by Merry Jones
She headed straight to the refrigerator, had opened it before her mind registered that the deck door was smashed. Harper froze, sensing someone behind her. She wheeled around, holding a bottle of salad dressing like a club, ready to swing. But the bottle was useless.
Sty stood several feet away, holding a gun. Smiling.
Harper gaped, confused. ‘I thought you were dead.’
‘Really? No, I was just home for Christmas.’
‘So, you’re alive.’ She sounded addled.
‘It appears so. But sadly, you’re not going to be for very much longer,’ he said. ‘In fact, not much longer at all.’
Harper tried to grasp it. Sty was there, alive; his body couldn’t have been burned in the Camry. So whose had? She saw Lou, kissing her mother goodbye. Realized that the body was his. That Lou was really, actually dead. A pang of sorrow jolted through her, but Sty stepped closer, his gun aimed at her chest.
‘You got out of the truck.’
He watched her. ‘Did you expect me to stay there? I had to hide in the effing woods all night until the cops left. And by the way, because of you, there’s blood all over my down jacket.’
He’d been in the woods?
‘But I’m not vengeful; really, I harbor no hard feelings.’ Sty came closer. ‘It’s just that you’re the only witness.’
Harper was trapped by the refrigerator door. Her exit was blocked in three directions. ‘The police know everything.’ She eyed the gun. ‘They found Evan and the kids you murdered—’
‘The police won’t be a problem once I explain what happened. You see, I was embarking on a fiction project, but unintentionally became involved with a dangerous psychopath.’
‘They’ve read your journal.’
‘Oh, the journal. That was written as background material for a character in my novel. But Evan took the plot seriously, actually killing people – beating me up, threatening to kill me when I tried to stop him. Terrifying me so completely that I ran home to my parents, staying there until I heard Evan was dead and it was safe to return. I’m deeply traumatized.’ He smiled, stepped closer. ‘Don’t worry about me; I’ll do fine with the authorities. As long as no one contradicts me.’
‘I already have. I told them you and Evan were a team. That you planned your murders together.’ She watched his eyes, gripped the salad dressing.
‘Well, obviously, you misunderstood. After all, you were highly unstable. Hormonally imbalanced.’
Hormonally imbalanced? Again? Why did everybody accuse her of that?
He took another step closer. Stood an arm’s length away. ‘You were so delusional and depressed that, poor thing, you actually took your own life.’ He took a breath. ‘Speaking of which, I suppose you should write a note. Come to the table; I have a pen.’
Harper looked right at him, saw a twinkle of amusement in his eyes. Centered her body and swung.
The bottle came at Sty from the side, smacking his cheekbone, dislodging his nose. He reeled, moaning, and fired the gun, shattering something across the room. Before he could regain his balance, Harper pounced, grabbing the wrist that held the gun, knocking Sty backwards, falling onto him. Feeling a bone snap in his arm. Sty howled, and the gun clattered to the floor. She reached for it, but Sty propelled himself forward, his good arm reaching, fingers clawing.
Sty was bigger, heavier. Harper couldn’t hold him, saw his hand inching toward the gun. She rolled off him, scuttling backwards, covering it with her body while her arms fought to push Sty away. But she couldn’t; he was on his knees leaning over her, his unbroken arm reaching down toward the gun; then he stopped, suddenly withdrawing the arm. And instead of scrapping with her, he raised his torso, made a fist. And aimed it at her belly.
Harper looked at it, at the cold light in his eyes. As Sty lifted his fist to deliver his blow, she lifted her hips to reach under her back. Before he could land his punch, she pulled the gun out and fired.
The police came. The media. The coroner. A cleaning crew. And finally, it was quiet.
Days passed peacefully. Harper’s injuries healed; the ones on her wrists left dark jagged scars. The media stopped talking about the deadly duo of Sty and Evan, the murdered students, even about the one still missing. Ornament by ornament, Harper and Hank dismantled the tree; the living room seemed huge and empty without it.
Even on crutches, Hank managed to return most of Vivian’s gifts. The stroller, car seat, playhouse, toy chest, even the high chair went back so that he and Harper could buy what they wanted.
They celebrated New Year’s Eve with a steak dinner, making lists of baby names, and they fell asleep before the ball dropped on Times Square. They fixed up the nursery. Placed Vivian’s stuffed gorilla in the corner. Put her yellow clothing into a new dresser. Hung a monkey mobile over the crib.
Harper’s belly seemed suddenly enormous and the baby became relentlessly active. Because her contractions held at a steady rate, she had to continue resting and rarely went out. Leslie came to the house for appointments, but mostly, she and Hank were alone, the house silent. Harper consoled herself with the knowledge that winter break was almost over, that Vicki and her other friends would soon be home. Students would return to campus; the fraternity next door would hop to life. Maybe then she’d stop watching its sulking mass out her window. Maybe she’d stop dreaming of burning cars, of bloody knives. Of Sty appearing in the kitchen. With a gun.
Most days, Harper spent a few hours working on her dissertation. Four days into the New Year, she was at her computer, struggling to complete a sentence, when the doorbell rang and she heard Hank invite someone in.
A moment later, she heard Detective Rivers’ voice and stiffened, saving her work. ‘This can’t be good,’ she told the baby. When Rivers came over, it never was.
Rivers nodded at her middle. ‘How you feeling?’
‘Huge.’
They smiled. Exchanged New Year greetings. Sat in the now tidy living room.
‘So, your mom took off? Was she okay?’
‘Fine, amazingly. Eager to see the world.’
Rivers watched her. Hank offered coffee; she thanked him, declined.
‘Once again, I’m here to give you a heads up.’
The back of Harper’s neck tingled.
‘It’ll be on the news. The last missing kid turned up.’
‘Dead?’ The word came out unbidden.
Rivers looked at the floor.
Hank sat beside Harper, took her hand.
‘Was it – did Evan and Sty do it?’
‘Actually, this one looks like it might have been unintentional. The victim was Sebastian Levering’s boyfriend. He was in their new apartment. Furniture wasn’t even moved in yet.’
Why was Rivers telling them this?
‘The kid who rents the adjoining apartment came back from winter break and complained of a smell. The super smelled it and called us, and we found the source.’
‘But. How come telling us?’ Hank put an arm around Harper, protective.
‘Because of this.’ Rivers reached into her parka pocket, pulled out a baggie. In it was the key. Harper’s key. ‘The body was found locked in a closet.’
‘Oh God.’ Harper sat up straight, staring at the baggie.
‘This key opened it.’ She put it back in her pocket. ‘The door was heavy, and the lock was, too. The kid clawed and rammed and kicked himself bloody trying to get out, but the lock held.’ She shook her head. ‘Really tough. Looks like he died of dehydration.’
Dehydration? Lord, that took days. Slow, agonizing days. He must have screamed. Why hadn’t anyone heard?
‘The building was empty for the holidays.’
Oh God.
Rivers sighed. ‘Our theory is that Sebastian locked his boyfriend in. Maybe they had a fight. Or maybe it was a practical joke or who knows what. But for whatever reason, it looks like Sebastian got him into the closet, locked the door and left, taking the key. No doubt he planned to let him out when he came
back.’
Harper clenched her jaw, braced for what Rivers would say next.
‘Except, as we know, he never did.’
Hank walked Rivers out to her car, came back with the mail.
‘Your mom. Wrote.’
Harper was making hoagies, popped a piece of salami in her mouth, spun around.
Hank read a postcard. ‘Already. Has new boyfriend.’
No surprise. ‘Where is she?’ She reached for the card.
Vivian was in Mexico, a small town on the west coast, not far from Puerto Nuevo. She was perfectly safe, learning bits of Spanish. And the happiest she’d ever been. She’d met her soul mate. An expatriate who’d made a fortune and retired young. Named Oliver Hines.
What? Harper stared at the name. It was Lou’s alias.
But Lou was dead.
‘Oliver?’ Hank was also puzzled. ‘Remember – wasn’t it Lou’s name?’
Harper pictured Lou kissing her mother goodbye. The new gold chain around his neck. The duffel bag in his hands – had Lou somehow survived?
But how? And, if he was, then the dead guy hadn’t been Lou or Sty. So whose body had been in the Camry? Whose ashes were in the urn?
Harper had no idea. But, somehow, Lou had pulled it off. He’d stolen half a million dollars from the mob, and faked his death so they wouldn’t come after him. He’d gotten away with it. Nobody – especially not Wally Cobretti – had a clue.
‘You think it’s him?’ Harper stared at the card.
Hank nodded. ‘Don’t know how, but yes.’
‘Me, too.’ Harper picked up slices of provolone, layered them on the rolls. ‘It’s got to be him.’
‘Hard to believe.’ Hank munched a pickle.
‘What?’ Harper looked up from the tomato slices.
‘Oliver already,’ he smirked. ‘Never thought she’d. Get over Lou.’
Hank tossed the Best Baby Names book onto the coffee table. It landed on his plate, crushing the uneaten crust of his hoagie roll. ‘How about you name. Girl. I name boy.’
Harper frowned. ‘How about not? How about we pick a name together?’
‘But you don’t like my names.’ He crossed his arms, pouting.
‘I like some of them.’
‘Name one.’
Harper stalled, moved closer to him on the sofa, leaned against his shoulder.
‘Go on. Waiting.’
‘Well, you don’t like my names either. You nixed Gabriel and Gideon and Burke—’
‘I like Billy. Normal.’
Someone knocked at the door. Neither moved right away, but their eyes met, sharing a thought. It had to be Rivers again. With yet more bad news. The knocking continued. Finally, Harper pushed herself up.
‘No, I’ll go.’ Hank reached for his crutches.
‘It’s all right.’ Harper was already on her way, but Hank got up, too, and was standing behind her when she opened the door.
The person knocking wasn’t Detective Rivers. It was a skinny redhead with smeared mascara. And behind her were two huge men, each of whom dwarfed Hank, standing ready like bodyguards. Or thugs.
‘We’d like to talk.’ The woman’s voice was high and scratchy. Almost childlike. ‘Can we come in?’
‘Sorry—’ Harper had been about to say that they must have the wrong house but she stopped, recognizing the black SUV in the driveway.
‘You guys wait on the porch, okay?’ The woman left the thugs at the door and headed right past Harper and Hank into the living room, took a seat on the sofa. Pulled a tissue out of her sleeve. Blew her nose.
‘Let’s not bullshit,’ she said. ‘These guys have been watching your house, so I know you know Lou. I know he was staying here. I know he had money that didn’t belong to him. And I know—’
‘Lou’s dead,’ Hank said.
‘Look, whoever you are, Lou was our guest.’ Harper crossed her arms, remained standing. ‘That’s it. We know nothing about his money or his work. So, unless there’s something else . . .’ She gestured toward the door.
‘No, you don’t understand. I’m not here about Lou. I know he’s dead. And I don’t care about the money.’ Her voice cracked and tears washed mascara down her cheeks. ‘Please, sit down. I can’t talk with you standing. Just – please.’ She sniffed, dabbed her eyes.
‘Who are you?’ Harper sat on the easy chair. Hank stood beside her.
‘My name’s Rita. I’m an old friend of Lou’s. And I’m trying to locate a mutual friend – Wally Cobretti.’
Harper felt Hank’s eyes on her, but she didn’t waver, didn’t let on she’d heard the name before.
‘Wally had plans to visit Lou Christmas Eve.’
Which was the day Lou left. The day the Camry crashed and burned.
‘They were going to meet at noon, but Wally came down early, to surprise Lou.’
‘I don’t see how we can help you,’ Harper said. ‘We were here Christmas Eve, but didn’t see anyone.’ Except that, no, wait. They hadn’t been there – she’d just escaped from Sty and they’d gone to the hospital.
‘You didn’t see a black SUV? Like the one out front?’
Had she? From the gurney? Harper wasn’t sure.
‘No,’ Hank said. He sounded definite.
‘See, we don’t even know if he ever arrived here. All we know is he left to see Lou. And ten days later, nobody’s seen or heard from Wally. And we can’t ask Lou if he ever got here, because Lou’s dead.’
Harper let herself look at Hank. His eyes were steady, somber. ‘Not in papers,’ he said.
‘No. We don’t want anyone to know he’s missing.’
Harper raised her eyebrows, trying to seem baffled. ‘Did your friend have enemies? Would anyone want to hurt him?’ Other than, say, Lou?
Rita’s eyes widened. ‘That’s just the thing. He had a lot of . . . rivals in business. And some people hold grudges. So I’ve – we’ve been asking around. Nobody admits to knowing anything. But the strangest thing – his car turned up the other day. All the way in Arizona.’
Arizona? Not Mexico? Harper wondered why Lou had dumped it. ‘You think he was carjacked?’
Rita shrugged. ‘Maybe.’ She let out a loud sigh. ‘Well, you were about my last hope. I believe you don’t know anything.’ She met Harper’s eyes. ‘Honestly, I’m afraid something terrible happened to him.’
Harper didn’t know what to say. Certainly not the fact that Wally Cobretti’s body had been mistaken for Lou, that his ashes were sitting right there on her mantelpiece.
‘I guess this is another dead end.’ Rita stood and sashayed to the door where the thugs waited to escort her to the car.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
Then Hank said, ‘Lou killed him?’
Harper shook her head. ‘Not possible. Lou’s dead.’
Hank didn’t smile. ‘Lou killed this guy.’
‘I know.’ And her mother was living with a killer. Not that there was anything to be done about it. Who knew? It might have been self-defense.
‘Big guys.’ Hank came over to the easy chair. ‘You okay?’
She nodded. ‘You?’
‘Could have. Taken them.’ He smiled and kissed her neck. He hadn’t shaved; his whiskers tickled, gave her gooseflesh.
Harper stood and met his lips. Wrapped her arms around him. Slowly, almost predictably, a contraction took hold. Without ending the kiss, Harper dug her fingers into Hank’s back, closed her eyes and hung on.
