by Merry Jones
OK. Never mind. She’d been in worse situations. She’d correct this one before it got out of control. Go to work and act as if nothing had happened. Actually, she’d go early and be there, fully composed and engrossed in her work, when Harper arrived. Goodness, how had she ever agreed to allow that woman soldier to come to work with her? As if she needed a combat officer to protect her and hold her hand. As if she couldn’t manage on her own? Everyone knew Harper had wanted the Langston job, that she’d been jealous when Wiggins had given it to Zina. And now, Harper might use this incident to make it seem that Zina needed her help. Well, nothing doing. When Harper arrived, Zina would make light of the night before. Yes – she’d avoid being the brunt of jokes by laughing; she’d make fun of herself before anyone else could. And she’d be immersed in her work, too busy to do more than briefly show Harper around, pointing out the stacks of crates, letting her ogle a few relics. Then she’d send her on her way. Making it clear that she was in charge.
Zina showered, dressed, ate a stale donut, and got into her little blue Smart Car, trying to recover some sense of dignity. There had to be logical explanations for everything that had happened. It had to have been the darkness. Creaking floors were normal in old homes. As were bats. And the lights? Well, the wind had probably blown down a wire. And the wind might even explain the feeling of fur – might have blown small pieces of fiberglass insulation into the room. Or, more likely, a cobweb or some packing paper had blown against her skin in the darkness. The wind, after all, had been terrible; tree branches had been blown down, now lay scattered on the road.
Her panic had simply been an overreaction. All she could do now was damage control. She’d explain it to Harper and hope the woman was decent enough to keep it to herself, not make her a laughing stock. But that wasn’t likely; if the situation were reversed, she would certainly think the story was hysterical and share it with everyone. Oh dear.
The whole way to the Langston house, Zina considered what she’d say to Harper. How she’d convince her that she was fine, that her behavior the night before had been no big deal. That she’d been more amused than frightened – yes. That was it – she’d say that she’d stopped by Harper’s house to share an odd but amusing anecdote. Like, would you believe it? Langston’s house has its own Nahual. Haha. Isn’t this a good spooky story for the week before Halloween?
She turned off Route 96 on to the long dirt road leading to the professor’s driveway. About forty yards up, she stopped. A huge branch had toppled, blocking the way. Damn. She sat for a moment, considering her options. No way she could go around it; even her tiny car wouldn’t fit between its top end and the trees. She could wait there for Harper; they could ride her motorcycle the rest of the way. Or she could park right there and walk the mile or so to the house.
Finally, Zina decided to get out and try to move the branch, to shove it just enough that she could drive around it. And if that didn’t work, if it was too heavy, she’d park and walk.
Moving to the thinner end of the branch, she lifted her feet, stepped carefully through the tangle of twigs and lingering yellow leaves, took the central stem into her hands. She realized that moving without tripping on the foliage would be difficult; it might have been easier to grab the heavier, less dense end. Somewhere close, she heard the hooting of an owl. And, in the periphery of her vision, she saw something move. A man? No, something that looked like a big cat.
When her phone rang the next morning, Harper was straddling her Ninja, checking to make sure she had Zina’s bracelet with her before leaving for Professor Langston’s. She almost didn’t answer it. But her new ringtone, the sound of a gong, kept chiming, and she realized the call might actually be from Zina. Maybe she needed to change the time. So, opening her storage compartment, she pulled out her big leather sack and felt around inside, finally locating the phone.
‘Is this Harper?’
Not Zina. A man. Not a familiar voice.
‘Who is this?’
‘Is that you, Harper? Lieutenant Harper J. Reynolds of the United States Army?’
Harper tried to ignore a sudden rumble of gunfire. She took a breath. Looked around at her house, the gazebo in the yard. ‘Who’s calling?’
‘Don’t tell me you don’t recognize my voice, Lieutenant. Honestly?’
She didn’t. Or damn, no – maybe she did. It was smooth, liquid. Not quite deep enough. Sounded like – Burke Everett? But they hadn’t talked in years, not since before the explosion had killed her patrol and sent her home, half dead. Why was he calling now? And how had he gotten her cell phone number? ‘What’s up, Everett?’
He laughed, triumphant. ‘See that? I knew you wouldn’t forget me.’
‘It’s not for lack of trying, trust me.’
‘Same old Harper – still a ball-buster. How the hell are you?’
Harper looked at her watch. Almost nine. But the time made no sense; her mind whirled, trying to make sense of the voice in her ear. Images blurred. The air changed, felt dry and sandy, and she had the urge to check her bag for her gear – ammo, knife, goggles, sun block, water bottles, baby wipes . . .
‘You survived that suicide attack – I knew that. But how are you now?’
How was she? Burke kept talking, not waiting for an answer. Harper tried to process what he was saying, but his words were too fast, made no sense. She pictured him in uniform, heard him whining about the heat. Or the flies. Or the dust. Or the duty, whatever was bothering him at the moment. Burke Everett? After all this time?
‘ . . . because, I’ll tell you what – I’ll be in Ithaca Thursday. Day after tomorrow. It would be great to see you. You know, to catch up.’
What? No. No, it wouldn’t. Harper swallowed. ‘I don’t know, Burke. I’m pretty busy—’
‘Actually, thing is – it’s kind of important. I need to talk to you about something. How’s dinner Thursday night?’
Wait. Dinner? ‘Burke, I’m married.’ The words popped out of her mouth, unplanned. As if she’d assumed he’d wanted a date. Harper felt her face get hot.
Burke was laughing. An unpleasant, high-pitched sound. ‘Well, congratulations. But I’m not asking for your hand. Just for dinner.’
‘I didn’t mean—’
‘How about drinks then? A beer. Or lunch. Or coffee. Or frozen yogurt.’
‘What do you want to talk to me about?’
He paused. ‘It’s not for the phone. Seriously. It’s big. And I need to talk to you in person.’
A squirrel raced by, ran up a tree. Harper stared after it as it disappeared into dwindling orange leaves. In Iraq’s stark sands, she’d missed the trees, the colors of summer and fall. She pictured it, that final patrol. Watching a car speed up to the checkpoint. Seeing a woman in a burqa crossing the street. And then, the sensation of flying through heat and fire. She remembered it clearly, even the smells of smoke and burnt flesh, but her memories were just that: memories. Not flashbacks. Everett’s unexpected voice had stirred up the past but hadn’t entirely revived it. It wasn’t engulfing her. At least, not yet.
‘Harper? You there?’
‘Yes.’ Well, sort of.
‘I’m just asking for half an hour – an hour at the most. You’ll understand when we talk.’
She didn’t answer. She tasted sand, felt it coating her sweaty skin. Heard Burke’s voice only vaguely. Maybe she’d been too hasty deciding she wasn’t having flashbacks.
‘ . . . wouldn’t bother you after all this time . . . wouldn’t have come all the way from Milwaukee . . .’
‘Fine.’ Harper closed her eyes, bit her lip, concentrated on the pain of teeth puncturing skin to avoid falling into the past.
‘Fine?’
‘Yes. Fine. I’ll meet you Thursday. Three o’clock. Ithaca Bakery.’
‘Great, Harper. I’ll be there—’ Burke began. But Harper ended the call, tossed her phone into her bag and zoomed off on her Ninja before he finished his goodbye.
Harper roared downhill t
hrough the edge of town, heading out along Lake Cayuga, thinking about the phone call. Trying to figure out what Burke Everett wanted. In the war, he’d been a wimp. A tall, lanky guy, always keeping his head down, bucking tough details. Complaining even about the easy ones. Not someone she’d want protecting her back. Not someone she’d spent much time with.
So why was he calling her now? It had been – what? Seven? Eight years since she’d seen him? What could he want?
Harper didn’t want to think about Iraq. Didn’t want to remember. She’d spent years trying to recover from her injuries, still had a bad leg. Not to mention the flashbacks. She’d been better lately, not having as many. Leslie, her shrink, had helped, had shown her how to diminish their intensity, employing scents, sensations or sharp flavors to keep focused on the present. She wondered if Burke Everett had flashbacks. No, probably not. Burke hadn’t risked much, usually had soft duty, chauffeuring visiting brass through the Green Zone or base camps. He’d never been wounded. Had never seen his buddies blown up by IEDs or suicide bombers. Again, Harper saw the woman crossing the street, approaching the detail of soldiers at the checkpoint. White heat flashed, and Harper felt herself fly.
But this time, she was flying past the lake, not through the air. And the noise was the engine of her Ninja, not bursts of explosives. She needed to stay grounded. In the moment. To focus on colored leaves. Traffic. The cloudless sky and crisp air. Anything except Iraq.
Her mind, however, remained on precisely that. The past. And the unexpected reappearance of someone she’d almost forgotten. Someone she’d chosen not to stay in contact with. Why had Burke Everett called? What could he possibly want? Harper was so intent on those questions that it wasn’t until she turned on to the unpaved road leading to the professor’s long rocky driveway that she gave a thought to Zina and the relics, the reason she was there, racing along a darkly overgrown path in the middle of nowhere.
She hoped that Zina would be waiting outside, that she wouldn’t have gone into the house alone after her panic the night before. On the other hand, maybe Zina felt better, wasn’t as shaken now that it was daylight. Looking up the curved narrow road through the trees, Harper tried to spot the house up ahead, wondering about its history. The missing actress, the murdered family. The dead research assistant. Zina’s fear.
Engrossed in her thoughts, Harper sped ahead. She almost didn’t notice a mass of electric blue just off the narrow road, half hidden by trees. Almost didn’t bother to glance back to see what it was, a color that didn’t belong. Almost didn’t turn and go back to investigate.
But when she did, she barely recognized the heap of mangled metal as the little blue Smart Car that had been Zina’s, smashed against a thick old oak.
Harper jumped off the bike and raced to the wreck, shouting, calling Zina’s name. She tore through trees, around shrubs and over undergrowth. Twigs snapped underfoot like sniper fire, but Harper ignored them, kept moving until she could peer through tangles of foliage, broken glass and twisted metal. Only when she saw what was left of Zina, her blood-drenched body slumped beside the car, her eyes fixed on nothing . . . only then did she stop and stay still.
The air smelled of oil and blood. Harper stared; sweat poured down her torso. And somewhere, guns began firing. Men cried out. No, she insisted. Not now. But, even as she told herself that the fighting around her wasn’t real, that it was a flashback, she ducked low to the ground, dodging bullets, feeling them whizz past her ears. Guns popped. Smoke clouded her vision. Someone screamed. She reached for her weapon, couldn’t find it. Realized that, damn, it must be back with her gear. So half crawling, half scooting, she made it back to her Ninja, pulled out her leather bag, reached inside for a pistol, found a phone. Dug some more. And pulled out a lemon.
A lemon? She blinked at it, forcing herself to remember what it was doing in her gear. A voice deep in her head commanded: Bite it. Bite it? The lemon? But wait – a woman was crossing the street, her hand reaching inside her burqa, and a green car was speeding toward the checkpoint. She knew the explosion was coming, needed to warn the patrol . . . Bite it!
Harper jammed the lemon into her mouth and chomped; sour acidic juice spilled on to her tongue, startling her. Overpowering her mind. Making her focus on taste. On the moment. And suddenly, the checkpoint, the car, the woman suicide bomber – the war faded away, leaving Harper alone on the wooded path to Professor Langston’s, a phone in her hand, a lemon in her mouth. And, a few feet away, Zina, dead, huddled beside her car.
Lights and sirens. Sirens and lights. Harper sat on a large rock, watching as police and firemen and medical technicians scurried around. The coroner’s van pulled up. A tow truck. A television crew. She didn’t know what to do, where to be, so she stayed off to the side, huddling. Trying to understand what had happened. Zina had to have been speeding, must have lost control of her car and hit the tree. Must have crawled out, injured, and died. But why had she been speeding? What was her hurry? Was she being chased, maybe? Here? On this unpaved back road? Something nagged at her about Zina’s body. She was almost sitting up. And there was so much blood. Not much, if any, inside the car. None visible on the seat. What had caused her to bleed so much?
A man wandered over, balding, maybe in his forties. Tall, lanky. Prominent cheekbones. Wearing jeans, a tweed blazer. He nodded in her direction, stood watching the commotion. Hands in his pockets.
‘Hell of a thing.’ He didn’t look at Harper, kept his eyes on the wreck.
Harper didn’t answer. But he was right; it was a hell of a thing.
Finally, the man turned to her. ‘Angus Langston.’
Langston. One of the professor’s sons? Angus held out his right hand. As if introducing himself at a social function.
Harper shook the hand. It was large and lean, smooth-skinned. ‘Harper Jennings.’
Police and EMTs huddled around Zina’s body.
‘So, Ms Harper Jennings, they tell me you’re the one who found this? You called it in?’
Harper nodded.
He nodded, silently watching the scene. After a while, he looked at her. ‘Well, if you don’t mind my asking, Ms Jennings, what exactly brought you here to this spot this morning?’
Harper opened her mouth to reply, but Angus continued. ‘Being as this is private property. A private road. Which would make you a trespasser.’
Wow. Harper’s mouth was still open. She closed it, stunned. Zina was dead, her body still crumpled beside battered blue metal, and this guy was bothering her about her presence on his property? Slowly, deliberately, she stood to her full five foot three-and-almost-a-half inches, assumed an officer’s stance.
‘You live here, Mr Langston?’ She used her most authoritative military voice. Had to arch her neck to meet his eyes. ‘In the professor’s house?’
Her tone surprised him; he took an instinctive step back. ‘No, I stay in the cottage. But where I sleep isn’t your concern. The house and property belong to me and my brothers.’ He shifted his weight, eyed her. Lost some bluster. Looked away.
‘Look, I’m aware that this is private property,’ Harper continued. ‘But I am not trespassing. I was invited here.’
His eyebrows rose. ‘Really. Because I sure don’t remember inviting you. And I doubt my brother invited you—’
‘Actually, I was invited by the woman over there.’
Angus crossed his arms. ‘Well, that’s interesting. Because the fact is, that woman didn’t have the right to invite anyone here. It’s bad enough she was here, wandering around. Which by the way, she didn’t have the right to do. Now she’s brought you. Next, everyone and his uncle Fred will be here.’
‘Hey, Mrs Jennings? Harper?’
Harper turned. Saw a face from the past. Detective Charlene Rivers. She shut her eyes, opened them again. Still saw the detective approaching, walking across the road. Not a flashback. Rivers was actually there. Oh God. Memories swirled: a student jumping out of a window. Another, dead on her front porch . . .<
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‘I saw your Ninja over there.’ Rivers smirked. ‘I thought I was done dealing with you.’
Harper nodded. ‘Good to see you, too, Detective.’ She rubbed her eyes, pushing away bloody memories. She hadn’t had contact with the Rivers since that debacle with stolen drugs over a year ago.
‘Who’s your friend?’ Rivers eyed Angus Langston who introduced himself just as another news van pulled up the road.
‘Aw, hell,’ he scowled. ‘Who the fuck let them on the grounds? Doesn’t anyone understand the words “private property”? What’s next? Rock bands? Concession stands? What is this, goddam Woodstock?’ He stomped off toward the television van.
‘Friendly guy.’ Rivers watched him, turned to Harper. ‘So tell me. What are you doing here? You know the victim?’
Wait, the ‘victim’? Harper drew a breath. Looked across the road to the empty coroner’s gurney awaiting Zina’s body. And, as she began to answer, remembered that Detective Rivers was in homicide.
What was a homicide detective doing at the scene of a car accident?
Rivers and Harper walked along the road, heads down, voices low, as Harper summarized the events of the night before. Gravel crunched underfoot; the air smelled of dry leaves. ‘So basically, you’re saying that your friend was afraid for her life?’
‘I guess. But she wasn’t entirely rational, at least not at first. She thought a Nahual was after her. But Nahuals aren’t real.’
‘So you think it’s just a coincidence that the very next morning she’s dead?’
Harper shrugged, shook her head. She had no idea. ‘Detective, what are you saying? That Zina was murdered?’
Rivers stopped walking, looked back at the crash site. ‘Truth is, I don’t know what I’m saying. I have to wait for the coroner’s report before I draw any conclusions. All I know is I heard the dispatch that there was a fatality out at Langston’s, so I came out to see what went down.’ She looked at Harper. ‘You know about this place? The history?’
