Behind the Walls (26 page)

‘And they spied on us to find out about the tunnel. It makes sense. Except what happened to his leg?’

‘Who knows. Perhaps she double-crossed him?’

‘Well, we’ll never know, thanks to Chief Catfeathers over there. That guy sure isn’t going to tell us.’

Harper looked down at Rick. His eyes hadn’t moved. For sure, he was dead.

‘For your information, I hardly touched him. Guy was half dead to begin with – look at all the blood on him.’

‘You went at him like a rabid hyena. We should have talked to him.’

Harper looked down at Rick. A blood-drenched rag formed a feeble tourniquet around his leg. His eyes gazed her way, not blinking.

‘Well, since we’re speaking of mistakes, genius, let’s get back to yours.’

‘I already told you, Joe. It wasn’t my fault.’

‘So whose fault was it? Mine? His?’ Work boots paced into Harper’s view. Then out. ‘Shit. All right, it doesn’t matter now. We’ve got a situation here. What am I supposed to tell them? That my idiot supplier fell down a shaft and broke a one-of-a-kind priceless pot for which they’ve prepaid fifty-five thousand?’

Fifty-five thousand? Harper strained her neck, leaning over the hole to see more of the room. Saw a table stacked with Styrofoam packing cases like the ones up in the crates. Were they relics? She tried to count them, got to nine.

‘We can refund their money.’ The guy who wasn’t Joe suggested.

These guys had stolen relics and were selling them. Of course. That was why so many were missing from the collection. The professor hadn’t misplaced them as Jake had said. The missing pieces removed by these guys. Was Angus one of them? Was Jake? Were they stealing what they believed should have been their legacy?

Suddenly, right below her, Rick began to slide across the floor.

‘Oh no,’ the man who wasn’t Joe groaned.

‘What’s he doing? Hey, what the hell are you doing?’ Joe barked.

Rick’s arms splayed over his head as someone dragged him by the feet, moving him out of Harper’s line of sight.

‘Shit. Does he have to do that again?’ Joe asked. ‘What the hell’s the matter with him?’

‘Let’s not bother him.’ First guy sounded edgy. ‘Just let him do his thing. You don’t want to start something with him.’

‘He’s fucked up,’ Joe said. ‘Seriously. He needs help.’ His voice sounded familiar. Slightly accented.

‘You think I can’t hear you?’ A third voice. Kind of throaty. Also familiar?

‘You’re talking about me as if I’m not here. I can hear everything you’re saying.’

‘Good. I’ll say it to your face. You fucking need to go someplace and get locked up. You’re ill. It’s sick, what you’re doing.’

‘I appreciate your opinion. But you have no inkling what you’re talking about. I’d advise you not to speak to me.’

‘Really, Digger? You’re telling me what I can do?’

Digger? Wait. Jake had talked about Digger – had said he was Angus’ friend. Was this the same ‘Digger’?

‘Move away. You’re interfering with the rite.’

‘Rite? Are you serious? You look like a fucking chicken.’

‘You’re speaking out of ignorance. And as a priest, I can’t be bothered with your opinions. This rite is essential for our continued success. It strengthens us.’

‘It does, does it?’ Joe was unconvinced.

‘It does.’

‘It’s not his fault.’ The first guy spoke up. ‘The old guy got him started.’

‘Neither of you can possibly understand.’ Digger sounded winded. Probably from dragging Rick.

‘He’s being doing this since the eighties.’

‘Since the eighties?’ Joe’s voice again. ‘Shit. How old were you then? Like ten?’

‘Fifteen. Digger was sixteen.’

‘No, I started younger. By sixteen, I’d performed a dozen rituals.’

‘Bullshit! We’d have heard if—’

‘I began with a dog.’

‘You did what? Fuck you, Digger – that was you? You fucking killed our dog?’

That had to be Angus.

‘Not his spirit. That still lives within me. The professor didn’t realize what I was doing until my fourteenth – which was Carla.’

Carla? Harper drew a breath. Carla Prentiss. Langston’s murdered researcher. Angus’ friend killed her?

‘What is he talking about?’ Joe scoffed.

‘The old guy used to take us on digs. Digger was fascinated by the old rituals, how they were done.’

‘Shit. You’re saying you killed that girl?’ Joe sounded stunned.

‘Not killed; sacrificed.’ Digger corrected. ‘She was a virgin. A pure offering.’

‘And the professor knew?’

‘Well, he figured it out. Quietly arranged for his protégé here to be sent on a long vacation to the Happy Home.’

‘It was a private academy. My parents thought it best that I study abroad.’

‘Whatever. I can’t believe you killed my fuckin’ dog.’

Harper thought she must have misheard. Because she could swear that the third guy, Digger, had just admitted that he had killed Carla Prentiss. And Angus was down there, explaining the past to Joe. She pictured him at the site where she’d found Zina. Had he acted as if he’d killed her? Or maybe Jake had done it. Maybe it hadn’t been an honor killing at all. She shivered, recalling being alone with him in the house. The way he’d lingered. But the men were still talking.

‘ . . . and the professor chose me as his assistant. He taught me the mystical secrets and rites of the ancients.’

Harper edged sideways, craning her neck, stretching to see them. Saw two pairs of legs in jeans and work boots. No faces. Nobody else.

‘So now you’re what? The high priest of fuck-upness?’ Joe mocked. ‘I’ll tell you what, Father Fuckup: stop what you’re doing. I warned you the last time, and I’m warning you again. Stop it. Now. Hey – I’m talking to you, you sick—’

Harper heard a clank. A scuffle. Pushing? Stumbling? The first guy yelling: ‘Settle down, both of you. Jesus. You’ll break everything. Get it together, would you? Anybody remember why we’re here? Joe’s got a delivery to make.’

A pause. ‘Don’t you ever fucking touch me again, you hear me?’ Joe was breathless, his voice wind and thunder.

‘Actually, I’d prefer not to have any contact with you whatsoever. But I promise you this: if you attack me again, my physical touch will be the least of your problems. I’ll gather all the powers and—’

‘I swear to you, I’m going to rip your fucking powers right out of—’

‘Enough!’ The first guy intervened.

Silence. Harper smelled tension and incense.

Joe broke it. ‘So what do you think? She still up there?’

She? Oh God. Harper ducked away from the opening. Had they seen her? Were they looking up at her? Wait, of course not. They had no idea she was there. Besides, if she couldn’t see them, they couldn’t see her. Even so, Joe was talking about her. Who the hell was he?

‘She must be. Isn’t her bike still out there?’

‘Yeah. Was when I got here, anyway.’

Lord. They’d seen her Ninja, were definitely talking about her. And she was convinced, almost sure that two of them were Angus and Jake.

‘What’s she doing, sleeping up there?’ A pause. ‘Oh shit.’

‘If she was mad enough to shoot
him
—’

‘She might be dead up there.’

‘—what do you think he did to
her
?’

Silence.

‘Should we go see? If she’s alive, we could talk to her about this guy.’

‘No, not now.’ Joe grunted. ‘Focus, would you? First, we’ve got to make this delivery. Even if she’s dead up there, we don’t have time to go looking for a suitable replacement piece right now. So here’s what we’ll do. I’ll tell them their vessel got damaged in transit. I’ll offer to make it good with another piece of equal or greater value. Which you will supply.’

‘That ought to work.’

‘But, I’ll tell you this, Butterfingers,’ Joe went on. ‘If they don’t go for it, it comes out of your pocket.’

‘The hell it does.’ The first guy raised his voice. ‘I’m not paying for—’

‘Really? Well. Then you better hope they’ll go for it.’ Joe’s voice rumbled, dangerous.

A pause. Then the first guy mumbled, ‘Whatever.’

‘So, are we done here, ladies? Let’s load up.’ Joe’s voice called from farther away. ‘That means all three of us, Your High Priest of Poultry Feathers.’

The first guy lowered his voice, urging, ‘Come on, leave that for now. We got to move this stuff. Besides, aren’t you supposed to do that in daylight?’

‘It’s almost daylight.’ The third guy bristled. ‘But he has no respect. He’s an ignorant non-believer who doesn’t understand even the most basic aspects of the spirit world. And yet, he continually challenges me.’

‘Gentlemen,’ Joe called. ‘We got a date. Move it!’

There were grumbling replies, but the voices faded, too difficult to understand. In a few moments, Harper heard doors slam, a car drive off, and then no sound at all.

Harper waited. Still heard nothing. And decided to move.

Cautiously, she got to her feet, lowered herself down the rope ladder to the open space below. Light flowed in across the room. She squinted, covered her eyes. Looked again. Saw a dirt ramp leading up out of the room. A dark sky, black trees above the open exit.

A dark sky? Harper blinked, disoriented; she’d arrived in the middle of the day. How long had she been there? Wait – one of the men had said it would be daylight soon. So she’d been inside all night?

Oh God. Hank must be frantic. But where was he? Why wasn’t he here, looking for her? Never mind; it wasn’t the time to think about Hank. Harper ran for it, not even looking to see if any of the men were still there. Passing the table, she noticed that the packages were gone, loaded up for delivery. She dashed toward the ramp, aware of each breath, of the effort of each step. Of her exposure and vulnerability. She ran, oblivious of her wimpy leg, ignoring her exhaustion and pain, made it to the bottom of the ramp where she lowered her body, hugged the wall, peered up, actually inhaling fresh air again.

Seeing no one, she started up the ramp, but stopped and turned, headed back inside. No matter what he’d done, she couldn’t leave Rick there without checking; she needed to be sure that he was definitely dead. Squinting in the dimness, she turned, scanned the room.

Rick was lying against the wall on a pyramid of rocks that resembled an altar. A pile of colored feathers lay on the floor beside him, and all around him, scented oil burned in small pots. Primitive painted images covered the wall: a deer. A dog. A bird. An owl. A jaguar. A man with a jaguar head. Harper stepped closer.

‘Oh God.’ She stopped breathing and stared.

Rick’s shirt was ripped open. And his chest sliced in an X, the skin pulled back above the heart.

Harper ran in a haze, cool dew misting her face, leaves crunching underfoot. She glimpsed trees as she sped past them, vaguely aware that she’d emerged far from the house. That the ramp had led her to a familiar spot – exactly where she’d found Zina’s body. But then she was on her bike, roaring away, hoping the cops would stop her for speeding and take her away.

But they didn’t. She raced along the highway, through Ithaca and up the hill, around campus and, turning on to Hanshaw Street, she saw the police cars in her driveway. All the lights on in her house.

She spun on to the property, dropping the Ninja on its side as she slid off. She ran, calling Hank’s name.

The front door was open; she flew inside, shouting, ‘Hank?’

In the living room, she scanned faces, searching for his and found it in a cluster. Hank was on his feet, coming to her, reaching for her. ‘Hoppa!’

Harper jumped into his arms, relieved. And she stayed there, pressed against him until, gradually, she became aware of other voices, other people. Vicki. Trent. Detective Rivers. Uniformed police. Everyone was asking questions. ‘Harper, where have you been?’

‘Are you all right, Mrs Jennings?’

‘Good God, she’s covered with blood!’

‘We’ve been so worried  . . .’

Hank raised a hand, stopping them. ‘Hoppa. Sit.’ He started for the sofa, but Harper pulled him back.

‘No – no, we have to go back. To Langston’s. Rick’s dead, and these other guys  . . . One of them killed Carla. And they’re selling the relics!’

‘Mrs Jennings.’ Detective Rivers stepped forward, put an arm around her shoulders. ‘Breathe.’

Everyone stood around her, a circle of staring faces. Harper looked from one to another. Vicki’s eyes were swollen and red; she’d been crying. Trent’s were liquid and boozy. Hank’s – Hank’s were steady and dark, making her want to stay there, lingering in their heat. But Detective Rivers led her to the sofa, made her sit.

‘Slowly now. In complete sentences. What are you trying to say?’

Vicki dabbed the cut on her head with a damp washcloth. Trent offered her a Scotch. She took it, her hands trembling. Took a gulp with a parched throat, coughed at the burn. Remembered how thirsty she was. Vicki brought water and more damp towels, dabbed at Harper’s face even as she drank. Harper repeated herself, insisting that Rivers go with her back to Langston’s. Explaining that a man had been killed there. That she’d encountered a group who were trafficking illegal antiquities.

Rivers wanted more details. She asked questions. Who had been killed? Harper was impatient. Why did she need to explain now? Couldn’t they talk on the way? But Rivers wasn’t moving, so Harper told her that the dead man was someone she’d known in the army, that he’d been stalking her. That he’d been sent to kill her. That he’d probably killed Burke Everett and Pete Murray, another guy they’d served with.

Rivers was frowning.

Harper hurried on, explaining that men at the house were stealing the relics. That one of them was called Joe and another might have been Angus. Or maybe Jake. But either way, one was Angus’ friend Digger, and Digger had admitted killing Carla Prentiss, and he might have killed Zina, too. Oh, and she’d found Chloe Manning, the actress—

Harper stopped, bothered by the look in Rivers’ eyes. It was soft, like sympathy. Sympathy? It reminded her of the way she herself had looked at Burke when she’d thought he was nuts. Damn, didn’t Rivers believe her? Did she think she was just ranting? Why wasn’t Rivers calling for backup, taking off for Langston’s with lights and sirens? Five, maybe ten whole minutes must have passed since she’d walked in, and every moment counted.