Winter Break (23 page)

Then again, they could just be driving a fraternity brother home, and Rivers was already tired of her calls.

Evan climbed into the back seat; Sty started the engine and the Jeep pulled away. And a heartbeat later, figuring she’d just be gone a minute, Harper was into her boots and parka, on her way to the fraternity house.

The door was wide open, the chandelier turned on in the foyer. Harper’s left leg throbbed with exertion; she’d dug her heels into the ice with each step as she’d walked over. But, looking over her shoulder, making sure no one was around, she climbed the steps to the fraternity house, dried her boots off on the mat and went inside.

Immediately, the odor triggered a reaction. She saw a faceless boy in the street, flies swarming around a lifeless insurgent. A blown-off foot beside the road. No mistake: death was there, in the house. Or it had been. Evan and Sty might have driven it away in the Jeep.

Then again, they might have been carrying a drunk friend to his car. And the smell could have been from a dead squirrel or raccoon inside the walls, might have nothing to do with the boys.

Except that Harper’s instincts told her otherwise. She sensed danger and brutality there, at that moment, as clearly as she could smell the reek of death. Someone had been killed there. Violently. Recently.

She stepped away from the door, her back to the wall, careful to make no sound. The house seemed empty, but she couldn’t be sure. The bulky armoire still stood awkwardly in the foyer. Harper gazed past it up the staircase, saw darkness and dim night lights. She peered into the sitting room, noticed embers dying in the fireplace. Stepped inside, found an open Scotch bottle, a glass. And, on the Oriental near the doorway, a poker.

A poker? She stooped, looked at it more closely. Saw something clumped on its tip. Blood? Not just blood. Some hair, still attached to a patch of skin.

Harper stopped breathing. In the distance, guns fired; men shouted. She smelled burning rubber, felt the itch of swirling flies and clinging sand. A car sped up to a checkpoint, and then a flash of light—

No. She strained to resist the flashback, biting hard on her lip. She couldn’t afford a flashback now, had to get her phone and call Rivers, had to tell her about the poker. About the body she’d seen Evan and Sty carrying. But the checkpoint kept returning, the car speeding toward it – no. The car wasn’t there, wasn’t about to explode. The checkpoint had been in Iraq – not Ithaca. Pain pierced her lip and she tasted blood. The sand dropped away from her skin; the gunfire faded.

But the sound of the car didn’t. Tires crunched snow. A car door slammed.

Oh God. Evan and Sty were back? Already? Harper looked around the sitting room for a hiding place. Nothing – even if she squatted behind a sofa, she’d be in the open.

‘I’ll drive the pickup; you take the jeep.’

‘Why? Are you afraid of—?’

‘No. You killed him; you drive him. I’m driving Phil’s truck – I’m the one he lent it to.’

Snow crunched. Footsteps. ‘Hey. The door’s wide open. Didn’t you close it?’

‘I thought you did.’

Harper dashed into the foyer; if her weak leg hadn’t slowed her down, she might have had time to run upstairs, hide in a dark bedroom. But – no time.

‘Sty. Look. Footprints – they go into the house. From . . . next door?’

‘Shit.’ Another car door opened and slammed.

Oh God. They were right outside. In front. No time to make it to the stairs. She should have taken the poker. Could have used it to fend them off. Maybe she could take them both on anyway. Or make up an excuse for being there . . .

‘And look – they only go one way.’

Harper hunkered behind the armoire. In seconds, they’d be inside. Damn. She looked around.

‘Yes, they go in but not back out. So. It seems that we have a guest.’

Harper dashed around the armoire. It wasn’t an escape, but it was her only choice. Opening the door, she hopped inside, stood beside the vertical wooden bar in the middle of the wardrobe, pulled the latch until it clicked shut.

Instantly, even in the pitch darkness, she knew that she wasn’t alone. The stench made that clear. And when she moved, trying to get comfortable in the narrow space, she bumped an arm. Recoiled. Reached her hand up and around the wooden bar, tentatively. Felt an ear. Oh God. A cool, stubbly cheek. A clammy nose. Harper froze, struggling to stifle her gag reflex, her urge to scream, her impulse to bolt out and face Sty and Evan. She tasted bile. Covered her mouth.

‘Well, to hell with her. Let’s get this hideous thing out of here and she can stay as long as she wants.’

Something banged the back of the armoire.

‘You got it?’ Sty’s voice.

‘Yup.’ It was a grunt.

The armoire jostled and tilted; Harper slid against the rotting corpse. Couldn’t breathe. Needed to get out. She pushed the door, but it wouldn’t open. The latch, she thought. Undo the latch. But then the armoire lurched the other way; the body and its dead weight slid onto her, pinning her so that she couldn’t move. More bumps. More tilts. Loud grunting and scraping sounds. Then a harsh bouncing collision. Harper landed flat on her side, pressed against the hard wooden wall. The armoire twisted, jostling her until she lay flat on her back, and then she had the sense of rolling, as if the armoire had suddenly grown wheels.

When the bedroom door opened, Lou instinctively threw himself over Vivian, covering her with his body. Protecting her from Wally’s thug. Closing his eyes, awaiting bullets.

‘Hoppa?’

Lou ventured a gaze over his shoulder, saw huge shoulders, a hulking frame silhouetted in the doorway.

‘Hoppa in here?’

Vivian pushed Lou aside, sputtering, eyes wide. Terrified and not yet awake. ‘What? What?’ It seemed to be all she could say.

The stranger now stood at the foot of the bed and pointed out the door. ‘Not here? Where’s Hoppa?’

‘Hank?’ Vivian managed. She rubbed her eyes.

‘Hank? This is Hank?’ Lou tried to stop shaking. To adjust to the facts. Wally had not sent someone here to torture and kill him. The guy was just Harper’s husband. Bigger than he’d imagined. Built like a damned grizzly.

‘What happened? Why are you home?’ Vivian struggled to sit up, reached for the light on the nightstand. Turned it on. Squinted and blinked. Noticed the crutches.

‘Hoppa. Where is she? Late. Not home.’

‘Of course she’s home.’ Vivian fluffed her hair. ‘She’s in bed.’

‘Not. There.’ Hank turned, hobbled out of the bedroom.

Vivian grabbed her robe and followed, Lou right behind.

‘Hank – what are you doing here? You’re not supposed to be back for weeks. And it’s the middle of the night. What’s going on?’

But Hank didn’t answer. Using the crutches, he hurried down the hall, searching every room, then navigated his way down the stairs, calling Harper’s name, moving through the house, stopping to search the view from windows. Finally, eyes haunted, he plopped onto the living-room sofa, holding his head. His skin reflected red and green flashes of light from the tree. ‘Where is she?’ His voice was both anguished and accusing.

Vivian worried her hands, shook her head. ‘I don’t know. Is the car here? You know Harper. She gets ideas and there’s no stopping her—’

‘She was here when we went to bed,’ Lou cut her off. ‘She can’t have gone far.’ Unless Wally had sent someone to come and take her somewhere far, just to prove that he could. Just to teach Lou a lesson, make an example of him.

Hank repositioned his leg. Winced.

‘What’s with the crutches?’ Leo eyed the leg, came closer; Hank glowered so fiercely that Lou cringed, backed away. ‘Hey, relax. Sometimes she can’t sleep. Wants a breath of air. She might have gone for a walk. Did you try her cell?’

Hank eyed him. ‘Kitchen. On table.’

‘She’ll be the death of me.’ Vivian scowled. ‘It’s freezing out – and she didn’t take her phone?’

Christ. She’d left her cell phone? She’d never have done that willingly; Wally really must have taken her. Lou struggled to stay cool, not to let on what he knew. ‘So, with no phone, she wouldn’t go far. She’ll probably be home any minute. Meantime – I’ll make us some coffee.’ He backed out of the room. Hank took no notice.

‘Lou,’ Vivian called after him. ‘Do you think she went next door? To see those boys?’ She stood as if about to run over to check.

‘Why would she do that?’

‘Same reason she does anything. To make my blood pressure skyrocket. She’s killing me, Hank. She really is – did she tell you she’s throwing us out?’

Hank blinked, confused. ‘Out?’

‘She gave us till the day after Christmas to leave. After all I’ve done for her – coming here to look after her – dropping my whole life.’

‘Vivian, don’t get started. Let the man sit.’ Lou stopped her before Hank could ask questions. ‘Harper’s been hormonal, that’s all. Nothing to worry about.’ With that, he escaped into the hall and up the steps to get his phone. He wasn’t sure how, but he was going to convince Wally to bring Harper back immediately, no matter what it cost.

The smell transported her. Locked in the dark, Harper saw lifeless faces, limbs lying abandoned by the road. She felt flies swarming in the relentless desert heat, heard random gunfire and men howling in shock and pain. But suddenly, violently, the world shifted, rolling her onto her side, tossing her sideways. The impact of slamming into slippery dead flesh jolted her back to the present; Harper put her arms over her belly, gagging from the stench.

‘Watch it!’ Sty’s voice, scolding Evan.

‘I can’t hold it – it’s too heavy—’

‘Hang on, hang on—’

And then the armoire tilted as if being hoisted unevenly, unsteadily, rising bit by bit, one end at a time, until finally, with an unkind thud, it was planted on its side. Harper lay on top of her companion, thinking about maggots. Crawling, sucking, burrowing, writhing. Harper scratched, slapping her skin, finally retching and wiping vomit from her chin. Oh God.

Straps or maybe ropes hit the armoire, along with grunts of pulling or pushing. And then, the start of an engine, the crunch of snow under wheels. The ride was rough but the corpse under her absorbed most of the vibration, protecting Harper like a slimy cushion.

Lou dashed upstairs into the bathroom, phone in hand, spun in circles while the call went through. When Rita answered, her voice was low and dreamy, half asleep.

‘What the hell has he done?’ He tried to sound strong rather than frantic, but his voice scraped raw. ‘I told you I got him his money – with interest. But I swear if he wants it back, he has to let her go. I’m serious.’

‘Lou?’ As if she weren’t sure who was calling.

‘He has no business with her. He shouldn’t mess with people he doesn’t even know.’

‘What are you talking about?’ Covers rumpling. She was stirring, waking up.

‘She’s pregnant, for Christ sakes – and guess what? She has nothing to do with me. She’s just the kid of some woman I was seeing . . .’

‘I don’t understand – what woman? Who’s pregnant?’

He stopped spinning, ran a hand through his hair. Could it be Rita didn’t know? ‘Look. Wally’s doing what Wally does. Playing games. Taking collateral. But this time, he’s gone too far.’

He heard a match strike, her draw on a cigarette.

‘Wally thinks he’s sending me a message. But I’ll tell you what: I have a message for Wally. I got his money, but he’s not getting it – not a fucking penny – until she’s home safe. Unharmed. You hear me?’

‘Lou. Be honest. Are you drunk?’ She sounded baffled.

‘Don’t play dumb—’

‘Whatever you think Wally did, you’re mistaken.’

‘Yeah? Well, maybe your boyfriend isn’t telling you everything. A pregnant woman? He’s that low? Endangering two lives—’

‘Trust me. The only life Wally wants to endanger is yours. He wants his money. In fact, he intends to come get it personally.’

‘What aren’t you hearing? I said he’s not getting it – not until she’s back.’ Lou stood at the bathroom mirror, caught a look at himself. Saw red lines pulsing through his eyes. Pasty flesh. Took a breath. ‘You tell him what I said. And get back to me. I mean it, Rita. Fast.’

When the call ended, he shoved the phone into his pants pocket, splashed his face with cold water. Stared at his reflection. Damn. Time to get packing again. Now, while he still could. He didn’t want to. Closed his eyes, already missing Vivian. For once, he’d thought he had the real thing. A relationship he hadn’t messed up, one that would last. But never mind. No choice. Being with her, he was bringing her trouble. Her kid was gone. Her grandkid. No. He had to go. Had to come up with something, an excuse to take off. Vivian would cry for a while, but she was tough, had been down a few rocky roads; she’d survive. And taking off would make Wally realize he shouldn’t have messed with Harper, that Lou wasn’t going to grovel and twist just because she was missing.

Drying his face, he thought of Harper. Wondered if she were still alive.

And, if not, how Vivian would handle it.

Felt a pang.

Damn. He had to get out of there before the shit hit. When his breathing was even, he went downstairs to make coffee.

When he got downstairs, the front door was open. Hank stood on the front porch with Vivian, staring out at the snow.

‘She has to be over there,’ Vivian told Lou. ‘Look – footprints.’ She rushed down the steps into the snow.

Footprints? Lou hurried over, stepped outside, checked out the ground. The porch light was dim, but, yes, for sure. There were tracks in the snow, leading next door. And they seemed fresh.

A wave of relief rolled through Lou. Maybe he’d been wrong; maybe Wally hadn’t taken her. Maybe Harper simply hadn’t been able to sleep and had gone next door to hang out with the college boys. Maybe he’d jumped the gun, worrying for nothing. He rushed over to Vivian, put an arm on her shoulder. Kissing her head. Maybe he wouldn’t have to skip after all.

‘Come on.’ Vivian tugged at him, plowing ahead. ‘She’s over there – I’m sure of it.’

Hank was having difficulty negotiating the steps on his crutches, but he wobbled down and along the path. Halfway down, he slipped and fell, landing with a thud. Letting out an angry grunt.