by Merry Jones
Harper swerved, made a U-turn, got off her bike. Set out on foot, chasing after the woman, and, locating her, Harper raised a weapon, confronted her. Ordered the woman to put her hands on her head and get on the ground. But the woman stood there, defiant, unmoving. Harper repeated her orders. Asked if the woman understood English. Gradually became aware of voices behind her. People crowding around . . .
‘She has a bomb,’ Harper warned. ‘It’s hidden in her burqa. Stay away – she’ll detonate it!’
Nobody responded. Nobody ran to help. Nobody seemed concerned. They stood still, watching her. Tittering. And laughing.
Harper blinked, looked around. Slowly, the sand of Iraq faded, became the concrete of Ithaca. The soldiers became students. Oh God – her gun turned into a flashlight. And the woman – the suicide bomber? Her burqa was flowing, long and black. She stood outside a hookah shop, an inanimate mannequin dressed like a Halloween witch. Complete with broom.
Oh God. Harper felt her face burn. She hadn’t had so severe a flashback in more than a year. Faces surrounded her, leering, questioning, mocking.
‘Look out – the mannequin has a bomb.’ Someone snickered.
‘What is she on?’
‘Whatever it is, I want some!’
‘Cut it out – she’s mentally ill.’
‘Right. Listen to the Psych major.’
‘Seriously.’ Someone touched her arm. ‘Are you OK?’
Harper took a step back. Looked at the faces. Oh God. ‘Fine.’ Another step back. ‘I was just – I’m fine.’ She fled to her bike, set it right, jumped on and sped away, feeling eyes on her all the way across campus until, ignoring the graveyard, pumpkins and skeletons in the yard next door, she finally made it home.
Hank looked up from a soup pot. His eyes were twinkling like usual, and something smelled wonderful. ‘Chili.’ He told her. ‘Veggie.’
‘Yum.’ Harper tried to smile. Tried to stop trembling and act normal. She kissed him, asked how he was.
‘Mood. Better.’ He stirred in some cumin. ‘Busy. Helps.’
He was talking about his feelings. A good sign.
‘You?’
Harper looked away. He wanted to know how she was. What should she say? That she’d just had a humiliating flashback? Or endured a crazy visit with paranoid Burke Everett? Or accepted Zina’s assistantship, about which he’d had serious reservations? No. She couldn’t risk talking about any of those things, at least not yet. Hank was feeling better but his mood was probably still fragile. She didn’t want to upset him and send him into another bout of depression. ‘I’m fine. I had a busy day, too.’
He nodded. ‘Good. Stuff done?’
He assumed she’d been in the library, gathering research for her dissertation. It was where she should have been. ‘Not a whole lot. I wasted time.’
He shrugged, tasted his chili. ‘Some days. Happens.’
‘Need any help?’ Harper took out her phone, texted Leslie: Can U C me? Bad flashback.
‘Salad. Make.’
Harper took out a bag of pre-washed lettuce, a bag of walnuts. Maybe it wasn’t really a relapse. Maybe her PTSD wasn’t getting worse; she’d just been reacting to seeing Burke again, and the flashback had been like an allergic response. A case of emotional hives; embarrassing, but not really a big deal. Her face reddened at the thought of the witch in College Town. The crowd staring at her . . .
‘Today. Nahual here.’
What? Harper looked up, saw Hank’s playful smile. She crumbled blue cheese into the salad bowl. Why would he ask that? ‘A Nahual. You saw one?’
‘Yes. True.’
‘Not funny.’ What was he doing? Why would he make light of Zina’s fears? Was he mocking a dead woman? No, Hank wouldn’t do that. So what was he doing? Harper began slicing an onion.
‘Want. To meet. Him?’
Really? ‘You’re asking if I want to meet a Nahual?’ He was going to introduce her to a shape-shifter? Harper looked at him, confused.
Hank turned off the stove, stepped over to her, took the knife from her hands and set it on the counter. When she turned, he engulfed her in his arms and kissed her.
‘Hoppa. I am. Nahual.’ His breath tickled her ear. ‘Shift. My shape.’
Oh my, Harper thought as Hank pressed against her, and, feeling what he meant, she laughed out loud. It was funny. Hank was joking, must really be feeling better. And so, despite her troubling day and unsettled thoughts, she accompanied him upstairs, hoping that Hank’s depression was easing and that his big warm body would comfort her. Or at least for a while, empty her mind.
Afterwards, eating dinner, Harper intended to tell Hank about her day. But every time she began, she stopped herself, heard Leslie warn, ‘He’s probably struggling more than he lets on.’ Was he struggling? She watched him eating, spooning up his chili with gusto.
‘Something?’ Hank felt her watching him.
‘No.’ She smiled. ‘Not really.’ A lie. Why not just blurt out the truth, that, after taking the assistantship despite his objections, she’d had a disturbing visit from a paranoid guy she’d served with, followed by her worst flashback in a year?
‘Know you. Tell me. What?’
Damn. Hank was no fool; he knew something was bothering her. But she heard Leslie warn that Hank was vulnerable: ‘I’d keep a close eye on him if I were you.’ Harper wasn’t sure how stable Hank was, didn’t want to send him spiraling back into feelings of powerlessness and depression. He was watching her, waiting for an answer.
‘It’s been a long day, that’s all.’ Not a lie. That was true. Harper took a sip of wine. Avoided eye contact.
‘Talk. Me.’ He ripped off a chunk of fresh bread. ‘Want?’ He held the chunk out.
‘Thanks.’ Harper took it, stalling by spreading butter on it. Maybe she should just tell him part of what had happened. Maybe about the assistantship. But that might start a whole chain of anguished conversation about Zina’s death and bad karma and danger, would no doubt depress him again. Better if she began with Burke Everett’s visit and his insane claims about the Colonel; after that, she could tell him about her flashback.
‘OK? Chili?’ Hank watched her. No doubt wondering why she was so quiet.
‘Delicious.’ It was, too. Rich and spicy. But why was she making small talk? She needed to be open and talk to Hank even if it might affect his mood. She took a long sip of wine. Drew a breath. Opened her mouth, ready to begin. Chickened out. ‘Where’d you get the recipe?’ What was wrong with her?
‘Book. But changed. Improvised.’
Wow. He’d just said, ‘improvised’? That might have been the biggest word he’d managed since his accident. ‘You’re an amazing man, Hank.’
He winked. ‘Not bad. Nahual. Too.’
She met his eyes, returned his grin. Oh God. What was she doing? Playing happy housewife after publicly attacking a mannequin?
Harper took another gulp of wine. Blurted, ‘I had a visit today. From a guy I served with.’
Hank broke off a piece of bread. ‘Wow. The blue. Out of?’
‘Pretty much. He looked me up because another guy we knew there – Pete Murray – died. Hanged himself.’
Hank frowned, stopped buttering and looked at her. But his eyes sparkled, alert. Not depressed.
She swallowed more wine, measuring Hank’s mood, deciding that he was fine. It was all right to continue. She was about to tell him about Burke’s conspiracy theory that Colonel Baxter had stolen millions from Iraq’s CERP funds to start his own extreme political movement, that he’d killed Peter Murray for figuring it out. That he might kill Burke for the same reason. And might come after her.
‘The guy – his name is Burke. He’s got lots of issues. Seems paranoid.’
Hank frowned. ‘How?’
Harper was about to explain all about Colonel Baxter and Burke’s theories. And she would have, too, but just then, the doorbell rang.
The fraternity next door was celebrating in anticipati
on of the weekend: the rare and spectacular simultaneity of Homecoming and Halloween. The smell of beer and marijuana permeated its yard, drifted through the neighborhood. Detective Rivers had beeped her siren and flashed her lights, just to give them a scare, had watched the brothers scurry for cover, disappearing into bushes, turning lights out inside the house. When Harper opened the door, she was still shaking her head.
‘Year after year,’ she sighed. ‘It never changes. The government ought to give up already and make all that stuff legal. Make it a lot easier on us cops.’
Harper wasn’t sure exactly what Rivers was talking about. ‘Come in,’ she held the door open.
Rivers looked haggard. ‘I called you earlier, Mrs Jennings, but you didn’t pick up. So I thought I’d stop by.’
Harper swallowed. ‘We’re just eating. Join us? Want some chili?’ Her heart rate sped up a notch. Why had Rivers come over?
‘I shouldn’t—’
‘How are. You?’ Hank stood at the kitchen door, remembered the detective from the drug incident a year earlier. ‘Come in. Eat.’
‘Good to see you looking so well, Mr Jennings.’
‘Hank. Call me.’ He led her into the kitchen.
Harper filled another bowl with chili. ‘Something to drink, Detective?’
‘Water, thanks.’
The three of them sat at the table. Rivers marveled at the chili. ‘Delicious. Who’s the cook?’
‘Hank.’
Hank beamed. ‘Chef. I’m good.’
‘You sure are. This is perfect.’
Harper refilled her wine glass. Drank. What the hell was Rivers doing at their dinner table? Why were they sitting around chatting like old friends?
Rivers swallowed. ‘So.’ She turned to Harper. ‘I hear you’ve taken that Langston assistantship.’
Damn – Harper hadn’t formally told Hank yet. She glanced at him, caught his frown. Did he think she was hiding her acceptance? ‘That’s right. I accepted it just this morning. How did you find out so fast?’
Rivers smirked. ‘Mrs Jennings, I’m an investigator.’ She lifted her spoon to her mouth, chewed. ‘Frankly, between you and me, I’m not thrilled with your decision, given that the last two research assistants were murdered.’
‘Murdered?’ Harper echoed as Hank said:
‘What?’
Hank dropped his hunk of bread on to the table. Stopped eating.
‘Oh damn. You didn’t know?’
Harper saw Zina, sitting in the woods, blood-drenched and lifeless.
‘I tried to call and give you a heads up, but by now, I assumed you’d heard.’ Rivers looked from one stunned face to the other. ‘I guess you haven’t seen the news.’
No. Not since the morning paper.
‘Well, it’s been reported all day. It’ll be on the eleven o’clock news and tomorrow’s headlines.’
What would?
‘Zina Salim’s death was no accident. Definitely a homicide.’
Harper swallowed. Stiffened. ‘But I thought the crash . . .?’
‘No. The crash didn’t kill her.’ Rivers paused, put down her spoon. Cleared her throat. ‘We don’t know why the car hit the tree. Maybe she was driving fast, being pursued by someone. Or dodging something, so she lost control of her car. But when Ms Salim got out of the car, she wasn’t bleeding much, if at all.’
‘So? Then?’ Hank’s voice was hushed.
‘So then someone killed her. And they posed her body upright, in a sitting position.’
Harper swallowed wine, remembering the last research assistant, the one from twenty-odd years ago. Hadn’t her body been propped up, seated like a sentry?
Even so, she couldn’t accept it. ‘Maybe the crash caused Zina’s injuries. Maybe she fell or crawled out of the car and tried to get up but couldn’t and died in a sitting position.’
Again, the detective paused, dabbed her mouth with her napkin and looked directly at Hank, then at Harper. ‘Well, I suppose that would have been a possibility. Except for one thing.’
‘What?’ Harper looked at Hank; his face was blank. Puzzled.
Rivers pursed her lips. ‘The fatal injuries weren’t caused by the car crash. This murder is exactly like the one from 1989.’ She met Harper’s eyes. ‘Zina Salim’s body was mutilated. The killer took her heart.’
They washed the dishes in silence. They both knew the implications. Had discussed them at length with Rivers. Harper rolled the conversation around in her mind.
‘What do you think it means?’ Rivers had addressed them both.
Hank had been silent, waiting for Harper to answer. Knowing what she’d say.
‘I have no idea.’ Harper had condensed her comments. ‘But in many Pre-Columbian cultures, taking hearts was an accepted practice. Victors cut them out of vanquished enemies. Priests would sacrifice the hearts of conquered warriors to the gods.’ She’d stopped, leaving it at that.
‘Go. On.’ Hank had pressed. ‘Tell eating them.’
Oh Lord, really? Why was that relevant?
Rivers looked puzzled. ‘Eating?’
Harper sighed. ‘Well, it’s not proven. But, yes. Some scholars theorize that Pre-Columbians believed that a person’s strength was located in the heart. So, to acquire someone’s strength, they took the heart out and . . . ate it.’
She’d cleared her throat, tried not to think about the fate of Zina’s heart.
Rivers had folded her hands on the table. ‘So this heart-taking is Pre-Columbian in origin.’
Harper had shrugged. ‘It may be. But we can’t be sure—’
‘Pre-Columbian, just like Langston’s relics. The ones that both victims just happened to be working on when they were killed.’
Harper had nodded.
‘Is it common knowledge about the hearts? Would lots of people know about this practice?’
‘Not. Lots.’ Hank shook his head.
‘But it’s no secret,’ Harper added. ‘Anyone who’s read about Pre-Columbian history would know. Or traveled and visited ruins. Or studied—’
‘OK. I get it,’ Rivers cut her off. ‘So there’s a select group who’d see the connection. But they don’t have to be experts or scholars like yourself.’
Like herself? What? Had Rivers been implying that she’d had something to do with Zina’s death? Harper had bristled, straightened her posture. Prepared to defend herself.
But Rivers had simply sighed and asked Harper and Hank to let her know if they had further thoughts concerning the murder. Then, thanking them for the chili, she’d taken off, advising Harper to be careful working with the relics. ‘Remember, two women have already died at that place.’
Silently, Harper and Hank finished in the kitchen. It wasn’t until they were in bed that she finally spoke. ‘Just so you know, I was going to tell you I’d taken the assistantship. I just didn’t—’
‘You can. Still. Quit.’
She took his hand. ‘I know.’
‘Will you?’
She probably should. Under the circumstances, no one would blame her. ‘I promised Schmerling I’d do it. They’re counting on me.’
‘Schmer. Ling would. Understand.’
‘But I can’t just quit – I haven’t even started yet.’
‘Can turn down. Murderer. Loose.’ He lay on his side, facing her, his eyebrows furrowed. ‘Zina. Saw Nahual. Sensed danger.’
‘Her imagination ran away with her.’
‘She’s dead, Hoppa. Not imagined. Killed. Real. Job bad. Karma. Evil.’
There he was with his bad Karma Juju Hoodoo Vibes again. ‘Hank, don’t even pretend to believe in superstitious mumbo—’
‘Places. Things. Can. Be bad.’ He didn’t smile. Seemed serious. But how could he be? Hank was a geologist, had a PhD. Had traveled all over the world. How could he believe that locations could possess ‘good’ or ‘bad’ vibes?
Obviously, he must not mean it literally. He must just be worried about her. ‘It’s OK, Hank. I can take care o
f myself. I’m not like Zina – I’m Army. A trained combat officer. I mean it – bring it on. Let her killer try to mess with me – I’ll take him down in a heartbeat.’ Oops. Wrong expression.
‘Damn Hoppa.’ Hank wasn’t impressed. He sighed. ‘OK. But. With. I’m going.’
Really? He’d go with her? And do what? Hold her hand? Hang around bored all day? ‘How about this: I’ll go and assess the situation. If it seems even the least bit dangerous, you can come along—’
‘No, this how about? Come. Me. Along. Assess. With. You.’ He sounded adamant.
‘It’s not necessary.’ She leaned over and kissed him. ‘But thank you.’
‘Hoppa.’ He wasn’t backing down. ‘Dead. Serious.’
He was right. It was serious. Harper saw Zina’s slumped, blood-soaked body. Why was she making light of the danger, ignoring Hank’s concerns? Maybe he was right that she should turn down the assistantship, forget about working with the relics. She pictured herself at Langston’s – personally examining rare, never-displayed ancient artifacts, documenting them, holding them in her hands. Making tangible contact with a culture lost centuries ago – how could she explain to Hank the thrill she felt even thinking about it? No, she didn’t want to give up this opportunity, wouldn’t be so easily scared off.
‘Killer. There.’ Hank persisted. ‘Zina. Nahual saw.’
‘What are you implying? That an actual Nahual was protecting the artifacts, that he killed Zina and took her heart? Because that is utterly beyond ridiculous.’
