Chapter 5 - Noah Said The Man Never Asked Him To Keep A Secret
Lena Brooks called my chambers the next morning.
Not the police.
Me.
“Noah remembered something.”
I went downstairs.
They were in a family waiting room near the public entrance.
Noah had a hot chocolate.
Lena had the expression of a woman who had slept three angry hours.
I sat.
“Noah.”
He looked at me.
“The man didn't tell me not to tell Mom.”
That mattered.
“What did he say?”
“That if she asked, I should tell her.”
Lena looked at me.
“I wasn't there when he handed over the box.”
“Right.”
Noah continued:
“He said adults make kids keep secrets when the adult knows the secret is wrong.”
That sounded irritatingly responsible for a man who had still involved a ten-year-old.
“What did he ask you to keep private?”
“Nothing.”
“Did he say what was in the box?”
“No.”
“Did he tell you to avoid police?”
“No.”
“Did he tell you to go somewhere you weren't allowed?”
“No.”
“Then why did you?”
Noah looked embarrassed.
“I thought the hallway was the way to your office.”
Human.
“So the restricted-area part was accidental.”
“Yes.”
Detective Cole had framed it differently.
Maybe because he thought Noah had been sent inside.
Maybe because fear likes dramatic verbs.
I asked:
“Did the man tell you what to do if you couldn't find me?”
“Give it to the clerk at the front desk.”
Lena sighed.
“So he wasn't sending my son on Mission Impossible.”
“No.”
She looked at Noah.
“Still not okay.”
“I know.”
Good.
“What did he say about me?”
Noah smiled slightly.
“He said you hate cinnamon.”
My chest tightened.
I hated cinnamon.
Thomas loved it.
Every Christmas he put extra cinnamon in my coffee and denied it.
“What else?”
“He said you used to cheat at cards.”
“That man is a liar.”
Noah laughed.
Lena almost did too.
Then Noah said:
“He said you would be angry before you were happy.”
That sounded like Thomas again.
“Did he say where he'd be afterward?”
“No.”
“Phone number?”
“No.”
“Did he ask you to tell him what happened?”
“No.”
Interesting.
He had not used Noah to report my reaction.
He wanted the object delivered and then disappeared again.
Lena leaned forward.
“Judge Carter.”
“Yes?”
“Do you actually think this is your brother?”
“I think the man knew things Thomas knew.”
“That's not the same.”
“No.”
Good.
She studied me.
“Why would your brother use my son instead of walking into your courtroom himself?”
That question followed me back upstairs.
The dedication committee was waiting in my chambers.
Three judges.
Court administrator.
County executive.
A framed rendering of the new HENRY CARTER JUSTICE WING sat against the wall.
Nobody knew what to do with their hands.
Chief Administrator Paula Grant spoke first.
“We've heard there's a personal matter.”
I almost laughed.
“That's one description.”
“Does it affect Friday?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“I don't know yet.”
The county executive looked irritated.
“We have guests traveling.”
“I understand.”
“Media.”
“Yes.”
“Henry Carter's family—”
“I am Henry Carter's family.”
Silence.
Better.
I explained enough.
Not Thomas's possible identity.
Not Cole's father's notebook.
Only that credible information had emerged challenging part of the historical record surrounding my brother's disappearance and my father's conduct.
Paula's face changed.
“Historical record connected to what?”
“Courthouse access.”
One of the judges looked toward the rendering.
“You're asking us to postpone.”
“I am.”
The county executive said:
“Based on an unidentified man giving jewelry to a child?”
“No.”
I looked at him.
“Based on my unwillingness to put my father's name on a new wing while I know there is a question I spent thirty-one years not asking.”
That cost me.
Good.
Paula said:
“What question?”
I looked at the old photograph of Henry on my bookshelf.
“Whether the story that protected this courthouse was true.”
Nobody liked that.
Friday's dedication was postponed by noon.
At 12:18, my chambers received an envelope.
No return address.
Inside was one photograph.
Thomas.
Older.
Gray hair.
Standing beside Samuel Cole in a backyard.
Samuel looked frail.
Thomas looked directly at the camera.
On the back, one line:
HE DIDN’T ASK ME TO FORGIVE HIM.
I flipped it over again.
The photograph was dated eight years ago.
Aaron had been right.
Thomas had survived at least twenty-three years beyond his disappearance.
Then I noticed something behind them.
Samuel's garage door.
The wooden evidence box sat open on a workbench.
May you like
Whatever Thomas was doing in Samuel Cole's house, he wasn't hiding from the detective who once investigated him.
They had found each other long before either of them came back to me.
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