Page 2 of The Secret

“Whistleblower? That’s not what this is. The reporter’s from a little weekly rag in Akron, Ohio. Where I was born. The story’s about my heart attack. My recovery. It’s a miracle, according to the doctors. People back home want to read about it. They say I’m an inspiration.”

“Heart attack? That’s what you’re going with? When you’re sitting on a much bigger story?”

“What bigger story?”

The woman leaned in closer. “Keith, we know what you did. What you all did. Twenty-three years ago. December 1969.”

“December ’69? How do you know…? Who are you?”

“We’ll come to who we are. Right now you need to tell me what information you’re planning to give this reporter from Akron.”

“No information. I’m going to tell her about my recovery. That’s all. I will never talk about December ’69. Why we were there. What we were doing. What happened. Not to anyone. I swore I wouldn’t and I keep my word. My wife never even knew.”

“So you don’t have any documents or notes hidden in this room?”

“Of course not.”

“Then you won’t mind if I take a look around.”

The woman didn’t wait for an answer. She started with the locker next to the bed. She opened the door and rummaged through Bridgeman’s spare pajamas and books and magazines. She moved on to a leather duffel on the floor near the door. It held a set of clothes. Nothing else. Next she checked the bathroom. Nothing significant there, either. So she moved to the center of the room and put her hands on her hips. “Only one place left to check. The bed.”

Bridgeman didn’t move.

“Do it for your daughter. And your granddaughter. Come on. I’ll be quick.”

Bridgeman felt his pulse start to speed up again. He closed his eyes for a moment. Took a breath. Willed himself to relax. Then pushed back the sheet, swung his legs over the side of the mattress, and slid down onto his feet. He looked at the woman in the chair. “Can I at least sit? I’m older than you. I have one foot in the grave.”

The woman held up her finger with the clip attached. “Sorry. The cable’s too short for me to move. You want to sit, use the windowsill.”

Bridgeman turned and looked at the windowsill. Considered sitting on it. But taking orders from one of the women was bad enough so he settled on leaning against it. He watched as the other woman finished her search of the bed. Again she came up empty.

“Believe me now?” Bridgeman said.

The woman took a piece of paper out of her pocket and handed it to Bridgeman. There was a list of names. Six of them, handwritten in shaky, spidery script. Bridgeman’s was one of them. He recognized all the other five. Varinder Singh. Geoffrey Brown. Michael Rymer. Charlie Adam. Neville Pritchard. And beneath the final name there was a symbol. A question mark.

The woman said, “A name is missing. Who is it?”

Bridgeman’s heart was no longer racing. Now it felt like it wasfull of sludge. Like it didn’t have the strength to force his blood into his arteries. He couldn’t answer. It would mean breaking his oath. He had sworn to never reveal a single detail. They all had, twenty-three years before, when it became clear what they had done. And the missing name belonged to the flakiest of the group. Better for everyone if it remained off the list.

The woman handed Bridgeman another photograph. Another shot of his daughter and granddaughter, on foot this time, halfway across a crosswalk. The picture had been taken through a car windshield.

Bridgeman was channeling all his energy into trying to breathe. It was only a name that the woman wanted. What harm could come from telling her? Plenty, he knew.

The woman said, “Bonus question. What happens tomorrow? Or the next day? Is the driver drunk? Do his brakes fail?”

Bridgeman said, “Buck. The missing name. It’s Owen Buck.”

The woman shook her head. “Buck’s dead. He died of cancer a month ago. Right after he wrote that list. So his isn’t the name I need. He said there was an eighth name. He didn’t know what it was. But he was certain one of you others do.”

Bridgeman didn’t answer. He was struggling to make sense of the information. Buck’s conscience must have gotten the better of him. He was always mumbling about doing something stupid. But that didn’t explain why he told this woman there was an extra name. Maybe his mind had gone. Maybe whatever cancer drugs they gave him had fried his brain.

The woman said, “Maybe the driver will be distracted? Maybe he’ll be asleep at the wheel?”

“Maybe there is another name.” Bridgeman closed his eyes. “Maybe someone knows what it is. One of the others might. But not me. I don’t think one exists.”

The woman said, “Maybe there’ll be enough of your granddaughter left to bury. Maybe there won’t.”

Bridgeman was struggling for air. “Don’t. Please. I don’t know. I swear. I gave you Buck’s name. I didn’t know he’s dead. I’ve been sick. I’ve been in here. No one told me. So if I knew of some other name I’d tell you it, too. But I don’t. So I can’t.”

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