lincoln, I already told you that. You've had cases that mattered. Had cases
that… that people cared about. People other than you, people other than your
clients."

    "Ken,"
I began, but he was still talking.

    "My
daughter—she's fourteen—she's a fan of the police shows. You know, the TV
bullshit, none of it's close to reality, but she enjoys them. There are times…
times when she asks me about my job, and I find myself… not lying maybe, but
I'm spinning it, Lincoln. Trying to make it sound like more than it is. More
than chasing cheating spouses and taking pictures of accident scenes." He
pushed his empty glass away and forced a laugh. "I've had one too many if
I'm telling you this."

    I
didn't say anything.

    "You
don't have kids," he said.

    "No."

    He nodded.
"You don't have kids, you've never been divorced. You haven't watched some
other guy step into your daughter's life. Some other guy who is a damn
doctor,
Lincoln. A surgeon. Saving lives, right— That's what he does. I'm
out there taking photos next to a Dumpster, hoping to get a picture of some
loser kissing some tramp, hoping to go back to my client and say, yeah, turns
out your husband is an asshole—can I have my check now— Meanwhile, my daughter,
she's going home to that big house, waiting for her stepfather to drive up in
his Porsche with a story about a liver transplant or some shit."

    His
voice had been rising steadily, closing in on a shout, and he caught it at that
point, paused. The bar had filled in as the night grew later, and there were other
people in the dining room. I had my back to them, but I could feel the stares.
We sat there in silence, though, and once the rest of the room realized

    Ken's
rant had concluded, they lost interest and went back to their own conversations
and drinks.

    "I
know it's petty to care," he said. "I know that, but you try not
caring about something like that. You give that a shot."

    He
reached for his empty glass, wrapped his hand around it, and held it.

    "Ken,"
I said. "This case… nothing good comes out of working it. You do
understand that, don't you—"

    He
shook his head. "No. No, I do not understand that. What I understand is
that the man and his wife went missing, Lincoln, vanished and did not appear
again until his remains were found. So now he's dead, and she's still missing,
and his parents still have no idea what the hell happened. They have no idea
what went wrong in their son's life, how his bones ended up in the woods an
hour's drive from the million-dollar home he left without a word."

    He
looked me in the eye. "I want to tell them what happened. I don't give a
damn if it's the Sanabria family or the Manson family, or who that guy was
married to, I want to be able to go back to those people and tell them, this is
what happened to your son."

    He
lifted the glass, remembered it was empty, and lowered it again. "I'm not
good enough to do that on my own."

    I
shook my head, but he was already shaking his own right back at me.

    "Lincoln,
I've tried to do it on my own. I didn't succeed."

    "There's
no reason to think I'd do any better."

    "I
disagree."

    There
was a long pause, and then he said, "How about this— How about I bring my
case file by your office tomorrow. I run through it with you and talk about
approach. Talk about where I'm going from here. You could offer some input,
right— Is there a reason in the world why you couldn't at least do that—"

    I was
sure there was, but it didn't come to mind fast enough to save me.

    "All
right," I said. "I'll do that much."

    He
toasted me with the empty glass.

    That
night strips of coal-colored clouds skidded over a bright three-quarter moon,
pushed by a spirited wind off the lake. I sat on the roof of my building and
marveled at their speed, stared long enough that the lights and sounds of the
street below faded and I was held by the rhythm of the clouds, by the vanishing
and then resurfacing moon. If I looked long enough, it seemed I wasn't on the
roof anymore, could instead be miles out at sea, nothing in sight but that moon
and those clouds.

    Yeah,
I'd had a bit to drink.

    I'd
called Amy on the drive home, but she hadn't answered, and I'd soon realized
that was for the best—I shouldn't have been driving, let alone driving and
using a phone. I put the windows down and took Lorain all the way back, a
simple and slow drive, stoplight to stoplight until I got home.

    I
missed her, though. That was different. That was something new. Any night I
spent without her, I missed her. Sounds like a bad feeling, but it's not.
Having somebody in your life to miss… always good. I missed Amy when she was gone,
and I'd missed Joe for many months, and all of that meant I wasn't truly alone.
There were people who belonged near me, and I felt their absence when it
occurred. It was almost a healthy sort of existence. Didn't seem to suit me at
all.

    It
was a warm night, overcast but without rain, and I didn't even turn the lights
on in my apartment, just poured a glass of water in the dark kitchen and took
it up on the roof. I settled into one of the lounge chairs and watched a sky
that seemed determined to entertain.

    For a
while, bits of the conversation with Ken Merriman played through my head, the
most frequent recurrence being the moment he'd confessed it was Dominic
Sanabria who'd called him. He'd thrown that out casually enough.
It was your
buddy Sanabria.
Too casually— Was it something to wonder about, or just
alcohol adding a dose of paranoia to my brain— I meant to ponder that one, but
then the wind blew harder and the clouds moved quicker, and eventually the
water glass slid from my hand and I was asleep.

    I dreamed
that I woke. Sounds crazy, maybe, but it happens to me now and then, always
when I fall asleep somewhere other than my bed, and often when the mind is
encouraged toward odd behavior by alcohol or fatigue. This time I dreamed that
when I came out of sleep I was facing the trapdoor that led to the stairs,
still in the lounge chair. A figure stood beside the trapdoor, and my
dream-mind registered that with surprise but not alarm. I didn't move from the
chair, didn't speak, just watched the figure standing there in the dark, and
eventually my vision adjusted and I saw that it was Parker Harrison.

    He
looked at me for a long time, and I knew that I should rise, say something,
order him out of my home, but instead I watched silently. The longer I looked
at him the more my surprise edged toward fear, a steady crawl, and I held my
breath when he reached into the shadowed folds of his clothing with his right
hand. The clouds blew past the moon and a shaft of white light fell onto him,
and I saw that though his face was normal the flesh on his arm was gone, only
thin bones protruding from his sleeve. When his hand came free again, it, too,
was nothing but bones, a skeleton hand, and there was a silver coin between his
fingers.

    He
looked across the roof at me, and then he flicked his thumb and spun the coin
skyward. The moonlight gave it a bright, hard glint. He caught the coin and
flipped it again, and again, and it seemed dangerous now, each flash as wicked
as the edge of a sharp blade. My fear built with each toss and burst into pure
terror when he caught the coin with an abrupt and theatrical slap of his hand,
snatching it out of the air and folding it into his palm and hiding it from the
light. When he clasped his hand shut, the bones shattered into a cloud of white
powder that turned black as it drifted down to his feet. The coin landed on the
roof and spun as the black dust settled around it, and suddenly I was awake and
upright, my hands tight on the arms of the chair.

    I
held that position for a few seconds while the wind fanned over the roof. It
was much colder now than when I'd fallen asleep, and below me the avenue was
silent. I swung my feet off the chair and stood up, forgetting about the glass
resting against my side. It rolled off me and fell away from the chair and
shattered on the stone, and I nearly jumped off the roof at the sound.

    The
sparkle of the broken glass near my feet made me think of the coin from my
dream, and like a child who can't trust that the dream world was a false one I
turned and looked back at the trapdoor as if expecting to see Harrison there.
The door was nothing but a dark square in the surface of the roof, and it was
also behind me and not in front of me as it had been in the dream. I took a
deep breath and walked toward the door, stepping over the broken glass. That
could be dealt with in the morning. Down on the avenue a car finally passed by,
rap music thumping out of its speakers, and I was grateful for the noise. I
walked to the trapdoor and climbed carefully down the steps and then folded
them back into the roof, the door snapping closed with a bang. It was dark
inside the building, and my head pounded with a pressurized ache, as if someone
had pumped it full of air, searching for leaks in the skull.