Behind the Walls (13 page)

Cursing and worried, she ran to the street, saw tail lights disappear around the corner. Stood there, staring. Considered taking off after him on the Ninja, pictured catching up with him, how he’d react. Not difficult to figure out: he’d be furious. Would feel emasculated, as if she didn’t think he could manage on his own.

Amplifiers screamed, ‘Must be  . . . must be  . . . the season of the witch!’

Harper trudged back to the house and slammed the door, refusing, absolutely refusing to cry. She paced. Took out the Scotch. Walked away from it. Paced some more, feeling helpless and furious about being helpless. Worrying about Hank. Pouring a drink. Staring into the glass as she drank. Seeing Hank fall from the roof, hit his head  . . . No. Refusing to relive that. Closing her eyes, thinking of Leslie  . . . Oh God. She needed to call her. That was, if Leslie would even speak to her after her missed appointment.

Quickly, unsteadily, Harper dug her phone out of her bag, made the call. Got Leslie’s voicemail, of course. Left a message apologizing, saying she’d gotten caught up earlier but really needed to talk, asking her to call back. Hearing herself sound needy.

Damn. Harper stood in the front hall, phone in hand. Where had Hank gone? She pictured him driving, taking a turn too fast, losing control of the car. Thank goodness it was a Jeep, sturdy. Not likely to get totaled if he crashed. Unless it rolled into the gorge. Or the lake. Harper clutched her phone, walked in circles, waited for Leslie to call. Get a grip, she told herself. Hank is fine. He’s just proving himself. Testing himself. He’ll come back, having shown that he can still drive. He’ll be in a better mood. She needed to calm down, be patient.

But she couldn’t. Tossing her phone on to the table beside her bag, she noticed a piece of paper there. A number was scrawled on it. Burke’s number. Lord. She’d almost forgotten about him, how he’d shown up at her house, gotten Hank all riled up. Furious, she made the call, waited for him to pick up so she could yell at him. But he didn’t pick up. A computerized voice told her to leave a message at the tone. So she did.

‘What the hell’s wrong with you, Burke?’ The words flew out, unplanned. ‘What did you say to my husband? Did you share your genius theory about Colonel Baxter? Did you say that he’s trying to kill us? Have you completely lost it? Did you not happen to notice that my husband has his own problems? Could you not realize that maybe you should leave him out of your damned paranoid bullshit?’ She paused to catch her breath, composed herself. Lowered her voice. ‘Here’s the deal, Burke. Don’t  . . . do not bother me or my husband again. Ever. Don’t come over, don’t call. Don’t send obituaries in the mail. Just take your frickin’ conspiracy theories and sign yourself into a VA hospital. Get help. But go away.’

Harper felt a pang. Pictured Burke, how jumpy and pathetic he’d been, almost twitching with fear. The guy was sick; he hadn’t deliberately caused harm. She was being too harsh, didn’t want to be cruel.

‘Sorry, Burke,’ she softened. ‘It’s just too much right now. I’ve got my own stuff, can’t help you with yours.’

And then she hung up.

Waiting wasn’t easy. Harper waited on the front porch, on the living room sofa, at the kitchen table. She poured another finger of Scotch, blinked at it, gulped it down, poured another. Left the glass on the table. Walked up and down the hall, looked out windows, sat down, stood up, went to her phone, picked it up, thought of calling someone – but couldn’t decide who. Leslie again? Vicki? Detective Rivers? What would she say? That she was frantic, almost hysterical because Hank had left their property?

Even she could hear how irrational that sounded. Clearly, she was overreacting. Didn’t need to be frightened. Hank was fine. Would be fine. But she kept seeing him fall off the roof. Kept imagining him crashing the car. She put the phone down, tried to ignore the rumble of gunfire closing in on her. Too late  . . . Suddenly, to her left, something exploded; burning air scalded her face, and she smelled burning flesh, heard screams of pain. Started to run for cover – no. Damn it. She fought back. Closed her eyes. Wouldn’t, couldn’t allow a flashback. But the bullets still flew. Whizzed past, barely missing her head. Ducking, hunkering low to the ground, Harper dashed back to the base – or maybe the kitchen? She grabbed a grenade from the cold drawer in the arsenal, and bit off the pin. Dug her teeth in. Instantly, the grenade’s sharp sour taste jolted her, banishing the battleground. Returning her to the moment where she stood by the refrigerator, holding a half-eaten lemon.

Even so, her skin still burned. Her lungs felt raw, and she tasted copper. Danger reared up and roared, but no matter how much she wanted to, she didn’t know how to confront it. Not this time.

This time, the battle wasn’t hers. It was Hank’s.

So Harper stood and sat and stood again in her kitchen, downed another glass of Scotch, poured another. And waited.

At ten before two in the morning, Hank pulled into the driveway, parked the Jeep in the garage. He came in, looking frazzled. Relieved, Harper didn’t say a word. She just ran to him.

‘Sorry.’ Hank seemed straighter. Taller.

‘No. I am.’

‘Both. Should. Be.’

He was right. They broke apart, stood awkwardly near the front door.

‘Want a drink?’ By then, she’d had more than a few.

‘No. Late.’

‘We should talk.’ She needed to apologize, explain. Tell him about Burke, the assistantship – about her selfishness.

‘Not now, Hoppa. Sleep.’

He headed to the stairs. Acted like nothing had happened. Harper was drained and exhausted. Unable to let go.

‘I was worried about you.’ She followed him.

‘Why?’

Why? Really? ‘Because you were upset. And you haven’t driven since—’

‘Fine. I’m. Fine.’

They went upstairs, got ready for bed. Harper stayed close to him, needing to connect. Uneasy about his silence. But Hank simply got into bed, rolled over and turned out the light. Harper snuggled against him.

‘No kiss?’

He turned and kissed her. A dutiful peck on the forehead.

‘Uh uh.’ She pulled his face to hers, kissed his mouth.

But even though he lay facing her, their arms and legs entwined, Harper felt his distance. In seconds, his breathing became deep and even. Harper tried to but couldn’t relax.

‘Hank?’

‘Huh.’

‘Where did you go?’

Hank didn’t answer. Softly, he began to snore.

Harper had just fallen asleep when the doorbell rang. She opened her eyes, looked around. The sun blazed through slats of the bedroom blinds. Clock said nine thirty. Hank’s side of the bed was empty.

Oh God. Harper jumped out of bed, raced to the window, looked outside for the Jeep. Saw it there, right where Hank had parked it, inside the open garage – thank God.

But where was Hank?

‘Harper?’ Vicki’s cheery voice floated up the staircase. ‘Get your lazy butt down here!’

Damn. It was Saturday morning. She and Vicki usually had coffee during the week. But this was Homecoming; Trent was attending a brunch, glad-handing alumni to stimulate contributions. Vicki didn’t want to go, so she’d offered to come by with scones.

‘What, were you out partying all night? Get up!’ Vicki called.

Harper groaned. She ached all over, didn’t feel like getting her butt anywhere but back to bed. Her left leg ached as she dragged herself to the bathroom; the rest of her complained as she splashed water on to her face and moved her toothbrush around her mouth. The face in the mirror was blotchy; her hair clumped into tangled blonde stumps. Harper stuck her tongue out at the reflection, ran her fingers through the tangles, and plodded down the stairs, looking for Hank.

Finding Vicki. She’d dyed her hair again. This time, too dark. Almost black.

‘Where’s Hank?’ Harper looked down the hall, toward the kitchen.

‘Wow. Hello to you, too.’

‘Have you seen him?’

Vicki nodded at the front door. Harper went to the window, looked out.

Hank was in the front yard, raking leaves. What? She stood, frozen, watching. He was off balance, his movements short. But they were steady. Persistent.

‘Are you sick?’ Vicki came up behind her, frowning. ‘You look terrible.’

Really? ‘Hank took the Jeep out last night.’

Vicki’s mouth dropped. ‘What?’

Harper kept watching him, amazed. ‘He drove. He was gone for hours, alone. In the middle of the night. I have no idea where he went. He wouldn’t tell me. And now, look.’ She pointed at the window. ‘He’s  . . .’

‘He’s raking. He had half the yard done when I got here.’ Vicki stood beside Harper, watching Hank. She shrugged. ‘So. This is all good, right?’

It was?

Harper turned to Vicki, about to tell her about Hank’s moods, but her voice choked and her eyes had filled. Why? What was wrong with her? Hank was fine, working outside on a brisk October morning. Recovering, testing his capabilities. Getting a renewed sense of self. She should be glad.

‘Oh, Harper.’ Vicki hugged her. ‘You’ve been a soldier through this whole ordeal. Thanks to you, Hank’s come back from hell. Look how strong he is. He’s out there, pushing himself. Not giving up. You guys are going to be fine – both of you.’

Harper gazed out the window. Watched Hank work the rake, pulling leaves into speckled heaps of red, yellow, orange.

Vicki seemed convinced that there was no problem. That Hank’s exertion was unremarkable, a positive sign of progress. She led Harper to the kitchen. Freshly baked scones – a variety of cinnamon nut, chocolate chip and cranberry orange – were set out on a plate near butter and honey and jam.

‘So.’ Vicki poured coffee. ‘Hank’s driving again. Doing lawn work. He’s full of surprises. What do you think he’ll do next?’

Vicki meant well, but Harper tensed. Grabbed a scone, forced a smile. ‘I can’t even guess.’

Leslie hadn’t called back yet. And Harper needed to talk. Vicki knew Hank well; she’d probably have insights as to his moods and behavior. Would have ideas about how Harper should respond.

‘What do you think?’ Vicki primped her chin-length hair. ‘You like it?’

Harper thought it looked witchy, appropriate for Halloween. ‘It’s different.’ She shrugged. ‘Something new.’ Two days ago, it had been auburn. Vicki was constantly changing her look.

‘Different good? Or different bad? Maybe I should cut it real short—’

‘No, it’s good. It’s a change – it’s fun.’ Kind of. ‘Look, Vicki. Can I talk to you? About something  . . .’

‘Of course you can talk to me. What a question. What’s up?’ She bit into a chocolate chip scone. Crumbs tumbled on to the table.

Harper took a breath. Didn’t know where to start. Maybe she should back up to yesterday, her visit to Professor Langston’s house. As soon as she began, Vicki stopped her.

‘Wait. You took that assistantship? Are you crazy? After Zina was killed there? I thought—’

‘No. It’s OK. Turns out, her family probably did it.’ Harper explained that Zina had refused an arranged marriage. That it was likely she’d been the victim of an honor killing.

Vicki’s eyes widened. ‘Wait. You’re saying her own brothers killed her?’

‘Maybe. Or an uncle. Or her father – even her mother.’ Harper began to move on. ‘Anyway, when I got there, the collection—’

‘Hold on.’ Vick shook her head. Bit her lip. ‘Her own
parents
might have killed her?’

‘I know. It’s horrible.’ She pictured Zina’s slumped, mutilated body. Blinked the image away. Picked up her coffee. ‘But the thing is that, if they did it, then Zina’s death wasn’t a random murder. Which means there isn’t some crazed killer out there.’

Vicki shook her head. ‘Imagine.’

‘And if there’s no crazed killer out there, there’s no reason I shouldn’t take the assistantship. So I decided to accept it, and I went there to get—’

‘No wait.’ Vicki frowned. ‘Remember the night before she died, when Zina came here, terrified of that newel—’

‘Nahual.’

‘Whatever. Do you think  . . . maybe she had real reasons to be afraid. Maybe somebody was actually there – one of her brothers or her father might have been stalking her, and she thought it was a nowl.’

‘Nahual.’ Harper didn’t want to dwell on the murder. She wanted advice about Hank and had mentioned the honor killing theory only to explain why, instead of turning down the assistantship, she’d gone to Langston’s where she’d lost track of time and not come home, infuriating Hank, setting him off on a rampage of unpredictable activity. ‘Anyway, I’m sure the police are—’

‘Did Zina ever mention the arranged marriage? Did she talk about problems with her family?’

‘No.’ Harper sighed. ‘Not to me. But we weren’t close. Vicki, can we please talk about—’

‘What about her roommates? Did she tell them? Did she say she was afraid of her family?’ Vicki swallowed coffee. ‘Because, I mean, if it were me, I’d carry a gun and mace and pepper spray. I’d be petrified – wouldn’t you?’

Harper chewed her lip, impatient. ‘Yes. I’d carry a damned arsenal. But can we come back to this? I want to tell you what hap—’

‘Hold on a second, OK? We’ll talk about whatever you want, but this is important.’

‘And what? I’m not?’ God, had she just said that? It sounded whiny and petulant. Like a jealous kid. She bit into a scone.

‘Don’t be stupid.’

‘I’m not being stupid.’ Her mouth was full. ‘I just want to talk to you. A lot’s been going on.’

‘Fine. A lot’s been going on with me, too. I haven’t told you about the drama in my office now that Pam’s leaving.’ Vicki was a dentist and Pam was her office manager. ‘Or about Trent’s promise to stop drinking and join AA. But Trent and I and Hank and you can wait until we talk about Zina.’

Harper put the scone down, wiped her hands. ‘We aren’t going to accomplish anything by—’

‘I didn’t say we were. But honestly, Harper. We were with her the night before she died. So I want to talk about it, OK? Can’t you put your devastating, earth-shattering problems on hold for just five minutes?’

Her devastating, earth-shattering problems? Vicki was mocking her? Really? Harper’s jaw tightened. She was tempted to say or do something regrettable, maybe hurl the rest of the scones at Vicki’s perky little nose. But she refrained. Zina’s death wasn’t a topic to be glossed over; it deserved respect and attention. So, calming herself, Harper picked up her cup. Sipped. Sat silent, stiff. Drummed her fingers on the table.