Winter Break (10 page)

‘Whoa, hold up there, Silver.’ Sty stepped over to Evan, stroking his head.

Evan slapped his hand away. ‘Fuck you, Sty. I’ve been up all night, cleaning up this mess. And we still have to get Rory a new mattress—’

‘Forget the mattress. It’s not a big deal. We’ve got other issues to deal with first. Let’s go check on the kid.’ He stepped around Evan, started up the stairs.

Evan let him go. Didn’t follow him. Listened to his steps ascend to the third floor, heard him yell, ‘You left the fucking door unlocked, you cretin.’ And then, seconds later, the door slammed and footsteps descending fast.

Sty sat beside Evan, breathing rapidly. ‘So you went ahead and did it without me.’

Evan’s mouth dropped. ‘That’s what your response is? That’s your reaction? You’re not asking what happened. Or if I’m all right. Look at my fucking face – see any damage? You don’t give a crap – you’re just annoyed that I went ahead and did something without you and your permission.’

Sty’s jaw clenched. ‘Damn right I’m annoyed. We were going to do it together, in a controlled manner. Share the experience, study the transition from life to death. That was the point, wasn’t it? Like Leopold and Loeb.’

‘What? No – they were fags, and, if you recall your own history lesson, they weren’t interested in studying anything. They just wanted to do a perfect crime and get away with it—’

‘My point is, they did it together—’

‘Yes, they did, because one of them wasn’t out all night fucking some townie.’

Sty glared, raised a fist, aimed it at Evan’s jaw, but Evan stared back, not flinching, not even bothering to defend himself. The moment passed; Sty lowered his fist.

‘They got caught, too, by the way.’ Evan’s voice was flat. He didn’t feel like arguing, didn’t look at Sty. Wished his vodka weren’t gone.

They sat on the steps for a while, not talking. Finally, Sty broke the silence.

‘So? How was it?’

How was it? Evan’s heartbeat surged. He didn’t want to share.

‘Tell me everything. What was it like?’

Evan thought back, remembering fingers poking at his eyes, an elbow cutting off his airway. His rage. ‘It wasn’t like we planned, Sty. It happened fast, in a fight.’ He remembered the sense of triumph, his knife ripping through flesh. The pulsing between his legs. ‘I just did it; in an eye blink, it was done.’

Sty closed his eyes, covered his face with his hands. ‘Fuck.’ He sighed. ‘So the whole thing from start to finish was a wash.’

‘You have no idea,’ Evan agreed. ‘I’ve been washing all fucking night.’ He told Sty about mopping the floor and the walls, but Sty wasn’t listening. He had that look, eyes squinting, lips pursed. He was deep in thought.

And suddenly, Sty hopped to his feet and climbed the stairs. ‘Let me get a shower. We’ll meet in Rory’s room to reassess in, say, fifteen?’

Evan hadn’t finished yet, hadn’t talked about looking out and seeing the next-door neighbor at her window. But probably, she hadn’t seen anything, and Sty was upset enough, would be calmer after a shower. The rest of the story could wait.

At ten o’clock, Leslie showed up at Harper’s door and Harper led her to Hank’s study. Harper had fixed tea; Leslie took off her coat and took a seat beside her on the leather sofa, poured honey into her mug. Harper closed her eyes, sank into the cushions, felt tension lift from her shoulders just because Leslie was there. When she opened her eyes, Leslie’s warm green ones were watching her.

‘Thanks for seeing me here.’

‘No problem. You’re not supposed to exert yourself, so I can come to you.’

Harper picked up a mug, sipped jasmine.

‘You’re showing.’ Leslie smiled, indicating the baby.

‘Second trimester started last week.’ Harper nodded. ‘I’ve felt it move.’

‘Isn’t it odd?’ Leslie grinned. She had two kids, aged two and four. ‘You wonder what the baby’s doing in there—’

‘Push ups. Calisthenics.’ Harper laughed. Noticed that it felt strange to laugh; she hadn’t done it much lately.

‘Just like mom.’ Leslie winked. ‘But you’re feeling okay? How are the contractions?’

Harper sipped tea, told her she’d had some strong ones. Also told her about her flashback.

‘Wait.’ Leslie’s brows furrowed. ‘You’re saying the flashback was triggered by a TV show?’

‘No.’ Again, Harper laughed. That was twice, and in just a few minutes. Actually, what Leslie had said hadn’t been that funny; Harper laughed because she felt light. Relieved to see Leslie, to sit with her, drinking tea in a room with the door closed, away from Lou and Vivian.

But her laughter ended abruptly as she began to answer the question. The flashback had been triggered by a news recap, not an actual show. She described what had led up to it. The naked guy in the snow. The blood spatter and key she’d found in the woods. The resemblance between the guy she’d seen and the face on the news of the missing student from Elmira. When she began to describe his parents and their sense that he was dead, Leslie interrupted.

‘Why does all this concern you, Harper?’

Harper cocked her head, not understanding the question. ‘What?’

Leslie smiled, rephrasing. ‘I mean why are you so personally involved? Why can’t you leave all this to the police?’

These questions also stymied Harper. ‘You mean why do I care about it?’

‘Okay. Start with that.’

Harper crossed her arms. The answer was obvious. ‘The guy asked me for help.’

Leslie nodded. Her voice was soft, like fleece. ‘And for you, that’s a call to action. Harper the soldier, the protector, the fighter. You can’t let anyone get hurt on your watch, right?’

Right. Except that she had. She thought back to Iraq. Her watch. Her people getting blown away.

‘That’s where the flashback came from. I couldn’t help them.’

‘That makes sense.’ Leslie’s eyes glowed. ‘You still feel as if it’s your job to keep everyone safe. But, Harper, you aren’t at war now. You’re not in charge any more.’

‘Of course I’m not in charge. But I can’t just stand by and watch someone get hurt – we all have responsibilities to each other . . .’

‘Yes. And you faced yours. You called the police. Why isn’t that enough for you? Why do you feel that you need to continue your involvement?’

Harper looked away, at a lamp on Hank’s desk. Saw the guy’s face mouthing, ‘Help me.’

‘You know, until this happened, you hadn’t had a flashback in quite a while.’

No, she hadn’t. Not for a few months. ‘What are you saying?’ Did Leslie think her flashback had to do with Hank being gone? Because it wasn’t. No way Harper was going to let Leslie imply that it was Hank’s fault. ‘This is not about Hank being away.’

‘Okay. But something has made you more vulnerable. What else has changed recently?’

Oh. ‘You mean the pregnancy?’

Leslie watched her.

‘What? You think pregnancy affects my flashbacks?’ Was Leslie going to be like Lou, saying everything was because of her hormones?

‘I don’t know. Do you?’

Harper scowled.

‘I think it’s interesting that, ever since you found out you were pregnant – until now, your flashbacks practically stopped. And now, with your doctor telling you to rest, you’re worrying about the welfare of your baby. Which is something you can’t really control, except, hopefully, by resting. But you aren’t good at resting, Harper. And you’re even less good at not having control – especially about something as important as your pregnancy.’

Leslie paused, letting her words sink in.

‘I think that, yes, that streaker in the snow alarmed you. But you were already alarmed about your baby. So almost anything that further stressed you could have pushed you over the top, setting off a flashback.’

Another pause. Unexpectedly, Harper’s eyes filled. Leslie blurred, handed her a blurry tissue.

‘I’m not saying you don’t want to rescue the streaker. I’m just saying you really want to rescue your baby. And that’s what I think you should focus on. Your pregnancy. Your health. Resting. Taking care of Harper. Because, trust me, once it’s born, it’s a separate person. No matter how you try, you will never ever be able to fully protect or control or keep tabs on your child. Your best chance for total control is now, while it’s still in your womb.’ Leslie smiled, talking from experience. ‘Harper, it’s important that you enjoy this time. The flutter kicks. The swollen ankles. The ability to eat anything without guilt. All of it. Even the stretch marks. It’s all precious.’

Harper nodded and dabbed her eyes. Unsure about the stretch marks.

‘This is new territory for you, Harper. A new role for you is emerging, one unlike any you’ve had before. Being a mom isn’t like being a tough high-school kid or army lieutenant or archeology student or wife. It’s going to be a challenge because – here’s my opinion: I think you’re more comfortable with rescuing strangers, protecting artifacts and chasing down enemy combatants than you are with raising a child.’

Harper wiped her eyes. Took a breath. Felt another tear roll down her face. Sniffed. Leslie reached out, put a hand on Harper’s.

‘You know?’ Harper blew her nose. ‘You’re right. I have no idea what to do. How am I supposed to know how to be a mom? Vivian – I’ve told you about her – she was never a mom. I never had a role model. Honestly? The closest thing I had to a mom was my drill sergeant – and he was a guy.’ The truth of that struck Harper as funny; she chuckled, her face still wet with tears.

‘You’ll be a great mom, Harper.’ Leslie squeezed her arm. ‘But first, you have to listen to your doctor. Rest. Avoid stress. Don’t go searching the woods for blood spatter and clues – let go of the need to protect the world and focus on protecting yourself and your pregnancy. Let the police do the rest. Can you do that?’

Harper nodded, remembering Detective Rivers asking her to do the same. But, truthfully, she hadn’t fully processed what Leslie had said when the hour was up. Walking Leslie to the door, she realized that she hadn’t mentioned half the things she’d wanted to. Her cabin fever. Her concerns about Hank. Her friction with Vivian. And, though she wasn’t even sure what they were, her questions about Lou.

The waitress brought a stack of buckwheat pancakes for Sty, a feta and spinach omelet for Evan. They remained silent while she refreshed their coffee.

Sty waited until she’d walked away. ‘We are still Übermenschen,’ he said, pouring maple syrup.

Evan smirked, buttering his toast. When he wasn’t invoking Leopold and Loeb, Sty was emulating Nietzsche. ‘I doubt that. This disaster is probably not what Nietzsche had in mind when he referred to the work of Supermen—’

‘Don’t be so self-critical, Evan. The quality of a Superman is that he fully experiences his superior life and power, that his very existence is a form of art. Nietzsche doesn’t require that the superior man make no mistakes; rather that he perfect his life as a process, developing until, ultimately, he exerts his will, warrior strength and talent—’

‘I see your point,’ Evan interrupted with his mouth full. He ached all over, had been up all night. And, frankly, he was tired of Sty’s monotonous ramblings about abstract, idealistic principles that had little to do with the situation at hand. Mostly, he was just plain tired. ‘What does Nietzsche say about getting rid of a body?’

‘Shh!’ Sty looked around, scowling. The booths around them were mostly empty; the week before Christmas Eve was slow at State Diner.

‘No one’s listening.’

‘Doesn’t matter.’ He cut a wad of pancakes. ‘We can’t afford to be careless. Look what carelessness did to Leopold—’

‘For Christ’s sake, Sty. Will you stop harping about them? We are NOT like those two—’

‘The point I’m making, Evan, is this: Had Leopold not been careless and dropped his glasses at the scene of the body dump, the two would never have been caught. We will make no such error.’

Evan sat back, staring at his half-eaten omelet. Checking to make sure they hadn’t been careless. Reviewing everything they’d done so far. Remembering the kid running into the snow. That had been careless of them, for sure; the neighbors had seen him. Still, no one had connected the event to him or Sty or even to Sebastian Levering’s disappearance. He’d seen the woman later at her window, but she couldn’t have seen anything incriminating; if she had, she’d have called the police again. So, no. So far, no damage had been done. He sat up again, relieved, and took another bite. Added salt.

‘According to the news,’ Sty swallowed coffee, ‘our young Sebastian is traveling all over the country. He’s been spotted in Colorado, Ohio, Miami – who knows where. Nobody’s looking for him here.’

‘So? We’ve still got to get rid of him.’

Sty nodded, chomping pancakes.

‘And the ground’s frozen. We can’t bury him. We can’t get on the water to drop him in the lake—’

‘We’re going to have to wrap him up and take him on a little trip. There are miles of empty woods and hills around here. In fact, I think I’ve found a perfect container for him. We dump it; no one finds him until spring, if then.’

Evan bit off a piece of toast. Sty sounded confident. Maybe last night hadn’t been as bad an outcome as he’d thought; maybe they were all right after all. He skipped a breath, felt a ripple in his chest, recalling the elation of the kill.

Sty poured more syrup onto his stack. ‘Meantime,’ he grinned as he cut into his food, ‘we start looking for our next project. We’re smarter now; we’ll do it right this time.’

Lou was making tuna melts – finally something Harper liked. In fact, they smelled terrific. Harper stood in the foyer gazing out the window, watching that same dark SUV make its way slowly past the house, waiting for the mailman to hike up the walk.

She opened the front door just as he was about to ring the bell.

‘Merry Christmas,’ he grinned, handing her a package.

‘Same to you.’ Harper took it and shut the door, excited. The box was probably a Christmas gift from Hank. Thrilled, she rushed to the hall table to open it, but glancing at the address label, she realized that the driver had made a mistake.

Grabbing the package, she ran back to the door and shouted to the driver, but too late; the truck was already pulling away. Damn. She’d have to call the post office and tell them to pick it up. She checked the label again. Odd. The address was actually correct; the post office hadn’t made a mistake about where to deliver it. But it had to go back to the sender; the package was meant for someone named Ed Strunk. And there was nobody by that name at her house.