Behind the Walls

by Merry Jones

  ‘Some.’

  ‘Then you know what I’m talking about. This dead woman was a researcher for the university. Just like the last dead woman way back in – I think it was eighty-nine? That’s the kind of thing that sends alarms bells off in my head. I don’t believe much in coincidence.’

  Somewhere nearby, an owl hooted. Odd. An owl, in daytime? Weren’t they nocturnal? Owls were supposedly one of the Nahual’s favorite shapes. Ridiculous. But maybe not to Zina. In fact, maybe Zina had seen an owl – or even a deer or a fox. Or a large cat. Maybe she’d thought the animal was the shape-shifter again, coming after her, and she’d panicked, smashed her car into a tree. It was possible.

  Damn. Harper should have arranged to drive with her, not to meet her at the house. If she had, Zina would still be alive. Far away, guns fired; Harper felt snipers watching her from the shadows. She scanned the ground for IEDs. The detective was still talking.

  ‘ . . . press will go bonkers, especially now at Halloween time with all the ghosts this house supposedly has. So I wanted to see for myself. Find out what really happened. And, frankly, after talking to you, I’m not happy.’

  Oh dear. ‘Why?’

  The detective shifted her weight, sighing. ‘Harper. People do not normally freak out and claim that someone’s trying to kill them. And, even when they do, they don’t normally die within hours. Unless someone was really trying to kill them.’

  Oh. That was why.

  ‘No. My gut tells me this car accident is wrong. This woman didn’t just floor her gas pedal and drive into a tree. And, superficially? Her heavy bleeding from the chest, those wounds seem wrong for a car accident.’ Rivers sighed, shook her head. Looked at her feet, then back at the car. ‘No. I can’t prove it, at least not yet, but this woman, Zina Salim? I’d put money on it: she was murdered.’

  Rivers had been right about the press. Instantly, the news media focused on Zina’s death, presenting it not as a tragic accident, but as just the most recent of a long list of bizarre occurrences at the old house. By the six o’clock news, tales of the missing actress, the fallen maid, and the murderous father gone amok were resurrected along with that of the mutilated former research assistant. Anchors indicated that the huge house was haunted or cursed, noting that none of the current owners actually lived in it, speculating that they didn’t dare reside under its roof.

  Hank was not pleased. He turned off the television, glowering. ‘Dead. Fault. My.’ His eyebrows furrowed.

  Trent had stopped by for Happy Hour. He poured Scotch. ‘I’m not sure I follow. You’re saying it’s your fault that the woman drove into a tree?’

  ‘Came here. Help. Asked.’

  ‘Stop it, Hank.’ Harper felt bad enough without Hank’s help. ‘This isn’t on us. What were we supposed to do? I was going with her to the house. I was on my way—’

  ‘Not. You, Hoppa. I. Man. Can’t.’ He swallowed his Scotch and stood. Eyes fierce. ‘Can’t. Man. Do.’ His fist tightened. ‘No use.’

  ‘That’s not true—’

  ‘What’s he saying?’ Trent broke in. ‘That he’s useless? Come on, Hank – you’re strong as an ox—’

  ‘There was no way either one of us could have foreseen or prevented what happened.’

  ‘—you’ve come a hell of a long way since last year.’

  Harper and Trent spoke together, reassuring Hank, but he wasn’t listening. He turned and stomped away, wobbling slightly.

  Harper was on her feet, following, calling. ‘Hank – wait.’ She caught up to him, took his arm.

  ‘No, Hoppa.’ He resisted, pulled himself away. ‘Me. My. Self. Lone.’

  Harper let him go, and hugged herself, stunned. Hank had never before pushed her away. Her chest hurt when she took a breath. Trent walked over to her, concerned, smelling of Scotch, asking if she was all right. And as she lied, nodding, and saying, ‘Of course,’ they heard the front door slam.

  Trent poured himself another Scotch. ‘What’s going on? He’s not himself.’

  Harper wasn’t sure what was going on. But she didn’t want to discuss the possibilities, not even with Hank’s best friend. She sat on the sofa, picked up her glass.

  ‘Are you two all right?’

  What? ‘Of course – yes.’ The question surprised her. Did Trent think there were problems? Did he know something she didn’t? ‘Everything’s fine.’

  ‘Well, it’s got to be tough.’ Trent stared into his glass.

  Tough?

  ‘Hank and all. Now. You didn’t sign up for this life.’

  Really? What was he saying? Trent had been there when Hank had fallen off the roof. Before that, he’d been Hank’s colleague in Cornell’s Geology Department. They’d been inseparable, had taught, consulted, conducted research, published articles, even climbed mountains together. But now, Hank could barely speak and had trouble moving on his right side while Trent had become a tenured professor, secure in the lifestyle to which Hank had aspired. And Trent thought that was ‘tough’?

  Harper’s jaw tightened. ‘He gets frustrated.’ So did she. Frustrated, sad and tired. The day already seemed endless, and it wasn’t even dinner time.

  Trent drank. ‘But he seemed to be doing so well.’

  ‘He is doing well, Trent.’ Her tone was sharp. ‘He’s doing incredibly well.’

  Silence.

  ‘I didn’t mean that he wasn’t doing well.’ Trent tried again. ‘I just meant I’ve never seen him resentful about his condition before. Not that I blame him – he has every right to—’

  ‘He’s adapted amazingly well.’ Harper wasn’t going to discuss Hank behind his back. ‘He’s entitled to take a moment.’ She tried to convince herself. Remembered the shock of his bear-like body shoving her away.

  ‘Of course. We all need that sometimes.’

  The moment strained; Trent had come for a drink with Hank, not awkward and self-conscious exchanges with Harper.

  ‘Well . . .’ they both said it at the same time. Both stood.

  ‘I ought to get home.’

  ‘Vicki must be waiting.’

  A quick hug, and Trent took off. Harper sat on the sofa, drinking Scotch, until half an hour later, when Hank reappeared.

  ‘Eat.’ He went into the kitchen, took out some eggs.

  Harper followed, started chopping onions and tomatoes. Neither of them mentioned Zina or the part they had or hadn’t played in her death. Neither referred to Hank’s stomping out of the house. They cooked an omelet, ate it quietly and washed up. But they had no real conversation, and Harper, unwilling to be pushed away, didn’t even try to touch him for the rest of the night.

  Emails and text messages regarding Zina’s death flooded the Archeology Department, whose faculty and graduate students assembled in Goldwyn-Smith Hall on Wednesday morning to share their shock and sadness, and to discuss the prospect of a memorial service. They met in a lecture hall, about twenty people huddling in a couple of rows surrounded by a hundred empty seats. Professor Wiggins, Zina’s advisor, began by extolling Zina’s spirit. Phillip Conrad, a PhD candidate, said he’d arrange to have the service held in the Annabel Taylor chapel. Professor Schmerling, temporary department chair, offered to provide an organist and a tenor. Marge Thomas, one of the secretaries, volunteered punch and cookies.

  Harper’s attention drifted; she hadn’t slept well, tormented by images of Zina’s mangled body and disturbed by Hank, who’d tossed and kicked all night. She didn’t volunteer for any of the committees, didn’t offer to read or to select readings, or to order floral arrangements, or to help print a program with Zina’s photo and biographical material. She felt distant from the others, unable to participate. And when the meeting finally broke up, she was the first one out the door, dropping a twenty into the memorial fund; it seemed a trivial amount, but it was all she had in her bag.

  ‘Harper – hold up a minute, would you?’ Professor Schmerling called to her from the front of the lecture hall.

  She stopped, fel
t caught. Like a kid trying to skip class. ‘Of course.’ She turned and smiled, watching him approach. Wondering what he wanted.

  ‘Do you have a couple of minutes?’ He looked troubled. Weather and life had carved lines deep into his face, and his half-lenses rode tentatively on the middle of his nose.

  Actually, she’d promised Hank she’d take him shopping for work boots. ‘Of course . . .’

  ‘Because – here. Let’s sit.’ He led her to a back corner of the hall, away from the others.

  They sat. He looked at her closely. His eyes were dark, probing.

  Harper tried not to squirm.

  ‘So, how are you doing? I understand you were there, at the, uh, scene. You found her; correct?’

  Oh Lord. He wanted details? That’s why he’d stopped her? Harper nodded. ‘Yes. But I’m all right. Thank you for asking.’ She started to get up.

  ‘Wait! Sorry, that’s not actually what I want to discuss – although, believe me, I do care about how you’re doing; don’t misunderstand. I imagine it must have been quite terrible to find a colleague that way. Or anyone, really. It would have had to be . . .’ He fumbled with words, reddened, looked away. Folded his hands. ‘Nonetheless. Well. As they say: life goes on.’

  Harper had no idea what Schmerling was trying to say. ‘Yes. It does.’ She didn’t know how else to respond.

  He looked at her again, smiling sadly. ‘Good. I’m glad you agree. Because, under the circumstances, what I’m about to say might otherwise seem, well, indelicate.’ He paused, cleared his throat. ‘Harper. I’d like to know if you’re still interested in the Langston research assistantship.’

  The Langston research assistantship? Harper’s mouth opened. Speechless.

  ‘I’m aware that you’d applied for it last summer, but that it was assigned to Ms Salim. But now that she’s unfortunately – that is to say, tragically – unable to complete it, I’m . . . The department and the university are hoping you’ll be willing to take over.’

  Harper’s head tilted; her mouth dropped. ‘Professor, Zina just died yesterday. She hasn’t even been buried.’

  ‘I’m aware.’ He stiffened. ‘Do you not think I’m aware of that, Harper? I told you it would seem indelicate, didn’t I? Nevertheless. The fact remains that Professor Emeritus Langston has left the university his entire priceless collection of Pre-Columbian artifacts, gathered over a distinguished fifty-year career, and, regardless of your or my own personal grief and sympathies, that collection still requires the careful and meticulous attention of a knowledgeable, qualified person so that it can be documented accurately for probate, insurance and tax purposes.’ He stopped for a breath.

  Harper didn’t move. She watched him for a moment. ‘With all respect, Professor, what’s the hurry?’

  Schmerling cleared his throat again. Crossed his legs. Looked over at his colleagues and students lingering across the lecture hall. Finally, he faced Harper. ‘I’ll be completely candid, but our conversation is confidential, agreed?’

  She agreed.

  ‘There has been some . . . reluctance among the Langston family to adhere to the terms of the professor’s will.’ He paused. ‘Speaking plainly, the sons are planning to challenge it. They’re claiming that Langston was ill, physically and mentally impaired when he drew up the will, that he left his collection to the university while suffering paranoid delusions, and so on. Naturally, their claims are completely without merit, but the university would like to be aware of exactly what is included in the collection, given that the sons have access to it until we actually take possession of it, which we want to do as soon as we can, but might not be able to do if the sons contest the will. In fact, any day now, they might even prevent us from examining the collection because it’s on premises willed to them.’

  Harper thought of Angus Langston, his indignation that she was on his property.

  ‘So, as insensitive as it seems to press onward, the sooner the cataloguing can be completed, the better. As you know, the terms of the assistantship are generous – your tuition and fees would be covered completely for the term. Professors Hayes and Wiggins would advise you. Frankly, Harper, you’re the best-qualified candidate for this. The university needs your help. All else aside, it’s a golden opportunity for you, and I’d consider it a personal favor if you’d accept.’

  He watched her, waiting. Did he expect her to answer here? Right now?

  ‘Have I overwhelmed you?’ He smiled. The lines on his face deepened, became crevices.

  ‘Just a little.’ Harper tried to absorb what she’d just heard. She wanted the assistantship, but so soon? Wouldn’t grabbing it so quickly be like profiting from Zina’s death? ‘It’s a lot to take in.’

  ‘Not really. All you need to think about is the work itself. Documenting the collection. Any chance you’re still interested?’

  God help her and Zina forgive her, yes, she was interested. Extremely, avidly, passionately interested. Pre-Columbian symbolism was a focus of her dissertation – the only part of her PhD still to be completed. Of course, definitely yes, she wanted the position, was thrilled at the chance to accept it, to see and examine and touch precious rare artifacts. She couldn’t imagine them, couldn’t wait to begin. And couldn’t say so, not there at the meeting to plan Zina’s memorial. Harper sat perfectly still. She opened her mouth, but words wouldn’t come out.

  Professor Schmerling waited. Cleared his throat. ‘Well, I understand that you’ll want to think about it. Especially under the circumstances . . .’

  Harper nodded, relieved.

  ‘Why don’t you sleep on it? Let me know tomorrow? Or as soon as you can?’

  She nodded again. What now? Was she supposed to thank him? It didn’t seem appropriate, since the offer had resulted from Zina’s death. And he’d labeled it a ‘personal favor’; she shouldn’t thank someone for asking her a favor. Still silent, unable to figure out what to say, she stood when he did and grabbed her bag.

  ‘I’ll call you tomorrow, Professor,’ she managed. And hurried for the door.

  Harper had walked to campus that morning, feeling restless. In the morning, sunlight had sparkled on red and orange leaves; the breeze had been gentle and warm. But the walk home, just an hour later, was different. The sky had darkened with heavy gray clouds, and the air chilled her. Not only that; the long walk had stressed her left leg. Her war injuries tingled and ached, her leg threatening to cave under her weight.

  Slowly, carefully, she made her way to the Suspension Bridge, heading home, replaying her conversation with Professor Schmerling. Absorbed in her thoughts, Harper paid little attention to the Big Red band, practicing for the weekend’s Homecoming, marching toward her across the Quad. Students gathered along their path, listening, singing. Sometimes cheering. Harper took a breath, not in the mood for marching bands or team spirit or fun. Even so, as she walked away, she found herself moving in time to a fight song. Drumbeats marking her steps, urging her on.

  Crossing the bridge, she didn’t make her customary stop to take in the view of the gorge. Didn’t pause for even a glance at the rocky walls or gurgling stream below. She simply wanted to get home and talk to Hank about the offer. To think about it someplace quiet and calm.

  Approaching her house, though, she realized that it would be neither. Rock music blared, electric and grating, from the fraternity house next door. Members were outside, decorating for Halloween, hanging skeletons from trees, building a fake cemetery in the yard. Planting plastic hands beside Styrofoam headstones, making it look like the dead were clawing out of their graves. Frat boys tottered around, imitating Zombies. Partying. Starting the Homecoming/Halloween weekend on Wednesday morning.

  ‘Beer?’ One called to her in greeting.

  Harper smiled, waved. ‘Too early for me.’

  ‘Early? I thought it was late – we’re still going from last night.’ He grinned, turned away.

  She limped to the mailbox, took out a pile of mostly junk mail and headed to the h
ouse, wondering if Hank was ready to go boot shopping. Noticed an envelope hand-addressed to her.

  Postmarked Atlanta. Who did she know in Atlanta? She stopped for a moment, staring at the envelope as if it would explain itself. Not recognizing the handwriting. Then, stuffing the rest of the mail into her big leather bag, she opened it.

  Inside was a newspaper clipping. Harper unfolded it, saw an obituary column. With one notice circled: Peter Murray. His picture was there, looking handsome and young. In uniform.

  Harper froze, staring at the photo, reading and rereading, trying to understand. Peter Murray. He’d died on October fifth, ‘suddenly’. Suddenly? What the hell did suddenly mean? A car crash like Zina? An overdose? A heart attack? A gun to the head? What? She pictured him, back in Iraq, hanging out with Burke Everett. Pete was polite, a gentleman. Almost an anachronism. Opening doors for women, offering his jacket in the cold. Never sitting until women sat. Never cursing or telling a dirty joke in mixed company. Blushing when she did both. Pete Murray was dead?

  Harper stood in the front yard, oblivious now to the music blaring next door, not noticing the raucous frat boys rough-housing not twenty feet away. She was absorbed, reading and rereading a death notice. Remembering Burke’s call. His insistence on seeing her. Obviously, the call and the death were connected. In fact, Burke had probably mailed her the obituary. Probably wanted to talk about Pete, his death. But that made no sense; he could talk to her about that on the phone. Why did he need to come all the way to Ithaca? Burke was from Milwaukee. How could he have mailed the envelope from Atlanta?

  Nothing made sense. Not the letter, not the call, not the offer from Schmerling, not Zina’s death. Harper was puzzled, troubled. Her leg throbbed; she needed to sit. To collect her thoughts. Heading into the house, she held on to the obituary as she set the mail and her leather sack on the foyer table.