Summer Session (30 page)

‘Christ, Harper. Stop. What are you doing?’ Ron was winded, his eyes glowing and angry. He pounced and knocked her back to the floor, leaned on her shoulders, holding her down.

Harper lay still, panting. Noticing the beer bottle lying at her side.

‘Are you crazy? All this is because I knew where your bathroom was? Do you really believe I killed those kids? Really?’ His eyes riveted hers, intense and golden. Reminding her of sex. ‘Come on. You’ve got to trust me at least a little bit. If I let you up, will you stop fighting?’

Ron leaned over her, watching her, panting on her face. Moments ago – maybe five minutes – she’d have reached up and caressed his cheek, inhaled his breath. Now she tightened her hands into fists and searched his eyes for lies. At the very least, Ron had trespassed and hidden the truth. At the worst, he’d committed a double murder. And he wanted her to trust him? His eyes showed no signs of guilt or remorse, only fiery indignation, and he glared at her, waiting for an answer.

Harper waited, too. But not to answer. As soon as she could move her arm, she reached for the beer bottle, quietly closed her fingers around its neck.

Ron’s eyes narrowed, and he started to lower his face to hers, probably to kiss her. But he never had a chance; as soon as he was off balance, Harper struck as hard as she could, shattering the bottle against the back of his head.

The warm night air ruffled Harper’s hair as she sped across campus and north to the clinic. No way was she going to let Hank stay at a place run by Ron, not one more night, not one more hour. The faster she rode, the faster her mind worked, and she reached conclusions with unaccustomed speed and clarity. She was convinced that Ron had a hand in the deaths of her students – might have killed two of them himself. All three – Larry, Monique and Graham – had been research subjects at the Neurological Center and must have been involved with the drug theft. It was obvious: Ron had worked his way into her life just after Graham’s suicide; that couldn’t be a coincidence. He’d been using her to find the drugs.

A light turned red; Harper saw no cross traffic, kept going. She wondered how long Ron would be unconscious, how badly she’d hurt him. His gash had bled a lot. She thought of him lying in the hallway, out cold. When she’d rolled him off of her, his face had been relaxed, his chiseled features no longer beautiful, but sharp and predatory. Oh God. What had she done? She’d cheated on Hank. She’d jumped into bed with another man. And then, minutes later, she’d bashed that same man in the head. When had she become so rash? And so violent?

Well, it didn’t matter. She was done with the damned drugs, the damned Neurological Center and its damned clinic. She was going to rescue her husband from those crooked, shady doctors and their crooked, shady drug trials. She’d been wrong to entrust Hank to the care of strangers. He’d happier at home; might make more progress there.

She continued uphill. Ran another red light. Rounded the corner on to Dryden Avenue. Couldn’t stop thinking of Ron, the feeling of climbing on top of him, bodies linked. Of rolling on to her back and feeling his lips tracing the scars of her knee, her thigh. What had come over her? She was no better than Vicki now. Oh God – Vicki. Harper wondered if her nose had stopped bleeding. If it was broken. If she’d press charges.

Never mind. The task at hand was to rescue Hank. Harper turned on to Hoy and pulled into the clinic parking lot, realizing that Hank might not be able to ride the Ninja. She might need a car. Damn. But one thing at a time. She hurried into the building, signed in, greeting the receptionist who gawked at her. Uh oh. What now? Was she bleeding? Never mind. Harper kept going, past the coffee shop, the Sleep Clinic. Up the elevator, along the hall, past nursing stations and patient rooms, until finally, she thrust open the door and ran straight to the only person in the world with whom, God help them both, she truly felt safe.

Wordlessly, Harper went to the bed and climbed in beside him. Hank opened his eyes, turned his head. He didn’t seem surprised to see her. Not even a little.

‘Hoppa.’ He smiled, kissing her forehead, apparently not noticing the scent of another man. He stroked her hair with his strong arm, waking up, focusing. Then, squinting under the night-light, he looked at her more closely.

‘Face hurt?’ He frowned, waiting, while Harper realized the cut she’d gotten on the Suspension Bridge had opened, probably in her fall. It was bleeding. Must be why the receptionist had gaped at her. Well, no matter. She wiped it with Hank’s sheet, smearing blood across her face.

Harper wanted to stay there, clinging to Hank. Hiding behind his broad shoulders and beefy body, escaping the truth of what she’d done. She’d hit Vicki, then Ron. Soon, the police would come for her. Would they believe that she’d hit Ron in self-defense? Lord, why had she hit him so hard? And then she remembered why: Ron had known about the upstairs bathroom. He had snuck into her house to search for his damned stolen drugs, had likely killed her students. But, the fact was, she couldn’t prove any of that. She had not one iota of evidence. Which meant she was in big trouble.

‘Hoppa?’

They had to go. Now. But Harper held on to Hank, kissed his shoulder, allowing herself just one more moment in his arms. She pressed against him, wanting to dissolve into his body. Hank. Her Hank. What had happened to their lives?

But she couldn’t afford the luxury of cuddling. Any minute, the police might rush in. She and Hank had to move. Fast.

‘Happened?’ Hank asked again. He touched her face, still waiting for her to explain.

‘It’s OK.’ She pulled away, sitting up. There was no time for explanations. ‘Hank, get up. We’ve got to go.’

Hank scowled. ‘Face. Happened. Blood.’

Oh my God, Harper thought. Of all times, Hank had picked this moment to hold an actual conversation. She got out of bed, pulled the sheets off of him, turned on the light. ‘Get up. Hurry.’ She tugged at him.

Hank sat up, puzzled. ‘Because?’ Slowly, he swung his weak leg over the side of the bed.

‘Because we’re leaving.’

Hank’s eyebrows lifted, eyes twinkling. ‘Home?’

Well, not exactly. ‘Let’s go.’ She guided him toward the door.

He wore only underwear. ‘My.’ Hank pointed to his jockeys.

Oh God. Harper didn’t have time to go through closets and dressers, find his clothes, help him into them.

‘We’ll get your clothes later. Tomorrow.’

Hank stood still, refusing to move. ‘Man.’

Man?

‘Pants. I. Man.’

Hank was refusing to go out in his underpants? Well, he was right. He was a man and deserved his dignity.

‘Hank, look.’ Harper opened the closet and pulled out his robe, trying not to act frantic. ‘It’s important that we leave now.’ She wrapped the robe around his shoulders. He looked like a heavyweight on his way to the ring. Rocky escaping from the Neurological Center. She led him to the door. ‘We’ll get your stuff later.’

‘Hoppa. What.’ He repeated her name, unable to articulate all his questions. But he followed. Slowly, limping, leaning on her, Hank made it to the wheelchair, and Harper whirled it around and shoved it toward the open door.

They were almost there when a tall, familiar-looking man with lopsided hair walked up, greeting them with a crooked, skinny smile.

‘Going somewhere?’ Steven Wyatt stepped in front of the door, blocking their way. Harper stepped back into the room. Wyatt made her uneasy. Especially after Anna reported what he’d said about her to Ron.

‘It’s awfully late for a stroll, don’t you think?’

‘Hank couldn’t sleep.’

Dr Wyatt sighed, eyeing the blood on her cheek, raising an eyebrow. ‘Forgive me for being blunt, Mrs Jennings. Didn’t you see Dr Kendall this evening?’

What? How did he know that? Obviously, Ron had told him. But why? And why had Wyatt mentioned that she’d been with Ron right in front of her husband? Harper’s neck got hot. She glanced down at Hank, saw the unmoving back of his head. He didn’t seem suspicious. Or at least the back of his head didn’t.

‘Ronald Kendall.’ Dr Wyatt repeated. ‘You met him earlier, did you not?’

‘Um.’ It was the best answer Harper could come up with. She wanted to run and began turning the wheelchair, hoping to get away before Wyatt could say more, but he stepped forward, still blocking the door.

‘The problem, Mrs Jennings, is that Dr Kendall is unaccounted for. He’s not here and doesn’t answer his cell. You saw him last. So. Where is he?’

What was she supposed to say? That Ron was out cold, his skull crushed on her hallway floor?

‘Maybe he’s busy.’ Maybe. If being in a coma or bleeding to death qualified as busy. She shrugged, tried an innocent smile, felt her lips quiver. ‘I’m not in charge of Dr Kendall’s schedule. Can you excuse us, Dr Wyatt?’

But Dr Wyatt didn’t excuse them. In fact, he moved closer, looming over Hank’s feet, smelling like peppermint. Like breath mints. Harper’s memory stirred, flashing to the Suspension Bridge, the man holding her over the edge, the terror of dangling. The scent of peppermint. Had it been Dr Wyatt? He was as tall as the mugger, but was he sturdy enough to lift her? Alarm bells rang out; she pictured Dr Wyatt in a hooded sweatshirt and ski mask.

‘Where is he, Mrs Jennings? Did you explain the numbers to him?’

Wait. Dr Wyatt knew about the numbers? Obviously, Ron had told him. Harper lost the smile, fumbled for an answer. ‘What numbers?’

‘Hoppa.’ Hank twisted to look up at her. ‘What?’ He worked on another word, but Dr Wyatt’s voice drowned out Hank’s.

‘We need to talk, Mrs Jennings.’

‘Sorry.’ Harper had no intention of staying there. ‘We’re on our way—’

‘It won’t take long.’

‘Not,’ Hank objected, raising an arm, pointing to the door. ‘Go. Now.’

‘Five minutes. That’s all.’ Dr Wyatt was long and lean, his face hollow, his limbs wiry like her assailant’s. In the struggle on the bridge, she’d dug her nails deep into the guy’s flesh. Subtly, she glanced at Dr Wyatt’s hands. One was in his pocket; the other hung by his side, facing away; she couldn’t see if either had deep scratches.

‘Hoppa?’ Hank was annoyed. ‘Now. Out go.’

‘OK. We’re going.’ But she didn’t move, couldn’t with Wyatt in the way.

Dr Wyatt leaned closer, lowering his voice. His warm peppermint breath hit her face, turned her stomach. ‘Mrs Jennings. I don’t care about blame or punishment. I simply want the drugs back. The Center needs them. Dr Kendall and I are under significant pressure to recover them. And I’m convinced you have information about where they are.’

‘I told Dr Kendall everything I know.’ Harper turned the wheelchair; Dr Wyatt stepped sideways, obstructing them.

‘Where is Dr Kendall?’ he growled. ‘And where are the missing drugs?’

Harper sized him up. Could she take him down?

‘You’d be wise to cooperate, Mrs Jennings.’

Really? He was threatening her? Harper’s nostrils flared. ‘Dr Wyatt. Can I see your arms?’

Wyatt blinked rapidly, his head tilted. ‘What?’

‘It was you, wasn’t it? On the Suspension Bridge—’

‘On the what? Mrs Jennings. Just tell me what I need to know.’ Dr Wyatt wheezed. He waited.

‘I don’t know anything.’

Wyatt sighed deeply. Watched the ceiling. Didn’t step out of the way. ‘You know, every doctor in the country considered your husband beyond hope, but our Center accepted him, because our experimental procedures could help him. When he came in, he could barely form a syllable. Now, after just a few weeks, he’s conducting basic conversations.’

‘What’s that got to do with the stolen drugs?’

‘Research, Mrs Jennings. It’s all about research. Our work is cutting edge. But no advances occur without risk. Wouldn’t it be a shame if, say, your husband’s case, which started out so promisingly, were to take a sudden, unfortunate turn?’

Harper met his eyes. ‘Dr Wyatt, I’m taking my husband home. You can’t touch him. Do not threaten us.’

The snaky smile wriggled across Dr Wyatt’s face. ‘I’m not threatening; I’m stating fact. If you take him away now, in the early stages of his course of treatment – who knows? He might revert to his former state. Or worse. You don’t want to terminate his care so abruptly. You need us.’

Glaring, Harper warned, ‘Get out of our way.’ She shoved the wheelchair forward, rolling it into Wyatt’s leg.

Dr Wyatt didn’t flinch; his voice was controlled, deep. ‘Tell me where the pills are.’

‘Or what?’ Harper blinked. ‘You’ll throw me off a bridge? Oh, wait – you already tried that.’

Dr Wyatt moved closer, his fist digging into his pocket. ‘Ron Kendall and I have disagreed all along on how to handle this situation, but make no mistake: our work and the Center must and will prevail. We will not let our efforts be eradicated by a few college kids and a paltry teaching assistant.’

‘Get out of the way—’

‘OK, Mrs Jennings. Go.’ Dr Wyatt’s tone feigned resignation. ‘But if more people get their hands on those drugs, the results will be on your shoulders. If they are taken in uncontrolled dosages, you can’t – you don’t want to imagine what will happen. You think a few deaths are upsetting? We could have hundreds of them. Mrs Jennings, we could have mayhem.’

Dr Wyatt glowered; his voice rumbled.

‘I’ve lost sleep over this, Mrs Jennings. I don’t have a shred more energy or patience. The Board delegated our committee to take care of this, but, frankly, I can’t rely on Kendall. He’s a philanderer, as you know, distracted by his libido.’

‘Hoppa?’ Oh God. Did Hank suspect?

‘And I suspect that same libido is what has led you here tonight, trying to remove your husband from the Center.’

‘Hoppa.’ Hank repeated.

‘No.’ She didn’t sound convincing, even to herself. ‘Ron Kendall has nothing to do with this—’

‘Hoppa.’ Hank insisted, waving, pointing to the door.