Winter Break (27 page)

Sty was back on his feet. ‘Where the fuck are you, Evan?’

Evan’s voice was alarmingly close. Inches away. ‘I’ve got her.’ It was almost a whisper, meant not for Sty but for her.

Harper scrambled upward. Evan got to the ladder and shook it, trying to knock her off. She hung on, was almost to the loft, but she felt Evan’s weight beneath her. He’d climbed onto the first rung, was reaching up, trying to grab her ankles. His hand brushed her foot, almost nabbed it.

Harper pushed on, was eye-level with the edge of the loft. She lifted her right leg up two rungs, pushed off and swung her hips, landing sideways in the loft. Winded, she hopped up, put both hands on the ladder and centered her strength so she could shove it away, knocking it over before Evan made it to the top. Harper stepped back, then forward, thrusting the ladder . . .

‘Gotcha.’ A hand firmly gripped her wrist, promising to take her with it if it fell.

She rolled and twisted her wrist, trying to wrest it away, but Evan wouldn’t release it. He was climbing onto the loft when she swung, connecting with his eye, but he pounced on her with savage force, pummeling her head. Harper fell, dizzy, having the sensation that, like her unborn baby, she was doing flip turns.

Okay. Lou knew what he had to do. He had to fake his death. When he was officially dead, no one would bother to look for him. They’d try for a while to find the money, but after a while, they’d give up. Meantime, he’d become someone else. He’d start over like he’d done before. Become a new man with a new name. Use one of the identities in his suitcase. Something he could grow old with, maybe Oliver Hines. He said it out loud: Oliver Hines. Ollie. It was a good name, but was it him? Wasn’t it too fussy? Truth was, he was a simple guy, needed a simple, regular sounding name. But he’d already used most of those. Had been a Pete and a Bill. Maybe it was time for something classier. As long as Wally and Ritchie couldn’t trace him – shit, he’d be Linda if he could be sure it was safe. Anyway, he’d use a name those guys didn’t know about, and when he got himself set up, he’d send for Vivian, and they’d live the dream south of the border, with sombreros and siestas, mambos and margaritas.

Lou laughed out loud, got out of bed, grabbed the satchel of money and started dancing with it, singing out loud. ‘Wastin’ away again in Margaritaville. Searching for my lost shaker of salt . . . Some people claim that there’s a woman to blame, but I know . . .’

Suddenly, his mood took a dive. He slumped on the side of the bed, letting the satchel slide to the floor. What the hell was he doing, living in fantasy land? He had details to work out. Lots of them. For example, he needed an exact location for the accident. Someplace not too far away so that when he died, he’d be identified right away. Well, not him; the car. Vivian’s old Camry was going to be mangled and burned in a terrible accident, smashed at the bottom of a gorge. Very sad.

After that, there was only one other problem: how to make it look like he’d died in the crash without an actual body.

Harper opened an eye, saw darkness. Closed it again.

‘. . . I think we should take advantage of it. This opportunity fell into our hands, like a gift—’

‘No.’ It was Sty’s voice. And it sounded close.

Harper tried to remember what had happened. Feigning unconsciousness, she lay still, assessing her situation. The smell of death lingered on her skin, reminding her of Sebastian’s body, riding with it in the armoire. She remembered getting out, running through snow and trees to escape from Sty and Evan. Heading for a barn. Climbing to a loft.

After that, she remembered nothing. Where was she now? Up in the loft? Or had she fallen? Oh God – the baby. Was the baby okay? Without moving, she focused on her belly, waited. Finally felt a flutter. The baby was moving, must be okay. Harper let out a breath, relieved. But she was still unsure of her situation, didn’t even know her own condition. How badly had she been hurt? Silently, she took inventory of her body parts, feet to head. Only her head registered pain. So probably she was okay, just stunned. But where was she? Harper tried to move a hand out, to feel what was around her, but couldn’t. Her arms were bound at the wrist. Not with rope – when she tried to move, the bindings didn’t cut into her skin. Maybe tape? She was lying on her back, her head turned slightly, rough straw-like scratches against her neck. She inhaled through her nose. Smelled mildew and hay. So she was probably in the loft.

Sty and Evan were still arguing. ‘No.’ Sty insisted. ‘We’ve deviated too much already. We can’t afford to take more chances.’

Chances? What kind of chances? Her head swam, but she strained to remain alert.

‘This isn’t a chance. It’s an opportunity. Besides, we have no choice. We can’t exactly let her go.’

Sty grunted.

‘So why not make the best of it? Make her a project.’

‘Evan, you have no sense of order or discipline. First of all, she doesn’t fit the test group. She’s the wrong victimology. The wrong size, the wrong age, the wrong gender—’

‘So? Wouldn’t it be interesting to study age and gender – all kinds of differences? We can record the data and save it, and compare it with our original group later—’

‘No.’

‘No?’

‘That’s right. No.’ Sty’s voice was tight. ‘Everything’s spinning out of control. We’ve got two bodies already. And she’d be – Christ, Evan. What are you doing?’

Harper heard the swish of steps approaching through hay. ‘You didn’t like my suggestion, Sty. So I might as well just get this done.’

‘Wait – without thinking it through?’

‘Christ almighty, Sty. If we leave it to you, we’ll never finish here. Just let me do this.’

‘Whatever. I’ll get started outside.’ Sty descended the ladder, his boots clicking on the rungs.

Harper lifted an eyelid. In the dim light, she saw Evan kneeling beside her. Saw his shoulders lean forward; his fingers reach for her throat. Heard his shrill, spine-shattering howl as, in a heartbeat, she raised her head, opened her mouth and chomped down as hard as she could on his hand.

Even as he yowled, Evan swung with his uninjured fist, slamming her in the side of the head. Harper saw a flash of white light, then nothing.

When she woke up, she was cold. Not sure how long she’d been out. Minutes? Seconds? She expected Evan to be still on top of her, punching, so she tried to roll over to dodge his blows. But the blows didn’t come. And she couldn’t roll. Couldn’t move her arms or legs. Damn. She remembered; they’d bound her.

Shivering, Harper listened, heard soft moaning. Someone was still nearby. Evan? She tried to collect her thoughts. To remember. Why was he moaning? Had she hurt him? And where was Sty? She closed her eyes, opened them again. Tried to slow her breath. To think – oh God – the baby. Was it okay? Harper held her breath, felt dizziness, sharp pain in her head. If the baby was hurt . . . No. She wouldn’t allow that thought. Fear was the enemy, would paralyse her. She forced herself to relax her muscles, found her core, focused on it. The baby would be fine. They both would be – had to be. Silently, she began wriggling her hands, trying to get free. Her head throbbed, her hands and feet were freezing and her skin itched from the straw, but she persisted, pressing her palms against each other, pushing her arms apart, trying to stretch her bindings until she was panting and her shoulder muscles cramped. For a moment, she stopped to rest her wrists. Wiggled her fingers for circulation. And felt something sharp scrape her forefinger. Something sharp? Quickly, silently, Harper moved her fingers around in the straw, searching. And found it – a nail. Sticking a few inches up from the floor, but jammed in tight.

Harper tried to stop shivering as she wrapped a cold, stiff hand around it. Tried not to move the rest of her body as she grabbed and jimmied, pulled and turned, pushed and twisted it until, finally, it came free and, letting out a breath, she lay back, oddly exhausted. Probably, it was the cold – she was losing too much body heat. Developing hypothermia. Damn. Her feet were numb, and the pain in her head had faded, become vague. She lay still, waiting, listening for Evan or Sty, the nail with its cold sharp point clutched in her fist.

‘Evan?’ Below, footsteps crossed the barn, climbed the ladder. ‘What are you doing up there? Everything’s ready.’

Harper didn’t move, pretended to be unconscious even when a foot slammed her shoulder.

‘Shit – why’s she so close to the ladder? I could have tripped on her and fallen off—’

‘Sty. I need help. I’m hurt.’

A heavy weight thudded onto her legs and sat there. ‘Look what the bitch did,’ Evan groaned, cursing.

‘Holy shit!’

A flashlight glared in her eyes. She didn’t react.

‘What the fuck happened?’

‘What does it look like? She bit my fuckin’ hand off. When she wakes up, I’m going to knock her teeth out. I’ll peel her skin off—’

‘Let me see that.’ The light moved away. Harper squinted, saw Sty aiming it at Evan’s hand, examining it. ‘You got to bind that, stop the bleeding. She tore off a chunk—’

‘Don’t you think I fucking know that? I’m bleeding to death.’

Sty snorted. ‘You’ll live. We need something to wrap it with.’

‘Use your shirt.’

‘Why not yours?’

‘Mine? Seriously? I’m fucking going into shock as it is—’

‘Dammit, Evan. This is hand-tailored.’ Sty pulled his jacket off.

Harper lay cold and silent, heard ripping fabric, groans of pain. And slowly, carefully, she moved her hand, repositioning the nail, jamming it up toward the binding on her wrists.

‘You’re going to have to clean that wound out – the human mouth literally teems with bacteria—’

‘And how would you suggest I clean it, Sty? You have running water? Or a bottle of disinfectant on you? Maybe some antibiotic cream?’

‘Hold still – I’m trying to tighten this—’

‘Don’t tell me what the fuck to do. Ouch! Dammit—’

‘Too tight? It’s got to be tight to stop the bleeding.’

Harper twisted her hand, pushed the nail with her fingers until she felt it puncture something. Then she stopped pushing, used her other hand to ease the nail down maybe half an inch and reposition it. And pressed it up again, felt another puncture.

Suddenly, the weight on her legs lifted; Evan stood up.

‘Careful – you’ve lost some blood. You might be light-headed. Don’t fall.’

‘Where the hell is my knife?’

She heard Evan stomping around in the hay. The flashlight aimed in her eyes again. She didn’t move, not even an eyelash.

‘Settle down, Evan.’

‘I need my fucking knife. I’m going to cut this bitch to shreds.’

‘Not yet.’

‘Why the hell not?’

‘Let’s not argue again, Evan. She’s tied up; she’ll wait. But think about it: You’re impaired; you have limited energy, and we’ve got that heavy armoire to unload and deposit.’

‘Fine. But let’s be quick.’ Evan’s breath was rapid, shallow. The light visited her face again. ‘Because when we’re done, I’m coming right back.’

Footsteps climbed down the ladder. Alone, shivering, Harper worked the nail, pushing it up, puncturing the binding, repositioning it, pushing again. And again. Wincing when she felt a jab, a warm gush. Damn – she’d aimed wrong, pushed too hard, stabbed her wrist; the blood made her fingers slippery. She was cold, her fingers stiff and almost numb, having trouble gripping the nail. But she had no choice, had to proceed. Envisioned her hands free, her legs running.

‘Come on,’ she said aloud. ‘Get it done.’ Steadying herself, she pressed her wrists together to stop the bleeding and began again, working her fingers, placing the nail, pressing it up through her bindings. Cutting her way to freedom, one puncture at a time.

About three in the morning, Vivian woke up and wandered into the guest room. She sat on the bed beside Lou. Noticed the bags.

‘Lou?’ Her mouth hung open. Her eyes registered new facts.

‘Don’t get upset.’ He reached for her, pulled her close. ‘I wasn’t going to say anything until morning—’

‘Say anything about what?’ She pulled away, sat straight, her eyes wide and accusing.

Lou sat up, too, leaned over and tried to take her hands but she wouldn’t allow it. ‘Something’s happened. It’s my sister—’

‘Your sister.’

‘Yes. She’s had a stroke—’

‘You told me you were an only child.’

Wait. He’d said that?

‘Don’t fuck with me, Lou.’ She was on her feet, hands on her hips.

The air came out of his lungs, wouldn’t go back in. He couldn’t speak, had no voice.

‘You’re taking off? Where the hell you going?’

‘You’re wrong, Vivian. I’m not going anywhere unless—’

‘Not going anywhere? Not anywhere?’ She repeated the words several times, kicking his suitcase, his duffel. ‘You need these bags to not go anywhere?’ Breathless and panting, she waited for an answer.

‘Harper wanted us out.’ He thought it was a good answer. ‘So while you were sleeping, I got started packing.’

Vivian’s eyes grew, looked like they’d launch out of her head. ‘So why’d you lie about a sister if you packed because of Harper?’

‘Look, Harper wants us out by—’

A sudden bellow, like a police siren, came out of Vivian’s throat. She covered her face with her hands and sunk to the floor. Lou ran to her and held her.

‘Vivian, it’s okay. We’re leaving, starting over,’ he covered her head with kisses. ‘Both of us. Together. Everything will—’

‘Starting over? What are you talking about?’ She pulled away.

‘We’ll go someplace far away, just the two of us—’

‘Lou. Stop. What’s wrong with you? Don’t you get what I’m going through? My daughter is missing. I’m a mess. Until she’s found, I’m not going anywhere.’ Vivian ran a hand through her hair, simpering.

Lou sat still, trying to figure out what to say. How to explain. How much of the truth to tell her. He had to take her car, total it and set it on fire. Had to make Wally think he was dead, make him see the futility of hanging on to Harper. Had to get far away with the cash. And with Vivian.

But Wally wouldn’t release Harper until he thought Lou was dead, and Vivian wouldn’t leave until Harper was released. So somehow, he had to fake his death, make sure Harper was home, and then whisk Vivian away before Wally could find out there was no body in the crash and he was actually alive.