Behind the Walls

by Merry Jones

  ‘He needs to know you’re with him, Harper. He wants you on his team – our team. Look, you and I are the only ones left from our detail. He trusts us. He feels indebted because we risked our lives to save his.’

  ‘That was war. It was our duty.’

  ‘He’s personally committed to us. And he wants to bring us together again as a team. He’s authorized me to increase his offer – name it, Harper. What would it take to bring you on board?’

  Burke’s voice echoed, warning her. He’s trying to buy you off. Tell him to fuck off.

  Harper shook her head. ‘You know what, Rick? I’ll tell you what I told him: I’m not interested in working for him. So you’re finished here. Bye, now. Have a safe trip home.’

  Harper picked up one of the gold ornaments, began repackaging it.

  ‘Harper, let me tell you about Baxter’s plans for the country. Will you at least listen? All he wants to do is bring you on board. Think of him as a rich uncle, who wants to make your life easier.’

  ‘Why would he want to do that?’

  ‘Because he takes care of the people who’ve helped him get to where he is.’

  ‘Lovely.’ Harper heard Burke cursing. ‘Please give the Colonel my best.’

  She carefully sealed the package, wrapped it in tape, set it back into the layer of foam in the crate. When she looked up again, Rick was gone.

  She listened for the sounds of his steps on the stairs, heard nothing. Rick was stealthy and he was wearing sneakers, but still, she should have heard a creak in the floor, a brush of fabric against wood. But she heard nothing. Harper sensed his presence, knew that Rick was close. Probably just outside the door, in the hall. With a gun in his pocket – or in his hand. Why wouldn’t he leave?

  ‘Rick?’ she called to him. ‘I know you’re out there.’

  He didn’t answer.

  Cursing, she grabbed the lever, waiting. Certain that Rick would reappear. And in a matter of seconds, he did.

  ‘I can’t leave.’ He stood in the doorway. ‘I made a commitment to recruit you. I can’t accept a “no”.’

  Harper stood. Rick came closer, his hand near his pocket. Harper anticipated his movements, bracing herself. What did he intend to do, shoot her? Or convince her to jump off a bridge?

  Harper waited, silent, not moving. Rick came closer, a smile slithering across his face. ‘All he wants is your loyalty.’

  ‘Rick,’ she decided to be frank. ‘I didn’t have a clue about our detail’s real purpose or the money Baxter stole until Burke explained it to me.’

  Rick scrunched his face, scratched his ear. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Even now, I don’t know for sure what happened. But no way I’m risking that it might be true. I’m not taking a pay-off “job” from a thief who betrayed his own country. Baxter may have bought you, but he can’t buy me.’

  Rick sighed, leaned against the wall. Dropped pretense. ‘How can you be so fucking naive, Harper? Baxter did what he did for his country. So he’d be in a position to get it back on track.’

  ‘Spare me, Rick. Just go before I call the cops.’

  ‘The cops? What, because I broke in? Seriously?’

  Harper looked him in the eye. ‘Tell me you didn’t force Burke to jump. Tell me you had nothing to do with Pet—’

  Rick cleared his throat, bent his knees and suddenly leapt up on to the worktable, crouched among the priceless relics, pointing his gun at her head.

  Before Harper had a chance to react, he frowned. ‘Harper, I really can’t accept another “no”. Are you sure you won’t reconsider?’

  Harper froze.

  ‘Put that down.’ Rick meant the lever.

  Harper let go of the lever and eyed the muzzle, mind racing. He could easily have killed her. Could kill her even now. He had the advantage, had taken her by surprise. So why he wasn’t he shooting her?

  Probably, he didn’t intend to shoot her. So what did he want? For her to accept a pay-off from Colonel Baxter? Was it really that simple? Or was it more – maybe the relics? Was Rick there to steal them? Had he already stolen the missing pieces? For the Colonel? After all, the Colonel had stolen all that money in Iraq – maybe he was also stealing relics?

  ‘Come on, let’s go. Let’s talk.’ He faced her from the tabletop. ‘I don’t want to hurt you, Harper.’

  ‘What the hell, Rick?’

  ‘I’ll do whatever it takes to convince you to accept Baxter’s excellent offer. Can’t I persuade you to rearrange your schedule and find some time?’

  She eyed the gun, thought of Burke diving off the bridge. Had Rick held a gun on him, too? Had he forced Burke to jump? Did he plan to stage her suicide, as well? Good God, stop thinking, she scolded herself. Just take the asshole down. Get the damned gun.

  Finally, her training resurfaced. Harper took a breath, centered herself, leaned back, and crashed her forehead directly against Rick’s, sending him flying backwards on to the floor. Relics rolled and rattled, even fell. Were they broken? Harper couldn’t stop to look. She dashed around the table and crates, pouncing on Rick as he scurried to his feet.

  Something hard – probably his gun – smacked the side of her head. Pain stunned her; darkness and white light flashed in her skull, but she wasn’t down. Harper grabbed his ankles as he tried to run, pulled at his shoes. A sneaker came off in her hand; she tossed it aside, pulled his foot with both hands. He hit the floor with a sharp slap. Half crawling, Harper came at him, but he rolled, bent his knee and slammed his leg full into her chest, launching her backwards. Harper flew. And flying, she suddenly smelled smoke, heard an explosion, waited to land on top of a burned out car. To see pieces of the guys in her patrol scattered in the street, on her stomach – no. She couldn’t get sucked into a flashback. Even as she sailed through air, she struggled to anchor herself in the moment.

  The impact of smacking into the wall accomplished that, jolting her into the present. Proving that she was not in Iraq, but at Langston’s house. Landing not on a car but against a wall. And bouncing off of it without a weapon, facing a former comrade who, though wobbly, still held a gun. Half dazed, breathing heard, she readied herself for his approach.

  ‘Fuck.’ Rick grunted as he stepped closer, pointing the gun at her. ‘Settle down. I just came to talk. Just listen to what I have to say.’

  Harper waited, hunched, feigning injury. As soon as he came within reach, she swung her strong leg, trying to kick the gun away. She missed, felt the momentum of her foot crunching ribs, heard the simultaneous roar of pain and blast of pistol.

  In a final surge, Rick charged forward, falling against her, knocking her against a wall panel. Which gave way under her weight. Harper tumbled through it, falling into darkness. The fall probably lasted just a second, maybe two. But in that time, Harper had several distinct thoughts. First, she wondered if she’d been shot or even killed, and if she was falling into hell. Next, she recalled Hank falling off the roof, wondered if his fall had seemed this endless. Finally, she felt a pang of unbearable sorrow, picturing Hank and realizing that, if she were dead, she’d never ever see him again.

  Rick stumbled to his feet. Bitch had knocked the air out of him, broken his fucking ribs. Dazed, he realized his left calf stung. And it was bleeding. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. She’d fucking made him shoot himself in the leg?

  Where was she? Where the fuck was she? Forget about the Colonel’s plans – he’d blow her cute fucking little head off.

  But she wasn’t there. Rick turned in circles, rotated, swinging the gun up and down, back and forth. Looking behind the boxes, even though she hadn’t been anywhere near them.

  It was like she’d disappeared. Like she’d gone right through the wall.

  Maybe he’d passed out and she’d run off? Damn, had he let her get away? No. He was sure. The gun went off and he’d hit the ground, but he’d gotten right up again. No lost moments. He would know if he’d been unconscious; wasn’t new to battle or wounds. Still, where the hell was
she?

  Rick stumbled around, gun still dangling from his hand, trying to think. One thing was sure: he needed to stop bleeding or he’d fall down and die right there. Needed to make a tourniquet. Turned in circles, confused. Fumbled around, wincing, groaning. Reaching hurt; moving any part of him hurt. Even breathing. She must have smashed six ribs. Might have sent one into his lungs.

  Damn. Blood was pooling in his sneaker, the one he still had on. He leaned against the wall, dragging his wounded leg because it buckled when he put weight on it. Finally lowered himself to the floor and managed to steady his torso while his arms unbuttoned his jacket and pulled his T-shirt over his head. He slapped himself in the face. ‘Do not pass out,’ he said aloud as he bit a hole in the shirt. Blinking, shaking his head, refusing the darkness that tried to wash through his head, he ripped the shirt into strips, rolled his pant leg up, exposing the wound. The bullet had gone at an angle, passing through the muscle, going in the back of his calf and out the front. Bleeding like a motherfucker. Damn T-shirt strips kept stretching. He had to keep tightening them, yanking, annoying the wound, and the damn thing killed. Well, he was no pussy, could take the pain. Still, this shit was messed up, shouldn’t have happened. As soon as he got the bleeding under control, he’d go find Harper and settle this. Miss PhD. Miss I-don’t-want-a-job-in-Washington, even for Baxter. Miss I’m-better-than-you-are, too-good-even-to-hear-you-out.

  Rick tightened the tourniquet, took off his remaining sneaker. Leaned against the wall just for a second, to regain his wind. No matter what it took, he’d show her, once and for all, how wrong she was.

  The impact of landing reverberated through her body. Each bone, each nerve had its own collision and reaction. Harper couldn’t move; pain jolted her limbs, her back, her skull. Worst of all, she couldn’t see. Oh God – was she blind?

  ‘Help.’ She screamed, but her voice was a croak. ‘Somebody!’ She tried again but began to cough. Her ribs raged with each cough, and she tasted blood and dust. Finally, her body quieted, and she lay still, her breath ragged, hearing nothing else. Seeing nothing but blackness.

  After a moment, she yelled again. ‘Hey, Rick!’ Her voice was stronger now. ‘Rick! Can you hear me?’

  No answer. Maybe he was dead? Had been shot in the struggle? Damn. Why couldn’t she see? Panic surged in her belly. Maybe the blindness was temporary. From the blow to her head when she hit the ground. Maybe it would pass. Meantime, she couldn’t just lie there; she needed to get up, told her legs to bend, her head to lift. But her parts didn’t care what she said, refused to obey. Harper lay back, staring into the dark, felt it creeping into her head, wandering through her veins, seeping over her thoughts, and finally carrying her away.

  Sitting there, his leg on fire, Rick realized the mess he was in. Even if he found Harper, he probably wouldn’t be able to get through to her and get her to sign on. But now, if he dispatched her, it wasn’t going to look like a suicide with his damned blood all over the hallway. And he wasn’t strong enough to clean it up. Let alone to set the scene. He was in shit. Deep in shit.

  Grimacing, he reached for his phone. The Colonel would send someone to pick him up, help him out. Karl, the guy who’d helped him tail Everett – he must still be in town. Should have come along on this job, too. They’d underestimated its difficulty.

  His hands were bloody, left marks all over his Blackberry as he made the call.

  But before anyone could pick up, he pressed ‘end’. Closed his eyes, put his head back, cursed. What the hell was he thinking? Was he really going to call the Colonel and tell him that he’d fucked up yet again, even let the target get away? Oh, and by the way, that he’d shot himself?

  From the beginning, the Colonel had made it clear; there was no room for failure. Too much was at stake. People were with him or they weren’t. No middle ground. His Senate seat was a critical phase of a history-making plan. No one – certainly not Rick – would be considered valuable enough to jeopardize it with scandal or worse. If Rick admitted to screwing up, the Colonel would no doubt send Karl, but not to rescue him.

  Rick struggled to his feet, grunting, deciding to do what it would take to survive. His wound wasn’t all that bad; he’d seen plenty worse. He had to keep focused, on task. Had to find Harper and get his job done. If they found her outside, maybe hanging from a tree, they might not come inside for a while. Might not see the blood right away. He’d have a chance to come back and bleach the place later.

  Limping, he stuck the gun back into his belt, pocketed his phone. Where the hell had she gone? He checked behind the crates again, searched every room on the floor, gazed down the stairs. But before going down them, he had an idea. Rick went back to the wall where he’d last seen Harper and began tapping, listening for hollow sounds.

  When Harper opened her eyes again, she saw nothing. Her sight had not returned. Oh God. She stopped breathing, felt her chest tighten. Do not panic, she commanded herself. Do not panic? Really? She couldn’t see. Wasn’t sure where she was or how badly she was hurt. Or how long she’d been there. Or if anyone would ever find her. She listened, called out.

  ‘Hello?’

  Hollow, empty silence.

  ‘Anybody?’ Darkness swallowed her voice.

  OK. Enough. Time to get up and find a way out of there. Except that she couldn’t quite get up. Could barely lift her head. She was dizzy, shivering. Her thoughts broke apart incoherent, fragmented before she could grasp them. She closed her eyes again, smelled old wood, dirt. Mildew. Mold. And thought of Leslie, how she’d helped her to remember things through hypnosis. Relax, she heard Leslie’s voice in her head. Let the tension out of your feet, your legs, your thighs. Breathe slowly, from your diaphragm. Gradually, Harper replayed what had happened. She saw herself upstairs, working with the collection. Upset that so many pieces were missing. She’d been about to pack up and go when – out of nowhere – Rick had shown up with a gun in his pocket.

  She remembered his claim that he just wanted to ‘talk’. But his weapon had spoken for itself. She remembered headbutting him, but everything after that was a blur of blows and kicks until she’d slammed a hallway wall, and – what? Gone right through it? Had she fallen through a wall?

  Harper replayed the fight, not sure her memory was right. After injuries, people often had memory gaps or distortions. But she was certain. She’d hit the wall and passed right through it.

  How was that possible? Besides, if she’d broken through a wall, wouldn’t she have just landed in the next room? Or in a closet? How had she fallen down a whole story or two – into nothing?

  Something tickled her memory but wouldn’t show itself. Her mind was swollen and foggy, and she closed her eyes, trying to control her shallow breathing and quell her jagged pulse. And, all at once, a memory surfaced, and Harper knew exactly where she was.

  The tales about secret passageways in the Langston house weren’t just lore; they were true. The wall she’d hit must have been a false panel that led into a passageway, and it had given way, sending her into a hidden corridor. She thought of the stories about the passageways. The one about an actress who’d never been found. Harper shivered.

  Never mind. That was just a story. She pushed herself up on to her elbows. Damn. Her head and back pulsed with pain. Something warm and wet – had to be blood – oozed down her face; she touched her head, found the source. A gash on her temple. Vaguely, she remembered getting hit there. Asshole Rick had slugged her with his gun. Harper put her hands on the ground, pushed, managed to sit up. Checking her body, part by part, she found no breaks, no bullet wounds or other cuts. Slowly, she bent her legs and climbed to her feet. She stood unsteadily, unbalanced in the dark. Suddenly dizzy, she crouched again, steadying herself. Her thoughts were tedious and muddled, the darkness disorienting.

  Relax; she replayed Leslie’s voice. Breathe.

  Harper inhaled. Concentrated on breathing. Thought about Burke and Murray. The Colonel offering her a bribe. Rick coming at her wit
h a gun. After a moment, she straightened her back, winced in pain. And cursed as she stood again.

  Blind or not, she was going to find her way out of there. And when she did, she’d settle things with Rick Owens. And Colonel Baxter, too.

  Damn. The whole wall sounded hollow. As if there were a room or empty space behind it. Harper must have known, must have escaped through a hidden door. Rick looked up and down, felt the panels, trying to open the thing. He pressed against it. Pushed on the top, the bottom, the middle, trying to find a latch or a hinge. He backed away, examining the wall from a different vantage point, trying to see if the molding looked uneven. He moved up close, pressing his cheek against the plaster, trying to find tiny inconsistencies in the texture.

  Nothing.

  Shit. He had to find her. He stood still, staring at the wall. Picturing what was on the other side. Of course – probably, it was a secret room, and she was in there hiding. Maybe huddling in fear? Breathing heavily? He leaned against the wall again, holding his breath, listening. Hearing nothing. Fuck.

  But she was in there. She had to be. People didn’t just disappear, and there was no place else she could be. Rick leaned against the wall and called, ‘Harper. I know you’re in there. It’s no use.’

  Listened again. Heard no movement. Damn. The woman was smart, well trained. She could probably stay there for hours. Maybe a couple of days. The only way to get her out would be to go in and get her. Fine, no problem. Surely, he could break through a flimsy old wall.

  Again, Rick tapped the plaster, this time listening not for what was behind it, but for what was in it. Deciding it was neither too sturdy nor too thick, he stepped back, leaned away and pounded the thing with his fist. And recoiled, howling, having overestimated his strength. Whimpering, he saw flashing lights, felt pain shooting through his hand and arm, along his bones. He cradled his hand, cursing the thin swatches of plaster that had splintered and fallen to the floor.

  OK. He needed something heavier. A tool. There were tools in the room where he’d found Harper. His leg throbbed, resenting the walk, but he limped back there. Found a hammer on the shelf – exactly what he needed. Encouraged, Rick felt more optimistic. Actually had a glimmer of hope as he made his way back to the wall.