by Merry Jones
‘Mike. Mike Burke,’ he began. But he didn’t have to go on.
‘Hey, Wassy!’ a guy in a chicken suit called from the porch. ‘We need a legal opinion.’
And so Jeff Wasserman and his Gucci blazer excused himself and took off, leaving Burke to grab another sandwich, refill his beer and wander to the back of the house where no one would notice him. Where he could watch Harper’s house and look for her or anyone else who approached it. Where the trees would shield him from anyone tailing him.
But after almost an hour, no one had stirred at Harper’s house. Damn. Where the hell was she? He wondered if she’d gotten the letter he’d sent, outlining everything just in case something happened to him. Every detail was there, implicating the Colonel. He’d wanted to give it to her personally, to make sure it didn’t get intercepted, but ended up mailing it. And now, Harper was AWOL. Was it because she’d read the letter? Because they knew she knew?
Burke thought of calling again. What was the point? He’d called her dozens of times, gotten no response. And he had to ditch the phone soon – his third in as many days, afraid they’d trace his calls to Harper and find him from the signal. But he couldn’t buy another phone without using his credit card, so he couldn’t toss this one quite yet, just turned it off. Felt his sweatshirt pocket for the Beretta as he looked around. He could feel them around him, closing in. He’d seen them that morning, a black sedan following him along Seneca, so he’d ducked between buildings, stayed away from traffic after that. Moved as he’d been trained: efficiently, invisibly. Holding them off.
But they weren’t far. He sensed them, the searing beams of their eyes. Smelled the tension, the adrenalin. They might even be here, mingling with the frat boys, disguised in costumes. He checked out a guy dressed like a hula dancer. Was he packing under his leis? And the dude in the chicken suit – he could have a whole arsenal under all those feathers. Burke shifted positions, scanned the perimeter. Saw nothing definite. But he wasn’t fooled. They were watching him even now. Closing in.
Harper froze, staring at the body. Dark hair, dark skin. Lying exactly where Zina had been. Looking very much like she had looked. Perfectly still.
Damn. How was it possible that there was another body there? Right there, in that exact spot. Not a week after Zina had died there.
Harper listened, looked behind her. Heard nothing, saw no one. The body was on top of a pile of leaves, as if resting against them. She edged closer, peering through the trees. Looked for a wound, for blood. Saw neither. So how had he died? Strangling? Poison? Was there a knife in his back? Oh God. Who was this man? And who’d killed him? She thought of Angus, the way he disliked having people on the property. Had he completely lost it and killed a trespasser?
Or could it have been Jake? She remembered being alone in the house with him. His anger about his father’s will, about losing the collection. Maybe this guy was a lawyer and Jake had taken his revenge? Ridiculous. Jake had made her uneasy, but that was no reason to assume he was a killer. Was it?
Besides, she shouldn’t be standing there, staring at a dead body. She should leave it alone, shouldn’t mess up the scene. Should simply take her phone out and call the police. Except maybe he was still alive . . . Before she did anything else, she should at least find out if he had a pulse. Maybe she could help him. Maybe he was still alive and needed first aid. CPR.
Cautiously, quickly, Harper moved toward the man. Kneeling beside him, she reached for his throat, hesitating for a moment to touch him, to invade the privacy of his death. Dreading the absence of a heartbeat, the sensation of cool, lifeless flesh. But she stiffened, took a breath, and put her hand directly over his carotid artery, as she’d been trained. And, just before he sat up, yelling, swinging and grabbing at her, she saw the half-gallon of Cutty Sark near his feet, almost a quarter gone.
For a couple of hours, Burke managed to dig in and hold his position behind the fraternity. He drank beer, tried to blend in. Kept watch on the woods and Harper’s house. Saw nothing. But he wasn’t fooled. He sensed their presence. Where the hell were they? What were they planning? They weren’t simply going to leave him alone and go away; they were up to something. His face itched from nerves. A tic had begun in one eyelid. It was like Iraq, being on alert, not knowing what was coming.
Around dusk, the party began to wrap up. Burke thought he’d grab a final sandwich when he heard rustling in the trees. Instinctively, he dropped, stayed close to the ground. Peered into the growth. The music pounded, shook the ground. And suddenly, something large shook the foliage, darted away – damn. A deer. A fucking deer. Burke released a breath and stood up again, relieved.
Remembering the sandwich, he stepped around to the side of the house. People were drifting away. Probably, he should ignore Harper’s order to leave her alone. Probably, he should go back to her house and simply knock on the door. If she was out, he could wait for her there. What else, really, was there for him to do? He had no other options – she’d have to let him stay there until it was safe. Maybe she’d even have an idea for their next move.
Unless – fuck! Again, the unacceptable possibility hit him: it might already be too late. Harper might not be home because the Colonel had already gotten to her. In which case . . . Well, in which case, he wouldn’t let them take him, too. His hand closed around the Beretta. No way would he let the Colonel have that satisfaction.
The chip bowl was empty, and the potato salad was gone. Oh well. Burke grabbed his sandwich and headed out of the tent. He was taking a bite, thinking about ringing Harper’s bell when he saw the guy in the chicken costume walking toward him. A cat burglar had moved in, blocking his path to the woods. OK. Time to take off. Still chewing, Burke pivoted, hurrying toward Harper’s.
The guy took her by surprise, but Harper instantly shifted into combat mode, pinning him effortlessly. He didn’t have much bulk, and she’d been trained. Had dropped men twice his size. She’d rolled him over, had a knee in his spine, held his arms behind him.
‘What do you want?’ he panted. He wriggled, still trying to free himself. ‘Who are you? Let go of me.’
Harper smelled the booze in his breath. She tightened her grip. ‘Hold still.’
‘You want my wallet? Take it.’
‘Who are you?’ Actually, it was none of her business who he was. Or what he was doing there. He was trespassing, but that wasn’t her concern; the property wasn’t hers.
‘Get off of me.’ He twisted his neck, trying to look at her.
‘Answer me.’
‘No, I won’t answer you. I won’t tell you anything until you get off of me.’ He bucked.
‘Hold still.’
‘I will not hold still.’ The guy was stubborn; even flattened on the ground, his face buried in dead leaves, he argued. Refused to give in.
Harper stayed put, but her left leg complained, didn’t like bending for long periods. Soon it would throb. ‘Look. I can stay here all day,’ she lied. ‘Tell me what you’re doing here.’
‘Tell me why you’ve assaulted me.’
Really? ‘Dude. You’re the one who did the assaulting. I saw you lying here not moving, and I came to help you. I was afraid you might be dead—’
‘Well, now you know. I’m not dead. And I don’t need your help. So just—’
‘But you started swinging at me.’
‘Well, of course. Naturally, I did. I was sleeping here, and suddenly you came at me out of nowhere!’ He sputtered, but she felt his body relax. ‘You put your hands on my neck – what would anyone in that situation do?’
Good point. In that situation, she’d have probably decked somebody. Then again, she wouldn’t have been sleeping out here in the woods on the Langston’s private property. Her left leg was tired of bending, beginning to throb. And she really needed to get home. ‘OK. If I let you up, will you promise not to try to hit me?’
‘If you leave me alone, I’ll leave you alone.’
More conditions. Why wouldn’t the g
uy just give in? Probably, she’d wounded his pride. Never mind. They both knew she’d flattened him and that he didn’t dare mess with her again. She slid off his back, watched as he rolled over and sat up. He gazed at the trees. Then at her.
‘So.’ Harper crossed her arms. ‘Who are you? And what are you doing here?’
‘I might ask you the same.’ He spoke formally, looked up at her with steady dark eyes. Familiar eyes.
‘I’m Harper Jennings. I have a research position here.’
He nodded, then reached for his bottle of Cutty Sark. ‘Nice to meet you, Harper Jennings who has a research position here.’ He took off the cap. ‘Would you like a drink?’
Burke didn’t get far. Looking over his shoulder, he stumbled over a tombstone and hit the ground. Lost the roast beef sandwich. Regaining his balance, he reached for the 9 mm that had fallen from his pocket. Looked around to make sure no one had noticed him dropping it.
Saw a guy in a blazer approaching from his right. Recognized him.
‘That him?’ The chicken pointed a wing at him.
‘You all right there, Burke?’ The guy smiled at him. Held out an arm to help him to his feet.
Burke hesitated, feigning pain and surprise. ‘Rick? What the hell are you doing here?’
Shit shit shit. They’d found him. Rick Owens, the Colonel’s right hand man, was an arm’s length away. Reaching for him.
Burke moaned, pretended to be unable to get up. Then, as Rick and the chicken stepped forward, he scrambled. Grabbing the ground for balance, he fumbled the gun, had to let it go. Took off in a full out run. Made it past Rick, faked a move to the left, made it past the chicken and into the woods. Heard Rick calling, ‘Everett! Hey. Wait – stop!’ As if they were buddies and he wanted to catch a beer.
Burke zigzagged through the trees, uphill. Slipped on leaves, nearly tripping over stuff hidden beneath them – twigs or undergrowth. His breath was ragged, his lungs scraped raw, but he kept going. Felt Rick right behind him, didn’t dare slow down to look. Heard his shoes crushing leaves. Heard his panting. Ahead, Burke faced a steep incline. Damn, maybe four feet straight up. No choice, no time – he bent his knees and jumped, legs out. Grabbed a tree trunk and held on. Steadying himself, he saw the fence.
It was ten feet tall. Extended at least fifty feet in each direction. And it stood just a few yards in front of him, blocking his way.
Instinctively, Burke whirled, kicking. His heel landed in Rick’s gut, and the guy folded, sounded like a dying cat. Burke spun left, didn’t see anyone else. Rick was recovering, climbing to his feet, pissed.
‘What the fuck’s wrong with you?’ He wheezed, coughed, held his stomach. ‘Are you nuts?’
Burke didn’t want to get trapped following the fence, needed to get back down the hill, past Rick.
‘I just want to fuckin’ talk to you. Have a conversation.’ Rick brushed dirt off his slacks, catching his breath. Reaching into his pocket.
Burke wasn’t going to wait for the gun to appear. Before Rick could say another word, he lunged straight at him, knocking him aside, and charged back down the ledge, through the trees, past the fraternity with its Halloween zombies and graveyard markers, its gaggle of costumed pot-smokers on the porch.
Burke didn’t stop to look around. Was sure that Rick hadn’t come for him alone, that others were nearby, lurking, about to pounce. He raced along Wyckoff, Thurston. Headed towards a bridge. Saw a gang of them coming towards him, some of them in disguises. One dressed as a clown. Really? A clown? But there were too many to take on. And Rick was behind him; he couldn’t slow down, couldn’t wait for Harper, couldn’t rest, didn’t dare. Rick was fast – Burke could hear him panting, closing in, just a few steps behind. He ran even after he’d lost his breath, even when his muscles burned. He sprinted on to the bridge, kept going even when he knew they had him. He was trapped, Rick behind him, the others ahead. Out of options, Burke looked around, grit his teeth. And did the only thing he could.
The man took a swig of Cutty. Held the bottle out for Harper.
Harper shook her head, no thanks. It was getting dark. And she had to get home.
‘I have no diseases.’
Well, what was the harm? The encounter had left her jittery, and one sip wouldn’t hurt, might even settle her nerves. Lord knew they’d had a rough day. Harper took the bottle, raised it to her mouth. Swallowed. Felt the heat of booze slide down her throat, warming her. She handed the bottle back.
‘I am Salih.’ Salih drank again. ‘Salih Salim.’
Salih Salim? As in Zina Salim? Harper drew a breath, felt cold again.
‘And, I admit it.’ He stopped to hiccup. ‘I am trespassing.’ He blinked at her. ‘Do you want to call the police, Harper Jennings? Do you think I should be arrested?’
‘No. I’m sorry – I didn’t realize. Are you related to Zina?’ She didn’t know what to say.
He tilted his head, looking at her. ‘You knew my sister?’
Harper nodded. ‘I . . . yes. Actually, I found her. Here.’ Why had she said that?
‘You?’
Harper nodded.
They were silent for a moment.
‘And when I saw you lying in the same spot, I thought . . . Well, I thought there was another body.’
Salih nodded, ‘Of course.’ He gestured to a fallen trunk beside him. ‘Have a seat.’ Another hiccup. ‘I’m afraid I’m not dead. I’ve simply been drinking for a while. I must have dozed off.’
Harper sat, assessing Salih. His body was beefy and long. His features fuller than Zina’s, his eyes round and fiery. If Zina’s death had been an honor killing, had he known about it? Had he actually committed it? Harper imagined it: Salih holding his sister while their father wielded a knife. Or the other way around. Oh God. This man, Salih – was he Zina’s murderer?
Harper stiffened and glanced at the path, ready to bolt. Salih blinked, his back sagging against a tree trunk. He’d had too much to drink to be a threat. Besides, she’d already taken him down once, could do it again. And she wanted to find out more about Zina’s family.
‘My little sister was a rebel.’ He shook his head. ‘Even more than me. I – well, as you can see – I take a drink. My family doesn’t approve.’
Harper said nothing.
‘But Zina defied our parents. Always, from the time she was a little child. She had to do things her way. So stubborn.’ He chuckled. ‘There are seven of us – oops. Were seven of us. Now we are six.’
Harper nodded. ‘I’m sorry.’ Salih couldn’t have participated in Zina’s murder. Her loss clearly pained him.
‘We grew up in Britain. Our parents and three brothers are still there. But our business expanded to the United States, so some of us moved here. Zina was the youngest. She came over for school, and, right away, she was American. Watching Friends. Or 90210. Or whatever. Getting ideas about men, about dating. Dressing in tight jeans, showing her body. She became a different person.’
He lifted the bottle, offered it to Harper. She accepted, took a polite sip. Passed it back.
‘Zina came to my house the night before she was killed.’ Harper thought he might want to know. ‘She was frightened.’
Salih’s eyebrows lifted. Interested.
‘She was working here, at the house. And she thought she was being followed.’
‘So she knew she was in danger?’
‘Well . . .’ How was she to explain that Zina thought she was being followed by a mythological creature? ‘I think working here stimulated her imagination. She thought she was being followed by a shape-shifter.’
‘A shape-shifter.’
‘Yes. A Nahual.’ Harper explained the Pre-Columbian belief in men who could change forms to guard their land and people.
When she finished, Salih blinked at her. ‘My sister believed such a thing was real? A – what did you call it? A Nahual? That this Nahual was chasing her?’
‘Zina was shaken. She thought something was chasing her. I don’
t know why.’
‘A premonition.’
Harper didn’t comment.
‘Do you think that’s what it was? A premonition of her death?’
Harper hadn’t considered that possibility. Didn’t know how to answer. ‘I don’t know.’
‘They say these things happen. That people sometimes have a sign that the end is coming.’
Harper doubted it. ‘All I know is that she was frightened. Not herself. Up until then, Zina had seemed very . . . calm and realistic.’ She’d wanted to say very competitive and aloof. ‘Your sister was very strong willed. Very ambitious.’
‘Too strong willed. Too ambitious. Forget the Nahual or whatever you call it. Her stubbornness and ambitions are what got her killed.’
Her stubbornness and ambitions? Why would he say that? Was Salih acknowledging that there had been an honor killing? Admitting that Zina had been killed because she was too Westernized? ‘I don’t understand . . .’
‘If she hadn’t been here –’ Salih gazed into the trees – ‘if she hadn’t been working on that research position and insisting on that doctorate degree, if she’d just gone along as part of the family, helped with the business and gotten married like our parents wanted, she’d still be alive.’ His voice broke; he looked away.
‘You were close?’ Stupid question. Obviously, they’d been close. The man was here, where Zina’s body had been found, getting drunk and fighting tears.
His shoulders sagged. ‘She was my little sister.’
But Harper was confused. ‘There was a memorial for her at the university. You weren’t there – nobody from the family came.’
‘We have our own ways of mourning.’
Harper pictured family members laundering blood from their clothes after the honor killing. ‘Still. It might have helped to see how many people cared about her. You said you were close.’
‘I said I was close with Zina. I didn’t say my family was. My family is . . . We come from a different culture. I don’t expect you to understand. But my sister parted ways with it. It’s a long and bitter story. She defied our parents constantly. Whatever the line was, she crossed it. Many times. She embarrassed them publicly. She refused to participate in the family’s business enterprises. She even refused to marry the man to whom our father promised her.’
