Summer Session

by Merry Jones

  ‘Unless someone takes too much and kills somebody?’

  ‘If you took too much aspirin, you’d die, too. Too much anything can kill you.’

  He was right. Too much anything, including red meat. Harper cut another chunk, savored the texture, the richness of prime beef. The waiter brought a bottle of red wine. Candles flickered, cast a golden glow on to the palette of Ron’s face; darkness and light impishly danced on skin. What was she doing here with him? Couldn’t he have told her about the pills on the phone?

  She watched his fingers deftly working his utensils, his jaw flexing as he chewed. Rippling his cheek muscles. He smiled, suddenly, aware of her stare. ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing.’ She looked away.

  Ron put down his fork, studying her. Then, reaching across the table, he touched her arm, held it. ‘This has been an ordeal for you. But, from what I’ve seen, you’ve handled it with incredible grace and strength. Thank God that, in spite of everything, you’re all right. Except for that nasty lump.’

  The lump again. Harper couldn’t remember telling him about it. She must have, though.

  ‘. . . you can think of?’

  She’d missed the first part of his question.

  ‘Think for a minute,’ he went on. ‘Do you still have anything of Graham’s at all?’

  Of course she didn’t. ‘Nothing.’ Well, except for that scrap of paper with scribbled numbers on it. Larry had said that it was a study guide. The numbers probably weren’t important. Still, maybe she should mention it. Maybe Ron would know what they were. ‘All I can think of is that list of numbers.’

  He released her arm. ‘I should take a look at it. Just in case.’

  Harper stiffened; the timbre of Ron’s voice had changed. ‘Just in case?’

  ‘In case it’s important. Look, I don’t mean to be an alarmist, Harper. Whatever the guy who tossed your house is looking for, he’s killed people trying to get it.’

  Ron was warning her that she could be next. That she was in danger. Sameh entered the restaurant, approaching them, smiling. Oh God. Not now. Harper looked for a lemon, grabbed the twist from Ron’s empty Martini glass and shoved it into her mouth.

  ‘Harper?’

  Eyes closed, she munched on the lemon rind, concentrating on the tang. The intensely sour, bitter flavor.

  When she opened her eyes, Ron was watching her. Thank God, Sameh was nowhere in sight.

  Ron finished his last bite of steak, put his fork down and leaned back. He looked worn out. ‘Who’d have thought a wonder drug could cause so much trouble?’

  Harper had no answer. In her experience, trouble popped up all over the place. Why not from a pill bottle? She swallowed the last of her potatoes.

  Ron sighed. ‘Well. There’s no option anymore. I’ll issue a press release about the theft. Give the serial numbers of the missing pills and vials. Warn people not to buy or take them. It might ruin our trials, but I don’t see any way around it.’ His mouth formed an unconvincing smile.

  This time, Harper touched his hand. It was smooth, strong. Her fingers felt comfortable there, wanting to remain. ‘People have died, Ron. Others are in danger. It’s the right thing to do.’

  He met her eyes and the skin of Harper’s fingers tingled.

  ‘It’s late,’ Harper made herself say. ‘We’d better go.’

  He didn’t say anything, just kept looking at her. Harper looked back. His stare was intense, probing. She returned it, oddly engrossed, examining his features. They were symmetrical, delicate but still manly. And his lips – oh dear. They looked soft and plump. Probably, he was a slow and tender kisser, the kind who slides and slips, gently pressing and releasing. She could almost feel it. But Ron stood, offering not his lips but his arm to escort her out of the restaurant. Wow! Where was her mind going? She needed to get out of there, to get a grip.

  Harper didn’t look at Ron or speak until they got to his car and drove off. And, then, all she said was that her house was a crime scene, so she wasn’t going home. She’d begun giving him directions to Vicki’s when Ron pulled off the road and stopped.

  ‘Come to my place.’ His eyes pierced hers, and his voice was throaty, like sex. ‘Stay with me.’

  ‘What?’ Stay with him? Really? ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Of course you can. Look, this is serious, Harper. I’m not propositioning you; I know you’re married. But your husband isn’t able to be there for you, and you shouldn’t be alone. There’s a killer out there, and I . . . Hell, I want you to be safe.’

  Ron’s gaze was warm. Or something was; Harper felt heat welling up around her. He smelled of spice and booze and work and musk, and he covered her hand with his. His touch was no longer strange.

  ‘I promise, I won’t make a pass.’ His eyes twinkled softly and his lips teased with a playful smirk. ‘Unless you want me to.’

  God forgive me, Harper thought. Because, at that moment, she wanted him to, very badly. Her skin throbbed where he touched it. And where she imagined him touching it. Even so, something held her back. No matter how intoxicating Ron’s scent, no matter how seductive his touch, the man simply was not Hank.

  But Hank might have cheated on her. And he wasn’t able to be with her. And he might not ever be able to, no matter how badly she needed him or how much she wished otherwise. Ron, on the other hand, was right there. With his gentle caring hands and thick voice and knowing, glowing eyes and smooth, smooth skin. He was there.

  But no. No.

  Later, as she lay down on sheets perfumed with fabric softener in a room filled with air freshener, Harper replayed the scene again and again, hearing Ron inviting her to stay with him. And no matter how hard she tried to stop, no matter how she tried to replace his image with thoughts of Hank, Harper lay awake, tossing, wondering what would have happened if she’d agreed and gone.

  Sleep simply wasn’t going to happen. Harper fluffed pillows, turned from one side to the other. Tried to read a TIME magazine she found on the nightstand, but couldn’t focus on the page. Switched on the television, found the noise, the commercials irritating.

  Finally, she got out of bed and wandered around Vicki’s guest room, feeling trapped and edgy. She looked out the window. The police cruiser had gone, and she gazed into the trees, wondering if the killer might be watching her, still convinced that she had some connection to the stolen drugs. Nothing moved outside; the night air was still and undisturbed, revealing no sign of a trespasser. Harper moved away from the window, sat on the bed. Saw her bag on the dresser beside Hank’s computer. And remembered the page of numbers. She’d forgotten to show it to Ron.

  Maybe, if she looked at it again, she could figure out if they stood for anything. Assuming they weren’t a study guide, maybe they were some kind of code. Opening her bag, she felt around for loose papers, found some receipts for groceries and stamps, to-do lists she’d made and abandoned. But no page of numbers.

  Damn. It was in there, somewhere. It had to be. She dumped her bag out on to the bed. Found the usual: keys, extension cord, change purse, wallet, pens, notebooks, folders, grade book, flashlight, textbook, tampons, hairbrush, baby wipes, chap stick, tweezers, toothbrush, forms for the copy machine, candy bars, water bottle, antibiotic cream, lip balm, Swiss army knife, sunglasses, stapler, Tylenol, plastic spoon, corkscrew – Lord, was there no end to the stuff this bag could carry? Paper clips. Nail clipper. Two Tide sticks. Sewing kit. Sun screen. Memo about a department meeting. Baseball cap. More baby wipes. Band-Aids. Out-of-date coupons for shampoo, toilet tissue and Parmesan cheese. Old birthday card from her mother. Receipt from her last physical.

  But no sheet of paper with numbers written on it.

  Harper sat on the bed, puzzled, staring at the small mountain beside her. It had to be here. It had been there earlier; she’d seen it when she’d called for help. Damn. Where was it? Had she inadvertently stuck it in a folder? She rifled through them, the textbooks, the grade book. Nothing. She knew she hadn’t tossed it out. But had she
accidentally dropped it? Not noticed it floating to the ground?

  Impossible. She distinctly remembered stuffing it into her bag.

  Well, probably it was nothing, anyhow. But, then, maybe it was. Either way, it bothered her that she couldn’t find it. So why couldn’t she?

  Probably, it was right in front of her. Probably, she couldn’t see it because she was looking so hard for it. That happened a lot, didn’t it? Things turned up when you weren’t searching for them. What she needed to do was think about something else. Do something different. And that’s when, looking around the room, her gaze landed on Hank’s computer.

  Harper shoveled her things back into her bag. She’d look for the numbers later, with fresh eyes. Meantime, she’d log on to Hank’s computer and find out why Hank didn’t want Trent to use his notes.

  Problem was, though, she didn’t know Hank’s password. She stared at the blank box on the screen, resenting it. Hank was her husband. Under the circumstances, she should have access to all his files, shouldn’t need a damned password. The computer, however, was unimpressed with her opinion; it waited, not letting her in.

  Harper wouldn’t give up. She was entitled; Hank was her husband. She knew him better than anyone and ought to be able to figure out his password. It wouldn’t be their address or his middle name; too obvious. Harper watched the screen, realizing that she had no idea where to start. She needed sustenance. Chocolate.

  She found a mini Snickers bar in her sack, nibbled at it as she typed in Hank’s Alma Mater: S T A N F O R D. Nope. She tried his mother’s maiden name, his father’s first and middle. She tried her birthday, their wedding anniversary; was unsurprised when neither worked.

  OK, she told herself: think like Hank. She popped the last of the Snickers into her mouth and focused on her husband’s past, his passions. The mutt he’d had as a child – she typed ‘Ralph’. No luck. His first car – Mustang. Nope. OK. Maybe his first sweetheart – what was her name? Suzanne? No. Probably it was something about his work. About geology. She tried earthsci, geology, geodoc, earthdoc, earthman, earthling. Mountain, stalactite, stalagmite, volcano, seismic, striation, crystal, geode, rocks, petroleum, oilfield – every related term she could think of. Still nothing.

  Harper leaned back, crossing her arms, frustrated. And in a furious burst, typed in Vicki, then VickiManning. Smiling when neither worked.

  She thought back to Hank’s insistence that Trent shouldn’t get hold of his notes. Harper couldn’t imagine why. What would Hank need to keep from Trent? And then she remembered Hank saying something else.

  Harper typed it into the computer. A C U M A L. She was in.

  Harper browsed the files, finding page after page of notes, lectures and articles, with no idea what she was looking for. Finally, she decided to stop. The simple fact was that Hank didn’t want Trent to have access to his notes. It didn’t matter why or which ones. She shouldn’t even have begun the search.

  Yawning, she was about to shut down the computer when she noticed the envelope icon. Hank had mail. She sat for a while, looking at it. She shouldn’t open it. Email was private. But in her case, as Hank’s wife, she had to handle his affairs; something important might be there.

  Gingerly, as if the mouse might bite, she clicked the icon. Two hundred seventy-four emails. Lord. Most of them had arrived after the accident. Faculty memos, student messages. Spam. Calls for papers and publication submissions. Invitations to conferences. Departmental announcements. But there were other messages, too. Older, from before the accident. Most were from Trent. A few were from clients; some from journal editors, one in particular.

  Randomly, Harper opened one. The editor thanked Hank for his submission and asked for clarification on a few specific points. She opened another, from Trent, and found a list of citations. Opened another.

  ‘What the fuck, man? Do NOT go that route. I promise it will end badly.’

  Harper read it again, stunned. She pictured Trent sputtering as he wrote it. What had he been so mad about? She searched sent mail, trying to match the date of Trent’s message with email from Hank, but she found nothing from Hank to Trent on that date. She tried the preceding day and the one before that. Nothing had been sent from Hank to Trent that whole week. Whatever had angered Trent must have transpired by phone or in person.

  Harper went back to incoming mail and found more email from Trent. All normal stuff. Nothing that indicated anger. Whatever the dispute had been, they must have worked it out. After all, right up until the accident, the two had been inseparable. And Hank had never mentioned any trouble. She thought of Vicki. Had she been the issue?

  But then Harper opened a message from Trent sent in April, just days before Hank fell: ‘Congratulations, Pal. You win. Do whatever you want. No doubt, you’ll get it. But what goes around comes around. It’s your karma now.’

  Harper reread it, relieved; Vicki wasn’t an ‘it’. So the conflict wasn’t about her. In fact, she was pretty sure that Trent’s ‘it’ meant tenure. But there was something disturbing in his email, almost a premonition. As if Trent were warning Hank. But no. Trent had been bitter about some professional issue, nothing more. Partnerships, after all, were like marriages, full of ups and downs, high drama, complex emotions. And, sometimes, betrayal.

  Harper moved on, scanning email until her eyes burned, finally tired. It was after two a.m. Time to shut down the computer, try to fall asleep.

  But she didn’t close it down. She started to, but stopped when she saw another block of email. From Vicki.

  ‘Honestly, I understand how you feel,’ Vicki had written. ‘But while you’re both up for tenure, it would be unfair of you to expose this thing. For now, can’t we please keep it entre nous?’

  Harper let out a breath. What ‘thing’ was Vicki asking Hank not to expose? Was it the same ‘thing’ Trent had talked about, Vicki’s ‘thing’ for Hank? And why had Hank saved the email?

  Harper massaged her temples. There were lots of possibilities other than an affair. The email could be about Trent and Hank’s professional rivalry, something that, if revealed, would give Hank an edge. Still, she pictured Hank and Vicki in a seedy motel room, neon lights reflecting on the sheets. Stop it, she told herself; suspicion was destructive. She needed to stop spying on her husband. And she would. As soon as she finished reading Vicki’s emails.

  One had been sent a week before Hank’s accident. ‘Hank, I’m begging you not to say anything. Trent has no idea. He’s not as strong as you and wouldn’t recover. I mean it, Hank; he’d be destroyed. It’s not too late to fix it so he’ll never know. Whatever you decide, I love you and always will.’

  Harper reread the message several times. Especially the last line: Vicki loved him and always would. The words seared Harper’s eyes, inflamed her brain. Her stomach knotted and her lump throbbed.

  Vicki and Hank had had an affair. And Vicki had begged Hank not to tell Trent about it.

  The air in the bedroom was suddenly thin; Harper’s stomach churned. Even so, she opened another email, written a few days before Hank’s fall.

  ‘Trent knows. I don’t know how. He won’t talk to me. He’s moping. Drunk.’

  Drunk and moping? Just because his wife was having an affair with his best friend? Shocking.

  Vicki’s next email sounded frantic. ‘Trent’s self-destructing. He says whatever I did was your fault, that it was all because of you. He says I’d never have done it otherwise. He swears you’re ruining his life, and he’s going to make you pay. You’ve got to talk to him before he does something crazy.’

  Harper stared at the screen, her mouth dry, her hands cold. Stop reading, she told herself. None of these messages will help; they’ll only hurt you more. But she read on.

  Vicki’s messages – at least the ones Hank had saved – began with Vicki’s plea to protect Trent from the truth and ended, just before the accident, with her plea to help Trent deal with it. She wrote that he was drinking himself into stupors, talking about leaving
the university, swearing he’d never write another article or trust another soul. He’d moved into the guest room. He’d asked for a divorce. He was going to talk to Dr Hayden, the department chair, about what had happened.

  Good God. Trent was going to the department head about Vicki and Hank? Well, that capped it. Absolutely everybody except Harper had known.

  Harper held her wrenching stomach. Why hadn’t she seen it? She replayed their shared beers and dinners, looking for clues. Hank and Vicki might have had a few side conversations, maybe some eye contact. But nothing to indicate an affair. They’d been awfully discreet. Or she’d been awfully blind.

  ‘Damn it. Damn you, Hank.’ Her fist pounded the mouse, closing the window that held his mail. Harper stood, pacing and cursing. Seething. What a chump she’d been. Her lungs felt raw, her eyes burned, her leg ached, and the lump on her head pulsed with pain.

  ‘OK,’ she heard her voice repeating. ‘OK. No more drama. Calm down.’ The affair was over; Vicki had said so herself – that whoring, two-faced, slime-ball bitch. And Hank’s cheating days, like his conversations, were over, too.

  Finally, Harper obeyed herself and sat, making herself breathe evenly until her pulse slowed. And then she began to think. Not about murders or stolen drugs. Not about the killer who might be watching her. No, all she thought about was her husband’s infidelity. Right up until the accident, Vicki had been emailing him about their affair, worrying about Trent’s reaction. Harper closed her eyes, saw Hank sliding off the roof, falling. And behind him, she saw Trent, his arms out, reaching for Hank . . .

  Or pushing him?

  No. Not possible. Even though they were both up for tenure and Hank was likely to get it? Even though Trent had learned that Hank was banging his wife?

  Oh God. But Trent was no killer. His only weapon was his sharp tongue. Besides, Hank was much more agile and athletic. Trent could never have overpowered him.

  Unless Hank had been taken by surprise. Shoved while he was off balance. And it might not have been premeditated. It might have been a spontaneous act of rage.