The Silent Hour (46 page)

    "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 perfectly 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 what 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.

    It
was three more weeks before I went to see John Dunbar. By then I was moving
better and had some of my weight back. I'd lost almost twenty pounds in the
aftermath of the shooting, and it was depressing as hell to consider how weak
I'd be when I could finally get back in the gym. I'd been at a strength peak
before, and now I'd bottomed out. That's how it goes, though. That's always how
it goes.