by Merry Jones
After that, there was only one other problem: how to make it look like he’d died in the crash without an actual body.
Harper opened an eye, saw darkness. Closed it again.
‘. . . I think we should take advantage of it. This opportunity fell into our hands, like a gift—’
‘No.’ It was Sty’s voice. And it sounded close.
Harper tried to remember what had happened. Feigning unconsciousness, she lay still, assessing her situation. The smell of death lingered on her skin, reminding her of Sebastian’s body, riding with it in the armoire. She remembered getting out, running through snow and trees to escape from Sty and Evan. Heading for a barn. Climbing to a loft.
After that, she remembered nothing. Where was she now? Up in the loft? Or had she fallen? Oh God – the baby. Was the baby okay? Without moving, she focused on her belly, waited. Finally felt a flutter. The baby was moving, must be okay. Harper let out a breath, relieved. But she was still unsure of her situation, didn’t even know her own condition. How badly had she been hurt? Silently, she took inventory of her body parts, feet to head. Only her head registered pain. So probably she was okay, just stunned. But where was she? Harper tried to move a hand out, to feel what was around her, but couldn’t. Her arms were bound at the wrist. Not with rope – when she tried to move, the bindings didn’t cut into her skin. Maybe tape? She was lying on her back, her head turned slightly, rough straw-like scratches against her neck. She inhaled through her nose. Smelled mildew and hay. So she was probably in the loft.
Sty and Evan were still arguing. ‘No.’ Sty insisted. ‘We’ve deviated too much already. We can’t afford to take more chances.’
Chances? What kind of chances? Her head swam, but she strained to remain alert.
‘This isn’t a chance. It’s an opportunity. Besides, we have no choice. We can’t exactly let her go.’
Sty grunted.
‘So why not make the best of it? Make her a project.’
‘Evan, you have no sense of order or discipline. First of all, she doesn’t fit the test group. She’s the wrong victimology. The wrong size, the wrong age, the wrong gender—’
‘So? Wouldn’t it be interesting to study age and gender – all kinds of differences? We can record the data and save it, and compare it with our original group later—’
‘No.’
‘No?’
‘That’s right. No.’ Sty’s voice was tight. ‘Everything’s spinning out of control. We’ve got two bodies already. And she’d be – Christ, Evan. What are you doing?’
Harper heard the swish of steps approaching through hay. ‘You didn’t like my suggestion, Sty. So I might as well just get this done.’
‘Wait – without thinking it through?’
‘Christ almighty, Sty. If we leave it to you, we’ll never finish here. Just let me do this.’
‘Whatever. I’ll get started outside.’ Sty descended the ladder, his boots clicking on the rungs.
Harper lifted an eyelid. In the dim light, she saw Evan kneeling beside her. Saw his shoulders lean forward; his fingers reach for her throat. Heard his shrill, spine-shattering howl as, in a heartbeat, she raised her head, opened her mouth and chomped down as hard as she could on his hand.
Even as he yowled, Evan swung with his uninjured fist, slamming her in the side of the head. Harper saw a flash of white light, then nothing.
When she woke up, she was cold. Not sure how long she’d been out. Minutes? Seconds? She expected Evan to be still on top of her, punching, so she tried to roll over to dodge his blows. But the blows didn’t come. And she couldn’t roll. Couldn’t move her arms or legs. Damn. She remembered; they’d bound her.
Shivering, Harper listened, heard soft moaning. Someone was still nearby. Evan? She tried to collect her thoughts. To remember. Why was he moaning? Had she hurt him? And where was Sty? She closed her eyes, opened them again. Tried to slow her breath. To think – oh God – the baby. Was it okay? Harper held her breath, felt dizziness, sharp pain in her head. If the baby was hurt . . . No. She wouldn’t allow that thought. Fear was the enemy, would paralyse her. She forced herself to relax her muscles, found her core, focused on it. The baby would be fine. They both would be – had to be. Silently, she began wriggling her hands, trying to get free. Her head throbbed, her hands and feet were freezing and her skin itched from the straw, but she persisted, pressing her palms against each other, pushing her arms apart, trying to stretch her bindings until she was panting and her shoulder muscles cramped. For a moment, she stopped to rest her wrists. Wiggled her fingers for circulation. And felt something sharp scrape her forefinger. Something sharp? Quickly, silently, Harper moved her fingers around in the straw, searching. And found it – a nail. Sticking a few inches up from the floor, but jammed in tight.
Harper tried to stop shivering as she wrapped a cold, stiff hand around it. Tried not to move the rest of her body as she grabbed and jimmied, pulled and turned, pushed and twisted it until, finally, it came free and, letting out a breath, she lay back, oddly exhausted. Probably, it was the cold – she was losing too much body heat. Developing hypothermia. Damn. Her feet were numb, and the pain in her head had faded, become vague. She lay still, waiting, listening for Evan or Sty, the nail with its cold sharp point clutched in her fist.
‘Evan?’ Below, footsteps crossed the barn, climbed the ladder. ‘What are you doing up there? Everything’s ready.’
Harper didn’t move, pretended to be unconscious even when a foot slammed her shoulder.
‘Shit – why’s she so close to the ladder? I could have tripped on her and fallen off—’
‘Sty. I need help. I’m hurt.’
A heavy weight thudded onto her legs and sat there. ‘Look what the bitch did,’ Evan groaned, cursing.
‘Holy shit!’
A flashlight glared in her eyes. She didn’t react.
‘What the fuck happened?’
‘What does it look like? She bit my fuckin’ hand off. When she wakes up, I’m going to knock her teeth out. I’ll peel her skin off—’
‘Let me see that.’ The light moved away. Harper squinted, saw Sty aiming it at Evan’s hand, examining it. ‘You got to bind that, stop the bleeding. She tore off a chunk—’
‘Don’t you think I fucking know that? I’m bleeding to death.’
Sty snorted. ‘You’ll live. We need something to wrap it with.’
‘Use your shirt.’
‘Why not yours?’
‘Mine? Seriously? I’m fucking going into shock as it is—’
‘Dammit, Evan. This is hand-tailored.’ Sty pulled his jacket off.
Harper lay cold and silent, heard ripping fabric, groans of pain. And slowly, carefully, she moved her hand, repositioning the nail, jamming it up toward the binding on her wrists.
‘You’re going to have to clean that wound out – the human mouth literally teems with bacteria—’
‘And how would you suggest I clean it, Sty? You have running water? Or a bottle of disinfectant on you? Maybe some antibiotic cream?’
‘Hold still – I’m trying to tighten this—’
‘Don’t tell me what the fuck to do. Ouch! Dammit—’
‘Too tight? It’s got to be tight to stop the bleeding.’
Harper twisted her hand, pushed the nail with her fingers until she felt it puncture something. Then she stopped pushing, used her other hand to ease the nail down maybe half an inch and reposition it. And pressed it up again, felt another puncture.
Suddenly, the weight on her legs lifted; Evan stood up.
‘Careful – you’ve lost some blood. You might be light-headed. Don’t fall.’
‘Where the hell is my knife?’
She heard Evan stomping around in the hay. The flashlight aimed in her eyes again. She didn’t move, not even an eyelash.
‘Settle down, Evan.’
‘I need my fucking knife. I’m going to cut this bitch to shreds.’
‘Not yet.’
�
��Why the hell not?’
‘Let’s not argue again, Evan. She’s tied up; she’ll wait. But think about it: You’re impaired; you have limited energy, and we’ve got that heavy armoire to unload and deposit.’
‘Fine. But let’s be quick.’ Evan’s breath was rapid, shallow. The light visited her face again. ‘Because when we’re done, I’m coming right back.’
Footsteps climbed down the ladder. Alone, shivering, Harper worked the nail, pushing it up, puncturing the binding, repositioning it, pushing again. And again. Wincing when she felt a jab, a warm gush. Damn – she’d aimed wrong, pushed too hard, stabbed her wrist; the blood made her fingers slippery. She was cold, her fingers stiff and almost numb, having trouble gripping the nail. But she had no choice, had to proceed. Envisioned her hands free, her legs running.
‘Come on,’ she said aloud. ‘Get it done.’ Steadying herself, she pressed her wrists together to stop the bleeding and began again, working her fingers, placing the nail, pressing it up through her bindings. Cutting her way to freedom, one puncture at a time.
About three in the morning, Vivian woke up and wandered into the guest room. She sat on the bed beside Lou. Noticed the bags.
‘Lou?’ Her mouth hung open. Her eyes registered new facts.
‘Don’t get upset.’ He reached for her, pulled her close. ‘I wasn’t going to say anything until morning—’
‘Say anything about what?’ She pulled away, sat straight, her eyes wide and accusing.
Lou sat up, too, leaned over and tried to take her hands but she wouldn’t allow it. ‘Something’s happened. It’s my sister—’
‘Your sister.’
‘Yes. She’s had a stroke—’
‘You told me you were an only child.’
Wait. He’d said that?
‘Don’t fuck with me, Lou.’ She was on her feet, hands on her hips.
The air came out of his lungs, wouldn’t go back in. He couldn’t speak, had no voice.
‘You’re taking off? Where the hell you going?’
‘You’re wrong, Vivian. I’m not going anywhere unless—’
‘Not going anywhere? Not anywhere?’ She repeated the words several times, kicking his suitcase, his duffel. ‘You need these bags to not go anywhere?’ Breathless and panting, she waited for an answer.
‘Harper wanted us out.’ He thought it was a good answer. ‘So while you were sleeping, I got started packing.’
Vivian’s eyes grew, looked like they’d launch out of her head. ‘So why’d you lie about a sister if you packed because of Harper?’
‘Look, Harper wants us out by—’
A sudden bellow, like a police siren, came out of Vivian’s throat. She covered her face with her hands and sunk to the floor. Lou ran to her and held her.
‘Vivian, it’s okay. We’re leaving, starting over,’ he covered her head with kisses. ‘Both of us. Together. Everything will—’
‘Starting over? What are you talking about?’ She pulled away.
‘We’ll go someplace far away, just the two of us—’
‘Lou. Stop. What’s wrong with you? Don’t you get what I’m going through? My daughter is missing. I’m a mess. Until she’s found, I’m not going anywhere.’ Vivian ran a hand through her hair, simpering.
Lou sat still, trying to figure out what to say. How to explain. How much of the truth to tell her. He had to take her car, total it and set it on fire. Had to make Wally think he was dead, make him see the futility of hanging on to Harper. Had to get far away with the cash. And with Vivian.
But Wally wouldn’t release Harper until he thought Lou was dead, and Vivian wouldn’t leave until Harper was released. So somehow, he had to fake his death, make sure Harper was home, and then whisk Vivian away before Wally could find out there was no body in the crash and he was actually alive.
Vivian sat on the bed, legs crossed. God, she was gorgeous. Had legs that went all the way to the ground. A face that he could look at forever, not smooth and blank, but lined, character etched into it. Vivian wasn’t just a woman; she was his counterpart, the female version of him. Just like him, she’d done what she had to in order to survive. Learned to compromise. To protect herself. And despite that, just like him, she still had a heart.
Vivian took out a pack of Camels, lit one. Lou got up, sat beside her on the bed. She didn’t move, didn’t acknowledge him.
‘I didn’t want to do this.’ He put an arm around her waist.
She exhaled smoke, didn’t look at him. ‘Do what?’
He sat for a moment, thinking, making sure. ‘Vivian. Fact is I’m not a great catch. But I’m nuts about you.’
Her eyes flickered; she turned to face him.
‘Do you love me?’
‘Seriously? You’re leaving and you ask me that?’
‘I need to know, Vivian. Please. Just tell me honestly.’
‘Oh, Lou.’ She put a hand on his face. ‘You know I do. You must know that.’
Lou’s eyes filled. He smeared away a tear. ‘Believe me, Viv. I didn’t want any of this to happen. But you’re going to find things out about me – things I wanted to protect you from. Things I was afraid to tell you because I didn’t want to lose you. But now . . .’
‘What?’
‘Things are at a point. I have no choice but to tell you everything. Even if it means you might want nothing to do with me—’
‘That would never happen. Not ever.’ She leaned over, kissing him.
Lou’s chest got warm; his vision blurred with yet more tears. Lord, he loved this woman. His instincts told him to hold back, make up a story. Not reveal the truth. Not risk confiding. But she was too smart; she’d know if he lied. For better or worse, he had to trust her.
Lou picked up her hand, kissed it. ‘Two things. First, if after I’ve finished talking you want me to leave, I will.’
‘I won’t want that. But okay.’ She put out her cigarette.
‘Second. No matter what, even if you throw me out and never want to see me again, promise that you’ll keep what I’m about to tell you secret. Between us.’
Vivian nodded. Lou took a deep breath, avoiding her eyes, and tried to decide where to begin.
Harper was cold. Beyond cold. Her teeth chattered and her body quaked. She’d been lying still for far too long in frigid air, wearing no coat, just a heavy sweater. Tried to remember facts about hypothermia. How to deal with it. But her mind was muddled and slow. Wasn’t that one of the symptoms? Confused thinking? Maybe if she drifted off, took a nap, she’d be clearer when she woke up. But wait – that was part of it, too – yes. Fatigue was a sure sign of hypothermia. She had to remember that, not let herself fall asleep. Probably, she should keep moving, increase her circulation. Get her body temperature up. But moving was tough with her arms and legs bound. No way she could flex them, let alone do jumping jacks. Damn Sty and Evan.
She listened, couldn’t hear them. For a while, they’d been banging and clunking, bickering outside, but now, she heard nothing. Were they gone? Evan had threatened to come back, but maybe he’d changed his mind. Maybe he was just going to leave her there to freeze to death. Harper wanted to shut her eyes, take a break. Her hands were frozen and painful, craved stillness, but she kept working the nail into her bindings, pulling and twisting her wrists, trying to rip her bindings apart. Her hands were clumsy, though. And her fingers wouldn’t obey, felt dull and swollen. Uncoordinated. She tugged on the bindings but they wouldn’t give. Finally, panting and frustrated, she lay back and rested. Maybe she could sleep for just a few minutes. What would be the harm? She closed her eyes, but the door groaned, rousing her. A light flashed up at the loft. Harper watched, willed herself alert.
The old wooden floor creaked under someone’s steps. Harper yanked her wrists apart as hard as she could, fighting to separate them. She heard a tiny rip, but her hands wouldn’t come free, so she lay still, her eyes open just a crack.
The ladder trembled under someone’s footholds.
Evan emerged slowly. His bandaged hand, then his head, his shoulders, finally his legs. Once he was up on the loft, he squatted beside her. ‘I know you’re awake. Don’t bother pretending.’
Harper opened her eyes, met his. Her eyes were well accustomed to the dark; she could see his smirk. ‘Why don’t we chat?’
‘Untie me.’ Oddly, her mouth didn’t work; her teeth chattered and her words garbled, came out, ‘Nd yme.’
He laughed. ‘Ymago nngawa.’ Mimicking her.
She thought of Hank, how hard he’d worked to speak after his accident. When Evan and Sty knocked her out, maybe she’d suffered a brain injury, too. She was so cold, too cold to think. Maybe her mouth was frozen, her words distorted by the cold. She tried again, more slowly. ‘Un. Tie. Me.’ Her voice quaked with cold.
‘No, see. You don’t get to tell me what to do. In fact, you don’t get to decide anything. You made a big mistake, biting me, so here’s what’s going to happen. Later on, in a little while, you’re going to die.’ He watched her.
Harper shivered but didn’t react.
‘Nothing sudden. You’re going to go little by little.’ He aimed his flashlight at her face. ‘And I’m going to watch.’
Harper didn’t say anything. Didn’t want to waste energy. Slowly, with the ice-cold stumps that were her hands, she worked the nail, felt another tiny rip of fabric. But still couldn’t free her arms.
Evan set the flashlight down in the hay, took out his knife, held it with the hand she’d bitten. The fabric around the wound was bloody, but he held the weapon steadily. The knife was formidable, much like army issue. Harper blinked, straining to stay alert. Her eyes burned, aching to close; her body begged to give in to the cold, to let go and simply fade. But Evan waved the knife in her face. Wouldn’t let her drift. Made her focus on its seven-inch stainless-steel sawback blade.
‘Thing is, I can’t decide where to start.’ He held the blade against Harper’s cheek, then her throat. He lowered it slowly to her belly – oh God, the baby? Harper’s thoughts were slow; she didn’t flinch, didn’t show fear, so he kept it moving down to the thigh, the tendons of her strong leg. Then back up to the right side of her face. Slowly, deliberately, he pressed down, slicing a thin line along her lower jaw. Letting blood ooze. ‘Any preferences?’
