Free The Silent Hour by Michael Koryta Page B

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.
    ----
        

Chapter Nine
        
        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