by Merry Jones
‘What’s he doing? Hey, what the hell are you doing?’ Joe barked.
Rick’s arms splayed over his head as someone dragged him by the feet, moving him out of Harper’s line of sight.
‘Shit. Does he have to do that again?’ Joe asked. ‘What the hell’s the matter with him?’
‘Let’s not bother him.’ First guy sounded edgy. ‘Just let him do his thing. You don’t want to start something with him.’
‘He’s fucked up,’ Joe said. ‘Seriously. He needs help.’ His voice sounded familiar. Slightly accented.
‘You think I can’t hear you?’ A third voice. Kind of throaty. Also familiar?
‘You’re talking about me as if I’m not here. I can hear everything you’re saying.’
‘Good. I’ll say it to your face. You fucking need to go someplace and get locked up. You’re ill. It’s sick, what you’re doing.’
‘I appreciate your opinion. But you have no inkling what you’re talking about. I’d advise you not to speak to me.’
‘Really, Digger? You’re telling me what I can do?’
Digger? Wait. Jake had talked about Digger – had said he was Angus’ friend. Was this the same ‘Digger’?
‘Move away. You’re interfering with the rite.’
‘Rite? Are you serious? You look like a fucking chicken.’
‘You’re speaking out of ignorance. And as a priest, I can’t be bothered with your opinions. This rite is essential for our continued success. It strengthens us.’
‘It does, does it?’ Joe was unconvinced.
‘It does.’
‘It’s not his fault.’ The first guy spoke up. ‘The old guy got him started.’
‘Neither of you can possibly understand.’ Digger sounded winded. Probably from dragging Rick.
‘He’s being doing this since the eighties.’
‘Since the eighties?’ Joe’s voice again. ‘Shit. How old were you then? Like ten?’
‘Fifteen. Digger was sixteen.’
‘No, I started younger. By sixteen, I’d performed a dozen rituals.’
‘Bullshit! We’d have heard if—’
‘I began with a dog.’
‘You did what? Fuck you, Digger – that was you? You fucking killed our dog?’
That had to be Angus.
‘Not his spirit. That still lives within me. The professor didn’t realize what I was doing until my fourteenth – which was Carla.’
Carla? Harper drew a breath. Carla Prentiss. Langston’s murdered researcher. Angus’ friend killed her?
‘What is he talking about?’ Joe scoffed.
‘The old guy used to take us on digs. Digger was fascinated by the old rituals, how they were done.’
‘Shit. You’re saying you killed that girl?’ Joe sounded stunned.
‘Not killed; sacrificed.’ Digger corrected. ‘She was a virgin. A pure offering.’
‘And the professor knew?’
‘Well, he figured it out. Quietly arranged for his protégé here to be sent on a long vacation to the Happy Home.’
‘It was a private academy. My parents thought it best that I study abroad.’
‘Whatever. I can’t believe you killed my fuckin’ dog.’
Harper thought she must have misheard. Because she could swear that the third guy, Digger, had just admitted that he had killed Carla Prentiss. And Angus was down there, explaining the past to Joe. She pictured him at the site where she’d found Zina. Had he acted as if he’d killed her? Or maybe Jake had done it. Maybe it hadn’t been an honor killing at all. She shivered, recalling being alone with him in the house. The way he’d lingered. But the men were still talking.
‘ . . . and the professor chose me as his assistant. He taught me the mystical secrets and rites of the ancients.’
Harper edged sideways, craning her neck, stretching to see them. Saw two pairs of legs in jeans and work boots. No faces. Nobody else.
‘So now you’re what? The high priest of fuck-upness?’ Joe mocked. ‘I’ll tell you what, Father Fuckup: stop what you’re doing. I warned you the last time, and I’m warning you again. Stop it. Now. Hey – I’m talking to you, you sick—’
Harper heard a clank. A scuffle. Pushing? Stumbling? The first guy yelling: ‘Settle down, both of you. Jesus. You’ll break everything. Get it together, would you? Anybody remember why we’re here? Joe’s got a delivery to make.’
A pause. ‘Don’t you ever fucking touch me again, you hear me?’ Joe was breathless, his voice wind and thunder.
‘Actually, I’d prefer not to have any contact with you whatsoever. But I promise you this: if you attack me again, my physical touch will be the least of your problems. I’ll gather all the powers and—’
‘I swear to you, I’m going to rip your fucking powers right out of—’
‘Enough!’ The first guy intervened.
Silence. Harper smelled tension and incense.
Joe broke it. ‘So what do you think? She still up there?’
She? Oh God. Harper ducked away from the opening. Had they seen her? Were they looking up at her? Wait, of course not. They had no idea she was there. Besides, if she couldn’t see them, they couldn’t see her. Even so, Joe was talking about her. Who the hell was he?
‘She must be. Isn’t her bike still out there?’
‘Yeah. Was when I got here, anyway.’
Lord. They’d seen her Ninja, were definitely talking about her. And she was convinced, almost sure that two of them were Angus and Jake.
‘What’s she doing, sleeping up there?’ A pause. ‘Oh shit.’
‘If she was mad enough to shoot him—’
‘She might be dead up there.’
‘—what do you think he did to her?’
Silence.
‘Should we go see? If she’s alive, we could talk to her about this guy.’
‘No, not now.’ Joe grunted. ‘Focus, would you? First, we’ve got to make this delivery. Even if she’s dead up there, we don’t have time to go looking for a suitable replacement piece right now. So here’s what we’ll do. I’ll tell them their vessel got damaged in transit. I’ll offer to make it good with another piece of equal or greater value. Which you will supply.’
‘That ought to work.’
‘But, I’ll tell you this, Butterfingers,’ Joe went on. ‘If they don’t go for it, it comes out of your pocket.’
‘The hell it does.’ The first guy raised his voice. ‘I’m not paying for—’
‘Really? Well. Then you better hope they’ll go for it.’ Joe’s voice rumbled, dangerous.
A pause. Then the first guy mumbled, ‘Whatever.’
‘So, are we done here, ladies? Let’s load up.’ Joe’s voice called from farther away. ‘That means all three of us, Your High Priest of Poultry Feathers.’
The first guy lowered his voice, urging, ‘Come on, leave that for now. We got to move this stuff. Besides, aren’t you supposed to do that in daylight?’
‘It’s almost daylight.’ The third guy bristled. ‘But he has no respect. He’s an ignorant non-believer who doesn’t understand even the most basic aspects of the spirit world. And yet, he continually challenges me.’
‘Gentlemen,’ Joe called. ‘We got a date. Move it!’
There were grumbling replies, but the voices faded, too difficult to understand. In a few moments, Harper heard doors slam, a car drive off, and then no sound at all.
Harper waited. Still heard nothing. And decided to move.
Cautiously, she got to her feet, lowered herself down the rope ladder to the open space below. Light flowed in across the room. She squinted, covered her eyes. Looked again. Saw a dirt ramp leading up out of the room. A dark sky, black trees above the open exit.
A dark sky? Harper blinked, disoriented; she’d arrived in the middle of the day. How long had she been there? Wait – one of the men had said it would be daylight soon. So she’d been inside all night?
Oh God. Hank must be frantic. But where was he? Why wa
sn’t he here, looking for her? Never mind; it wasn’t the time to think about Hank. Harper ran for it, not even looking to see if any of the men were still there. Passing the table, she noticed that the packages were gone, loaded up for delivery. She dashed toward the ramp, aware of each breath, of the effort of each step. Of her exposure and vulnerability. She ran, oblivious of her wimpy leg, ignoring her exhaustion and pain, made it to the bottom of the ramp where she lowered her body, hugged the wall, peered up, actually inhaling fresh air again.
Seeing no one, she started up the ramp, but stopped and turned, headed back inside. No matter what he’d done, she couldn’t leave Rick there without checking; she needed to be sure that he was definitely dead. Squinting in the dimness, she turned, scanned the room.
Rick was lying against the wall on a pyramid of rocks that resembled an altar. A pile of colored feathers lay on the floor beside him, and all around him, scented oil burned in small pots. Primitive painted images covered the wall: a deer. A dog. A bird. An owl. A jaguar. A man with a jaguar head. Harper stepped closer.
‘Oh God.’ She stopped breathing and stared.
Rick’s shirt was ripped open. And his chest sliced in an X, the skin pulled back above the heart.
Harper ran in a haze, cool dew misting her face, leaves crunching underfoot. She glimpsed trees as she sped past them, vaguely aware that she’d emerged far from the house. That the ramp had led her to a familiar spot – exactly where she’d found Zina’s body. But then she was on her bike, roaring away, hoping the cops would stop her for speeding and take her away.
But they didn’t. She raced along the highway, through Ithaca and up the hill, around campus and, turning on to Hanshaw Street, she saw the police cars in her driveway. All the lights on in her house.
She spun on to the property, dropping the Ninja on its side as she slid off. She ran, calling Hank’s name.
The front door was open; she flew inside, shouting, ‘Hank?’
In the living room, she scanned faces, searching for his and found it in a cluster. Hank was on his feet, coming to her, reaching for her. ‘Hoppa!’
Harper jumped into his arms, relieved. And she stayed there, pressed against him until, gradually, she became aware of other voices, other people. Vicki. Trent. Detective Rivers. Uniformed police. Everyone was asking questions. ‘Harper, where have you been?’
‘Are you all right, Mrs Jennings?’
‘Good God, she’s covered with blood!’
‘We’ve been so worried . . .’
Hank raised a hand, stopping them. ‘Hoppa. Sit.’ He started for the sofa, but Harper pulled him back.
‘No – no, we have to go back. To Langston’s. Rick’s dead, and these other guys . . . One of them killed Carla. And they’re selling the relics!’
‘Mrs Jennings.’ Detective Rivers stepped forward, put an arm around her shoulders. ‘Breathe.’
Everyone stood around her, a circle of staring faces. Harper looked from one to another. Vicki’s eyes were swollen and red; she’d been crying. Trent’s were liquid and boozy. Hank’s – Hank’s were steady and dark, making her want to stay there, lingering in their heat. But Detective Rivers led her to the sofa, made her sit.
‘Slowly now. In complete sentences. What are you trying to say?’
Vicki dabbed the cut on her head with a damp washcloth. Trent offered her a Scotch. She took it, her hands trembling. Took a gulp with a parched throat, coughed at the burn. Remembered how thirsty she was. Vicki brought water and more damp towels, dabbed at Harper’s face even as she drank. Harper repeated herself, insisting that Rivers go with her back to Langston’s. Explaining that a man had been killed there. That she’d encountered a group who were trafficking illegal antiquities.
Rivers wanted more details. She asked questions. Who had been killed? Harper was impatient. Why did she need to explain now? Couldn’t they talk on the way? But Rivers wasn’t moving, so Harper told her that the dead man was someone she’d known in the army, that he’d been stalking her. That he’d been sent to kill her. That he’d probably killed Burke Everett and Pete Murray, another guy they’d served with.
Rivers was frowning.
Harper hurried on, explaining that men at the house were stealing the relics. That one of them was called Joe and another might have been Angus. Or maybe Jake. But either way, one was Angus’ friend Digger, and Digger had admitted killing Carla Prentiss, and he might have killed Zina, too. Oh, and she’d found Chloe Manning, the actress—
Harper stopped, bothered by the look in Rivers’ eyes. It was soft, like sympathy. Sympathy? It reminded her of the way she herself had looked at Burke when she’d thought he was nuts. Damn, didn’t Rivers believe her? Did she think she was just ranting? Why wasn’t Rivers calling for backup, taking off for Langston’s with lights and sirens? Five, maybe ten whole minutes must have passed since she’d walked in, and every moment counted.
Sighing, Rivers got to her feet. ‘Do you feel up to going back there, Mrs Jennings? So you can show me exactly where the body is?’
It wasn’t until she peeled herself off the sofa that Harper realized exactly how drained she was. ‘Of course.’ She teetered as she started for the door.
‘Going with.’ Hank’s beefy hand closed around hers. And suddenly, she wasn’t quite as exhausted any more.
A patrol car followed them. Rivers didn’t turn on the sirens; there was almost no traffic at this early hour. Harper sat in the back seat with Hank, leaning against his shoulder.
‘Got dark out. Waited. Thought you mad still with me. Stayed out.’
Harper shook her head, no. She hadn’t been mad.
‘Got mad, too. Thought OK. Games. Let her play. Late got though. Finally, called you. Not answer.’
‘But I wouldn’t do that. I don’t play games, Hank.’
‘Midnight after. Worried. Tried to find house. Lang. Ston’s. Didn’t know. Where. Had to find. Came there. Looked for you.’
Wait. Hank had gone to Langston’s? He’d been there?
‘Drove there.’ Hank’s eyebrows furrowed. ‘Window broken found. Looked whole house. Your bike. Your. Bag. Phone. Broken rel. Licks. Blood. Lots. And hole big in wall. No you.’
Harper’s eyes filled. Hank had gone to look for her. She wondered – in the tunnel, had she really heard his voice? ‘Did you call my name?’
He went on. ‘Looked in wall. Yelled “Hoppa.” Tried to go through hole. Arm. Leg. Caught, stuck. Couldn’t get in. Help.’
‘Your husband was quite alarmed, Mrs Jennings. He called us, and we went out about one in the morning, looking for you. When we saw the blood, we got concerned. Took samples. Made the third floor east wing into a crime scene. We sent an officer into that hole with a rope, so he wouldn’t get lost. He got to the end of his rope, literally, and came back. Frankly, we were all pretty concerned. We were about to get a dog to follow your scent.’
Wait, the police had been to Langston’s? Why hadn’t they seen the thieves? And why hadn’t the thieves seen them?
‘Meantime, I took your husband back home and kept him company until your friends got here. He’s had a hell of a night, and I didn’t want him to be alone. When you suddenly showed up, you can imagine how relieved we were.’
Hank leaned over, planted a tender kiss on her forehead. Harper leaned up; her lips met his. She stayed tightly secured in his arms until Rivers pulled on to the road leading to the Langston house.
Then, Harper sat up, gazing out the window as they approached the spot where she’d found Zina. ‘I came out of the tunnel somewhere in there.’
Rivers stopped; the patrol car parked behind them. Everyone got out.
Harper tensed, preparing herself to go back.
‘OK?’ Hank whispered.
She met his eyes, took a breath, and led the way into the thicket of trees and bushes, past the clearing where she’d had drinks with Zina’s brother, looking for the opening in the ground. Damn. Why hadn’t she paid closer attention? Why hadn’t she marked
the spot?
She walked in circles. The opening wasn’t small, had been large enough for large men carrying packages to walk through. But then she saw a subtle path, crushed foliage leading to the road, and she followed it around a fallen tree trunk.
From the outside, hidden in the thicket, the ramp seemed small and harmless. Kind of like a large animal had burrowed there.
‘He’s down here,’ Harper started into the tunnel.
Detective Rivers grabbed her arm. ‘Mrs Jennings. Wait here.’ She motioned the officers to go first, handing each a flashlight. ‘Give us the all clear.’
One at a time, preceded by thin, white beams, the two men lowered themselves through the opening on to the ramp, guns drawn.
‘We’re clear, Detective.’ The call came almost immediately. Too soon.
Rivers went in, Harper right behind her, leaving Hank to lumber behind.
‘Do you see him?’ Harper asked as Rivers entered the hollowed out room. ‘He’s in the back—’ She stopped at the bottom of the ramp, and stared.
The room, except for a few broken crates and a couple of black and white bird feathers, was empty. Rick was gone, along with the altar that had held him. There were no lanterns, no pots of burning oil. All that remained of what she’d seen were primitive paintings on the wall: a deer, a dog, an owl, a jaguar, and a man with a jaguar head.
Harper was furious. If Rivers hadn’t stalled, wasting precious minutes back at home, they’d have caught the men. But now, there was no proof of anything, not even of Rick’s murder.
Harper showed them the opening to the tunnel. ‘This leads back to the house. And all through the house. Chloe Manning’s in there. I can show you.’
Hank’s arm was around her. ‘Tired too.’
Harper twisted, freeing herself. ‘No. I’m not too tired. I should show you before these guys have time to make more evidence disappear.’
Rivers bristled. ‘Look, Mrs Jennings. If you’re implying that I—’
‘We should have come right back here, like I said.’
Rivers stood tall, looked down a few inches at Harper’s face. ‘Listen, ma’am. When you came into your house, you were in no condition to go anywhere. You had a head wound and you were rambling. Before I moved, I needed to understand what you were saying, as well as to assess the accuracy – actually, the credibility – of your claims. I acted as quickly as I thought reasonable. Within a matter of minutes.’
