Behind the Walls (3 page)

‘A Nahual doesn’t age—’ Zina began, but the wind moaned again, drowning out her voice.

When it stopped, Hank stood. ‘Get. More rum.’ He collected their cups and went to refill them.

‘Actually, Vicki’s right.’ Harper chewed another cookie, ‘Carla’s murder might not have had anything to do with the relics. Someone might have just made it look that way.’

‘Come on, Harper. Why would they do that? Who would follow ancient rituals and cut out someone’s heart, just for fun? It has to be about the artifacts. They’re cursed – lots of relics are. That’s a known fact.’

‘She’s right,’ Vicki agreed. ‘Remember that story about Montezuma’s gold? Trent and Hank told us about it. The gold was cursed, too.’

Harper scowled. ‘Vicki, that’s ridiculous. That’s just a legend.’

But Vicki ignored her, turning to Zina. ‘Back in 1910 or so, divers found a skeleton, deep in a lake. The thing was sitting up at the entrance to a cave, as if he were guarding it – I think it was somewhere in Mexico.’

‘No, it was in Three Lakes Canyon,’ Harper corrected. ‘In Utah. And that story is bull, besides which it has absolutely nothing to do with the professor’s collection.’

‘Yes, it does. It’s an example of how stuff can be cursed, Harper. People thought the skeleton was guarding gold, so they dug a tunnel to excavate it, but they all came down with a mysterious fever and died.’

‘No, Vicki.’ Harper closed her eyes, sighing. ‘The only fever that those people got was
gold
fever. Nobody died.’

‘Yes, they did.’ Vicki sat up straight, eyes wide; her voice husky and low. The room was in shadows except for the fire, and its light flickered, dancing ghostlike on her skin. ‘Then, divers went down to look but came up, terrified, refusing to go back. They said they’d been chased away by translucent figures without oxygen or diving gear. Spirits, protecting the gold. One diver swore that a figure had tried to choke him, and when he took his gear off, they saw hand marks on his neck—’

‘More rum!’ Hank bellowed.

Harper jumped; Zina gasped. Vicki let out a shrill yelp. Startled, Hank juggled the tray, trying not to spill the drinks as the women dissolved into bouts of laughter.

‘What?’ He steadied himself. ‘Scared crap. Out of me.’

‘Sorry, Hank,’ Vicki caught her breath. ‘There’s a lot of that going around.’

‘Nonsense,’ Harper insisted. ‘Zina, pay no attention to Vicki’s story. Gold is just a metal; relics are just old things. And whatever happened to you tonight, there’s a logical explanation. No curse or spirit or Nahual was involved.’ She grabbed another mug of rum and took a drink.

By the time Harper walked Zina to her car, the wind had died down. The night was quiet. Music no longer blared from the fraternity house next door.

‘You’re sure you want to go with me?’ Zina asked. ‘You don’t really have to. The professor’s sons usually come around in the daytime, and I’ll be sure to leave before dark.’

‘No. I’d love to come. I’ve been dying to see his collection.’

An awkward silence reflected that Zina had gotten the position that Harper had wanted.

‘You know, you should have gotten the position. They only gave it to me because of my family. The business.’

‘Business?’

‘My family trades antiquities, so Professor Wiggins thought I’d have more experience handling relics. I mean, I’ve worked with them since I was a child.’

Oh really? ‘Well, it doesn’t matter. I’d just like to see it.’

‘You realize that nothing is actually on display. All the pieces are packed up. I go box by box, identifying things, piece by piece. And half of the items aren’t where they’re supposed to be.’

‘But Zina, maybe being there together, we’ll be able to figure out what happened tonight.’ Harper was sure that something tangible – maybe just the noise of the wind or a flicker of a shadow – had frightened Zina. That her imagination had taken over only after some real event had triggered it. ‘Look, I’ve had a lot of experience with fear—’

‘Oh, right. With Iraq and all.’

Harper nodded. Yes. With Iraq and all.

‘But this is different. It’s not a war – it was something unearthly. Unnatural.’

And war was earthly and natural? ‘The point is that fear sets off reactions that aren’t always appropriate or rational. If we explain what frightened you, you might not be afraid of it any more.’ Lord, she sounded like Leslie, her shrink.

Zina looked away, into the night. Unconvinced. ‘I know you don’t believe me. But it was there. It was real.’ She turned to get into her car, but Harper stopped her.

‘Look, Zina. We don’t know each other very well. But I’ve had my share of scare. And I can tell you that perceptions – what we think is happening – can be misleading.’ Harper recalled a white flash, a blast, the feeling of flying through the air. Closed her eyes to shove the memory away. ‘Just because something flies like a bat and has fur like a cat doesn’t mean that it’s a Nahual.’

Zina met her eyes, seemed defeated. ‘Thanks for tonight, Harper. I know you mean well. And I’ll be glad for your company tomorrow. But please don’t try to convince me that I imagined everything. I was there. You weren’t. I know what I know.’

With that, she opened the door of her electric-blue Smart Car, got in and drove away. Harper watched until the tail lights faded into the night. Then she went back to the house, finished clearing up. And noticed Zina’s silver bangle bracelet on the coffee table.

Oh well. Harper popped it into her bag. She’d see Zina in the morning; she’d give it back to her then.

Vicki left after the dishes were done. And a while later, Harper finally crawled into bed, curling up against Hank.

‘Think?’ he asked.

Think? Harper considered the question.

‘Zina.’ Hank clarified.

Oh. ‘I’m not sure. But clearly, something spooked her.’

‘But bat. Cat. Man? Nuts.’

He was right. Zina’s story sounded nuts. Then again, Harper, suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, had seen ambushes, explosions and suicide bombers, had smelled gunfire and heard shots fired where there had been none, and her flashbacks had seemed real, as real as the bed she was lying in. As real as the silence of her reply. Hank’s dismissal of Zina’s perceptions felt personal, as if he were somehow dismissing hers, as well.

‘What. Say. Your mind.’

‘Just because you don’t perceive something, Hank, doesn’t mean it’s not there.’

In the lamplight, she saw his eyebrow raise. ‘Nahual? Hoppa. Really.’ His eyes danced, laughing. Mocking?

‘No. I don’t mean a Nahual. But something.’

‘Shadows.’ Hank chuckled. ‘Hallow. Ween. Ghosts. Nerves. Stories. Just.’ He put his arm around her, kissed her forehead.

‘It seemed real to her. She was terrified.’

‘Nothing. Her mind. Weak. Zina.’

Wait, Zina was weak? Because she’d been frightened by her own mind?

‘Sleep. Love.’

Harper leaned up, returned his goodnight kiss. And lay there, not sleeping, not moving. Cuddling against Hank, she tried to disregard both the weight of his judgments and the heaviness of his arm.

By morning, Zina was mortified. Goodness. Had she really gone running to, of all people, Harper Jennings, the person who probably disliked her more than anyone else in the entire Archeology Department, and told her – admitted to her out loud – that she’d been scared off the Langston property? That she’d thought she’d encountered a Nahual? Really? Oh my. If that got back to her family, they’d kill her. And, if it got around the department, she’d never get over it. The gossip would ruin her career before she even started it. Rumors would fly. She’d be the brunt of countless pathetic not-even-funny jokes. She imagined them. ‘What “shape” are you in today, Zina?’ Or ‘The Jaguar agency called; your Nahual’s ready.’ Stupid, stupid jokes.

OK. Never mind. She’d been in worse situations. She’d correct this one before it got out of control. Go to work and act as if nothing had happened. Actually, she’d go early and be there, fully composed and engrossed in her work, when Harper arrived. Goodness, how had she ever agreed to allow that woman soldier to come to work with her? As if she needed a combat officer to protect her and hold her hand. As if she couldn’t manage on her own? Everyone knew Harper had wanted the Langston job, that she’d been jealous when Wiggins had given it to Zina. And now, Harper might use this incident to make it seem that Zina needed her help. Well, nothing doing. When Harper arrived, Zina would make light of the night before. Yes – she’d avoid being the brunt of jokes by laughing; she’d make fun of herself before anyone else could. And she’d be immersed in her work, too busy to do more than briefly show Harper around, pointing out the stacks of crates, letting her ogle a few relics. Then she’d send her on her way. Making it clear that she was in charge.

Zina showered, dressed, ate a stale donut, and got into her little blue Smart Car, trying to recover some sense of dignity. There had to be logical explanations for everything that had happened. It had to have been the darkness. Creaking floors were normal in old homes. As were bats. And the lights? Well, the wind had probably blown down a wire. And the wind might even explain the feeling of fur – might have blown small pieces of fiberglass insulation into the room. Or, more likely, a cobweb or some packing paper had blown against her skin in the darkness. The wind, after all, had been terrible; tree branches had been blown down, now lay scattered on the road.

Her panic had simply been an overreaction. All she could do now was damage control. She’d explain it to Harper and hope the woman was decent enough to keep it to herself, not make her a laughing stock. But that wasn’t likely; if the situation were reversed, she would certainly think the story was hysterical and share it with everyone. Oh dear.

The whole way to the Langston house, Zina considered what she’d say to Harper. How she’d convince her that she was fine, that her behavior the night before had been no big deal. That she’d been more amused than frightened – yes. That was it – she’d say that she’d stopped by Harper’s house to share an odd but amusing anecdote. Like, would you believe it? Langston’s house has its own Nahual. Haha. Isn’t this a good spooky story for the week before Halloween?

She turned off Route 96 on to the long dirt road leading to the professor’s driveway. About forty yards up, she stopped. A huge branch had toppled, blocking the way. Damn. She sat for a moment, considering her options. No way she could go around it; even her tiny car wouldn’t fit between its top end and the trees. She could wait there for Harper; they could ride her motorcycle the rest of the way. Or she could park right there and walk the mile or so to the house.

Finally, Zina decided to get out and try to move the branch, to shove it just enough that she could drive around it. And if that didn’t work, if it was too heavy, she’d park and walk.

Moving to the thinner end of the branch, she lifted her feet, stepped carefully through the tangle of twigs and lingering yellow leaves, took the central stem into her hands. She realized that moving without tripping on the foliage would be difficult; it might have been easier to grab the heavier, less dense end. Somewhere close, she heard the hooting of an owl. And, in the periphery of her vision, she saw something move. A man? No, something that looked like a big cat.

When her phone rang the next morning, Harper was straddling her Ninja, checking to make sure she had Zina’s bracelet with her before leaving for Professor Langston’s. She almost didn’t answer it. But her new ringtone, the sound of a gong, kept chiming, and she realized the call might actually be from Zina. Maybe she needed to change the time. So, opening her storage compartment, she pulled out her big leather sack and felt around inside, finally locating the phone.

‘Is this Harper?’

Not Zina. A man. Not a familiar voice.

‘Who is this?’

‘Is that you, Harper? Lieutenant Harper J. Reynolds of the United States Army?’

Harper tried to ignore a sudden rumble of gunfire. She took a breath. Looked around at her house, the gazebo in the yard. ‘Who’s calling?’

‘Don’t tell me you don’t recognize my voice, Lieutenant. Honestly?’

She didn’t. Or damn, no – maybe she did. It was smooth, liquid. Not quite deep enough. Sounded like – Burke Everett? But they hadn’t talked in years, not since before the explosion had killed her patrol and sent her home, half dead. Why was he calling now? And how had he gotten her cell phone number? ‘What’s up, Everett?’

He laughed, triumphant. ‘See that? I knew you wouldn’t forget me.’

‘It’s not for lack of trying, trust me.’

‘Same old Harper – still a ball-buster. How the hell are you?’

Harper looked at her watch. Almost nine. But the time made no sense; her mind whirled, trying to make sense of the voice in her ear. Images blurred. The air changed, felt dry and sandy, and she had the urge to check her bag for her gear – ammo, knife, goggles, sun block, water bottles, baby wipes  . . .

‘You survived that suicide attack – I knew that. But how are you now?’

How was she? Burke kept talking, not waiting for an answer. Harper tried to process what he was saying, but his words were too fast, made no sense. She pictured him in uniform, heard him whining about the heat. Or the flies. Or the dust. Or the duty, whatever was bothering him at the moment. Burke Everett? After all this time?

‘ . . . because, I’ll tell you what – I’ll be in Ithaca Thursday. Day after tomorrow. It would be great to see you. You know, to catch up.’

What? No. No, it wouldn’t. Harper swallowed. ‘I don’t know, Burke. I’m pretty busy—’

‘Actually, thing is – it’s kind of important. I need to talk to you about something. How’s dinner Thursday night?’

Wait. Dinner? ‘Burke, I’m married.’ The words popped out of her mouth, unplanned. As if she’d assumed he’d wanted a date. Harper felt her face get hot.

Burke was laughing. An unpleasant, high-pitched sound. ‘Well, congratulations. But I’m not asking for your hand. Just for dinner.’

‘I didn’t mean—’

‘How about drinks then? A beer. Or lunch. Or coffee. Or frozen yogurt.’

‘What do you want to talk to me about?’