Behind the Walls

by Merry Jones

  ‘You said you needed evidence of theft,’ she said. ‘These shipment numbers will prove that Baxter stole millions.’

  ‘Mrs Jennings,’ Detective Rivers sounded tired. ‘The man is now a United States senator. He just won by an overwhelming majority. And, frankly, this alleged theft occurred years ago, while I have more than a couple of open homicides to investigate.’

  ‘I hope those include Burke Everett’s. Because I think these papers will show motive for his murder, evidence that it wasn’t suicide. And they’ll show why Rick Owens was coming after me.’

  ‘Mrs Jennings, maybe you should—’

  ‘Baxter sent Rick.’ Harper’s voice was hoarse and strained. ‘To silence Burke and me. About Iraq. Ask Angus – he was there when Wiggins killed him.’

  ‘Hoppa. Calm down.’ Hank stroked her back. Hovering.

  ‘Detective, Rick killed Burke – I’m sure of it!’

  ‘Hoppa – stop.’

  Harper scowled, pushed Hank’s hand away. ‘And Wiggins killed Rick after he chased me through the passageway, and—’

  ‘Whoa. Settle down, Mrs Jennings – your husband will have my hide.’ She paused, sighed loudly. ‘All right. You win. I’ll stop by and check out the letter.’

  Relieved, Harper ended the call and set the envelope back on the foyer table under the paperweight. And noticed Hank glowering.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  He simmered. ‘You. Don’t listen. Need rest.’

  ‘I’m fine, Hank. You don’t need to stand over me every second.’

  As soon as she said it, she was sorry. Lord, how ungrateful was she?

  ‘I didn’t mean that . . .’

  But it was too late. Wounded, Hank turned away, started for the door. ‘Super. Market. Going. Now. OK?’

  Harper went after him, called to him, but he didn’t stop. Who could blame him? All week, he’d helped her eat and bathe and dress and move. And now, she’d snapped at him? What was wrong with her?

  When he came back, she’d apologize. Meantime, it would be good for Hank to take off for a little while. It would be fine.

  Harper dozed on the den sofa, felt someone standing beside her, assumed it was Hank. She opened her eyes and saw not Hank, but Angus, staring at her. Smiling. Harper froze – when had Angus been released? Slowly, cautiously, she sat up. Looked around for Hank, remembered he was gone . . .

  ‘Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you – the door was open.’

  It was? Harper didn’t remember it being open. But she felt relieved. And foolish. It wasn’t Angus who’d come to see her; it was Jake. She greeted him, moved to the end of the couch. ‘Come sit down.’

  ‘So. You doing OK?’ he sat, studying the cervical collar, her bruises.

  ‘Better.’

  ‘Look. I want you to know. I had no idea what my brother was doing. He knew better than to tell me.’

  Harper still couldn’t turn her head much, so she twisted her body to face him.

  ‘Angus.’ Jake shook his head. ‘He probably started selling relics after he found out about the will. Probably thought that by ripping off the collection, he was taking what was rightly his. But the killing? Zina?’

  ‘Angus didn’t kill her. That was Zina’s brother,’ said Harper.

  ‘What about Digger? You must have seen him. You were there, right? The guy in the feather jacket with a stuffed cat on his head. Wiggins.’

  Oh. Wiggins, Digger, the Nahual. All the same person. ‘Salih Salim killed him. Not Angus.’ But it struck her that the detectives hadn’t mentioned Wiggins’ cathead. Maybe they’d thought it unnecessary, too much gruesome detail.

  Jake paused, took a breath. ‘You know, Angus and I – we’ve known Wiggins for just about always. Digger. His dad was our dentist. And his mom was a drunk, so he hung around our house until he became part of the family. Went on digs with us – that’s how he got the name. Growing up, he was like a brother.’

  Really? Wiggins?

  ‘After a while, my father spent more time with Digger than he did with us.’

  Harper didn’t know what to say. ‘Maybe it just seemed that way.’

  ‘No. He did. Digger became father’s protégé. They were always in the study, talked about research, spiritualism, symbolism. God knows what all. My father brought him to conferences. To South America. Utah. All over. Until that girl died. Carla.’ Jake looked into the air. ‘After that, Digger went away for a while.’ He looked at Harper, smiled oddly.

  ‘All this time, you knew?’

  ‘Yep. She wasn’t his first, either.’

  Jake’s grin was crooked. ‘We had a dog. Aubrey. I found him behind the house. His chest was ripped open.’

  Harper recoiled.

  ‘There were also birds. A cat. Even a deer. Over the years, all over the property, animal corpses would show up, sans hearts. The owls were the messiest. He plucked out their feathers.’

  ‘You’re saying Wiggins—?’

  ‘Oh, for sure. I told my father about it. Know what he did? He laughed. He shook his head, but he laughed. He told me not to worry, that long ago, spiritual men sacrificed the hearts of creatures for their religions. Probably someone was doing that again. He said he’d talk to the person.’

  Harper sat silent.

  ‘But my father didn’t do anything. Not even when Digger killed Aubrey. So when Digger went on to Carla, it was my father’s fault.’ Jake’s eyes became steely. ‘I was mad – I liked Carla.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  Jake’s jaw rippled. ‘Told my father what I knew. This time he didn’t laugh. But he didn’t go to the police. He arranged with Digger’s family to send him abroad. Supposedly to get help. But I don’t know about that. Because some years later, all educated and grown up, Wiggins came back with his PhD. I think he expected to be welcomed home like a prodigal son. My father got him a position at the university, helped him get a start. But he would have nothing to do with him. Wouldn’t let him near the relics. Hell, he wouldn’t let him in the house.’

  Harper listened, chilled. And wondered why Jake was telling the story to her, not the police.

  ‘Thing is. Once he was back, dead animals started showing up again, without their hearts. This time, I was a grown man. I went to him, told him what I knew. He denied it. He said it wasn’t him, that it had been Angus all along. That Angus had killed the girl. He’d just taken the fall.’

  ‘Jake. This is—’

  ‘Unbelievable? Is that what you were going to say?’

  She’d been about to say: ‘—something you should tell the police.’

  ‘Well, it is. Meantime, the cops have Angus in custody. But Angus is no killer. He’s spineless. And a sneak. My own brother, and he was ripping me off. With Wiggins. I can’t figure out when it started. But they got together and decided to steal pieces from the collection. Which meant from me – because that will won’t stand up. Wiggins took my dog, my father, and now he’s taken my brother and my inheritance from me.’ He closed his mouth, clenched his jaw, and slid closer to Harper on the sofa.

  ‘You know why I’m telling you this?’

  She didn’t. But she didn’t like the look in his eyes. Or the nearness of his body.

  ‘Fact is, nobody but you can testify against Angus in any of this. Not the thefts. Not the killings.’ He met her eyes. ‘Angus is a pussy, but he’s all I’ve got left.’

  For a moment, neither spoke.

  Harper stood, her eyes still on his. Jake stood smoothly, like a jaguar about to spring. She spun around, headed for the foyer, the door.

  Jake followed, unhurried. ‘Wait, I’m not finished – don’t you want to hear what he did with them?’

  She broke into a run, made it into the foyer, to the table by the door. Saw Burke’s letter, the paperweight.

  Jake grabbed Harper’s shoulder, spun her around. Leaned close and spoke softly. ‘Wiggins thought that a creature’s heart contained its power and spirit. So that each heart he ate made him more
powerful.’

  Harper felt his breath on her face, tried to turn away, but couldn’t move her neck. Inched her arm toward the table.

  ‘I finally got him, though.’ Jake smiled. ‘My dog. And all those “spirits” he spent years gathering – all his so-called powers. Who’s got them now?’ He licked his lips, tightening his grip on her. ‘Guess who’s the Nahual now?’

  Harper swung the paperweight.

  When Hank came in with his arms full of grocery bags, he found Jake hog-tied with duct tape in the foyer, Harper calmly watching, reading in the living room, waiting for Detective Rivers to arrive.

  The search for Salih continued. His family offered rewards, but he remained missing, apparently lost in the twisted bowels of the Langston house. Angus traded information about the murders of Carla Prentiss, Zina Salim, and Rick Owens to reduce the multiple charges against him. Rick’s bones were found in the woods, his flesh devoured by scavengers. Jake was charged with abusing Wiggins’ corpse and assaulting Harper with intent to kill, even though he’d never actually laid a hand on her.

  The Tuesday before Thanksgiving, Rivers stopped by. She turned down the offer of coffee, said she couldn’t stay. ‘I heard back about those serial numbers you gave me. The FBI and the Army – all the powers that be – say that the shipment list isn’t enough to launch an investigation. They don’t even want to bother checking the numbers, because merely loading cargo on to a helicopter – well, that wouldn’t prove that there was a crime or even misconduct. And there’s no other evidence to indicate wrongdoing. Not even any witnesses.’

  No. Except for her, all the witnesses were dead.

  ‘Anyhow, it’s a good thing you didn’t try to sabotage Baxter’s election over this, Mrs Jennings. There’d have been hell to pay. They say he’s a rising star – there’s already talk about him running for president.’

  She handed Harper a file folder. Inside was a copy of Burke’s letter and a pile of correspondence going up the chain of command from Rivers to her boss to the FBI, the Army and the Justice Department.

  After Rivers left, Harper put the file aside, didn’t want to think about Burke, Rick, Pete, the Colonel, his election or a theft that might or might not have happened back in Iraq.

  The next day was gray and wet, but she walked to the bridge where Burke had died, spent some time just standing in the rain, remembering.

  ‘How was Thanksgiving?’ Leslie’s office smelled of cinnamon. She sipped tea, curled on to the green leather sofa beside Harper.

  ‘My mother came out.’

  Leslie nodded. ‘Got it. How bad?’

  ‘Pretty bad. But she means well. She’s just high maintenance.’

  Silence. Harper didn’t know what to say, where to begin. Avoided the Big Stuff. ‘I’m back working on my dissertation. It’s going well.’

  ‘Good.’ Leslie’s voice was like silk. Or maybe cotton balls.

  Harper nodded. More silence. Tell her, she thought. But she didn’t. Instead, she said, ‘The department asked if I wanted to be part of the relic assessment. To identify all the damage. I declined.’

  ‘I’m sure they understood.’

  Harper nodded. ‘Professor Schmerling said they did. It’s kind of funny – I mean, in a terrible way: after everything that’s happened so they could acquire that collection, the university isn’t even keeping it.’

  ‘Seriously?’ Leslie put her mug down. ‘Why not?’

  ‘Most of the pieces are going back to the countries of origin. After all the attention in the press, countries requested their return. I guess the university wants to avoid more trouble.’

  Silence again. Tell her, Harper thought. But she didn’t.

  ‘You’re all better. Physically?’

  ‘Pretty much.’ Harper demonstrated, turning her head just a little.

  ‘And how are things with Hank?’

  Harper sipped tea, stalling. The truth was that she and Hank were still cautious. Dancing around each other, not sure how tightly to hold on, how much to let go. ‘Better.’ Maybe.

  ‘Is he more comfortable with independence?’

  With his independence? Or with hers? ‘He doesn’t like me to be out of his sight. He worries about me. It’s the opposite of how things were – I used to be the one worrying, taking care of him. Now, he’s helicopter husband, always hovering.’

  Leslie smiled. ‘Have you told him how you feel about that?’

  No. She hadn’t. She would, but not until she was sure she wanted him to stop. Harper still had nightmares about endless corridors, men with bloody grins. Or feathered creatures feasting on beating hearts. In the night, she often climbed on to Hank, clinging to him in her sleep.

  Or waking him up to make love.

  Often without birth control.

  Tell her, she thought. But she didn’t, wasn’t ready to talk about that. Not even to Leslie.

  Not even to Hank.

  Leslie was talking, assuring Harper that she and Hank were solid, just finding their way. Going through a new phase.

  Harper toyed with the bangle bracelet on her wrist, thinking about new phases. About the name Zina. About what to buy Hank for Christmas. About the nursery. About her dissertation. About the changes the New Year would bring.