by Merry Jones
‘Stay?’ Dr Kendall’s head tilted, as if viewing her from a different angle. ‘Well, that depends.’
It depended? ‘On what?’
Ron Kendall’s face remained solemn, but his golden eyes warmed. ‘On whether you’ll have coffee with me while you wait.’
What? Coffee with Dr Kendall? Was he serious? He watched her, waiting for an answer. Why would Dr Kendall want to have coffee with her? Harper wasn’t sure what to do; since the war, she avoided social situations where roles weren’t clearly defined. She couldn’t accept; wouldn’t know how to behave, what was appropriate to say. They’d already talked about Graham and about Hank and his progress. What else could they possibly talk about?
Moments later, Harper was still trying to answer that question as she sat in a booth, staring at the coffee shop menu.
The tag on the waitress’s shirt said ‘Chelsea’. Chelsea wore rings on every finger and long burgundy acrylic nails sprinkled with tiny rhinestones. She held a pencil with some difficulty, her grip encumbered by her manicure, as she stood beside their booth, waiting for their order.
‘Have you ever eaten here?’
Harper shook her head.
‘Really? Well, then, get ready: you’re about to experience the world’s greatest pie. Home-made.’
Pie? She’d downed bonbons for lunch and now she was topping them off with pie? Oh well, it wasn’t as if she did this every day. Besides, there was fruit in the pies – fruit was good for you, right? Harper slid further into the booth, trying to get comfortable. And knocking her leather bag off the seat, into the aisle, where her tissues, baby wipes, Tylenol, water bottle – she still packed those supplies – plus keys, phone, wallet, pens, students’ work – everything spilled out on to the floor.
Mortified, bending over to pick things up, she smacked her head against the edge of the table. ‘Damn.’
‘You OK?’ Ron moved across the booth to help her.
‘I’m fine.’ Harper rubbed her skull. ‘It’s OK – I’ve got this.’ She leaned down again; this time, her arm brushed her place setting, sending her napkin and silverware clattering to the linoleum. Lord. Could she be clumsier?
‘Let me get that.’ Chelsea appeared, easily scooping the wallet, phone, keys and papers into the big leather sack.
Mortified, Harper thanked her and shoved the bag safely into the corner of the booth. Then, folding her hands, sitting straight, she tried to regain her composure.
Dr Kendall studied the menu, politely overlooking Harper’s altercation with gravity. He read the list aloud. ‘Rhubarb, sour apple, gooseberry, blackberry . . .’ He stopped to lick his lips before naming the cream pies.
Chelsea poured coffee, and Dr Kendall ordered gooseberry à la mode, Harper blackberry. Ron smiled. His teeth were perfectly aligned, sparkling white. Patrician teeth.
Harper bit her lip. This was precisely why she kept to herself. She couldn’t do polite conversation, didn’t have the skill anymore. Didn’t think the way civilians did, didn’t have the knack. She searched for a topic, but all she could think about was Dr Kendall’s skintight neon Spandex. The man didn’t have a trace of fat. Not anywhere. Just defined, lean muscles rolling when he moved, biceps flexing as he lifted his coffee cup. And there it was: a topic. ‘So, Dr Kendall, you bike a lot?’
‘Ron.’
Ron?
‘Every day, weather permitting. The hills are a great workout. Cycling’s my escape. I get real Zen about it, you know, into the zone. It’s my only break from work.’
‘You’re very devoted to the Center.’
‘Devoted?’ Ron chuckled. ‘Most people who know me – especially my ex-wives – have used other terms. Like self-absorbed, obsessive, compulsive, ambitious, uncompromising. I like “devoted”.’
Ex-wives? Plural? Harper picked up her cup, unable to think of a follow-up. She sipped. Damn. She shouldn’t have come.
Dr Kendall – Ron – seemed completely comfortable with the silence. Unhurried, he regarded her wordlessly, warmly.
Say something, she told herself. Anything. Ask him another question. Ask about his work. ‘So, Dr – I mean, Ron –’ she stumbled over his name – ‘why did you become a doctor?’ Actually, it was a good question; she was curious.
‘No choice,’ he grinned. ‘I’m a third-generation physician. It’s in my blood. My two brothers, sister and I are all in medicine, various specialties. My grandfather was a surgeon; so was my dad. It was never a question that we kids would follow. It got pretty intense. Like – you know that song, “The leg bone’s connected to the knee bone”?’ He sang it. ‘We learned it this way: “The fibula’s connected to the patella . . .” All the way up the body. And that was just preschool.’ He smiled. ‘What about you? How did you get into – sorry, remind me what you teach?’
‘Archeology.’
‘Right. Why?’
Harper hesitated. Over the past weeks, she and Dr Kendall had held frequent, often prolonged conversations, but he’d never expressed the slightest interest in her or her career. Even now, he was probably asking only to be polite.
‘I got into it while I was in Iraq.’
‘You were in Iraq?’ His eyes were a startling shade of amber.
She sat straight, recited her name, rank and serial number. ‘After my parents divorced, Mom couldn’t afford tuition, so I did ROTC. The army sent me to college.’ Why had she said that? He didn’t need to know her life story.
‘So what was it like? Iraq.’
Harper stiffened. Didn’t want to discuss it.
‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to—’
‘No problem.’
‘You were wounded? Your leg?’
He was a doctor, had seen her limp. No need to be secretive. ‘Suicide bomber.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Ron leaned on his elbows, watching her. His arms were tanned, almost hairless. ‘So what happened that got you into Archeology?’
He seemed genuinely interested. Before she knew it, Harper was telling him about small relics she’d found in the sand. Spent bullets. Shards of broken glass and pottery. And how one day, off duty, sifting sand through her fingers, she’d had an epiphany: the sand swallowed everything. One day, it would swallow the war and those fighting it, just as it had swallowed up generation upon generation before them. It would cover their bodies, their bombed-out ruins, their possessions, the finest of their cities. The sand would take all of it, as it always had and always would. She wanted to search for its secrets. To reclaim the past that it held.
When she finished, Ron was quiet. Still watching her.
‘I’ve bored you,’ she apologized.
‘Quite the contrary.’ He leaned forward, eyes glowing. ‘I was captivated. You become alive. You’re radiant when you talk about your field.’
Harper looked down. Unsure how to respond.
‘Here you go, guys.’ Chelsea rescued her, delivering two generous pieces of pie.
Ice cream and whipped cream melted in thick white puddles around warm crust. Harper cut off a wedge, lifted it to her mouth. The filling was tart, the crust flaky. She closed her eyes, savoring.
When she opened them, Ron was grinning, licking a gooseberry off his lip. ‘Good, huh?’
Her mouth full, Harper grinned. Yes. It was good.
Coffee with Ron was much easier than she’d expected.
He talked about his family, its tradition of competing to out-achieve each other, the summers of his youth filled with tennis matches and sailing regattas. ‘But I’m boring,’ he sighed. ‘Let’s talk about someone interesting. Tell me about Harper Jennings. Who is she, really?’
Harper blushed, swallowed pie. ‘Just who you see.’
‘Who I see? Then she’s a beautiful, accomplished, intriguing woman.’ He smiled; her neck got hot. ‘Seriously. I’ve done all the talking. Tell me about you. Before the army.’
Oh dear. Harper told herself to relax; she could omit whatever she wanted. ‘Not much to tell. I grew up outside Chicago, near
the lake. One brother. Divorced parents.’ There. That was enough, wasn’t it?
‘Did you sail, living near the lake?’
‘When I was little, my dad had a boat, but . . . he left.’ And the government took it, along with his antique cars, art collection and everything else of value. Even the house.
‘What did your father do?’
For a moment, Harper thought he meant what crime. But, of course, he was only asking about his profession. She tried to sound casual. ‘Accounting. Financial stuff.’ She stopped herself. No need to elaborate. ‘But he and my mom split up. And he left.’ For fifteen to twenty. By now, he’d have been released, but Harper hadn’t been in touch. Didn’t plan to be, despite her bargains with God.
Ron swallowed coffee. ‘How old were you when he left?’
‘Twelve.’ She fiddled with her fork. ‘Overnight, we went from ostentatiously affluent to dirt poor.’
‘Ouch.’ Ron raised an eyebrow, probably wondering what happened to the money.
Enough. No more about her. Harper never talked about her family. Or Iraq. So why was she suddenly blabbing about both? She took a bite of pie.
Ron watched her chew.
‘What?’
‘Nothing.’
Oh God. ‘Do I have blackberries on my mouth?’ She lifted a napkin, wiped.
‘No, no.’ Ron laughed. ‘I’m just enjoying myself. Actually taking a break.’
Harper reddened, lifted her cup, looked away. She changed the subject. ‘How long will Anna sleep?’
Anna, after all, was the reason they’d gone for coffee, but so far neither had mentioned her.
Ron looked at his watch. ‘Not long.’
‘I should go let her know I’m here—’
‘No rush. They need to talk to her when she gets up.’
Harper recalled the suddenness of Anna’s fall. ‘I’ve never known anyone with narcolepsy. I thought she just was bored and dozed off in class.’
‘Bored?’ Ron feigned disbelief. ‘In your class?’
Harper grinned.
‘Actually, Anna’s falling asleep in class indicates the opposite of boredom. Narcoleptics tend to have episodes when they feel intense emotion.’
Intense emotion? As in a crush on a classmate? ‘Anna said there’s no cure.’
‘No. But there are ways to ease symptoms. Napping regularly. Taking medications.’ Maybe Anna hadn’t been taking her pills.
Well, for that matter, neither had Harper. She hadn’t taken her flashback medication for weeks. But talk of pills reminded Harper of the vial in Graham’s book bag. Maybe Ron would know what it was.
‘Let me ask you something.’ She unzipped the bag, took it out.
‘What’s that?’ Ron set his cup down.
‘Graham – my student – had these with him when he died.’ She held the bottle out. ‘The label says they’re from the Neurology Center. There’s a number, but no doctor or drug name. Can you tell what they are?’
‘These were with him when he died?’ Ron frowned.
‘Here in his book bag.’
The frown deepened. He opened the vial and looked inside. ‘Is this the only bottle he had?’
She nodded. ‘Why?’
Ron took a pill out, studied it. ‘I just . . . I’m wondering how he got hold of these.’
‘Why? What are they?’
‘I’m not sure. There’s no pharmaceutical code on this. It might be from a drug trial.’
A drug trial? Anna had said that her classmates were participating in drug research. ‘So maybe Graham was taking part in a trial? That would explain why he had them, right?’
Silence. Dr Kendall turned the pill in his hand.
Harper pressed on. ‘Actually, I thought they might be medicine. For depression, maybe. Or some condition that would explain what happened—’
‘No. If your student did have a condition, these pills weren’t to treat it. The vial is labeled, see?’ He pointed to the marking: RKM93. ‘It looks like the code number for a study.’ Ron set the pill on a napkin. ‘So, what do you plan to do?’
To do? Oh, with the pills. Harper shrugged. ‘I’ll give them to the police with the rest of his stuff.’
Ron folded his hands.
‘Is there a problem?’
‘No, of course not.’ Ron looked from Harper to the pill, then back to Harper. ‘Look. Actually, Harper, I’d like to ask a favor—’
Chelsea appeared, refilling their cups. And Harper saw Ron wrap the pill in a napkin and stuff it into the pocket of his bike shorts.
‘What’s the favor?’ Harper eyed his pocket, about to ask him what he thought he was doing.
Ron leaned across the table, came close enough to whisper. Reflexively, Harper backed away, unaccustomed to close contact with men in Spandex. ‘I want to take that pill with me, so I can identify it.’ He sat back, waiting for her answer.
What he said made sense. After all, the things needed to be identified, and he was taking just one. She still had the rest of the vial for the police.
‘OK. Take it.’ She didn’t mention that he already had.
Ron didn’t seem satisfied. He fidgeted with his spoon, scowling.
‘What?’
He met her eyes. ‘To be honest, I’m concerned about the police getting that vial. The suicide is all over the news, and the kid had the pills with him when he died. It’s going to be a disaster if the media get a hold of that tidbit.’
‘I don’t follow.’
‘Harper, the media blow everything out of proportion. It’s what they do. Don’t you see? If these pills are part of a drug trial, and a test subject suddenly kills himself, that means some real bad publicity.’
‘You’re worried about publicity?’
Ron’s eyes were fiery. ‘You bet I am. I have to be.’ He drew a deep breath. ‘Harper, this death was a terrible tragedy. And I’d like to avoid even the slightest implication that a drug from the Center had anything to do with it. We need to keep a low profile here.’
Harper was appalled. ‘You’re worried about public image? A student is dead—’
‘Exactly. And if these pills in any way contributed to his death, then no question, that needs to be and will be addressed.’ Ron folded his hands. ‘But if, as I suspect, the pills are benign and completely unrelated, I’d prefer – I’d strongly prefer – to keep the Neurological Center out of the news entirely.’
Harper looked away, confused. Ron Kendall was the man she trusted with her husband’s brain – with his life. But what kind of man was this ambitious third-generation doctor? What exactly was he asking her to do?
Harper looked directly at him. ‘To be frank, Dr Kendall, it sounds like you care less about a student’s life than the Center’s reputation—’
‘Now, hold on.’ His voice was too loud. He stopped, lowered it, leaning close. ‘You of all people know that isn’t true. My entire career is about saving lives. Which is why, despite my sorrow about your student, I’ve got to look at the big picture.’
‘The what?’
‘The Center is privately funded, completely dependent on grants and donations. And our work is unparalleled. Our research – like that on frontal lobe injuries affecting your husband and thousands of war veterans – our advances on learning and memory – nobody in the country – nobody in the world does what we do.’
He reached for his cup. Picked it up, put it back down. ‘Harper, I might sound cold, but I’m assistant director of research here. So, yes, I’m concerned, very concerned, about publicity and its effects on our funding. And, frankly, with your husband here, you should be, too. We’d both hate like hell to see the Center’s financing sabotaged and our work halted by misleading bad press.’ His eyes glowed gold.
Harper saw his point. But not what, if anything, he wanted her to do about it.
They sat silently. Harper looked at pie crust, avoided his eyes.
‘Sorry I got upset. But these are tough economic times, and we depend entirely o
n—’
‘Right. I get it,’ Harper interrupted. ‘You can’t afford bad press. But you can’t expect me to hide the pills—’
‘No, of course not.’ Ron seemed startled by the thought. ‘I wouldn’t ask you to. No. The only way to avoid bad press is for me to hurry up and identify this.’ He tapped his pocket. ‘If it played no role in your student’s death, that’ll be the end of it. If it did, well, the Center will have to deal with it.’ Ron’s eyes focused on Harper. ‘I shouldn’t have even bothered you about this. It’s not your problem.’ He reached across the table, touching her arm.
It was just a touch, but it brought goose bumps, jolted her. She looked away, made herself think of Hank. Pictured him upstairs in his sterile room, watching daytime television. Or napping, awaiting his next procedure.
Ron gave her arm a squeeze; Hank’s image fizzled away.
‘Ready to go?’ He released her arm. His hand retreated across the table, picked up the check. She could still feel its warm imprint.
Stop it, she scolded herself. She’d been starved of male companionship for too long. Ron’s concern, his request to identify the medication – their coffee and conversation – were purely professional. His touch had been a normal human gesture, nothing more.
‘Ready.’ Harper gathered first her bulky bag, then Graham’s, and slid out of the booth, careful not to knock anything on to the floor.
Paycheck in his pocket, Larry sat in the coffee shop, popped a couple of his remaining pills and thought about what he was going to do. Graham, the fuckhead, had really screwed him. Screwed them all. Right after the cops stopped asking questions, Larry had raced home and searched the apartment, turned Graham’s toilet of a room upside down, hadn’t found a thing. Dammit, where had Graham stashed them?
Larry rubbed his eyes, fought a headache while considering the chick in the corner booth. Long dark hair, tattoo on her ankle. Low-cut halter top. He could see a mole on the top of one tit. But then, while he was picturing what he’d do to that mole, to his sheer astonishment, in walked his Archeology teacher. And guess what?
She was carrying fucking Graham’s fucking book bag.
His book bag. Shit. The asshole. He must have stuck the numbers in his book bag. Of course. Larry had looked every-place else and found zip; they had to be in the book bag.
