Fourth Grave Beneath My Feet (13 page)

Fine, they were keeping the good stuff to themselves. “Can you at least tell me what
I’m capable of?”

The sister’s mouth spread wide. “Anything you can imagine.”

“I don’t know,” I said, trying not to be disappointed. “I can imagine a lot.”

The mother superior patted her protégée’s arm. “Time for bed,” she said, her voice
maternal, caring.

That was my cue to leave. They promised to keep an eye on Quentin until it was safe
for him to venture out, but they knew more than I did. I tried not to feel resentful.
Not hard, but I did give it an ounce of effort before I gave up and resented the heck
out of the entire human race. Not sure why. Fortunately, I was over that by the time
I got to Misery, dripping wet, as it had started to rain again.

I called Cookie. She knew where I’d gone and would be frantic with worry. Or driven
to the brink of insanity with lust. Reyes did that to her. He probably did that to
a lot of girls.

“Well?” she asked when she picked up.

“Do you think we’re really alone in the universe?”

“Were you abducted by aliens again?”

“No, thank goodness. Once was enough for me.”

“Oh, whew. So, what happened with Reyes? Did you see him?”

“Saw him. Argued with him. Barfed.”

“You vomited?”

“Yes.”

“On Reyes?”

“No, but only because I didn’t think of it at the time. I’m going to Pari’s to check
on Harper before I head home. No need to let the fact that I’m wearing a bra go to
waste.”

“Wonderful, then you have a few minutes to fill me in.”

I figured as much. I explained everything that had happened in the shortest sentence
structure possible. Pari didn’t live that far away. Brevity was of the utmost importance.
By the time I got there, every molecule in my body was vibrating. It would seem that
recaps of Reyes were almost as good as the real thing. How could any man be so inhumanly
perfect? Probably because he was inhuman. His presence seemed to cause a disturbance
in my space–time continuum. I felt disoriented around him. Unbalanced. And hot. Always
hot.

“What about the bill?” she asked, her voice full of hope.

“I told him to send a check.”

“A check?” She seemed appalled. “Couldn’t he just work out what he owes us?”

“Maybe, but he owes me much more than he owes you. I think he only owes you like two
dollars.”

Her voice turned deep and husky. “I could do a lot of damage for two dollars. Send
that boy over here, and I’ll prove it.”

She scared me sometimes. I ended the call after promising I’d brush the vomit taste
out of my mouth as soon as possible. But my mind drifted back to the problem at hand.
Or, more specifically, problems. As in multiple. They were back. The demons in all
their glory. And they had a plan. I made plans sometimes, too, but they rarely involved
world domination. Hot dogs on a grill, maybe. Tequila.

After searching for a space, I parked behind the tattoo parlor in front of a sign
that said
NO PARKING
. Since it didn’t specify to whom it was referring, I figured it couldn’t possibly
be talking to me. I hurried through the rain. Got drenched again anyway. I had every
intention of complaining to Pari and Tre, but they were both busy evoking whimpers
of agony from their patrons, so I left them to it and cruised to the makeshift guest
bedroom. Harper, who seemed to have taken an interest in Pari’s wall texture, jumped
up the minute I walked in.

“Did you find anything?”

“Not a lot. How are you doing?” I asked, sitting on the sofa and motioning for her
to sit beside me.

She did reluctantly. “I’m okay.”

“I talked to your stepmother today. Why didn’t you tell me this has been going on
since you were a kid?”

She stood again and turned her back to me, embarrassed. “I didn’t think you’d believe
me. No one ever believes me, especially when I tell them the whole story.”

“I’ll tell you what,” I said, knowing exactly how she felt. “You promise to trust
me, and I’ll promise to trust you, okay?”

“Okay.”

I finally convinced her to sit back down, but she hid behind her long dark hair.

“Can you tell me what happened? How all this got started?”

“I don’t know. I don’t remember.”

“Your stepmother said it started right after she married your father.”

Harper rolled her eyes and faced me. “She always says that, because this is all about
her. All about their marriage. It couldn’t possibly have anything to do with me, with
the fact that I’ve been traumatized almost my entire life.” She threw her arms up
in frustration, and I liked the glimpse of her she offered me. The fighter. The spirited
and capable woman I knew she was if she’d put up with a psychotic stalker her entire
life.

I let an appreciative smile slide across my face. “Better.”

“What?” Her pretty brows crinkled together.

“Never mind. Why don’t you give me your version of what happened?”

She drew in a deep breath, leaned back, and said, “That’s just it. I don’t remember.
They got married. Yes, against my wishes, but I was only five, so I really didn’t
have much of a say. They went on their honeymoon. I stayed with my maternal grandparents
in Bosque Farms while they were away.” She focused on me again. “My real grandparents
on my biological mother’s side, who were wonderful. Then we came back and that’s when
everything started. Right after their honeymoon.”

I took a memo pad out of my bag and started taking notes. It seemed like the right
thing to do. “Okay, tell me exactly how it all started. What do you remember noticing
first?”

She shrugged. “I’ve gone over this so many times with therapists, I’m not even sure
which parts are real and which parts I made up. It was so long ago.”

“Well, I’m glad that you realize some of your memories could have been a product of
years of prodding by professionals. They could have been a fabrication of your own
mind trying to cope with the circumstances. But let’s just say, for argument’s sake,
that they aren’t. That every single thing you remember really happened. What can you
tell me?”

“Okay. Well, I guess it started when I found a dead rabbit on my bed.”

“So, a real rabbit? Dead?”

“Yes. I woke up one morning and there it was. Lying dead on the foot of my bed.”

“What happened?”

“I screamed. My dad came running in.” Her gaze darted toward me, then away. “He took
it away.”

She was still in therapy mode, worried what I would think, how I would analyze her
every move. “I get it, Harper. Your dad came to your rescue. So, maybe that was a
way to get his attention, yes? Is that what you learned in all those years of therapy?
That you were just seeking your father’s attention?”

She wilted. “Something like that. And maybe they’re right.”

“I thought we had an agreement.” When she turned back to me, I continued. “I thought
we were going on the assumption that you are not making things up. That you did not
imagine or fabricate any of this.” I leaned in closer. “That you’re not crazy.”

“But it makes sense.”

“Sure it does. So does exercise, but you don’t see me doing it on a regular basis,
do you? And if it would make you feel better, I could analyze you myself. Tell you
all the reasons why you’ve pulled these accusations out of thin air. I minored in
psychology. I’m totally qualified.”

A timid smile emerged from behind her hair.

“I know how you feel. I’ve been analyzed to death as well. Not, like, professionally,
though I did date a psych major who said I had attention issues. Or at least that’s
what I think he said. I wasn’t really paying attention. Anyway, where was I?” When
she didn’t answer in less that seven-twelfths of a second, I continued my rant. “Right,
so what I’m trying to say is that—”

“You’re crazier than I am?” She crinkled her nose in delight.

With a laugh, I said, “Something like that. So, what happened with the rabbit?”

“Nothing really. My dad said the dog brought it in, but the dog wasn’t allowed in
the house.”

“Can you describe the rabbit? Was there any blood?”

She thought back. Her brows furrowed in concentration; then a slight rush of fear
flitted across her face. “Nobody’s ever asked me that. In over twenty-five years,
not one person has asked me about that rabbit.”

“Harper?”

“No. I’m sorry, no, there was no blood. None. Its neck was broken.”

“Okay.” She seemed to be making a connection in her mind of some kind. I wondered
if she was still talking about the rabbit. I kept silent awhile, let her absorb whatever
she needed to, then asked, “What happened later? What led you to believe someone was
trying to kill you?”

She blinked back to me with a shake of her head. “Oh, well, just little things. Strange
things, one right after another.”

“Like?”

“Like the time my stepbrother set my dog’s house on fire. With him in it.”

“Your stepbrother did this? On purpose?”

“He says it was an accident. I believe him now, but I didn’t at the time.”

“Why not?”

“Because that same night, my electric blanket caught fire.”

“With you in it,” I said knowingly.

She nodded. “With me in it.”

Well, asshole stepbrother just jumped to the number one position of possible suspects.

“But they always happened like that: in twos.”

“What do you mean?”

“I had a birthday party about a week after the first incident, the dead rabbit thing.
And my stepmother’s sister came to the party with her two horrid children.” She actually
shivered in revulsion. “They were so aggressive. Anyway, she gave me a rabbit. A white
rabbit just like the one in my room, only someone had torn a small hole in the back
and had taken out part of the stuffing so that its head flopped to the side.”

“Like its neck was broken.”

“Exactly.”

What a loving family. I didn’t want to bring up the rabbit I’d found in her kitchen.
It could have been the same one, or it could have been placed there more recently,
but I was afraid if I mentioned it, I’d lose her altogether.

“Everyone laughed,” she continued, “when I got upset. My aunt held it up to me, flopping
its head from side to side. She had a shrill laugh that reminded me of a jet engine
during takeoff.”

“And you were five?” I asked, horrified.

She nodded and proceeded to pick lint off her dark blue coat.

“What did your father do while all this was going on?”

“Working. Always working.”

“What else happened?”

“Just odd little things. Jewelry would go missing or my shoelaces would be tied in
knots every morning for a week.”

Things that could definitely be chalked up to a bratty brother playing practical jokes.

“Then I started seeing someone in my room at night.”

“That’s creepy.”

“Tell me about it.”

“And you never recognized who it was?”

After shaking her head, she said, “But it didn’t get really bad until I was around
seven. My stepbrother gave me a plastic ring with a spider on it.” She grinned sheepishly.
“We liked spiders and bugs and snakes and things.”

“Spiders are cool as long as they respect personal boundaries,” I said. “Namely mine.
But why do I get the feeling it doesn’t end there?”

“That night, the same night he gave me the ring, I was bitten three times on the stomach
by baby black widows as I lay sleeping. They found two of them in my pajamas.”

“Someone could have put them there while you slept.”

“Exactly.”

“Do you think your brother had anything to do with it?”

“I wondered for a long time. We weren’t very close at first, especially after the
doghouse thing. But we grew to love each other very much. He was the only one in my
family who believed me, stood up for me even against my stepmother. It infuriated
her.”

“I can imagine.”

And I could. Harper’s stepmother was about as loving as my own, but mine never set
a black widow on me or lit my electric blanket on fire. There was a time when I thought
she was trying to microwave my brain cells with the remote control, but I’d been on
a three-day
Twilight Zone
marathon with too little sleep and too much coffee. And I was four at the time.

“So, this went on your whole life?” I asked.

“Yes. I’d find dead mice in my room or dead bugs in my shoes. One time I poured a
cup of milk, and in the time it took me to put the milk in the refrigerator and butter
my toast, someone put a dead worm in it. Another time I came home from a sleepover
and found that all my dolls were bald. Someone shaved their heads. Of course, no one
saw anyone go into my room. It was just me trying to get attention again.”

I pressed my mouth together in disapproval. “What are we going to do with you?”

She chuckled and I was glad I could help her sprinkle a little humor onto an otherwise
horrific situation. It always helped me cope. Life was too short to be taken seriously.

I decided to find out where she’d run off to for three years. That is a long time
to sow the old oats. “Your stepmom said you disappeared.”

“Yes. When I hit twenty-five, I’d finally had enough. I told them to kiss my butt
and left. Completely disappeared. I changed my name, got a job, even took some night
classes. But when my dad got sick, I had no choice. I had to come home.”

“When was this?”

“About six months ago.”

“But how did you know your father was sick?”

She bowed her head, her face softening in remembrance. “I had a contact,” she said;
then she curled the edge of her jacket into her fingers. “But my stepmother was hardly
happy to see me. I stayed with them at first, despite the glares of disapproval.”

“I swear our stepmothers were conjoined twins in another life.”

“Then another dead rabbit showed up on my bed, and everything came rushing back to
me. I realized then that I’d willingly walked back into a recurring nightmare.” Tears
pushed past her lashes.