by Merry Jones
Detective Rivers asked another question: Did Harper have any idea what Monique or Larry had been doing at her house?
Harper imagined the two of them, Monique waiting on the porch as Larry snuck around, searching. But, suddenly, it wasn’t Larry prowling around in the house; it was Trent Manning. After all, just a couple of days ago, she’d caught Trent rifling thought Hank’s office. Maybe Trent had come back, desperate to find Hank’s papers. Maybe Trent had found the students at the house and confronted them . . .
No. Trent couldn’t have killed anyone. Certainly, not over Hank’s notes. And if he were going to, it wouldn’t be by stabbing; he’d probably pass out if he saw blood. But if not Trent, who could have been there?
Harper didn’t get it. Why would Larry and Monique come over? It had to connect with Graham. Again, she replayed Larry’s visit to her office, asking her for Graham’s book bag. Larry and Monique must have thought she had something of Graham’s – something to do with the stolen drugs. And they’d come looking for it. But what was it? And why would they look in her house? Larry had known she’d given Graham’s things to the police.
The detective touched Harper’s arm. ‘Harper? Are you all right?’ She was attractive, Detective Rivers. Chocolate skin, round eyes. She was trying to be patient.
Vicki took Harper’s hand. ‘Would you like a drink, Harper? Some Scotch?’
Harper shook her head.
‘She really should go to the hospital.’ Boschi chewed. ‘She’s not right.’
‘I agree, Harper. You should get looked at.’
Harper put a hand on her thigh, remembering the pain of her operations. And the terror of the vigil she’d spent beside Hank’s bed. No, no hospital.
‘Well, then? Do you know why?’
Why? Why what? What was the question? Rivers repeated it. Did she know why the kids had been at her house? Oh, right. That question.
‘No,’ she answered. ‘But I think it was about Graham. The stolen pills.’
‘How did you know about that?’ Boschi’s tone was pointed.
‘About what?’
‘That they had pills on them.’ Rivers’ gaze zeroed in on Harper.
‘We found a vial in Larry’s pants pocket, another in Monique’s bag.’ Boschi frowned. ‘How did you know that?’
‘I didn’t.’ But now that she did, Harper was certain that the pills were at the root of the deaths, and she told the detectives about Larry.
Boschi frowned, chewed hard on his gum. Maybe he didn’t believe her. Maybe he thought she was a thief, a drug dealer, a killer. Harper’s head hurt; she closed her eyes and saw Monique on the swing and Larry slumped against her bathroom wall. Damn. Why were they dead? They were just kids.
Just kids. But Graham, Monique and Larry weren’t typical. All three had participated in research studies at the clinic, and all three had been in possession of stolen pills. Harper tried to remember who else she’d seen at the clinic. Larry and Monique. Jeremy. And Esoso and his room-mate . . .
Wait. Maybe Larry and Monique hadn’t been at the house alone. Maybe a whole swarm of students – a gang including Esoso and Jeremy – had been there. Certainly, the place looked like an entire horde had invaded it. Maybe something had gone wrong, and the gang killed Monique and Larry? But what about Chelsea? Would they have killed her, too?
Harper’s head pounded. She was making up scenarios based on nothing. Her students weren’t killers. But who else had a reason to ransack her house and kill Monique and Larry? Who else even knew about the drugs? She could think of no one. Well, except Ron. And Dr Wyatt. And the other researchers at the clinic. And, of course, the FDA.
Eyes open again, she clutched an ice bag, refusing to duck for cover even when Marvin exploded right next to her. Think of the coldness, the ice, she ordered herself. You’re in the kitchen. Count the tiles on the floor, or the dishes tossed there.
Detective Rivers was watching her. ‘Is it?’
Apparently, Harper had missed yet another chunk of conversation. ‘Sorry?’
‘Your phone? Is that your phone?’
Harper hadn’t heard it. Anyhow, it had stopped. It was probably her mother. Or Leslie. It didn’t matter.
The detective leaned closer, studying Harper’s pupils. The boy with no face kicked her hard under the table, but she didn’t react. Harper sat stoic and unmoving, her face inscrutable, watching bodies fall, hearing men scream.
Trent was out cold, reeking of booze on his living room sofa. Harper sank on to an adjacent easy chair, listening to him snore. Her house was a crime scene, and Detective Rivers had positively forbidden her to stay anywhere alone, had even threatened to put her into protective custody. She’d avoided that by agreeing to let rotating cruisers keep an eye on her, packing a small bag and promising to stay at Trent and Vicki’s. The snoring, though, amounted to torture, and Harper couldn’t decide which was worse – a serial killer or Trent’s snoring – when Vicki rescued her, taking her by the hand into the kitchen.
‘Hungry?’ Vicki asked. ‘I need to eat.’
Eat? Harper’s stomach had been empty since she’d lost her lunch hours ago, but she hadn’t even thought about food. Suddenly, though, she saw a cake on the table and was voracious. ‘What’s that?’
‘Red velvet cake. I baked this morning.’ Vicki baked when she was upset. ‘Ham sandwich OK?’
Harper nodded, eyes on the cake.
Vicki set an empty glass in front of Harper and poured a few fingers of Scotch. ‘Drink.’
Harper already had double vision and a double concussion. Scotch wasn’t a good idea.
‘Go on. Drink.’ Vicki sounded like a drill sergeant.
Harper didn’t.
But Vicki did. She lifted her glass. ‘To better days.’ She drained it.
What the hell, Harper thought. ‘Amen.’
The booze burned her throat but warmed her insides. Vicki topped off the glass and refilled her own, gulping most of it before getting out the bread and ham. Leaving Harper alone with the cake.
Her stomach was empty. And cutting seemed like a waste of time and clean knives. She reached out a finger.
‘Harper, wait – I’ll cut you a piece—’
‘Don’t bother.’ Harper’s mouth was full. She gouged out another piece, moist and rich and gently chocolate. Vicki’s baking was always perfect. In fact, everything Vicki did was perfect. Her home was immaculate. Her clothes high fashion, her red nails flawless. Did Hank think so, too? Had he been impressed by Vicki’s perfectness? The idea infuriated Harper, and she dug her unmanicured fingers back into the cake, withdrawing a shapeless blob of reddish brown and ivory, shoving it into her mouth. She chased the cake with Scotch. Yum. When she set her glass down, she realized that she saw only one hand holding a single glass – no doubles. Good. She was recovering. Maybe liquor was helping.
At any rate, she was calming down, had stopped shivering. Vicki brought their sandwiches and sat, eyeing the damaged cake, swallowing Scotch. ‘Really, Harper? Taking your frustration out on baked goods?’
Harper bit into her sandwich.
‘Well, if it helps, have at it. Because, I mean, two murders? At your house? Oh God, what a horror.’
Harper chewed, saw Monique on the porch, Larry on the bathroom floor. Graham on the Arts Quad. Her eyes welled up. The food clogged her throat, so she washed it down with Scotch. And then she let go and sobbed.
The tears wouldn’t stop.
‘The shock is wearing off.’ Vicki hugged her. She spoke with authority, as if she knew about shock. ‘Reality is hitting you.’
Vicki was right. Except that reality wasn’t just hitting her, it was beating her to a pulp. Harper used a mustard-stained napkin to smear tears off her face. She needed to get hold of herself and think. Why had Larry and Monique been killed? How were their murders connected to the stolen drugs? Why had they been at her house? And what had the guy on the bike and whoever had ransacked her house been looking for? Did they think she had th
e drugs?
She put down the napkin, unable to figure anything out. All she knew for sure was that, for all her training and military expertise, she’d failed to protect anyone. Not Marvin, Sameh, the boy or the others in Iraq. Not her husband, her students or herself here at home.
‘Go ahead, Harper. Cry. You have every reason to feel sorry for yourself.’
Wait. What? To feel sorry for herself? Harper stiffened, stunned at the thought.
Vicki offered a box of tissues. Harper pulled one out, blew her nose and swallowed the tears.
‘I’m fine.’
‘Oh, please, Harper. Stop pretending. As far as I know, you haven’t let go since Hank’s accident. Frankly, sorry as I am about those poor kids, it’s a relief to see you fall apart.’
To see her what? Harper bristled, squared her shoulders. She was army strong, didn’t fall apart, never had. Well, not since middle school. Never would. At least not in front of others. Unless she was having a flashback. Or dampening Ron Kendall’s handkerchief. No, even at her worst, Harper kept on, dependably, reliably responsible, functioning regardless of her personal feelings, keeping them to herself. She didn’t fall apart; wasn’t even now. Why didn’t Vicki know that?
Harper took another bite of honeyed ham, chewed with a stuffed nose and washed down her mouthful with yet another gulp of Scotch.
‘Why don’t you let go, Harper? It’s just me here. Don’t you trust me?’
Harper thought about it, hesitated too long, recalling Trent’s suspicions. And Hank’s declaration: ‘Vicki. Screwed.’
‘Oh God, you don’t.’ Vicki’s hand covered her chest, wounded. ‘Really? Why not? What did I do?’
‘Vicki, please.’ Harper was in no condition to discuss it.
‘I care about you, Harper. I’m here for you. But once again you’re shutting me out—’
‘You’re right. Sorry.’ Harper cut her off. ‘Look, we talked about it at lunch. I haven’t been much of a friend. I just don’t have the energy right now.’
‘OK. I get it.’ Vicki sighed, pouting. ‘I don’t want to guilt-trip you.’
Silence. Except for the snores resonating in the adjacent room.
‘Listen to him.’ Vicki swished her drink around in her glass. The walls were shaking. ‘Even when things were good, I couldn’t take that snoring. I moved him into the guest room years ago. It’s one thing I won’t miss when he moves out.’ She didn’t sound happy.
‘You’re really splitting up?’ Harper blew her nose. ‘After so many years?’
‘Yup. We are.’ Vicki swallowed more Scotch. ‘It’s not a marriage anymore. Especially since Hank’s accident.’ She chewed her lip. ‘I started to tell you before. Trent can’t even . . . perform.’
‘Depression maybe?’ Harper offered. ‘I’ve heard that can happen when men get depressed.’
‘Maybe.’ Vicki’s eyes were glazed now. ‘But Trent’s just . . . It’s like I’m invisible to him.’
They sat for a while, listening to him. Harper held more ice against the lump on her head and considered Vicki’s situation, feeling invisible in a sexless marriage. ‘So that’s why you had your affair?’
Vicki’s mouth opened. She looked surprised. ‘Uh–well, no. That – the affair – was before Hank’s accident, back when Trent was still . . . functional.’ Her eyes drifted, staring into the air. Troubled.
‘So? Did you love him?’
The question jangled Vicki. ‘Who? Trent?’ She poured more booze.
‘The guy you had the affair with,’ Harper persisted. ‘Did you love him?’
Vicki’s lips curled into a kind of grimace. ‘I did, yes. Still do, in a way.’
Harper’s hands tightened around her glass. Was it Hank? Was Vicki in love with Hank? She looked at the remainder of the red velvet cake, considered what it would look like smeared across Vicki’s face. Stop, she told herself. You don’t know for sure.
‘How did it start?’
‘Uh uh, Harper.’ Vicki suddenly slurred her words, sounded hammered. ‘I don’ wanna talk about it.’
Harper clenched her jaw, deciding it was better not to hear the details. ‘But it’s over?’
Vicki took yet another swig. ‘Yup. Over.’
Of course it was over. Hank was in the clinic, unable to talk, much less romance anyone. Still, Harper couldn’t stop herself. She needed to know. ‘Who was he, Vicki?’
Vicki raised her manicured pointer finger, scolding, her voice a sing-song. ‘Uh uh. No, no. Can’t tell you.’
‘Why not?’ Harper’s tone had a razor edge.
‘Because,’ Vicki’s eyes watered boozily, ‘he’s married.’
Harper felt the blood drain from her face. ‘So?’
Vicki shook her head, no. ‘It’d be bad if I told.’ She met Harper’s eyes. ‘Very bad. Cuz you know him.’
Confront her, Harper told herself. Ask if it was Hank. ‘I know him?’
Vicki nodded slowly. ‘Yep, you do.’
Harper watched Vicki drain the rest of her drink. ‘Was it Hank?’
Vicki coughed, choking, spitting out Scotch. ‘What?’
‘Was it?’ Harper’s voice was surprisingly matter-of-fact, but she wasn’t going to back down. ‘Did you have an affair with my husband?’
‘With Hank?’ Vicki’s mouth hung open. Then she began to laugh, maybe too hard. ‘Wait – zat what you think? Oh my God. How could you think that?’ It wasn’t an answer.
‘Well?’ Harper persisted, a little less calmly.
Vicki’s eyes floated from her empty glass to the bottle to Harper. ‘Me. With Hank? God, Harper. That’s ridiclus. Doesn’t d’serve 'nanswer. Hank thinksh . . . He thinksh yer th’only woman in th’world. Th’sun rises and setsh on you. B’sides, I’m your friend.’
Vicki went on, vehemently, drunkenly denying the charge. Harper had finally managed to ask the question, and now she wasn’t sure she believed the answer.
Abruptly, Harper cleared her plate and said her head hurt; she wanted to lie down. In fact, she suspected Vicki of lying about Hank and couldn’t bear to look at her. So, even though it wasn’t yet eight o’clock, she thanked Vicki for feeding her and letting her sleep over, and said goodnight.
Leaving Trent to the family-room sofa, she moved into the guest room he normally occupied. Vicki trailed after her, offering to help her change the sheets or run a bath, but Harper insisted that she just needed to rest, could take care of herself.
The guest room smelled like air freshener. Harper opened a window and sat beside it, inhaling the summer evening air, aching with every breath. She had three dead students, a battered head and an aphasic, possibly adulterous husband. And she couldn’t even go home because her ransacked house was a crime scene that she couldn’t enter. Harper hurt all over – her skull, her cheek, her leg. Her heart. She wished she could cry but couldn’t, especially after Vicki had accused her of feeling sorry for herself. So, dry-eyed, she stared into the darkening sky and realized that she’d missed her nightly visit to Hank. Who might have had an affair with Vicki. She thought of calling, asking the nurse to tell him she had a cold.
Then again, it wasn’t that late. She could still get there before nine, the end of visiting hours. Quickly, a little dizzily, Harper took a shower, changed her clothes, grabbed her leather bag and headed outside. She didn’t bother to tell Vicki she was leaving, didn’t want to explain. Silently, avoiding the police cruiser idling protectively across the street, Harper snuck out of the house into the screaming of crickets and the shadows of oncoming night. She might not be able to bring back her dead students, but at least she could find out the truth about her husband, for better or worse.
She didn’t take the Ninja. Partly because she’d been drinking, partly because its noise would announce her departure, mostly because she’d left it back home in her driveway. Besides, Vicki’s house on Fairmount Avenue was above College Town, less than a mile from the clinic; it would be tight, but she could make it in time if she walked fast.<
br />
On the way, she rehearsed what she’d say to Hank. She’d keep it simple, asking questions with yes or no answers. Just a blunt: ‘Did you and Vicki have an affair?’ No. Too polite. ‘Were you screwing Vicki?’ Better.
The streets were duskier, more deserted than usual. Clouds hid the moon, and the red sunset bled across the sky. Breezes brushed her shoulders, tickled her neck as she hurried through the wooded, undeveloped area near the clinic. She felt off balance and dizzy. Too much Scotch, too many head injuries. She leaned against a tree, steadying herself, listening to rustling leaves, then to stillness.
What was she doing? Nobody – not a single person – knew where she was. And the killer was still out there; someone who knew her, who knew where she lived. What if the killer were watching her now? Following her? What had she been thinking? Why had she ventured out alone?
Her phone rang, startling her. Harper started walking again, reaching inside her bag, pulling it out. Distracted, she didn’t watch where she was going, didn’t see the root of an oak in her path. She went down hard, slamming the dirt and dropping the phone, which smacked something solid and stopped ringing on impact. Damn. Now what had she done? On her knees in dirt, head throbbing, her bad leg protesting, she scrambled in the dusk to find her lost, probably broken phone. She rooted around inside her leather sack for a penlight that she was almost certain was in there somewhere, wrapped her fingers around a thing that felt right – no, it was a ballpoint. Finally, after fingering countless pens, highlighters, pencils and tampons, she found it and flashed a feeble beam of light around, hunting, annoyed with herself for stumbling. Searching, she decided that the call had probably been Vicki, looking for her. That she’d better hurry if she wanted to get to the clinic before nine.
Wait – was that her phone, under that tree? She reached for it, touched a rough, square stone. Hard and cold, covered with slimy moss. She looked again, felt more dirt, fingered snaky vines and stems. Where was the damned thing? It had to be there. Shadows surrounded her. And noises. Sounds of night creatures that normally calmed her alarmed her now. Branches cracked. Something screeched; something scurried. Was that a breeze on her neck? Or was someone behind her? Harper whirled around, aiming the light into the shadows, stabbing the darkness with a frail beam. Was someone there? Had someone moved in the thicket? She remembered Monique, the stains on her pink shirt; Larry, the nail file in his neck.
