The Secret Hour (47 page)

 
“I have you,” Kate said. “Let’s both hold on tight.”

 
“Don’t let go,” Willa begged.

 
“No,” Kate said, her voice hoarse with the knowledge that she had her sister in her arms.

 
Kate knew in that moment that she had never seen anything so beautiful, in her entire life, as her sister Willa, and she did what she’d promised: She held on tight, she didn’t let go. Outside the lighthouse, the wind whistled, decreasing from its earlier roar, and waves smashed the beach. The sounds were loud enough to muffle, slightly, the sobs coming from both sisters as Kate led Willa to the relative safety of the walkway.

 
“Can you make it down?” Kate asked, supporting Willa, feeling her thin arm around her neck, feeling her body heave with each breath, as if it caused wracking pain.

 
“My legs,” Willa cried. “I haven’t moved them in so long…”

 
Looking down, Kate could see Willa’s legs, thin and spindly like a newborn colt’s after so much time in the box. Choking with emotion, Kate took off her coat—wet from her fall into the well—and put it around her shoulders. Kneeling beside her, she began to massage Willa’s legs and ankles. Willa cried out, cringing at each stroke.

 
“I can’t make it down,” Willa said.

 
“Yes,” Kate said, rubbing steadily, trying to focus. Her mind was buzzing with what Willa had said before, “Hurry, he’s coming…” She didn’t know who or where or when, but she felt her sister’s terror, and she knew it was real. “You can,” Kate said.

 
“I want to, but I can’t,” Willa said, weak with frustration.

 
“I’ll carry you,” Kate said. “I did when you were little, and I’ll do it now.”

 
Both sisters looked down—eight stories on a winding, narrow staircase. Willa shook her head, letting out a sob. “You can’t.”

 
Kate didn’t even reply. She just tucked the coat around her sister’s body. The smells from the box were bad, but Kate had changed this baby’s diapers. This was nothing.

 
Being careful, she stowed Maggie’s knife in the front pocket of her jeans. Then, shoving the metal bar down the back of her pants, like a sword, she crouched beside her sister.

 
“Wrap your arms around my neck if you can,” Kate said, lifting Willa against her chest.

 
Willa tried, but her arms were too weak and trembling. Kate knew it didn’t matter. She had her sister in her arms, and she wasn’t going to falter. She took the first step down, then the second. Her legs were powerful, her arms filled with energy. The electricity of love filled her, passing from her heart to Willa’s and back again, forming a circuit that made her stronger with every step. She thought of Amelia, of John, Teddy, and Maggie, taking strength from all of them.

 
One story, two stories. She hurried down the steps, sure of foot, positive they were going to make it. Her mind raced, planning what to do next. She had her trusty pry bar. If the lighthouse door opened easily from the inside, Kate would take Willa out, put her in the Judge’s car, drive her to the hospital.

 
If it didn’t, she’d take her out through the secret passageway, into the well. Kate would find a way to climb out—she’d scale the walls if necessary.

 
“What time is it?” Willa asked, her voice weak and shaky.

 
“I can’t see my watch,” Kate said. “But about eight-forty-five, I think. Don’t worry, we’re almost down…”

 
“He comes at nine,” Willa said, frantic. “He calls it his time, it’s the secret hour…”

 
“The what?” Kate asked, her chest heaving with exertion.

 
“When he won’t be missed; when no one will see him coming out here…”

 
Kate’s feet moved faster. Willa shifted in her arms, crying out with pain. The unbalance nearly toppled them both. Steadying herself against the thin black rail, Kate happened to look up, toward the box.

 
She couldn’t even see it from here. The cell was completely hidden in shadow and light, blending into the guts of the lens and light, camouflaged from sight. Her heart kicked over, knowing that it existed, that whether she could see it or not, danger was there.

 
“He built it,” Willa said, following Kate’s gaze, as if she could read her mind. “He built it to keep me in…”

 
“What did…” Kate began, but she trailed off. There would be time to learn everything later. Right now, the clock was ticking, and she had to get Willa out.

 
Outside, she heard the waves breaking closer. The sound was deafening, as if the storm tide had risen way up the bluff, as if it was nearly dead-high. The association with Merrill caused a jolt of terror to shoot through her blood.

 
“Almost there,” Kate said, carrying her sister down one more flight.

 
Just one and a half to go. Her arms were beginning to tingle, as if her body knew it was almost time to put Willa down. Her muscles ached and burned under the weight, and her lips felt numb, all the blood going to her arms and legs.

 
“I never thought I’d be rescued,” Willa said, her voice breaking. “I thought I’d die in there.”

 
“Never,” Kate promised. “I’m getting you out of here.”

 
Reaching the bottom flight, she bent over, to put her sister down. Wanting just to investigate, to try the door, Kate was nearly bowled over by Willa’s clawing grip.

 
“Don’t let me go!” she begged.

 
 
“Just for ten seconds,” Kate said. “While I find our way out…”

 
Collapsing on the stairs, Willa was too weak to argue. Kate ran to the door, trying it. Three locks, including two deadbolts, ran up and down. None had a latch; keys were required to open each lock—from either inside or out—and the door itself was thick and new.

 
Removing the metal bar from the waistband of her pants, she wielded it with a flourish, giving Willa a huge smile.

 
“You make a good pirate,” Willa croaked, smiling back.

 
“I’ll get us out of here yet,” Kate said, trying to fit the rod’s flat end between the door and the jamb.

 
Just then, as if by magic, one lock turned. Then the second—the noise rasping in her ears, metal on metal—being opened from outside. As she realized what was happening, that Willa’s captor had returned, that it was nine o’clock and he was right on time, she turned toward her sister.

 
Willa was a ghost.

 
Pure white, all life gone from her eyes, she cowered on the wrought-iron stairs, clutching the railing and staring at the door. Kate wanted to grab her, hide her in the well, but it was too late. She heard the key in the last lock.

 
Putting her finger to her lips, to warn Willa not to make a sound, Kate knew the signal was useless. Her sister was frozen, waiting for him to come inside, afraid of what he’d do when he found her and Kate.

 
The door cracked open, letting in waves of cold, fresh air. Kate breathed deeply, feeling a new sharpness in her brain, standing behind the door. Her gaze was on Willa, and she saw her sister close her eyes in defeat.

 
The man stepped inside. He was six feet tall, lanky and athletic, with brown hair, less than two feet away from Kate. As he caught sight of Willa, he stood with one hand on the doorknob, shaking with rage.

 
“How did YOU get down here?” he yelled. Kate could almost imagine him running through his precautions, the fact that Willa couldn’t possibly have gotten down here on her own. His shoulders seemed to expand as if inflated, and as he wheeled to look behind the door, Kate screamed and swung the rusty iron bar with everything she had.

Right in the face, right between the eyes, she connected with bone and tissue and blood—lots of blood. The man bellowed and staggered back, hands on his eyes, his blood and hands obliterating his face and identity, losing his balance and falling toward Willa when Kate struck again.

 
“You hurt my sister,” she screamed, swinging the bar. “You took her and hurt her, and I’ll KILL you for it!’”

 
The metal rod connected again, then once more, and finally Willa’s captor collapsed in a heap at Willa’s feet like a slain dragon. Willa scuttled, crablike, away from him, and Kate stepped forward.

 
Her heart was pumping. Was he dead? She didn’t know, and she almost didn’t care. She knew one thing: She wasn’t going to let him stand up and hurt Willa again. So she prodded him—first with her weapon, then with her foot. When he didn’t move, she moved closer to peer into his face.

 
Caleb Jenkins.

 
Kate saw his chest rise and fall, heard blood bubbling from his mouth and nose. She had never before seen him up close, but Kate knew. He resembled his father, but so much younger—just twenty-something. Kate didn’t stop for regrets or doubts. Lifting her sister from the floor, helping her to her feet, Kate gave her the chance to stand with her arm around Kate’s neck.

 
“There are no more stairs,” Kate said as the fresh sea wind blew through the open door, sharpening their senses. “Grab on, and I’ll get you to the car.”

 
“Maybe I can walk,” Willa said.

 
“Later,” Kate said, glancing back at the boy on the floor. “I want to get us out of here before he wakes up.”

 
And so, lifting her sister once again—this time with her arms trembling and nearly breaking with effort—Kate held Willa close and ran down the sandy path toward the Judge’s car.

 
The vehicle, gleaming white with each flash of the beacon passing overhead, and with moonlight—for during her time in the lighthouse, the clouds had blown away and apart, revealing a huge silver moon over the sea—was still parked at the base of the road. Slowing down now, passing across the rutted and rock-strewn precarious section of path, Kate carried her sister carefully.

 
When she reached the Judge’s car, she glanced behind—no sign of Caleb Jenkins. Willa rested on her feet, taking her first painful steps in perhaps months, as Kate led her from the hood of the car to the passenger side. Opening the front door, Kate helped her sister inside. Then, running around the car, she began to climb in herself.

 
Just then, noticing Caleb’s van parked off to the side, she calculated. What if he came to, ran to his van, caught her before she got past the East Wind to the main road? Taking a deep breath, she ran over to the white Chevy van, “Jenkins Construction” lettered on the side.

 
“Katy,” she heard Willa cry. “Hurry—don’t leave me alone in here! We have to get away!”

 
“I know,” Kate flung back, opening the van door.

 
The keys were in the ignition. Palming them, she backed away. But her attention was caught by two things lying on the front seat. A gold necklace, a locket with the initials “AM” entwined in script: Amanda Martin.

 
And a document, thick and official looking. Vellum bound, like one of Kate’s Academy reports. Scientific, complete, expensive. Leaning over, to read the front title page, she saw:

ASSESSING VIOLENT PREDATORS

A Study of Gregory Merrill

By Dr. Philip A. Beckwith, M.D.

 
Wondering how Caleb had gotten hold of a psychiatrist’s study, Kate grabbed it and jumped out of the van, keys in hand. Then, climbing into the Judge’s car, Kate started the engine, threw her sister a wide smile, and backed out of the sandy parking area.

 
“We made it,” Kate said. “I found you…”

 
“Faster, Kate,” Willa screamed, weeping into her hands as if freedom hadn’t yet hit her, as if she was trying to make herself compact because she wasn’t used to all the space in the world. “The other one is coming!”

 
Kate drove, eyes in the rearview mirror to make sure Caleb wasn’t following, shocked by her sister’s words. “What other one?”

 
“That one back there…” she said. “He used to just feed me; bring my food…tell me the time. But it was the other one…Oh, Kate, drive faster…he always comes at nine o’clock…”

 
John drove, as fast as he could, toward the lighthouse. Dr. Beckwith sat beside him, speaking in a shocked, bewildered voice—and John was just as shocked to hear the patient’s name.

 
“Caleb Jenkins?” he repeated, to be sure.

 
“Yes. You see, Caleb presented with such mild symptoms of the disorder,” Beckwith said, visibly distressed, “I completely missed it the first time.”

 
“There was nothing about a sexual disorder,” John said, recalling the defense he and Beckwith had developed.