Behind the Walls

by Merry Jones

  Harper wasn’t sure about that. She nodded anyway, so the detective would stop talking.

  More silence. Harper stared at her coffee mug. Saw Burke diving off the bridge, the laces of his sneakers flying.

  ‘Well. Anything else you can share on this guy?’ Rivers pushed her chair away from the table. ‘Because, first glance, seems pretty open and shut.’

  It did?

  ‘Guy was having a breakdown. He was depressed, losing control. Becoming delusional. Finally committed suicide.’

  Suicide. Something icy ricocheted inside Harper’s chest. She pictured Burke waiting for her to call back. Not daring to come to her home because she’d forbidden it. And, while she’d been out drinking with Salih, he’d given up. Lost all hope. Gone to the bridge and jumped. She heard the thud of his landing. Shuddered. Closed her eyes.

  Detective Rivers stood. ‘Where’s your husband?’

  Her husband? The question startled her. All evening, she’d been listening for Hank’s car to pull into the driveway, but Detective Rivers didn’t know that – why was she asking about him? What did she know?

  ‘You’re not in great shape, Mrs Jennings. I don’t want to leave you here alone.’

  Harper released a breath. ‘I’m fine. Hank’ll be back soon.’ She hoped.

  She glanced at the clock. Twenty after nine. Where was Hank?

  As if in answer, a car door slammed outside. Hank was back. Unless it was more cops. No. She recognized the footsteps coming up the back stairs. Hank’s gait. Harper froze, couldn’t move. Rivers took their cups to the sink. Getting ready to go.

  The kitchen door opened and Hank burst in wild-eyed. ‘Hoppa?’ He looked around the kitchen. ‘Happened? Police.’

  Rivers sat again, reviewing what had happened for Hank. Asking what he knew about Burke. What Burke had said the day he’d come to the house.

  ‘Jumpy. Wanted to see. Hoppa.’ Hank didn’t look at her. ‘Wouldn’t tell. Said urgent. Danger. Not. Why.’

  ‘He was jumpy?’

  Hank nodded. His eyes glowered. ‘Looking. Behind him.’

  Rivers sighed. ‘Well, that fits.’

  ‘Fits what?’

  ‘What we know so far.’ Rivers’ eyes travelled from Hank to Harper, back to Hank. ‘Mr Everett was extremely troubled. Possibly troubled enough to take his own life.’

  ‘Self killed?’

  ‘He jumped off a bridge.’

  ‘Damn. But kill. Why?’

  ‘Because of me.’ Harper finally spoke. ‘Burke asked me to help him. And I didn’t.’ Harper wanted Hank to hold her, warm her in his big muscled arms. But he didn’t. Might not ever. She huddled into his parka across the kitchen from those arms, speaking to him for the first time since she’d left the house that morning. ‘He must have come here looking for help again, and I wasn’t here.’

  ‘But kill self? He wait could. Or come back.’

  ‘Mr Jennings, the guy wasn’t thinking straight.’ Rivers folded her arms. ‘His buddy just killed himself. His marriage fell apart. He never readjusted to civilian life. He came to his old army pal but even she couldn’t help him.’

  The words felt like a blow to the gut; Harper let out a soft involuntary grunt.

  ‘Not to say it’s your fault. You didn’t do anything wrong. Mrs Jennings, look, statistically, each year there are twice as many suicides as murders – and that number is even higher among war vets. Given all the factors I just rattled off, it looks like a cut and dry suicide.’

  Harper sat silent, only half listening to the detective, her thoughts spinning. It wasn’t her fault that Burke had died – was it? She didn’t dare look at Hank. Wished he would do something to reassure her – move his chair closer. Take her hand. Something. And, oh God – the detective would leave soon. What would happen then? Would Hank want to talk? Later, would they sleep in the same bed? She bit her lip, looked at her hands, began her spiral again. Oh God, Burke was dead. But it wasn’t her fault, was it?

  Harper watched Rivers, not listening any more. But Rivers was looking at her, so she tuned in, heard: ‘ . . . second dead body connected to your wife in as many weeks . . .’

  Harper sat straight. Cleared her throat. Tuned in.

  ‘ . . . don’t seem connected to each other, but they’re both connected to her . . . understandable if she’s shaken up.’ Rivers eyed her but talked to Hank. ‘ . . . keep an eye on her if I were you.’

  Two bodies. Harper saw Zina again, her slumped body bathed in blood. And she imagined Burke, battered on the floor of the gorge. She recalled the indifferent stillness of Zina’s flesh.

  ‘Any news? Zina case?’

  ‘Nothing I can discuss yet.’ Rivers watched Harper. ‘Mrs Jennings, are you OK?’

  She wasn’t. Zina had come to her for help and died. The same thing had happened to Burke. No question. Somehow, everything was her fault. She was toxic. No wonder Hank was done with her. Her stomach wrenched and she tasted bile. Harper stood and dashed to the powder room, about to be sick.

  ‘Hoppa?’ Hank waited outside in the hall.

  Harper rinsed her face, patted it dry. ‘I’m OK.’ She stepped out of the powder room, drained.

  Hank didn’t say anything, just followed as she walked back to the kitchen.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Rivers stared at her. She was standing, as if about to go.

  Harper’s face got hot. ‘I’m fine. Just upset – I haven’t eaten much, and I guess I had too much to drink this afternoon.’

  Silence. Two pairs of eyes watched her.

  ‘I . . . I was working at Langston’s. And I ran into Zina’s brother. He was there, at the exact spot where I found her—’

  ‘Excuse me?’ Rivers interrupted. ‘You ran into who?’

  Harper felt Hank’s glare. ‘He was drinking, visiting the place where she died.’

  The detective’s mouth dropped. ‘Which brother?’

  ‘Salih. Salih Salim – musical, isn’t it?’

  ‘You discussed the murder with him?’

  Well, sort of. ‘A little. I mean, I said I’d found her.’

  Rivers sighed, crossed her arms. ‘Mrs Jennings, tell me exactly what was said.’

  ‘He . . . actually, he thinks their family killed Zina. He suspects an honor killing because Zina defied their parents.’

  ‘Where is Salih?’

  Harper told her where she’d dropped him off, and the detective headed for the door. ‘Mrs Jennings,’ Rivers stopped as she was leaving. ‘If Salih Salim contacts you again, let me know immediately.’

  ‘But why? He’s not the one who—’

  ‘We’ve been trying to contact Zina’s family since her murder. So far, we haven’t been able to locate a soul. Every single one of them seems to have left the country.’

  Harper waited, but Hank didn’t say anything. After Detective Rivers left, he turned to the refrigerator, got out some sliced turkey and cheddar cheese. Started to make a sandwich.

  A sandwich? He was hungry? Ignoring her?

  Finally, she couldn’t take it any more. ‘Are you going to offer me one?’

  He didn’t turn around. ‘Want?’

  Her stomach still hurt, but it was empty; she’d lost her tuna sandwich. ‘No cheese on mine.’ Was he giving her the silent treatment? Acting as if nothing had happened? Didn’t he care about Burke’s death?

  Harper took two beers from the refrigerator.

  ‘Not enough. Drink. With Salih?’ Hank’s voice was flat.

  He was mad that she’d been drinking? ‘I didn’t really drink that much—’

  ‘Wrong with. You?’ Hank spun around, facing her, the mayonnaise jar in his hand. ‘Killer. Zina. Might be this man!’

  ‘Salih didn’t kill her.’

  ‘You know? How?’

  How did she know? Well, because he’d told her. ‘He wasn’t dangerous. We just talked.’

  Hank replaced the mayonnaise in the refrigerator, brought two plates, two sandwiches to the table. Didn’t say a
word. Began eating.

  ‘Why are you so mad?’

  ‘Mad?’ His mouth was full. ‘Why? Really?’

  ‘It’s not because I had some drinks with Zina’s brother. You’ve been mad all day, right?’

  Hank fumed, chewed. ‘Just walked out. You. Today.’

  Well, what had he expected her to do? ‘I was upset. You said we needed to be apart. So I let you be apart!’

  ‘Not talked. Not said. Just left.’

  ‘What was there to say? You want to be on your own!’

  Hank slammed a fist on the table; the plates bounced. ‘Damn. Hoppa.’

  She blinked, stunned. Hank, with all the frustration he’d had in his recovery, had never pounded a table. Never lost control. Tears rushed to Harper’s eyes. She started to get up, but Hank put his sandwich down and grabbed her wrist.

  ‘Sit.’

  She sat. Felt his hand gripping her without tenderness.

  ‘I’ve had a hell of a day, Hank.’

  ‘Too.’ Or two. ‘Wife walked mad out. Killed could be, like Zina.’

  ‘Really, Hank. I was in no danger.’

  ‘No calls. No idea. Where you—’

  ‘I didn’t know where you were either. I got home and you weren’t here. I tried to call, but you left your phone in the house—’

  ‘Got dark. Went looking.’

  ‘—so I was waiting for you, and meantime, they found Burke—’

  ‘Drove all over. Trent’s. Ruth’s. Leslie’s. No Hoppa. Not anywhere.’

  ‘—and had no idea where you were or how to find you. So how do you like it so far, us being apart?’

  They both stopped, stared at each other. Hank’s eyes were flames, searing her. Harper’s nostrils flared. Suddenly, Hank leaned over, grabbed her head and pressed his mouth against hers, hard, expressing his fury and frustration without the need for words.

  When he released her, Harper was breathless, couldn’t speak. Hank glared.

  ‘Apart. Means. Not me leaning. Always on you. Doesn’t mean. Not talking.’

  What? Had she mistaken his meaning that morning? Overreacted to the word ‘apart’?

  ‘OK,’ she began. ‘I get that you’re stronger and don’t have to lean on me any more. But I don’t see why you’re so damned mad.’

  Hank glowered. ‘Why? Told you. You hide. Secrets.’

  ‘I do not have secrets.’

  ‘Bullshit. Burke. Didn’t tell—’

  ‘There was nothing to tell!’

  ‘Man was crazy. Could you have. Hurt. Killed.’

  No, Burke wouldn’t have hurt her – but Hank kept talking. Repeating his list of Things She Hadn’t Told Him. ‘You took job Zina’s. Didn’t tell.’ Hank paused, puckered and stretched his lips, limbering them to speak. ‘Found maybe out family killed. Her. Didn’t tell. Now today. Left. Drank with maybe man killed Zina. Wrong.’ He stopped, reworked his lips again. ‘What’s wrong with. You. Hoppa? Want danger? Why?’

  He went on for a while, scolding, listing things she’d done that were wrong or reckless. Or inconsiderate, secretive, selfish. Harper had never seen him so exasperated, wanted to calm him down. She didn’t defend herself or try to explain; that would only fuel his temper. Besides, she didn’t have the energy. Instead, she nibbled at her sandwich, strangely at peace. Because despite everything – her husband’s complaints, the shock of Burke’s death, the horror of Zina’s murder – one fact was clear: Hank didn’t want to split up. No matter what else was happening or how furious he was, he still loved her. She knew that from his kiss.

  Harper awoke Halloween morning, not sure if Hank had come to bed or not. She’d fallen asleep as soon as her head had hit the pillow, too exhausted to dream. And the sheets beside her were empty.

  It was after ten. She’d slept for eleven hours? Lord. Harper hurried downstairs, smelling coffee.

  ‘Hank?’

  He didn’t answer. He’d left a note in the kitchen. He hadn’t wanted to wake her, was out running errands. Would be home about three.

  Harper held the note, sank into a kitchen chair. Listened to the silence of the house. Told herself to get it together, not to be so easily hurt. This was just a phase. Hank was proving that he could be independent. Once he’d shown that he could do things solo, he wouldn’t need to any more. Would include her again. Meantime, she would not waste time and energy feeling sorry for herself.

  She poured a cup of coffee, gazed out at the wooded spot behind the house. In the daylight, almost bare of leaves, the trees seemed sparse. She thought of Burke. How could he have killed himself? Had he been entirely without hope? Felt trapped by his delusions? Had he imagined he was being chased by the cluster of students and that man who’d been trying to help him?

  Harper wasn’t sure. But she couldn’t stop thinking about Burke, his calls, his death. Setting down her coffee, she went for her phone, brought it back to the kitchen. Sat and played his last messages again.

  ‘They found my car.’ His voice was ragged, whispering. ‘I don’t dare use it, so I’m on foot. I know you don’t want me to come over. Can you meet me somewhere? Harper, it’s serious. They’re all over the place, watching for me. I can’t use my credit cards or they’ll find me. Can you get me some cash? Call me back. We’re not safe.’

  His next call was breathless. More urgent. ‘I gotta keep moving, can’t carry the evidence. So check your mailbox. They’re closing in and they’ll do anything to shut me up. I’m on my way to your place. It’s fuckin’ showdown time.’

  And the last: ‘Damn, Harper. Where are you? Did they get to you already? At least call me the fuck back and let me know you’re still breathing.’

  No question. Burke had reached out to her for help, and she’d let him down. Harper sat at the table, drinking coffee. Thought about her mailbox. Maybe he’d left something for her? She ran outside to the street, checked the box. Found it empty. Burke hadn’t left anything there. He’d just been rambling.

  Back in the house, she popped a piece of rye bread into the toaster oven, looked for the butter. Damn – there was no butter. No jam either. She hadn’t shopped all week. Maybe Hank would go to the grocery store on his ‘errands’.

  Reaching for a jar of peanut butter, she glanced out the window again. Heard Burke’s desperate whisper, ‘It’s fuckin’ showdown time.’

  Showdown time. Burke believed that Colonel Baxter had people looking for him. That his car had been tampered with, his credit cards tagged. But he was getting ready to take his enemies on, face to face. Was that the attitude of a man about to take his own life?

  Harper didn’t think so.

  Then again, Burke was unbalanced. Who knew what an unbalanced man’s attitudes would be?

  She heard him explaining Colonel Baxter’s theft. Telling her about the detail in Iraq. The cargo of stolen cash they’d loaded on to the helicopter.

  It seemed preposterous. Probably, Burke had concocted it all as a way to blame his problems on somebody else, as his marriage, job and mental health were falling apart.

  But Peter Murray was dead – Burke hadn’t concocted that. And now Burke was dead, too. She thought of the other member of their team, Rick Owens. Had she seen him near her house?

  The ding of the toaster oven jangled her; Harper spun around, grabbing her knife. Wow. Maybe paranoia was contagious. Harper took out her toast, used the knife to slap on some extra chunky. Took a bite. And thought about the only other living member of their detail. She ought to tell him about Burke.

  Unless, of course, he already knew.

  Thank the Lord for Google. In seconds, she’d grabbed her laptop and located hundreds of Rick Owenses. In a few more seconds, she’d found her particular Rick Owens and his business contact information in Washington DC. Rick, it seemed, was a political consultant. And if there was any truth to Burke’s story, one of his major clients was Colonel Baxter, candidate for Senator.

  Chewing her toast, she punched Rick’s number into her cell. On the third ring, Rick’s v
oicemail picked up. The recording was smooth, professional, positive, slick.

  She pictured Rick in fatigues, covered with sweat and dust, swatting flies. Tried to put the voice with the image. Couldn’t.

  At the sound of the tone, she wasn’t ready, hadn’t planned what to say. It wasn’t right to give bad news by voicemail; she shouldn’t mention that Burke was dead. Still, she had to speak – her silence was being recorded. Finally, she spurted. ‘Rick? Hi Rick, it’s Harper – Lieutenant Reynolds. From Iraq. Give me a call when you get a chance? Thanks.’

  She ended the call, after leaving her number, feeling clumsy. Had she really said that? ‘It’s Harper. Lieutenant Reynolds. From Iraq?’ Like he wouldn’t know who Harper was? They’d served together, for God’s sake. And how many Harpers did he know? Well, it didn’t matter what she’d said. The important thing was that he’d get the call, return it, and answer some questions about Burke and the Colonel.

  Meantime, Harper had a blank day ahead of her. She should go to the grocery store. Maybe work at Langston’s for a while. She rinsed her coffee mug and put the peanut butter away, headed up to shower. She was drying off, wrapped in a towel when her cell phone gonged.

  She reached for it, hoping it was Hank. Saw the incoming call number, didn’t recognize it. The area code was 202. Washington DC.

  Rick was calling back. Harper grabbed the phone, answered the call. ‘Hey, there, soldier. How are you?’ she began.

  ‘Just fine, Lieutenant. I hope you are, as well.’

  The voice wasn’t Rick’s. Harper’s hand tightened on the phone and her chest tightened as she recognized the gravely voice of Colonel Baxter.

  Why was the Colonel calling? Did he know that, minutes ago, she’d called Rick Owens? Was he responding to that call?

  She heard Burke’s voice, whispering a warning: They’re closing in. They’re watching. But that was ridiculous. Rick worked for the Colonel; they were probably together. Rick must have seen the message and shown it to the Colonel, who just wanted to say hello.

  ‘Heard you got hitched.’

  He had?

  ‘Sounds like he’s a good guy. Sorry about his accident.’

  What? How did he know about that? ‘How did you know—’

  ‘Oh, make no mistake: I keep tabs on my people, Lieutenant.’