Behind the Walls

by Merry Jones

Burke Everett hadn’t shaved in a couple of days. Kept the hood of his sweatshirt up, concealing his face. Moved around College Town, never staying in one place long, crashing overnight in some apartment with a bunch of stoners, half in Halloween costumes where nobody knew who anybody was. Spending the day trying to blend in with scruffy potheads who hung out around there. Keeping his eyes open.

  So far this morning, he’d seen three of the Colonel’s people. Three that he was sure of: two in a black sedan. Christ, they might as well have carried a sign announcing themselves. One was subtler, hanging out near a pizza shop. His shoes had given him away, all laced up with their military shine. With tattered jeans? Really? Did they think he was stupid? At least they hadn’t spotted him – so far, he’d seen them first and disappeared.

  Meantime, he’d tried to reach Harper, even had gone to her house to warn her. But she’d been out, and her husband, well. No point telling him anything. There was something seriously wrong with that dude. Big guy, good-looking, but he moved like a wounded gorilla. Couldn’t even talk. Maybe he was one of those brain injury guys. Burke had heard that a lot of guys got head wounds from IEDs, got all kinds of weird afterwards. Harper had called afterwards, left a pissed-off message, telling him not to come to the house. Probably she was embarrassed about the guy, trying to shield him from people. Burke understood. Harper was one of the good ones, all about being strong. Being loyal.

  Which was probably why she hesitated to take a stand against the Colonel – he was her superior officer. She probably couldn’t believe a man of his stature could be so corrupt. Well, she was wrong. And, by the way, speaking of loyalty, Burke was Army, too, wasn’t he? Where was her loyalty to him?

  Someone bumped smack into him, walking fast. Fuck – he hadn’t seen the guy coming. If that had been one of them, he’d be dead. Just like Pete. Time to move on. Burke kept his head down as he walked. Time to get out of town. Leave them here, crawling all over Ithaca looking for him. His car was parked off Stewart Avenue, and he headed that way. Watching over his shoulder. Feeling eyes on him. What was that guy doing across the street, just standing there as if smoking a cigarette? Why was the guy looking at him? Burke quickened his step. The guy didn’t follow. Didn’t make a call. False alarm.

  At the corner, he turned sharply, suddenly, watching to see if anyone was on his tail. Some chick, yakking on her cell. He stood against the wall, watching until she passed. Then backtracked. She didn’t follow. Didn’t even glance his way.

  But those guys were good. Might have tag teams. The chick might right that second be telling her contact on the phone where he was headed. Burke slipped a hand into the pocket of his sweatshirt, clutched his 9 mm. Felt better. Life was better with a Beretta. He chuckled; not a bad slogan. He should send it to the company. Maybe they’d buy it from him. But first, he had to get out of town. Kept his head down. Kept walking.

  Harper’s hand was bleeding. Her palm was wet and sticky, a small incision right smack in the center. Who knew a butter knife could break skin? And who cared? It was only fitting that she’d bleed after what she’d just heard. Harper sped to the door, aware that Hank was coming after her, calling her name. But she didn’t stop, couldn’t. She grabbed her bag from the front table and kept moving, not stopping for Hank, the sharp pain in her left leg, her bloody palm, the frat guys’ raucous Homecoming party revving up in the yard next door, her phone chiming its gong sound. Smearing tears off her face, Harper popped her helmet on, hopped on to her Ninja and rode away, aware of Hank on the front porch, yelling words her engine drowned out.

  Harper sped down the hill to the lake, barely aware of traffic or surroundings, immune to the chilling wind in her face, aware only of pain. How could Hank accuse her of not being honest with him when he was the reason she didn’t tell him things. He was the one whose moods kept shifting, who was often too depressed or frustrated to have a conversation. And how could he accuse her of ‘doing her own thing’? As if she hadn’t put her PhD program, her friendships – her entire life – on hold when he’d been hurt. As if she hadn’t devoted herself completely to his recovery, rejoicing about each triumph no matter how small. Coaxing him through his therapies. Cheering his progress.

  Harper stopped at a red light. Looked around, saw no one coming. No cops. Went through it. Besides, who said she had to tell Hank about every single decision she made or every conversation she had? She was his wife, not his possession. She had a perfect right to go where she wanted and say and do what she wanted.

  But wait. Wasn’t that pretty much what Hank had said? She replayed his voice: ‘You do. What you want. Where you want.’ Had he been complaining about that? Or just stating a fact?

  Oh God. Was it possible that she had seriously overreacted?

  Harper slowed down. Replayed Hank’s words again. And again. Had he been saying he wanted them to go their separate ways? Or just that he needed to be more independent, like she was? Near the railroad station, Harper pulled to the side of the road, stopped the bike. Thought.

  Her phone chimed. Hank? She reached around for her bag, dug it out of the storage unit and retrieved her phone. By then, she’d missed the call. Damn. She checked missed calls, hoping to see Hank’s number, but no. It hadn’t been Hank. She didn’t recognize the number, not even the area code. And she saw that she’d missed a bunch of other calls, too. She took out a tissue, wiped drying blood off her hand. Blew her nose. Thought about going home, what she should do. Wondered why Hank hadn’t called. What he really wanted. Rubbed her eyes. Glanced at the list of missed calls.

  Good God – Burke Everett had left three voicemails. Vicki had called, too, and Harper’s mother, just back from a cruise. And Leslie. Thank goodness – maybe Leslie could see her today even though it was the weekend – maybe she was even free now . . .

  But Leslie’s message said that she was away for the weekend. At a wedding. She could see Harper Monday at noon.

  Harper bit her lip, looked at her cut hand, then off into the hills. She closed her eyes and drew a breath. Monday was a long, long time away.

  Burke stopped cold, looked over his shoulder. Gazed quickly across the street. Seeing no one, he turned back to his car and stared.

  The thread was gone. The thread he’d hung on the door handle had fallen to the ground. Which meant someone had tried to get into his car.

  They’d found it. The Colonel’s people had probably booby-trapped it, attached an explosive device to it. He didn’t dare stop to look for it. They had to be nearby, watching for him. If he lingered or poked around, they’d see him. No. No way he was even going to touch that car. No one was going to blow him to hell.

  Burke kept walking, deciding what to do. Finally figuring out that he’d been wrong: there was no bomb. An explosion at a major university would draw too much attention. What they’d probably done was much less obvious, though just as dangerous to him; they’d put a tracking device in the car. That way, they could keep tabs on him. Follow his every move. Get to him later, with less fanfare.

  But Burke wasn’t going to let that happen. He walked on, not clear where he was headed. Used his phone to find a rental car office. But before they even picked up, he realized what an idiot he was: to rent a car, he’d have to use his credit card. They’d be watching for his card number, would track him that way.

  In fact, now that he thought about it, he shouldn’t use his credit card at all – even to go to a damned ATM for some cash. Did they think he was an idiot? That he couldn’t figure out how they worked? Fuck them. His feet slammed the sidewalk. Pissed. What the fuck was he supposed to do now? He couldn’t even get a fucking bus ticket without them finding about it. He felt trapped, cornered. Looked around. Lowered his head.

  OK. OK. They couldn’t stick around Ithaca forever, could they? He’d just have to outsmart them, stay out of sight. He needed to talk to Harper; he’d already called a thousand times, would keep calling until he reached her. She didn’t want to be part of this. But she was smart, would figure out
that she had no choice; she was part of it, like it or not. Just like he was. She’d give him some cash and some food. Maybe even put him up for a while. He pulled out his phone, called her again. Got her voicemail again. Damn, couldn’t she just pick up her damned phone? Just once? Why did he keep getting her voicemail? It made no sense . . .

  Unless the Colonel had already gotten to her.

  Christ. Burke stopped walking. Put his hands over his eyes. Pictured Harper dead somewhere, murdered like Pete.

  Burke had to know. Had to find out if Harper was still alive, if he was the only one left. Taking side streets, watching pedestrians, he made his way back to her house.

  Harper rode around Ithaca, uphill, down again. Rode around to the stadium, heard percussion bursting from the Big Red Band, roars from the Homecoming crowd. Kept riding. Across campus, past the Quad. Through College Town. Back downhill, across town to the lake. Barely aware of traffic or her location, Harper headed to nowhere in particular, riding her way through time. Unsure what she should do. Alone.

  The Ninja cut through crisp air; the wind slapped her face raw, but she kept moving, determined to go faster than her heart. Eventually, though, like a homing pigeon, she found herself approaching the turn-off to the long dirt road through the woods, the sign that said, PRIVATE PROPERTY: KEEP OUT. And without hesitation, as if that had been her destination all along, she took the turn on to Langston’s place.

  Slowing down too quickly, Harper felt the bike skid on pebbles and leaves. The engine was too loud, disturbed the stillness of the place, so she parked it. Decided to walk the rest of the way to the house. She pictured the crates, the hundreds of relics waiting for her, and picked up her pace. Work would help, she decided. She’d spend some time on the collection, think about something besides Hank for a while. Maybe she’d get a fresh perspective. Or at least escape the present one.

  Leaves crunched under her feet. Around her, the woods were silent. Nothing moved. She wondered if Angus was around, if he’d pop out from behind a tree, challenging her right to be there. Or if Jake would appear again inside. Never mind. She had every right to be there, would simply insist that they allow her to work. She thought back to the relics she’d already seen: vessels, masks, bowls, figurines. Imagined the thrill of unpacking them, examining them.

  Something rustled among the trees. Harper kept walking. Probably a squirrel. Maybe a fox. She looked around, though. Saw just foliage. Light filtering through branches. Dense clusters of trees. And one, along the road, that was missing a chunk of bark – oh God. Zina’s tree.

  Harper didn’t stop to look. She picked up her pace, kept it up until she got inside the house. And even then, she kept moving, not letting the shadows or stillness bother her. She went directly to the third floor, along the long hall to the east wing, focusing only on her task. Determined to ignore the nagging memory of Hank’s declaration of independence. His voice, repeating, ‘Two lives. Do own things. Apart.’

  No. She wouldn’t let herself dissolve. She was strong. Would survive somehow. Fine. He wanted her to do her own thing? She would. Starting now. Tears kept filling her eyes, but she resolved to get a grip. She’d concentrate on other times, lost peoples. Escape into the past until she figured out how to bear the present.

  Wiping her eyes, Harper booted up the computer, logged on to the documentation page. Picked up a crate, set it on the worktable. Methodically, efficiently, she removed the lid and checked the items listed on the crate’s content sheet. Took out the packing materials. Lifted a Styrofoam packing case from the box, carefully removed the tape. Took an excited deep breath. Opened it.

  And froze, staring.

  The case was empty.

  A space had been carved, precisely shaped to hold a vessel. But the vessel wasn’t there. It was gone. Harper rechecked the content sheet, scanned the list of items for a vessel. Saw: Mayan polychrome vessel, 550–950 AD, five and a quarter inches high. Estimated value $75,000.

  Oh God. Harper couldn’t breathe. A piece worth that much money was missing? She looked around the room as if it might suddenly appear. Damn. But how could it be missing? The crate had been sealed. Obviously, someone must have opened it, taken the bowl and then resealed the crate. But who could have done that? The professor? Was this one of the pieces he’d moved to the laundry room?

  And even if it was, how could she prove it? Would she be suspected of stealing it? Would Zina? No, that was ridiculous – anyone could have taken it. There was no security at all, no one guarding the collection. The only lock was a hundred years old, on the front door. Other than that, the place was abandoned, unprotected. They might as well put a sign up, advertising the place to thieves.

  Lord. For all she knew, all the crates were empty. She scanned the stacks of boxes in the room. And suddenly thought of Jake – maybe Jake had found the vessel. Maybe he’d know where it was. Or at least, he’d vouch for the fact that the professor had moved pieces around and forgotten about them.

  Harper let out a breath. Of course. The vessel hadn’t been stolen, would turn up in a soup pot or under a pillow, if it hadn’t already.

  Still, Harper made a note of the missing piece before taking out another packing case. She was uneasy as she unwrapped and opened it, afraid it would be empty. Let out a sigh of relief when she saw that the case still held its relic: a figure of a priest with beadwork around his belt and on his headdress. Fourteen inches high. Made between 500 BC and 500 AD, estimated value of $20,000. Harper photographed and logged it. Took out the next box, opened it to find a Teotihuacán mask, eight and a quarter inches high, made about 500 AD. It was nicked slightly at the top, but still estimated to be worth about $75,000.

  Harper’s phone rang a few times, but she let it go. If Hank was calling, she wasn’t ready to talk to him yet, and if it was someone else, she’d rather work than take the call. Harper proceeded, unpacking the crate, item by item. Logging and photographing each relic. Finding bowls and gold pieces. Another copper mask, early to middle Mohica, Loma Negra, from around 300 BC, six and a half inches high, valued at $4,000. Even damaged, its expression was mesmerizing, powerful. Merciless.

  Finally, she replaced everything in the crate, marked it as logged, and made notes of the discrepancies between the original content sheet and her itemized log. In addition to the vessel, two small sculptures valued at $40,000, were unaccounted for. Might be in the professor’s sock drawer.

  Harper logged off the computer, noticing that three hours had passed since she’d begun working. And that she hadn’t dwelt on Hank in all that time. Had been completely absorbed. In fact, she felt stronger now, and refreshed. Stable. Ready to go home and face him, for better or worse.

  Walking back to the Ninja, Harper braced herself for the latter. Hank’s voice had begun again, telling her that their lives were going to change. Repeating, ‘Need change. Big.’ And, ‘Do own thing. Apart.’ She refused to cry again, but her stomach churned, and she realized she hadn’t eaten since early morning. Not that she had an appetite. Still, she was thinking about eating as she approached the tree hit by Zina’s car. And the spot where she’d found Zina’ body.

  Up ahead, Harper saw the bald trunk, the dented part missing bark. She shuddered, picturing it. Had Zina’s family ambushed her there? Had one of them run in front of the car, causing her to steer into a tree? She imagined them yanking Zina out of the smashed vehicle as she begged them to let her live. Harper stopped herself, didn’t want to envision the killing, made herself focus on the leaves, the sound of her footsteps.

  She moved through the woods, furious at the brutality of Zina’s death. Closing her eyes, she reminded herself that, by comparison, her own family problems were trivial. At least she and Hank could be civil. They could solve their problems without shedding blood.

  Passing the damaged tree, Harper steeled herself and glanced into the woods where she’d found Zina’s body. She blinked, at first assuming she was having a flashback, seeing Zina lying there again. But the image wouldn’
t go away. There really was another body there. Only, this one was a man.

  A big party was going on next door to Harper’s house. Fraternity brothers, dates, alumni, wives. Lots of beer. A big banner, saying, ‘Welcome Alumni’. A fancy buffet set up under an open tent in the side yard. A band blasted music from the balcony. Half the people were in costumes – one guy was dressed as a pirate, another as a zombie. Several were in drag. There was a chick in a way-short skirt, her top so low she might as well not have worn it, but somehow it had a badge pinned to it, and she had a cop hat on. An electric witch cackled whenever someone came too close, which was always. Skeletons and zombies swung in the breeze, hanging from trees. Fake tombstones were everywhere. A lot of noise, a rowdy half-in-the-bag crowd.

  A good place, Burke figured, to fade into the background. He wandered, trying to be invisible. Pretending that his clothes were a thug costume. People stood in small clusters around the yard, yelling over the music, laughing, drinking, eating. He managed to grab a roast beef sandwich from the tent, wolf it down with a beer, smile and nod when someone said, ‘Some game today, huh? Did we whoop Brown, or what?’ Everything was going all right until a guy in Gucci walked up with an extended hand and suspicious eyes, introducing himself.

  ‘Jeff Wasserman.’ He moved his lips to show teeth. ‘Class of oh-six.’

  Jeff Wasserman asked what class Burke had been in. Burke shook Jeff’s purposely too firm hand, returned the smile. Fumbled for an answer. The guy looked about his age, obviously could tell that he didn’t belong there, that he’d never been at Cornell, let alone in the fraternity. Burke was dressed way wrong, didn’t have a preppy blazer or an actual costume. Didn’t fit. Shouldn’t have taken the sandwich. The guy had probably seen him take it, pegged him as a homeless guy stealing food. Well, hell – he had to eat. And he couldn’t exactly go into a restaurant or food market.

  Burke decided he’d come up with some bullshit about how he’d never graduated. Had flunked out and gone to Iraq. Which would explain his clothes, right? Vets could dress in old jeans and hoodies or whatever they wanted – even at parties. Even on Halloween.