by Merry Jones
Hypothermia, she remembered the name. ‘Hythemi.’ Even though her mouth wouldn’t work, she made herself say the word. Her voice sounded thin and fragile as she sank into the snow.
Suddenly, the baby kicked. Delivered a punt, right to her gut.
The baby? Was it strong enough to kick so hard? Why wouldn’t it let her rest? Harper stumbled back onto her feet and pressed on. One step. Two. She focused on the truck, counting steps to make sure she was moving.
Finally, limping and hunched, she came to the clearing, had maybe twenty more steps to the truck when her iced-up mind reminded her to look for Sty. Harper hesitated, glanced around, saw Sty running down the hill. Crouching low, she dashed toward the cab. By the time Sty got to the clearing, she was an arm’s length from the truck. With a final effort, she flew forward, grabbed the handle with numb fingers, pulled it open. Climbed in and, clumsily, violently, slammed the door. Looked out and saw Sty racing, just seconds away. The keys . . .
The keys were there. With fingers too frozen to hurt, Harper turned them, started the ignition. Put the truck in gear and stepped on the gas.
The truck lurched; the engine burped and stalled. Damn. She tried to think. What was she doing here? Whose truck was this? And why was she running?
‘Never mind.’ The voice was back. ‘Just go.’
Harper followed orders, shifted back to first gear, pushed the clutch and started over, turned the key again. Checking the windows and rear-view mirror, she stepped carefully on the gas, crawled up the hill, shifted into second. Accelerated slowly but steadily, looking around for Sty. Wondering where he’d gone. Finally, when she’d rolled past the abandoned house, she exhaled.
That’s when she heard a thump, felt the truck bounce, checked the rear-view mirror. And saw Sty, standing in the truck bed, right behind her.
Damn. Harper pressed her foot down, shifted to third. Steered the truck to the left, veered sharply to the right, trying to shake him off. Watching the mirror, seeing him holding the side of the truck, swaying as she turned.
The ground was steep and snowy. Harper aimed for bumps and rocks. Sped up. Skidded off the property onto an unplowed but single-lane road. Saw Sty in the truck bed, hanging on. She raced ahead, slid into fourth, doing fifty, sixty. Suddenly, jamming on the brakes, hoping to send Sty flying.
The truck screeched and zigzagged, spun around. When it stopped, she checked the rear-view. Didn’t see Sty. She looked out at the road behind her, in the side mirrors. No Sty. She grabbed the steering wheel and boosted herself up so she could see into the back of the truck. From what she could see, it was empty. Maybe he’d been thrown off the road, into the woods?
Still shaking, she reached over, restarted the ignition, turned on the heat. Maybe she should climb out of the cab, make sure he wasn’t crouching in the blind spot below the window.
But warm air was blowing from the heater. Her hands burned, beginning to thaw out. Her mind was beginning to function, deciding not to go back out into the cold for any reason. She stepped on the gas, shifted into second, steered the truck past wooded areas and vacant lots, empty farmhouses, hoping to find a main road. Nothing outside looked familiar or even occupied. Where the hell was she? Why wasn’t there a gas station or a mini-market anywhere? Harper was lost, had no idea what time – even what day it was. Christmas Eve? Or maybe Christmas? She pictured the ugly tree her mother had bought, the flashing lights. And all those gifts. And then she realized that Hank would call – he’d find out she was missing and contact the police. In fact, maybe he’d done that. And the FBI, too. Maybe they were already searching . . .
Something popped, then whooshed. Harper turned and saw Sty reaching through an open space where the rear window had been. He’d taken out the window? She swerved, but Sty grabbed the back of her seat, steadying himself. She veered the other way, pushing the gas. Gaining speed, trying to knock him over. Sty’s arm went out, snaked around her throat and squeezed, choking her. Harper steered with one hand, grabbed and scratched his arm with the other. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t get leverage to fight him. She floored the pedal, felt the pickup zoom ahead, jammed her foot on the brake, then the gas again. The truck slammed forward, then back. The force made Sty lose his grip, sent him flying backwards into the truck bed, slamming his head against steel.
This time, Harper climbed out and into the back of the pickup. Sty’s eyes rolled and he struggled to get up, but she lunged, cold-cocking him, watching to make sure he was going to stay down. Noticed blood pouring from the back of his head. Even so, Harper waited a moment to see if he’d stir. Finally, when she was sure he wasn’t going to come after her, she got back in the cab, turned the heat up, and somehow found her way to a main road. As the sun peeked over the horizon, she headed home.
Lou put his suitcase in the trunk. The duffel bag would go up front, beside him in the car. He wasn’t going to let it out of sight, brought it with him to the kitchen. Vivian was bleary-eyed, sitting at the table, poking French toast around her plate. Pretending to be fine.
How could he leave her this way?
Well, he had no choice. He sat beside her, picking up his mug. ‘All set,’ he said as he took a last swig of coffee.
She nodded, her body braced as if for the lash.
‘As soon as you’re ready, you’ll join me.’
She nodded again. Sighed.
‘Vivian. Talk to me. What? Are you having second thoughts?’
She didn’t look angry, just defeated. ‘Look, Lou – I mean, Ed – see? I don’t even know what to call you—’
‘Try Oliver.’ He smiled, took her hand. ‘Or Ollie.’
Her eyebrows lifted. ‘Ollie?’
Outside, a car door slammed. Damn – Wally? So early? Lou grabbed Vivian and ducked, pulling her under the table. It had to be Wally or his people. Who else would be here at sunrise? Wally must have psyched him out, figured that he’d take off. Showed up early for his money.
‘Shh,’ he told Vivian. ‘Get against the wall. Don’t move.’
On hands and knees, he crawled to his duffel, got his gun. The kitchen door swung open; Lou saw a pair of fleecy slip-on boots. Heard Vivian scream. And looked up.
She’d made it. She was home. She wasn’t sure how long she’d been driving, not sure how she’d gotten there, but seeing a light on in the kitchen, she’d climbed up to the deck, pulled the kitchen door open and stopped, unable to take another step. Exhausted, her whole body sore, she leaned against the wall and sunk to the floor, gradually taking in the scene. The aroma of fresh coffee – and of something else. Pancakes? Lou on his knees beside her, for some reason, holding a gun. And her mother huddled under the kitchen table, peering out with a ghastly expression, hoarsely barking her name.
And Lou kept repeating her name. Asking questions. ‘How did you get away? Did you run or did they let you go? What did they say?’ Her mother skittering across the floor, smothering her with hugs. And then thunking noises in the hall. A large dark figure bursting through the door. And Harper stopped breathing.
Hank? Hank was home?
‘Hank?’ She tried to stand but couldn’t convince her legs to support her. And her mother was draped around her neck.
‘Hoppa!’
Crutches clattered to the floor. Hank dove down, grabbed her from Vivian’s arms, peppered her with kisses. Hank? Why was he home? What had happened?
‘Hurt.’ He studied the wounds on her forehead and cheek. ‘Bad?’
‘I’m okay. I’m fine.’ Her speech was still slow, even though her words were no longer slurred by the cold. ‘How come you came home?’
‘Surprise. You.’ His eyes welled up, his gaze traveling across her face, down her body. A hand rested on her belly. ‘For Christmas. Home.’
His other hand squeezed hers; she winced in pain.
‘Hurt?’ He frowned, looking at it. It was discolored. Almost purple at the fingertips. He took her other hand to examine it, saw the thick clots of blood on her wrist. ‘Vivian,�
� he ordered. ‘Make a bath. Warm not hot.’
The next minutes blurred in a flurry of probing, examining, fussing. Hank dabbed the cuts on her face with a warm cloth, pressed sterile compresses onto the jagged tears on her wrist. Lou gave her hot coffee and circled her, agitated, asking where she’d been. How she’d gotten away. If they were coming after her. What they’d said. She shook her head, not ready to go into all that, not sure why Lou cared so intensely. Why was he so interested in Evan and Sty? Hank asked him to stop, but Lou kept asking questions.
‘Did they mention me?’ His voice sounded urgent.
She shook her head, no. Winced as Hank pressed harder on her wrist.
‘Do you know why they did this? What they want?’
‘I don’t. No.’
‘Was a guy named Wally there?’
Wally? ‘No.’
‘Let her be,’ Hank growled.
‘Lou, relax. I’m okay. It’s over. Stop worrying.’
Lou nodded, pursing his lips. He blinked rapidly, checked the clock. Ran a hand through his hair. Looked out the kitchen window.
‘I have to talk to your mother.’ Holding his duffel bag, he dashed out of the room.
The questions didn’t stop. Hank asked what had happened to her wrist, her face. Whether she could feel his touch on her fingers, toes, ears, nose. If she knew where Sty and Evan were. She couldn’t keep up with all the questions; her mind – her whole body – was still slow. And before she could form an answer to one, another question came at her.
At some point, Lou and Vivian reappeared, holding hands, heads together, whispering. Oblivious to the trouble Hank had with his crutches as he helped Harper to the bathroom where he gently undressed her, helped her into the tub. Harper lay back, eyes fixed on Hank, trying to grasp that he was really home, really there with her, perched on the side of the tub. The wooden numbness of her hands and feet thawed in warm water; as blood began to circulate again, her nerves woke up, too, firing angry piercing shots of pain. Hank gave her pills. Ibuprofen? Aspirin? Something. He stayed with her, reminding her about hypothermia and frostbite. Explaining that rewarming would hurt, that the pain was normal. That she’d be okay.
Harper soaked, rewarming. Hurting. And finally, Hank called out, asking Vivian to bring soft fleece clothing, warm gloves and socks, and, when Harper got out of the bath, he helped her dress in soft layers of warmth. Leaning on crutches, he walked her to the living room, settled her on the sofa. Wrapped her in blankets.
Detective Rivers greeted her from the wingback chair. Rivers? When had they called her? How long had she been there? There were also EMTs scurrying about, messing with her, insisting on checking her temperature, her still-open wounds, her pupils, her tender fingers and toes, her pulse, her baby’s heartbeat. They wanted to take her to the hospital. The tall one, Jerry, said that she had a concussion, that she needed a thorough exam.
Harper had no energy. Refused to go anywhere. As long as the baby was okay, she said she’d stay home and see her obstetrician in a couple of days.
‘No. You’re going.’ Hank’s voice held no room for negotiation. ‘I’ll be with you. Not be there long. But going.’
Jerry took that as a signal to hook her up to an IV.
‘What’s that for?’ she asked.
‘Just in case.’ He rolled up her sleeve and began tying a ribbon of thick rubber around her arm, looking for a vein. The band looked too much like duct tape; Harper yanked her arm away. Her flesh was still tender, still defrosting. And she didn’t want anything tied around her arm. ‘Please. I’ll go to the emergency room. Don’t do that.’
Instantly, Hank was beside her, holding her, urging her to think of the baby, saying that they needed to take every precaution. And before she knew it, Harper had an IV in her arm and Jerry and the other guy were lifting her onto a gurney. Gunshots and shouts echoed in the distance; she smelled smoke, recalled another gurney, other wounds. She kept her eyes on Hank, using his image to root herself.
As they tied her on, she told them to wait. ‘Ma?’ she called, sitting up, looking for Vivian.
Vivian was in the hall outside the kitchen, hugging Lou, who was dressed in his down jacket, carrying a duffel bag. She made him wait, ran past the EMTs and Harper to the Christmas tree, retrieved a small gift, ripped the paper off, took a thick gold chain out of the box. Hung it on Lou’s neck. He kissed Vivian, held her for a moment and, nodding to the group around Harper, headed out the kitchen door.
Vivian didn’t move. She stared after him, as if not hearing Harper’s voice.
‘Ma?’ Harper called again.
This time, Vivian spun around, startled. Her face was bloated, wet with tears.
‘Where’s Lou. Going?’ Hank asked.
Vivian looked over her shoulder at the empty spot where Lou had been. ‘Oh, nowhere.’ She gathered herself, squaring her shoulders, and came to join them.
‘Nowhere?’ Harper persisted. ‘With a duffel bag?’
Outside, a car started.
‘He’s taking your car?’
‘Of course. He always uses my car. We’re a couple.’ Vivian’s chin wobbled.
‘So where’s he going?’
Vivian shrugged, smeared away tears. ‘He has . . . It’s a business trip.’ She faked a smile.
Business? What kind of business did he have to do on Christmas Eve? ‘Today?’
‘On Christmas Eve?’ Hank frowned.
‘It’s no big deal. You’re the only big deal here, Harper.’
The EMTs were running out of patience. ‘We have to get going, Ma’am.’
‘Don’t worry, everybody.’ Vivian made herself sound cheery. ‘Lou will be back in a day or two.’ Her mother was lying. Harper saw it on her face.
‘What happened, Ma? Did you just break up?’
Hank and Rivers, even the EMTs, turned to look at Vivian.
‘Of course not.’ Vivian worried the tissue in her hands. ‘I told you. It’s just business. It came up suddenly.’
Outside, the car engine purred. Probably Lou was warming it up. For a minute, they stood awkwardly, everyone staring at Vivian.
‘It’s no big deal. The only big deal here is that my daughter has come back.’ She stopped, her voice choking. ‘Please. Everyone, would you stop minding other people’s business?’ In tears, Vivian turned away and ran up the stairs.
‘Ma – wait.’ Harper tried to get up and go after her, but Jerry grabbed her shoulder. ‘Hank, go after her – please. She can’t take another break-up.’
Hank started but fumbled on the steps, clumsy with his crutches.
‘You stay with Mrs Jennings. I’ll go,’ Rivers volunteered. She ran upstairs, calling Vivian.
‘Ma’am, we need to go,’ Jerry insisted.
‘Just another minute – please. I can’t leave my mother alone now. She’s fragile. Believe me.’
Jerry crossed his arms; the other EMT rolled his eyes and sat on the floor. A few moments passed and Rivers returned. ‘Let’s go.’
‘But my mother—’
‘She insists she’s just upset because it’s Christmas Eve and he had to work. She swears they didn’t break up.’
Harper wasn’t convinced. Her mother was pretending to be okay, had done that before. Had also swallowed several bottles of sleeping pills before. But Jerry tightened the straps of the gurney around Harper’s blankets, swaddling her like a baby, and Harper gave in, lay back, watched the ceiling and the top of the door frame as they wheeled her out. Heard Vivian’s car shift into reverse as Lou pulled out of the driveway. Turned her head to see him, but a black SUV blocked her view. Felt the baby doing flip turns, safe and indifferent to the world.
When they moved the gurney down the front steps, a cold wind rose and slapped her face. That’s when she remembered Sty.
‘Wait! I forgot . . .’ She lifted her head, pointed to the pickup parked by the kitchen door. ‘Sty! He’s over there.’
Hank furrowed his brows. ‘Who?’
; Rivers stepped over to the gurney, told the EMTs to wait a minute. ‘You’re saying Sty’s in that truck?’
Harper nodded. ‘In the back – unconscious.’ How could she have forgotten that? It had to be the hypothermia, she told herself. Her brain was numb. She wondered if Sty had hypothermia, too, lying in the cold all this time. Or if he’d frozen to death. Oh God, had she killed him? How could she have forgotten he was out there? She remembering coming home, driving up to the house, pulling herself up the steps to the deck, not feeling her lower legs or hands. She’d been thinking of Sty then – thinking she’d get Lou to call the police and help take him inside. So why hadn’t she? Harper thought back, closed her eyes, saw herself falling into the kitchen. Smelling maple syrup. Letting her legs sink to the floor.
And seeing her mother crouching under the kitchen table. Why? What was wrong? Vivian’s face contorted – screaming. And Lou – she saw him again, crawling to her. Holding a gun . . .
‘Are you sure he was there?’ Rivers was back, exhaling short rapid clouds.
Harper nodded. ‘Out cold.’
‘There’s blood on the—’
‘We fought. He fell back and hit his head—’
‘Mrs Jennings, there’s no sign of him. We checked your garage, too. He might still be around, maybe in the fraternity. Do we have your permission to look in your house?’
When Hank climbed into the ambulance beside her, Harper saw Rivers on her radio, putting out an APB and asking for officer support to conduct a search.
They didn’t find Sty in her house or the fraternity. They didn’t find him in the woods or anywhere. Somehow, he’d slipped away.
It was early afternoon when Rivers arrived in Harper’s hospital room. Harper’s wrist was wrapped and her jaw lined with butterfly strips. Half-eaten meatloaf and mashed potatoes sat in a puddle of gelling gravy on her tray. Rivers greeted Hank and Harper, took a seat in one of the two guest chairs, asked how Harper was feeling, waited a beat, and said she had a few questions.
‘Baby okay?’
‘Baby’s fine.’ Harper smiled, felt it swimming.
‘Hoppa not.’
‘It’s no big deal. A concussion. They want me to rest.’
