Winter Break (8 page)

Stop whining, she scolded herself. Don’t be a wimp. You’ve gotten through longer months in far worse conditions.

Still groggy, reminding herself that she would see Leslie the next morning, she got out of bed, checked the snowfall out the window. It looked like about ten inches had fallen, and, now that it had stopped, the ground glowed bluish white, reflecting the moonlight, emphasizing the shadowy angles and gables of the empty fraternity next door. The street hadn’t yet been plowed, but a dark SUV pushed its way through the snowy street – hadn’t she seen it before? Why would anyone be out in this weather? Where could they possibly need to go?

‘Harper?’ Vivian knocked as she opened the door. ‘Good. You’re up.’ She came inside, arranging her hair, hesitating before she spoke. ‘Look. I hope you’re not going to make a fuss about the tree. Lou bought it with the best of intentions, so you could make the place more festive—’

‘I told you before. It’s fine.’ She tried to sound sincere.

‘Don’t be like that.’

‘Like what? I said it’s fine.’

‘Your tone. I can tell you resent it. Why can’t you ever be appreciative when people try to show their concern for you?’

Their concern for
her
? Harper bit down on the inside of her cheek, stifling her response. ‘I am appreciative, Ma. Thanks.’

Her mother folded her arms, cocked her head. A lock of bluish auburn hair flopped over her forehead. ‘Tsk.’

Tsk? Really? ‘Ma. The tree makes you happy. It’s fine.’

‘Good. I knew you’d change your mind.’ Vivian stepped over to Harper, pecked her on the cheek. ‘What did that policewoman want?’

‘Nothing. She was just getting back to me about last night.’

Vivian nodded, turned to leave. ‘Dinner’s ready. Lou’s been cooking all afternoon. Pot roast.’

Pot roast? So that was the seared-flesh smell. Harper looked out the window at the snow. If there was one dish Harper disliked more than cow liver, it was pot roast. How was it possible that Lou had chosen to prepare those two meals on consecutive nights?

‘Come and eat.’

Harper couldn’t eat anything that smelled like that – she almost gagged at the thought. But she didn’t want to start another argument. ‘Damn, Ma. I didn’t realize.’ She grasped for an excuse. Lied. ‘I ordered pizza.’

‘You what? When? Why would you—?’

‘Just now. When I got up. I didn’t think Lou should cook every night.’

‘Well, you might have asked first, before going ahead. You shouldn’t just assume things. How did you know we’d even want pizza?’

Harper didn’t respond. Didn’t want to start the discussion about asking people what they wanted before deciding on a meal. Or a tree.

Vivian sputtered out of the room. ‘Lou – wait’ll you hear this . . .’

Harper waited until she was on the steps, reporting the news of the pizza. Then, staring into the snow, she picked up her cell and called Napoli’s.

She was thinking about artichokes and shrimp, not paying attention to the view. But she was positive, or almost, that as she repeated her address, in an upstairs window of the empty fraternity next door, a curtain moved.

Showered and dressed, Evan was practicing his harmony while trying to straighten his tie without reopening the wounds on his knuckles when he heard the thunk from upstairs. He froze. Heard nothing more. Tried to convince himself it was nothing. Maybe the kid had come to, rolled over and fallen out of bed.

It was nothing.

Evan began singing again, checking himself in the mirror. Thick wavy hair, strong jaw. Classic, patrician looks. Frankly, he couldn’t blame the gay kid for being attracted to him. Singing, he stepped forward and back, turned to the side, spinning through moves from his a cappella group. Rehearsing. It was a tradition for The Quadtones to do Christmas shows at old people’s homes. The old codgers loved it, sang along, clapped their hands like little kids.

Evan checked his watch. Time to go. He grabbed his striped blazer and headed for the door.

Thump.

It was faint this time. Muted.

The kid was conscious. Damn. Must be banging on the wall.

Another thump. Another.

Christ, what was he doing?

Evan took his cell phone, called Sty. Got voice mail. Fuckin’ Sty, too busy getting laid to answer his damned phone? So what was he supposed to do? Just leave and hope nothing happened? He had to meet the other guys in front of Balch in fifteen minutes. Had to leave. The kid was locked up tight, had no place to go. No phone. No way out. And he’d be back in a few hours. What could happen in a few hours?

Evan took his overcoat from his closet and headed out of his room toward the steps. He was in the foyer when, from upstairs, he heard a crash. And then an ear-bending howl.

Hank called early, right after dinner. He sounded glum, but denied that anything was wrong. ‘Nothing,’ he said when she asked.

Harper knew, though, that something was. She could tell by his voice. Maybe the work was too much for him. Maybe he was pushing too hard. Getting frustrated or depressed. Or sick? But Hank needed to succeed at this project. Needed to feel competent again – they both needed that. She decided to be positive and encouraging, not to say anything that might upset him. No complaints about Vivian or Lou or the tree. No mention of the missing kid, the key or the blood spatter. Instead, she talked about shopping for baby furniture. About her dissertation. And, as she gazed out the bedroom window, about the weather.

‘We got another foot of snow.’

Hank muttered a disinterested reply.

In a lilting voice, Harper tried yet again to cheer him up, reporting that she’d devoured almost an entire shrimp and artichoke pizza, and that she was already hungry again. That the baby had a fierce appetite.

Even then, Hank’s response was flat.

Finally, Harper gave up pretending. She sat on the bed in silence, stroking his pillow, pouting, thinking of his chest.

‘So.’ She bolstered her voice, stared at the window. ‘Tell me what’s going on.’

‘Long day.’

Oh – he was tired. Of course, that was it. Hank hadn’t worked full days since before his accident, wasn’t used to hours of continuous exertion.

‘Sleeping okay?’

‘Not. Without Hoppa.’

An aching wave rolled through her. Hank missed her. Maybe that was why he sounded so down.

‘You? Resting, Hoppa?’

She thought of her forays into the icy woods, the sharp contraction she’d had earlier. ‘Plenty. I slept all afternoon.’

‘Good. Baby needs. Naps.’

When they finally said goodnight and hung up, Harper stayed on the bed, holding Hank’s pillow, replaying his husky whisper when he’d said goodnight. Feeling the whisper like a caress. An embrace. Oh God. She had to stop. Hank would be home in just a few weeks. She shouldn’t whimper and whine as if he’d been ripped permanently from her arms; she was lucky. They both were. In fact, she should go downstairs and celebrate their luck with some ice cream. Yes. Butter almond? Rocky Road? What did they have? She couldn’t remember.

And she didn’t want to go look. She missed Hank and refused to cheer herself up. Instead, she curled up on the bed, held onto his pillow and sulked, staring out the window at the night, noticing that the curtains in the fraternity window hung motionless and undisturbed.

Evan raced back up the stairs. Across the landing, up to the third floor. When he got to Rory’s room, he took the key off the frame, but didn’t unlock the door. He stood outside, listening. But heard nothing.

Obviously, though, something had happened in there. Maybe the kid’s leg wasn’t as bad as it looked. Maybe he was just inside the door, waiting to jump anyone who opened it.

Evan pictured the leg, purple and swollen. He’d felt something smash when he’d pounced on it. No way the kid could walk on that thing, let alone fight. Still, he should be careful. Not rush in without protection.

Again, Evan went downstairs, this time into the kitchen, hoping to find a knife. Drawers, cabinets – everything was locked. Even the refrigerator had a padlock on it. Damn. Okay. He’d have to use his own stuff. He hurried back to his room, grabbed his flashlight and his baseball bat, then reconsidered. Put the bat down, opened a desk drawer and shuffled through pens and jump drives. Found his Swiss army knife and rushed back to the third floor, where he listened again outside Rory’s door.

Hearing nothing, slowly, cautiously, he unlocked the door. Held the flashlight in one hand, the open knife in his other. Pushed the door open with his foot.

The room stunk like a damned latrine. Evan flashed the light onto the bed. Saw no kid, just his stinking mess. Panned the light across the floor, finally found the kid lying in a heap, all the way across the room. How the fuck had he gotten all the way over there?

Evan was breathing fast. Damn. He had to go, couldn’t be late. They needed his tenor, couldn’t do the show without him. He flashed the light onto his watch. Shit. Ten minutes. Okay. He needed to calm down, think. He could just leave the kid where he was. Could re-lock the door, pretend he hadn’t heard anything and deal with it later, when he got back. Or better yet, let Sty deal with it in the morning.

Good plan. But he didn’t leave. He stood there, doing a best-case/worst-case assessment. Best case, nothing would happen and he could wait for Sty. Worst case . . . Jesus. What would the worst case be? The kid could move. Could get to the window and, maybe, yell for help.

And then Evan had a disturbing thought: What if the kid had already gotten to the window? What if he’d managed to open the curtains and contact someone outside – waving and banging? Had that been what he’d heard?

Damn. Evan flashed the light on the curtains, walked across the room, peered through the gap between the drapes. Flashing his light outside, he relaxed; the window wasn’t visible to anyone on the street, just to the house next door and its garage. There was a glow from an upstairs window next door, but not much chance that anyone there would have been watching Rory’s window.

Cool. Turning to leave, Evan stepped over to the kid, flashed the light on his face to see if he was awake. And let out a yelp of surprise as his knees buckled beneath him and he hit the floor, sending his knife and the flashlight flying.

Leaning on Hank’s pillow, Harper got tired of feeling sorry for herself. She turned on the television, found a marathon of
Psych
reruns and, preparing to settle in, finally went downstairs for ice cream. She took out a giant soup bowl and scooped in a mixture of mint chocolate chip, strawberry and butter almond, which she covered with maple syrup, black olives, whipped cream and wads of super crunchy peanut butter. Decided to wash it down with a tall glass of tomato juice. Took it all upstairs and climbed back into bed to watch the next episode.

An hour later, she turned off the television and lay in the dark, reassuring herself that Hank, the naked kid and her baby were all fine, reciting her list of worries as a rhythmic mantra. She was dozing, her eyes drifting closed when a beam of light flashed into her room.

Harper opened her eyes, watched the light move across her wall and disappear. She got up, looked out the window, couldn’t find the source. Nobody was in the driveway or the yard. The street was empty. She looked across at the fraternity, saw it hulking dark and still. Nothing moved. Nobody was there. But the light had come from somewhere. Weird.

Puzzled, Harper stood at the window until she got cold. Then she got back in bed and lay facing the window, watching for lights, listening for movement. Letting her eyelids drop.

He landed on his back, head slamming the floor, showing him pulsing red light. Before he could even wonder what happened, a heavy weight landed on him, grunting and stinking – something on his throat – an elbow? Evan tried to roll, but he was pinned, couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. What . . . the kid? Yes, the kid. Poking at his face with a filthy hand. Evan slapped and shoved at it, but it kept coming back. Scratching him. Pressing on his cheek. Aiming for his eyes. What the fuck? Evan kicked, tried to hit the kid’s wounded leg. But his leg hit nothing, swung through empty air. Meantime, his arms were useless, one pushing the elbow off his throat, the other fending spidery fingers off his face.

No way this could be happening. Evan was strong and in good shape; the kid was damaged from head to toe and had been repeatedly drugged. Still, incredibly, he wouldn’t give up. Evan moved quickly, using both arms to dislodge the elbow and knock it off his neck. And using the momentum to knock the kid off him.

The kid’s scream actually hurt Evan’s ears, but he kept moving. His eyes had become accustomed to the darkness, and he could see the kid’s swollen eye, his mangled hand, his grotesquely broken leg. A growl rose from his belly as he readied himself to strike, raising a fist to pound the kid’s wounds, preparing to kill. Remembering the knife only when he saw it coming toward his stomach, the blade glinting dimly in the kid’s hand.

Twisting, Evan grabbed the kid’s wrist. The kid howled but hung onto the knife, his body trembling and sweating. Evan squeezed and twisted harder and, finally, the knife fell, clattering on the floor.

The kid wailed, his wrist hung limp, but amazingly, he still wouldn’t give up. He reached with his other hand, even though its fingers were broken. Evan watched, catching his breath, simultaneously amused and fascinated at the persistent pathetic effort. The kid kept trying to pick the knife up with a thumb and pinkie. As though he’d be able to wield it, even if he somehow managed to lift it. He glanced at Evan repeatedly with his one open eye, as if he still thought he had a chance.

But Evan had had enough. Annoyed, he punched the kid in his good eye. When he fell backwards, Evan picked up the knife and, without further ado, thrust it deep into the kid’s throat. Then, remembering the time, he cursed, ran out of the room and down the stairs. In a minute, he’d changed his shirt, washed his face, smoothed his hair, donned a different blazer, grabbed his overcoat and hurried out the door, manufacturing a story that would explain his lateness and the bruises and scratches on his face.