by Merry Jones
When he set the tray down, his hand slipped; he almost dropped the thing and spilled coffee all over the table, interrupting their conversation. He apologized and tried to steady his hands as he wiped up the spill and passed out mugs of coffee. The detective was talking to Hank and Vivian; no way he could announce his news right now. He’d have to wait until the detective was gone. Interrupting would draw too much attention, and the last thing he needed was too much attention from the cops. Especially not while he had almost half a million dollars upstairs. Speaking of which, he needed to pack.
The red and green Christmas lights kept blinking, taunting Hank with their happiness. Surrounded by unopened gifts, leftover wrapping paper, spare decorations and the hulking oversized tree, Hank tried to sort out the stories Vivian and Rivers had just told him. One about a missing student from Elmira. Another about a snowy brawl in their own back yard involving the assault of a naked guy. Most upsetting was the news that Harper had been consumed – and according to Vivian, obsessed – by these events. And that, despite their importance, she had deliberately neglected to mention anything about them during their nightly phone calls.
And now she was missing.
Hank didn’t know what to do. Even while the detective was talking, he pulled himself to his feet, limped to the window. Stared out at the night. Harper was out there somewhere. Where? Was she hurt? Frightened? Was she even alive?
Dishes clattered behind him. Vivian gasped.
‘Sorry—’ Lou fumbled with a tray, dropping it onto the coffee table. Reached for napkins, kneeling, dabbing spilled coffee off the hard wood floor. Rivers hopped to her feet, helping him. ‘I’m sorry, I—’ Lou broke off, sank to his knees. Covered his eyes.
Vivian ran to him, knelt beside him, caressing his shoulders, his head.
Lou took a moment, meeting Vivian’s eyes. Embracing her. ‘It’s just—’
‘I know,’ Vivian croaked, burying her head under his chin. ‘I don’t know what I’d do without you, Lou. You’re my world.’
‘I’m so sorry this is happening to you, Baby.’
They stayed there, fiercely locked together in the middle of the living room. As if Harper were irrelevant. As if Vivian were the victim.
Hank tightened his jaw, couldn’t be distracted by Vivian and her need for drama. He made his way to the table, took a mug of coffee and hobbled back to the window. He needed the caffeine. Needed to process what was going on, to clear his head so he could sharpen his instincts, clear his senses. Problem was, at the moment, he couldn’t quiet himself enough to sense anything other than panic. Even Rivers seemed at a dead end, passively waiting for some new development. God. Where was Harper?
Hank gulped coffee, blinked at Vivian and Lou who were still fawning over each other. Thought about how bizarre and inappropriate they were, stroking each other, staring into each other’s eyes while Harper was missing and in trouble. Obviously, Vivian was caving in, imploding, grabbing onto her boyfriend in desperation. But Lou – what was his excuse? The guy was off somehow. Just wrong. Trembling like jelly; Vivian just about had to hold him up. Hank glanced at Rivers to see if she was catching this, but Rivers was pointedly ignoring the display of affection. She munched shortbread, studying the red and green Christmas lights bouncing off her shoes.
By the time the jostling stopped, Harper’s feet and hands had long since gone numb from the cold, and, though she’d found a way to breathe by pressing her face against a crack in the wood, she’d become convinced that she would never rid herself of the stench. Closed in this casket-like closet with Sebastian, she had absorbed the smell of death through her pores; it penetrated her bloodstream. Her mind seemed frozen and useless.
Even so, when the armoire finally jolted to a stop, Harper grabbed her belly and bolted to attention, alert again. The ride was over; whatever Sty and Evan were planning to do with Sebastian would happen now. She had to be ready; surprise was one of her best weapons. Maybe her only weapon.
Harper’s eyes strained in darkness, and she felt around, hoping to find a nail, a splinter – anything that could slice or puncture. She found nothing, reached into her pockets. Maybe there would be a pen or pencil – nothing.
Car doors slammed.
‘Come on, Sty. Get over it.’
Footsteps. Silence.
‘What difference does it make, really? We were going to do another one anyhow. So we did it earlier than you wanted.’
The armoire shook. There was shaking, then whip-like sounds, as if ropes were being unfastened, slapping the wood.
‘Are you just going to ignore me forever? Look. I’m sorry. I acted impulsively – but I’ve got that out of my system. I’m ready to take more time and do more planning.’
Suddenly, something slammed against the armoire. Flesh pounded flesh. Somebody grunted. Somebody moaned.
‘Imbecile,’ Sty breathed heavily. ‘You’ll bring us both down. I should kill you and leave you here to rot with them—’
‘Stop, Sty. Cool it.’
‘Have you learned nothing? Has nothing I’ve told you penetrated your thick pathetic skull? You don’t even know who your victim was. You don’t know who or how many will be looking for him. You aren’t sure that he can’t be linked to you . . .’
‘No. I told you a hundred times.’ Evan’s words slurred. He spit, probably blood. ‘Nobody saw me with him.’
Silence. Then more shaking of the armoire, more slapping of ropes. Harper clutched the key with one hand, stroked her belly with the other. Wiggled her feet to get the blood circulating. Prepared to leap, swinging.
‘Sty, look at it this way. It’s experience. The more we have, the better we get. I needed to do one on my own. To feel the transition for myself—’
‘Don’t say anything more, Evan. Don’t speak. The more you say, the more I realize how little I can rely on you, how faulty your judgment is.’
‘Really? Like you’re perfect? Who let the dude get out in the snow?’
Something – maybe a fist – slammed the armoire. ‘Seriously? You’re reinventing the facts so you can shift the blame? You were a mistake, my friend. I should never have taken up with you.’
Coughing. Then: ‘But you did. You did and there’s no going back. We’re a team, Sty.’
Silence. Stillness.
‘Come on, Sty.’ More coughing. ‘The next one will be better – I swear.’
More silence. Then a thump. ‘Take your end. Pull it down.’
The armoire leveled out. Harper slid across the wood, away from Sebastian, drawing a breath and forming fists, bracing her cramped legs, ready to spring. The armoire slammed down hard; in the impact, she slapped the wall, emitting an involuntary whelp. But then, Harper heard nothing. No engine. No voices. Just the closeness of reeking cold air and the rapid bursts of her own breath.
She waited. She counted. She shivered, ignoring occasional screams of wounded, rattles of gunfire, buzzes of flies. Finally, convinced that Sty and Evan were not close by, Harper felt for the latch, worked it, pressed down and undid the lock. Slowly, cautiously, soundlessly, she lifted the armoire door an inch, felt cold fresh air, took in a delicious breath. Paused and listened, heard no reaction. Not a sound. Lifted the door higher, just a finger’s width. Inhaled more frosty clean air. Heard a loud bang, like a crash – and then nothing. No voices. No car engine. No footsteps in the snow.
Harper counted seconds, being cautious. Her ears strained, listening as trained for insurgents, or hostile forces, or Evan and Sty – her instincts searched for the tingle of danger, the pulse of the enemy. But she heard and sensed only an empty howl of night wind. Her legs were stiff and numb; her body ached, but she waited until she was sure it was safe. Then, giving her belly a reassuring pat and leaving Sebastian pooled in a heap beside her, she eased the armoire door open all the way, slowly stood, cautiously looked around.
Ducked down, and scampered away.
Detective Rivers kept trying to put pieces together, couldn’t make them fi
t. She replayed the events of the last few days. Harper Jennings’ report of seeing a naked man beaten outside, her insistence that someone was being held in the fraternity house. Rivers knew that Mrs Jennings wasn’t given to baseless hysterical claims, but her pregnancy might be a factor; it had caused hormonal fluctuations and premature contractions. Plus, Mrs Jennings was bored and lonely, trapped in a house with her half-drunk narcissist mother. It was possible that Mrs Jennings might have overreacted, misinterpreted.
It was also possible that Harper’s disappearance had nothing to do with the other missing persons. She might simply have gotten fed up with her mother and the boyfriend and gone out for a little bit.
Except Rivers didn’t believe it. Her instincts told her that Harper’s disappearance meant serious trouble. Meantime, Harper’s husband was simmering, about to erupt into probably highly emotional and counterproductive actions; she wouldn’t be able to contain him much longer. And Vivian was drunk and useless, passed out in the arms of her numbskull boyfriend.
Whom she should probably check out, just for the sake of being thorough.
‘Need to follow. Car tracks.’ Hank stood, clutching his crutches. His jaw rippled, determined. ‘Drive. Road.’
‘I already put a car on that. The tracks from the frat house disappeared on Thurston. It was plowed.’
Hank took a few steps, glared at the broken dining-room window. Pivoted. ‘Can’t just sit here.’
‘Mr Jennings, there’s nothing you can do right now. Police are looking for the fraternity boys, are checking pickups and ATVs. But the fact is, we aren’t even certain that your wife is in trouble—’
‘Find. Hoppa.’ Hank bent forward, nostrils flaring, eyes searing.
Reflexively, Rivers leaned away. She wasn’t doing any good at the house. Probably ought to take off. Still, something told her to stick around.
Lou cradled Vivian on the floor near the wing-back, stroking her forehead. Rivers rubbed her temples. There was no reason for her to stay. In fact, she might do better driving around looking for a pickup truck. She crossed her arms, trying to regain a sense of authority, then nodded out the window at the patrol car. The truth was that she’d lost control of the situation. In fact, she wasn’t even sure what the situation was.
Lou put a pillow under Vivian’s head and got up, trying not to draw attention to himself. His cell was vibrating, so he hurried away from the others and ducked into the kitchen, huddling over the phone, keeping his voice low.
‘Wally wants to see you. One on one. Face to face.’
To see him? ‘What the fuck for?’
‘How do I know? Maybe he wants to get things straight.’
‘You told him what I said? I’m not paying until he lets the woman go?’
‘I told him what you said.’
‘And?’
‘And nothing. He wants you to bring him the money personally – two hundred twenty with one-eighty interest—’
‘What one-eighty? Hell – the interest was one-fifty—’
‘I’m telling you what he said, Lou. You want to argue, argue when you see him. He’ll come to you.’
‘He can’t come here. No way—’
‘He’ll pick you up and take you somewhere. Have his money ready.’ She gave him a time. Christmas Eve, twelve noon.
‘Christmas Eve?’
‘It won’t be a long meeting. His mother-in-law is expecting the family back in the City for dinner.’
It was crazy. Lou had just a day and a half. But that meant that in a day and a half, Wally would have to let Harper go. Which would be good news for Vivian. Meantime, he had to get ready to split. He got off the phone, peeked into the living room, saw Hank pacing, heard Vivian’s soft snore. And went upstairs.
Closing the guest-room door, Lou took out what was left of Wally’s money, just over a hundred and sixty grand. He tossed it into his duffel bag with the two-fifty he’d borrowed from Ritchie. Damn. If Wally wanted one-eighty in interest, he was short. And he’d have nothing left, not a penny.
Lou hefted the bag; it was heavy with cash. At the moment, Lou was a wealthy guy.
He sat on the bed, thinking that, with all this money, he and Vivian could live the life. Happily ever after. He pictured it, a small – what did they call it – a hot sienda in Mexico. Drinking tequila by the beach.
But what was he doing? Wally would never let that happen. For one thing, if Lou skipped with the money, Wally wouldn’t let Harper go – he’d kill her and the baby. And then he’d track Lou down and kill him and Vivian, too. Would make an example of him, showing the world what would happen to someone who cheated him.
If he could find him.
It was too big a risk. There would be almost no chance for him and Vivian. They’d have to watch their backs forever, even with the best of new identities. No, if he wanted her to be safe, he’d have to leave her behind, act as if he didn’t even care about her. Hope that Wally would believe it and let Harper go and leave Vivian and all of them alone because there would be no point messing them up if they meant nothing to the guy he was trying to get back at.
Meantime, he had to pack. He took his shirts out of the closet, socks out of the drawer. Rolled all his clothes into a bundle. Stuck them in his suitcase. Wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, smearing tears. Damn. What a mess. Who’d have imagined how wrong things could go? Harper going missing right at Christmas. Her husband suddenly home. And him suddenly having to take off in an eye blink, not even able to see Vivian’s face when she opened her gift.
Well, at least she’d have that. He’d spent a chunk of Wally’s money – twenty grand on it.
He had to sit, was out of breath. Couldn’t stop his damned crying. Pictured the next morning, telling her that he had to go. The hurt on her face.
He heard her respond, clear as a bell. ‘You never said you had a sister.’
Damn. She might see through his lies. She was sharp, Vivian.
But he’d stick with his story. ‘No? I guess I didn’t think it mattered.’
He could see her chin quivering, her eyes registering the news. ‘You’re leaving me, aren’t you, Lou? Just say it.’
He would meet her eyes, hold her chin in his hand. ‘Just for a few days, Viv.’
Even the thought of lying to her hurt his heart. He closed his eyes. Considered again the impossibility of taking her along. Running. It was out of the question, a death sentence. So he kept moving. Packing. Throwing things into his bag. Preparing to pay Wally before Wally did something permanent to Harper. And he had other business to take care of. A new identity to get used to. A new name to choose – he had papers for Jake Mateo. Or was it Jake Martino? Something like that. And some for Oliver Hayes. No, Hines.
He had to check and make sure to pick a name Wally and Ritchie wouldn’t know about. That the papers hadn’t come from anybody they knew. Meantime, he kept moving, getting stuff done. But he wept, envisioning the morning. Dreading the talk with Vivian.
‘Don’t lie, Lou,’ she’d demand of him. ‘Just tell me why – aren’t you happy? What happened?’ Shit. Would she suspect the truth? Would she think he was leaving because of his business problems? Would she connect them to Harper’s disappearance?
He had to prepare himself, be ready to swear that he was telling the truth. That his sister was really sick. That he had nothing else to tell. That Vivian was still his girl. She would search his eyes, hers full of pain. He wouldn’t be able to bear it, so he would kiss her quickly, as if he was just heading to the grocery store, and carry the bag of money and the suitcase out the door.
Meantime, he was packed and ready. He shoved the bags against the wall, felt the solid weight of the money. When he went downstairs, he found that Rivers had gone. A police car sat watch in the driveway. Hank paced through the house on his crutches. Vivian lay snoring, passed out right where he’d left her. Lou poured what was left of her Scotch into a glass, downed it and felt the burn, still looking for a way out. Still considering his
options.
As she headed away from the truck, the headlights came on, bathing her in white blinding light.
Harper blinked, unable to see into or beyond them. Exposed.
And then she took off, diving blindly into the snow. Running on legs numb as stumps. Ducking down in brush. Freezing. Hunkering behind a fallen tree, shivering, gathering her wits. Listening.
Neither Evan nor Sty had said a word, not a syllable. The only sounds she heard were those of her ragged breath and boots plowing through snow. Now, crouched low, she could make out slow and steady steps, small crunches of powder moving closer through darkness. And breathing that wasn’t hers.
Her eyes adjusted to the glow of snow at night; the ground reflected light, filtered it through clouds, exposing spots even where trees blocked headlights’ glare. Harper saw a frozen slope leading to an ice-covered lake. A cluster of pines with a jeep smashed into one – the jeep she’d seen them put a body into? Was the crash what she’d heard before? Oh God. And not far from the trees, an abandoned wood-slat house. Beside it, a collapsing barn.
‘Harper?’ Evan called out. She estimated ten yards away. ‘You’ll freeze your ass off out here. Come get warm.’
Harper didn’t dare breathe. She rested a hand on her belly, waiting. Thinking.
‘Shut up, Evan,’ Sty growled. ‘Why don’t you just send up flares showing her where we are?’
‘What’s the difference? She’s not going anywhere.’
‘I swear. If you make another sound, I’ll shove your larynx up your ass.’
She could see them, just three or four yards away. Could almost touch them. If they looked down and to the right, they’d see her huddled behind the tree trunk. If they climbed over it, they’d step on her.
