The Secret Hour (45 page)

 
“I love you, Willa,” Kate shouted out to sea, tears filling her eyes.

 
Had the wind lessened? Its roar no longer seemed so vicious; it whistled in Kate’s ears, filled with music and whispers, alive with her sister’s voice.

 
Kate’s hand closed around the gold charm. Her plan was this: She’d wait for a perfect, white-topped wave, until its crest was knife sharp and ready to break—illuminated by the lighthouse beacon—and Kate would breathe in and feel the connection to Willa. And somehow—it had to happen—she would be given the answers about where to look next.

 
She watched carefully, seeing the wave build. Her eyes stung with wind and tears, but she focused her gaze and all her emotions: love, grief, the need to find her sister, to know at last where she was.

 
There it was; third wave out. The beam blinked, lighting it up.

 
“Where’s my sister?” Kate cried.

 
The wind was so high and thin, it almost seemed to have a voice. “Katy,” it called, reedy and distant. Kate froze, straining her ears.

 
The wind was dying; the third wave passed, crashing on the rocks. She remembered a time, twelve years ago, when she had been home and Willa had been stranded up in a tree down the beach. King, the most aggressive of the wild ponies, had charged Willa, sent her scrambling up a small scrub pine. She had stayed up there for hours, ten years old, crying for her sister. It had sounded just like this, like a message from the wind:

 
“Katy!”

 
Kate slowly turned her back to the sea. A step inland, away from the edge of the bluff. Another step, toward the lighthouse. Then a third step, a fourth, hearing her name again, hearing muffled sobs in the breaking waves. Was she hearing a ghost? Or was she being haunted by old memories, by her love? Was it what she had wished for on the wave—a connection, at last, to Willa?

 
Kate ran to the lighthouse door.

 
Looking straight up, she saw the white tower rise overhead. She thought of the little princes locked in the Tower of London. Fairy tales, where the wizard kept the girl hidden away, where the sorcerer trapped the princess, held her captive till all the roses withered and died.

 
“Willa?” she said, breathless. The lighthouse walls were thick white concrete blocks. No sound could possibly get through. But from up above—from the windows, the fine lens? That shattered window—

 
Kate had stepped on broken glass. The caretaker would have found it, if it had been broken for long. The storm must have knocked it out somehow. High winds had imploded the window, or blown debris into the glass.

 
The thin voice again: It might have been real, it might have been the wind playing with Kate’s imagination. But she held the gold charm Maggie had found, and she was suddenly certain that her sister was there, inside. Kate knocked at the door, then threw herself into it, pounding harder and louder.

 
Kate felt all the sorrow and rage of the past six months swelling up inside her. She shook the door, crashed into it with her shoulder, banged the latch. It was solid, locked tight, with steel plates—the lock and plates massive, industrial, impenetrable. Kate backed up, ran at the door with all her strength, felt the impact in her bones as she fell to her knees.

 
“I hear you, Willa,” Kate yelled. “And I’m coming!”

 
She ran around the tower’s base. Looking up the whole time, noticing one vertical row of windows rising up the east side, looking out to sea. The lowest window was a good fifteen feet off the ground—and yes! It was broken, a jagged star-shaped hole in the glass. But Kate could never reach it without a ladder.

 
A ladder…Backing off slightly, Kate pounded the surrounding bushes for anything the Jenkinses had left behind: planks, sawhorses, ladders…nothing. Stumbling in the darkness, she thought of leaving—she could run to the East Wind, get someone to help her. Or she could call John and the police…

 
But what if whoever had put Willa in the tower came back for her right now, took her away, hid her somewhere else? Or what if Kate was imagining it all, and Willa wasn’t in the lighthouse at all? Kate let out a sob of frustration, running in the dark, back to the base of the lighthouse. The beam lit up the ground, she ran forward, the light flashed away, darkness returned, and Kate felt the ground disappear beneath her.

 
Falling, falling, into the darkness, into the earth, Willa’s voice trailing into thin air above.

 
Heading west, toward his father’s house in the center of town, John saw a big silver Mercedes sedan slow down to stop at a traffic light. Thinking he recognized the driver, he hit the brakes, and the yellow light of a streetlamp illuminated the other man’s face.

 
What was Phil Beckwith doing in Silver Bay? Passing through, on his way from Winterham to the highway back to Providence, John realized—remembering with guilt that he had missed his appointment at the prison.

 
Merrill might have told Beckwith something that would help the police catch the new killer. John couldn’t stand it if more girls died. The worry he’d felt for Maggie had finished it for him. The whole town was living on edge. They needed to make an end.

 
Looking in the rearview mirror, he saw Beckwith’s brake lights at the stop sign. He watched the wide taillights swing around the corner onto the coast road. The highway was just half a mile away; if John did a U-turn, he could catch the doctor.

 
So he turned his car around in the IGA parking lot, pressing down on the gas. He gained quickly, and, as if Beckwith was watching in the rearview mirror, the Mercedes pulled over to the side of the road.

 
“Hello, John,” Beckwith said, rolling down his window, a concerned look on his face. “Everything okay?”

 
“Sorry about missing the meeting,” John said. “Something came up…”

 
“That’s all right. Things happen.”

 
“Are you on your way back home now?”

 
“Yes,” the doctor said, looking tired. “It was a disturbing interview, but very productive; I have a long ride ahead of me, time to reflect on everything that was said and decide how to proceed.”

 
“Proceed?”

 
“Yes—in relation to our case.”

 
“I was thinking—Do you have a minute? I want to hear what happened—whether Merrill talked to you about the new killer working now. He did, didn’t he? He trusts you. I’m a parent—I have kids on the streets of this town. We have to catch him, Doctor.”

 
“You’re very worried, aren’t you, John?” the doctor asked, looking at him with great kindness and weary understanding.

 
“I am,” John said.

 
“With good reason,” Beckwith said gravely. He checked his watch, then gestured up ahead, toward a bend in the road. “The commuter parking lot’s right there. I’ll meet you.”

 
Nodding his thanks, John followed Beckwith to the deserted lot. He pulled in beside Beckwith, and the doctor climbed out of his Mercedes and into John’s Volvo.

 
“Excuse the mess,” John said, glancing in back at one of Teddy’s soccer balls, Brainer’s car bed, and a few old newspapers.

 
“Quite all right,” Beckwith said. “Now, to give you a report on what Merrill and I discussed tonight at the prison—”

 
Just then, John’s cell phone rang again. He thought about ignoring it—Beckwith was putting himself out by postponing his long drive home to Providence. But when he checked caller ID, he saw that the call was coming from his father’s house.

 
Excusing himself, he answered. “Hello?”

 
“Dad,” came Teddy’s voice.

 
“Can I call you back, Ted? I’m with someone right now—”

 
“Is it Kate?” Teddy asked.

 
“Kate?” John asked, confused. “I thought she was there, with you and Maggie.”

 
“She was, Dad, but Maggie showed her this airplane charm that belonged to her sister. She went out to the lighthouse—to look for clues or something, I guess. I thought maybe you’d want to know. To help her…”

 
“The lighthouse,” John said, his pulse speeding up. “How long ago did she leave?”

 
“Um, maybe half an hour?”

 
“Thanks, Teddy. I’m glad you called.”

 
As he disconnected, he looked over at Dr. Beckwith. The older man was sitting quietly beside him, seeing the worry in John’s face.

 
“That was my son, calling to tell me that a friend of ours needs some help,” John explained, trying to smile. “Her sister is missing.”

“I heard you mention the lighthouse,” the doctor said, his eyes reflecting John’s unease. “She’s on her way there?”

 
“Yes…”

 
John’s stomach dropped at the sight of Beckwith’s expression. “What’s wrong?”

 
Dr. Beckwith ran his right hand through his white hair, eyes flicking around nervously, close to panic. “Merrill spoke of the lighthouse to me tonight.”

 
“What are you talking about?” John asked, frowning.

 
“If what Greg told me is true, your friend could be in danger, John.”

 
“Kate?” John asked.

 
“Yes—would you like me to come with you? I’d better come with you. I might be able to talk to him, stop something before it starts.”

 
“‘Him’?” John asked as he threw his car into gear, began speeding down the road. He didn’t even have to prod the doctor; Beckwith just started talking.

 
“There’s a man in town who’s been fascinated with Merrill all along. Wrote to him in prison, and Merrill wrote back. The two of them—he and Greg—developed a sort of mentorship,” the doctor said.

 
“What kind of person would want him as a mentor?”

 
Dr. Beckwith was silent, staring at his hands.

 
“You’re talking about the other killer?” John asked, glancing across the front seat.

 
“It’s possible.”

 
“You knew about this all along?” John asked, shocked.

 
Beckwith shook his head. “I didn’t know anything—even now, I’m not sure whether to believe him or not. He said his student became so intrigued, he decided he couldn’t wait, had to try it himself…”

 
“Amanda Martin?”

 
“Yes. Greg claims his friend killed her.”

 
“Based on details he picked up from Greg?” John asked, incredulous, remembering the way Greg had talked to him and Billy about the new killer’s inferior understanding…

 
“Yes,” the doctor said, sitting calmly across the seat. “He was ranting about it tonight—very upset about the copycat. Infuriated because this other man is trespassing on his territory.”

 
“But is it real or not? Does Greg really know him?”

 
“Is he delusional? Certainly. But tonight, regarding this particular instance, I feel there might be a germ of truth.”

 
“Why?”

 
“Because, as you know, Greg’s pride is his Achilles’ heel. He enjoys his status…his notoriety. Even when he speaks of communicating with this other man in code, he says it’s very elaborate, Byzantine.”

 
John drove on; he could just imagine the stupid Mensa code Greg would come up with, that only someone as brilliant as he could understand.

 
“What makes you think it’s real?” John pressed.

 
“Greg doesn’t want to share the spotlight,” Beckwith said. “And the story he told me tonight centers on the other man.”

 
“What did he tell you?”

 
“Greg spied on a girl once,” the doctor said. “In Fairhaven, Massachusetts. He said she was so young, so provocative, he was going to climb right through her window and kidnap her from her own bed…”

 
“But he couldn’t get in,” John interrupted impatiently. “I know.”

 
The doctor nodded. “He told you that part. Perhaps he didn’t tell you this. He revealed the girl’s address to his correspondent—using that code I mentioned. Then one night, seven months ago, the protégé went to that Fairhaven parking lot—to try again. Something happened. The girl’s lights were off, or the family wasn’t home…”

 
“But someone else was there,” John said, catching his breath.

 
Dr. Beckwith nodded. “Yes. A woman vacationing in New England. She’d been in New Bedford, touring the Whaling Museum. Her dog was in the car with her. The amazing part is that the protégé had seen the dog, knew the woman already. They’d been staying in his hometown—Silver Bay. At the inn…”