Winter Break (3 page)

Harper huddled inside the parka, trying to remember where she’d left her phone. Her brain felt frozen, unable to think. But she remembered plugging it into the charger. So the phone had to be upstairs. She stood, started for the door.

‘Now, where is she going?’ Vivian talked about her as if she weren’t there.

‘To get my phone.’

Vivian was behind her, following. ‘Why? Who are you calling? Hank? Don’t call Hank. He’ll only worry—’

‘Hold on.’ Lou came up around front, standing in her way. ‘Why don’t we sit down, warm up and talk about things before anybody does anything else.’ It wasn’t a question.

Harper eyed him. Who the hell did he think he was, blocking her in her own home? Reflexively, instantly, she sized him up – Lou was taller by eight inches, bulkier by some seventy pounds. But he was also at least twenty-five years older. Fit but untrained. She could take him down in a heartbeat. In fact, she’d already taken a stance, balanced, knees slightly bent, ready to strike. But Lou wasn’t hostile; he was smiling. Lord, his teeth were so white – were they real? Probably dentures or caps. His arms moved out for her; she blocked them, her hands tightened into fists before she realized that he’d only wanted to hug her. Oh God. What was she doing, preparing to flatten her mother’s boyfriend? But wait. She was surrounded, closed in from the rear and the front. Flight or fight responses kicked in, and flight wasn’t possible. An annoying buzzing droned on, grating Harper’s brain, and she smelled gunfire. Saw smoke, heard the rattle of gunfire. No. She was home, not in Iraq. She needed to startle her senses, prevent a flashback. Harper spun, shoved her mother away to get to the refrigerator, opened it, grabbed a lemon. And bit.

Acidic sour juice rattled her, interrupted her brain. Grounded her with its intensity. Images of Iraq flitted away, leaving her facing a startled mother and gaping Lou. Again, Harper saw that dangerous spark flare in Lou’s eyes. She looked directly at it, undaunted, ready to take him on.

‘You’re eating a lemon?’ he asked.

Harper looked at the lemon in her hand. Set it on the counter. Shrugged and smiled, didn’t want to explain.

Her mother was finally silent. She and Lou watched her, baffled.

‘I need to go get my phone.’ She didn’t bother pointing out that they had no right to stop her. ‘Not to call Hank. I’m calling the police.’

‘The police.’ Lou repeated. Had his voice faltered? Had his gaze done a quick shimmy?

Harper studied him as she continued, hurrying. Time mattered. ‘There was a man out in the cold. Naked, and someone carried him into the woods.’

Silence. Blank stares.

‘He saw me at my window, asked me for help.’

More silence. Continued stares.

Vivian plopped into a seat at the kitchen table, poured more whiskey into her cooled cocoa. Took a long drink. Stared at the wall.

Harper went on, aware that a man’s life could depend on her. ‘Look – the police will have search lights. I need to call them before he freezes to death.’

Lou shook his head. ‘Harper. Your mother and I were down here. We would have heard something. Yelling. Or a scuffle.’

‘Jesus, Harper. It’s just goddam kids. What the hell’s wrong with you? Thinking of the worst possible scenario—’

‘They’re probably doing drugs out there, that’s all. Or a party. A bunch of kids, you know, getting it on—’

‘You’re making a big deal out of something you don’t know anything about—’

Harper started for the stairs, stopped as her midriff tightened. A contraction suddenly gripped her. She came back to the table and sat.

‘Harper, that’s right. Sit.’ Lou sat opposite. ‘You might not realize it, but you’re under a lot of stress.’

What? She inhaled deeply, exhaled slowly.

‘Your mother’s told me about your husband’s accident. How he almost died. How he got brain damage. And now, he’s gone away for the first time since he got hurt.’

Vivian sat beside Lou, nodding.

The contraction tightened.

‘Besides which, you’re pregnant.’

Vivian put a hand on Lou’s.

‘I don’t want to sound sexist; I’ve had some experience with pregnant women. And that experience tells me that they get pretty off the wall. Hormones fluctate, see.’

Fluctate? Did he mean fluctuate?

‘And their emotions take over—’

‘He’s right, Harper. I was that way with you.’

‘So, my point is, things might not in actuality be exactly as you perceive them.’

‘Bullshit.’ Harper breathed, waiting for the contraction to pass.

‘Christ, Harper, you’re making me nuts—’

Lou cut her mother off. ‘Hear me out. Your own doctor said you’re in a fragile state, didn’t she? So your body chemistry is changing, influencing your perceptions. You might be interpreting things different than they are. Thinking something’s sinister when it isn’t. You don’t want to embarrass yourself by calling the police. That’s all I’m saying.’

‘Lou’s right.’ Vivian clutched her cocoa mug. ‘But it’s not just her hormones. She has that STPD thing – or no—’ She looked at the wall, concentrating. ‘It’s PTSD. From the war. It makes her have those flashbacks and she loses touch with reality. She sees things that aren’t even there—’

‘Ma!’ Harper sputtered, holding her belly. ‘I know what I saw.’ Didn’t her mother believe her? Did she think she’d invented the guy?

‘It’s not your fault, Harper.’ Vivian turned to Lou. ‘But I’m thinking it’s her hormones combined with her post-trauma shock disability, combined with Hank taking off—’

‘That’s enough!’ Harper shouted. Her temples pulsed, even as the contraction eased. She wanted to correct – no, to throttle both of them, but she couldn’t take the time. A man’s life was in danger. She stood, too incensed to speak. Breathing evenly, her belly still recovering, she headed out of the kitchen to the stairs, grateful that, this time, no one followed her. Time was precious, had already been wasted. How long had it been since she’d seen him? Eight minutes? More? How long could a naked man survive in the snowy cold woods?

Shaken, more from the conversation than the contraction, Harper moved carefully up the stairs. Breathing evenly, she hurried to her room, found her phone and made the call.

Detective Charlene Rivers was no stranger to the Jennings home. She’d been there on numerous occasions. First, when Hank had his accident. Later, when some of Harper’s archeology students had become involved with stolen drugs and homicide. Most recently, when Harper had been caught in a web of stolen archeological relics and murder. In the last two years, in fact, she’d had to visit the Jennings home more often than any other in Ithaca or Tompkins County, and each visit had connected to the grisliest crimes of her career. So it was with some trepidation that she walked up the path to the front door, and with some hesitation that she rang the bell.

The woman who answered wasn’t Harper Jennings. She was older, her skin weathered, as if she’d been around the block and then some. The kind Rivers would see in a bar at three in the afternoon. Too much eye shadow, skinny jeans that struggled to contain her hips, and a painfully tight red sweater. Her long hair sprayed and bouffant, dyed an unnatural shade of auburn/blue.

‘It really was nothing . . .’ she began when she saw Rivers’ badge. Her voice was scraped, gravelly and deep. Too many cigarettes, too much booze. ‘My daughter overreacted. She shouldn’t have bothered you.’

Her daughter? Rivers blinked, filing away the information. Noting the contrast between this woman and Harper Jennings, with her trim athletic figure, neutral, functional wardrobe, cropped hair, and shiny-scrubbed make-up-free face.

But Harper was at the door now, scowling at her mother – almost pulling Rivers inside. Rivers stepped over the threshold, noting the changes. The foyer had a new floor, new paint. And in an open parka, Mrs Jennings looked to be about halfway through a pregnancy.

‘Detective. We don’t have much time,’ Jennings zipped up her jacket, led the way through to the kitchen, the back door.

Rivers followed, saw a man standing in the kitchen, putting cups away, his back to them. She noted his full head of gelled salt-and-pepper hair, height just shy of six feet. Flannel shirt and jeans. Solid frame, a little thick around the middle. Harper’s father?

‘You said you saw a naked man out here?’ Rivers gazed at the snow.

‘Running. Another guy was chasing him. They fought.’ Harper hurried to the spot where they’d re-entered the woods. ‘I went after them, but didn’t find them. Couldn’t even find footprints – too much debris on the ground. I’m afraid he’ll freeze to death.’

Rivers looked around, saw some disturbed snow near the driveway. Walked to the woods, listened, heard nothing. The story was implausible; even so, Harper Jennings had been reliable in the past. So, somewhat reluctantly, Rivers made a call. Minutes later, floodlights probed the wooded patch behind the fraternity, and three uniformed cops searched the area with high-intensity flashlights.

After half an hour, they’d found nothing. They gave it another fifteen minutes. Still nothing.

Harper had wanted to help, but Rivers ordered her inside. As the search was winding up, they met on the back deck.

‘They didn’t find him? But, Detective, I saw him – he was back there.’

‘The area isn’t that big,’ Rivers reminded her. ‘We saw no sign of anyone, naked or otherwise.’

‘But where could he be? He didn’t come out this way – and there’s a high fence on the other side.’

Rivers watched her. Harper looked strained, shaken. But steadfast. She believed she’d seen this man. ‘I don’t know.’

Vivian came out the sliding door. ‘Nothing?’ It wasn’t really a question. ‘No surprise. Detective, I’m sorry. I told her it was just her post-war condition again. She sees things—’

‘I do not see things—’

‘Yes, you do – you told me yourself – or it could be her hormones.’

‘Ma. What are you saying? This was not PTSD or hormones . . .’

‘All right.’ Detective Rivers raised her voice. ‘I don’t know what you saw, Mrs Jennings. But at the moment, nobody is out there. Maybe it was just kids, horsing around, playing polar bear. Streaking in the cold. Acting on some dare. Doing drugs – we get all kinds of crazy calls in the winter.’

Harper looked pale. The police crew was packing up the lights, loading their truck.

‘Can we go inside?’ Rivers suggested.

The man wasn’t in the kitchen any more. Harper wandered to the table, took a seat, seemed distracted.

‘I apologize for my daughter. She shouldn’t have bothered you,’ Vivian droned.

Rivers glanced at Harper, saw no reaction. Harper was apparently deep in thought. ‘Nothing to apologize for, Ma’am. Your daughter was right to call. Even if it was a prank or just kids being kids, she had no way to know that. And, given what’s gone on around here the last few years, it’s best to rule out the worst scenario. Trust me, it’s better to call than to be sorry you didn’t.’

‘Would you like some cocoa, Detective? I can ask Lou to make—’

‘No, no thanks, Ma’am. I’ll be on my way. You all right, Mrs Jennings?’

Harper didn’t answer.

‘Harper,’ Vivian scolded.

Harper looked up. ‘You’re leaving?’

‘I am. Anything else happens, you let me know. Give your husband my regards when you talk to him. And have a merry Christmas, okay?’

Harper nodded, returned the wishes, thanked her for coming out. Vivian walked Rivers to the door, whispering, repeating that Harper was under stress, having a difficult pregnancy, upset that Hank was gone. Rivers found her apologies disloyal and cloying, her perfume irritatingly sweet. Again, she wondered at the contrast between Harper and her mother. Mused about how odd families could be.

Just to be thorough, before she left, she walked around the property again, looking under the deck, up the driveway, among the shrubs. As she walked to her car, she looked back at the house. A man stood upstairs, watching her from the window, silhouetted by the light.

In a dark bedroom on the third floor of the fraternity house next door, two figures hunkered by the window, peering out. Nearby, on a bed, an unconscious young man lay under a blanket, his hands and feet tied, his body bludgeoned.

‘You think they’ll look here?’ Evan whispered.

‘No. Why would they?’

Really? Wasn’t it obvious? ‘Because it’s here.’

‘But it’s closed up tight. Nobody’s here. Remember?’

Evan considered that. Still, he was concerned. ‘Maybe we should move him.’

Sty didn’t answer. He picked up his flask and drank. Passed it to Evan.

‘I mean, just for argument’s sake. What if they come looking for him?’

‘We won’t answer the fucking door, that’s what.’

Evan took a drink. Dim light spilled in from the neighbor’s driveway, just enough to create shadows. Just enough that he could see Sty’s eyes darting side to side. A sign that he was thinking.

‘What?’

‘They won’t come here.’ Sty sounded certain. ‘But if they did, they’d need a warrant to come in. And they have no cause to get a warrant. We left no footprints. No evidence leads here. So no warrant, no cops.’

Evan wasn’t convinced. He took another swig, mentally replaying what had happened. Making sure that they’d left no sign of themselves in the woods, in the yard of the fraternity, in the driveway of the house next door. Obviously, someone there had seen something and called the cops. But what? How much had the neighbor seen? Enough to identify him? He peeked between the curtains at the police and their searchlights, at the windows of the neighbor’s house. He’d seen the couple who lived there, had often said hi. The woman was short and blonde. Perky, sexy except for her limp. She rode a damned Ninja motorcycle. And the guy – he was solid like a linebacker, but he had some sort of disability. Walked crooked. But they couldn’t have recognized him – they didn’t know him from any of the forty other guys living in the house. And it was dark out. No, if they’d recognized him, the cops would be ringing the doorbell. Which they weren’t. Besides, he wasn’t even officially there, was supposedly staying at Sty’s apartment until the Christmas performances were done. If the police asked, he had answers. They both did.