Behind the Walls (12 page)

Finally, the last artifact was safely in its crate. Harper hurried down the hall to get her bag, noticed again how quiet the house was. Palpably, deathly quiet. She moved alone through shadows, aware of Zina, picturing her there in the dark, imagining creatures closing in on her. Bats. Cougars. Harper kept moving, rejecting the sense that someone was watching her. That time had slowed. That it was taking forever to move a few yards down the hall to get her bag. She picked up her pace, nearly tripped as a floorboard sagged under her weight and the ankle of her war-ravaged left leg twisted. Damn. Pain shot through her. She shifted her weight, stopped. Winced. Saw a shadow shift behind some crates. No, ridiculous – it was she who’d wobbled, not the shadow. Even so, her heart rate picked up. Harper looked around, tense and alert as she half hopped, half ran down the cluttered hall to the storage room, grabbed her bag, and flew through the arch, down the hallway to the stairs through deepening darkness. Looking over her shoulder, braced for the unknown, she scolded herself. She wasn’t afraid of the dark; she’d survived places far more frightening than a creaky old house.

Still, as she left the Langston place, Harper thought she heard the distant hoot of an owl, was sure she saw someone rustling among the trees. She told herself it was Angus or Jake. Even called their names.

No one answered.

Harper hurried to the Ninja. Heart pounding, trying to reign in her imagination, she told herself she was not smelling incense, was not seeing a bat fluttering above her. But her hands shook as she tossed her bag into the storage compartment, pulled on her helmet, jumped on to her bike and roared away, tearing right through the police tape, determined to be off the property and home before dusk became night.

When she got to Ithaca, stopped at a red light, she finally pulled her phone out and looked to see what time it was. Almost five thirty. What? Lord, she’d been at Langston’s for four and a half hours? Appalling. And confusing. OK, she’d stayed longer than she’d planned, had gotten involved with the relics, but – four and a half hours?

Damn. She’d also missed a bunch of calls, hadn’t heard her phone ringing down the hall. She played back the first voicemail.

‘Where. Hoppa? OK?’ Oh boy. Hank hardly ever called, didn’t feel comfortable on the phone. Must really be worried.

The next call began. ‘Harper, it’s four fifteen.’

Oh God. Leslie. Harper had forgotten all about their four o’clock appointment. Had missed it entirely.

‘Are you coming? Give me a call.’

Harper’s face got hot, mortified. Leslie had done her a favor, squeezing her into a busy schedule as an emergency, and she’d simply
forgotten
to go? She thought about the flashback, remembered standing on the sidewalk, trying to arrest a mannequin. No question, she needed to see Leslie. Needed to call and apologize. Reschedule. Oh man.

The light changed, but Harper stayed near the curb, listening to the rest of the messages. Hank had called again. ‘OK you? Hoppa? Call me.’

Oh dear. How could she explain herself? She’d apologize. Admit that she’d been selfish  . . .

But a man’s voice whispered from the phone. Hoarse. Raspy.

‘Be careful, Harper. They almost got me today.’ Burke Everett. He was panting. Possibly hurt? ‘They might come after you, too, so watch your back. I’m trying to lose them, but they’re everywhere and—’

Harper sighed, pushed the ‘end’ button. She had enough on her mind without Burke’s paranoid ranting. She’d screwed up, needed to get home and make amends, first to Hank, then to Leslie. She sped through dark streets, planning what she’d say, how she’d explain. Not noticing the rented black sedan closing in on her until it almost ran into the Ninja. At the last second, Harper realized the car wasn’t going to slow, and she swerved right, nearly smashing a parked car, flying past it up on to the sidewalk, avoiding a startled pedestrian walking his corgi. Barely righting her bike and stopping as the sedan sped away.

‘Did you see that?’ she sputtered.

‘What’s the matter with you? You could kill somebody,’ the man scolded. ‘Keep that thing off the walkway.’ Scowling under the streetlight, he turned and walked away.

Harper stared at him, then the street. She took several slow deep breaths, muttered some curse words, and walked the Ninja through parked cars, on to the asphalt, climbed on and rode home. Finally, prepared to gush apologies on to her husband, she pulled into her driveway and noticed that, though the fraternity next door was decorated and blazing with light, the windows of her house were completely dark.

Harper parked her bike and stood for a moment, chewing her lip, watching the house. Picturing Hank sitting inside, alone in darkness, deep in another bout of depression. Maybe drinking? And it was her fault – she’d known his moods were fragile; Leslie had warned that he was struggling emotionally.

And then, she’d disappeared on him. She’d said she was coming home, but hadn’t, reminding him, once again, of how dependent he was, how powerless he felt. He couldn’t reach her by phone. Hadn’t driven since his accident, so couldn’t go looking for her. Couldn’t figure out where she’d gone, why she hadn’t returned. Could only sit and wait, helplessly.

Oh God. She’d really messed up.

But, hell, she’d only been gone a few hours. Was that a crime? Was Hank so fragile that he’d panic if she spent one single afternoon somewhere without telling him? And if he was indeed that fragile, how long could he – how long could either of them – stand it?

Music blared from the fraternity.
The Monster Mash
. A Halloween oldie. Oh Lord. It was going to be a long party weekend. Homecoming Saturday. Halloween Sunday. Hank’s depression every day  . . .

But she was getting ahead of herself, making assumptions – she needed to go inside and talk to Hank. Turn on some lights. Apologize. Taking in a deep breath, Harper straightened, took her bag out of the Ninja’s storage box and started along the row of Hemlocks toward the house. The music had changed. The trees, the ground, and Harper’s nerves vibrated to
Bad Moon Rising
.

Harper let herself into the house, turned on the light in the entranceway. Called out Hank’s name. Heard no answer. Tossed her bag on to the hall table and saw light spilling from his office near the back of the house. She hurried toward it, eager to see him. Passing the kitchen, she realized she’d underestimated him. She’d been wrong to think he’d so easily fall apart and mope, sitting alone in the dark. Hank was strong, resilient. He was in his office, no doubt, reading some obscure geology journal article on his computer. Everything was fine; she’d apologize for being late, for losing track of the time. And he’d understand.

‘Hank?’ She approached his office door. Again, Hank didn’t answer. Didn’t come out to meet her. Harper stopped, listening to his silence, remembering his accident, his fall from the roof. She closed her eyes; saw him sliding over the shingles, falling. Hitting his head against concrete. Oddly, in the same moment, she saw a black sedan close in on her Ninja, nearly hitting it  . . . Felt the surge of the motorcycle as she swerved away just in time  . . .

‘Hank!’ Still she didn’t move. She stood at the door, calling his name louder this time, again picturing the car coming out of the darkness, straight at her. Deliberately. Accelerating. Aiming? Was it possible that Burke was right? Were people actually coming after her? Had they already been there – was Hank all right?

‘Hank?’ This time, her voice was edgy and ragged. She thrust herself into the office, scanning the desk chair, the big leather easy chair, the carpet, the corners  . . . ‘Hank,’ she called as she spun around, looking again. ‘Hank,’ she repeated over and over. First as a question, later as a wail. But Hank didn’t appear. Nor did he answer.

Oh God.

Harper went through the house, quietly now, turning on every light as she went. Hank wasn’t in the kitchen. Not in the powder room, dining room, living room. Harper’s chest tightened; breathing was an effort. She kept seeing his accident, watched him fall, over and over. No, she wouldn’t go there, wouldn’t relive it. Needed to stay in the moment. To find Hank. Climbing the stairs, to the dark second story, she felt a sharp pang in her stomach. Clutched it. And heard Leslie’s voice: ‘He’s struggling more than he lets on  . . . I’d keep a close eye on him if I were you.’

Harper stopped, suddenly chilled. Shivering. Again picturing Hank alone in the house, depressed. Unable to reach her. Feeling abandoned and hopeless  . . .

No. Ridiculous. Unthinkable. Hank would never hurt himself. Never. Not ever. No.

Still, Harper remained on the steps, unable to move. Unable to shake her icy paralysing fear of what she might find at the top of the staircase.

‘Hank?’ Her voice this time was thin. Broken.

He probably just dozed off, she told herself. Probably was asleep.

Unconvinced, her feet refused to move, and she had to force them up the final few steps. Had to push herself on to the landing, down the hall into the bedroom.

Where she found Hank.

He was standing by the window, staring out at the fraternity. His back to her.

‘Hank?’

He didn’t answer. Turned slowly to face her.

‘Didn’t you hear me?’ Harper was annoyed. ‘I’ve been calling your name – why didn’t you answer?’

His voice was low. ‘Why didn’t
you
? Answer? Phone.’

Harper switched on the light. Hank was still in his robe. Unshaven. Hadn’t gotten dressed all day.

‘Called you.’ Hank glowered.

‘I know – I’m sorry. I didn’t hear the phone.’ He hadn’t gotten dressed again. Had he stayed in the bedroom all day? ‘Look, I’m sorry. I messed up. I got involved with the Langston project – it turns out Zina was most likely killed by her own family. Some kind of horrible honor killing. But, if that’s the case, there’s no danger to anyone else, and I might as well take it. So I went over just to take a look for a few minutes, and I lost track of—’

‘Friend came. Here.’ Hank’s eyes sizzled. He wasn’t even listening. ‘Burke. Iraq from.’

What? ‘Burke? Came here?’

‘Told me. You saw him.’

Damn. What had Burke done? Had he shown up at the house and told Hank the whole cockamamie story about Colonel? That his militia was out to assassinate them both? No wonder Hank had been upset when he couldn’t reach her.

‘I told you about him, remember? Burke’s got some serious mental issues. I guess the war messed him—’

‘Not told me. Burke’s story. About. Not told me. Zina’s job. Took. Lots. Hoppa.’ Hank didn’t move. He stood at the window, broad shoulders stiff. Jaw tight. ‘Why? Don’t trust. Me?’

‘That’s ridiculous.’ Harper wanted to go to him, touch him. She took a step forward, but stopped, held back by his glare. ‘Of course I trust you.’

‘Then tell me. Now.’

Oh God. Where to start? ‘OK. Burke came into town. We met for coffee, and he started making wild accusations about some guys we knew in Iraq. He’s paranoid.’

‘And?’

And?

‘Burke. And. What else?’

What else? ‘Oh. You mean the assistantship?’

He stared, didn’t reply.

‘OK.’ She swallowed. Took a breath. ‘I know I told you I’d turn it down. But that was because of the murder, right? But this morning, I found out about Zina’s family – they thought she’d disgraced them by refusing an arranged marriage and probably killed her.’

‘And? Also?’

‘Also what?’

Hank stepped forward, a towering, lumbering infuriated bear. His mouth twisted into a grimace. ‘Also. About. Us.’

Us?

‘Not tell me. Not talk to me. Not trust. Not good. Not. Us.’

Oh God. ‘Hank – how can you say that? We’re good. I do trust you  . . .’

He moved past her, toward the door.

‘OK. Lately, I’ve held things back. But the only reason I’ve done that is that you’ve been depressed. I haven’t wanted to upset you—’

‘Depressed. Me?’ He spun around more quickly than she’d thought he could. ‘Think. So?’

‘Yes, but I get it – you have a right to be.’ She stepped toward him. Again felt the invisible wall. ‘I understand you have to work through your feelings after everything—’

‘Think I can’t. Manage? Need my. Wife. Protecting. Me?’

‘Of course not, don’t even—’

‘Think. I’m not. Strong. Man?’

‘—suggest that!’

‘Maybe. Hoppa.’ He turned, walked out of the bedroom. ‘Maybe. Right.’

Harper followed him down the hall, talking to him. Telling him to stop. To sit down and talk. But Hank ignored her. Pulling off his bathrobe, he pulled on jeans, a jacket, stepped into his new boots, stopped at the door to point to the hall table.

‘Burke. Phone. Number,’ he said. Then he left.

Harper started after him, opened the front door, but stopped. What was she going to do – wrestle him to the ground? Force him back into the house? She bit her lip, refused tears. Hank was going through a phase, wavering between sadness and anger, just as she’d done after her war injuries. His moods were natural, inevitable. And he needed to work through them on his own. She hadn’t helped by going AWOL that afternoon, but he’d forgive her in time. They’d talk. He’d be all right. They’d be all right.

Wouldn’t they?

She stood in the hall, facing the door, hoping he’d come back inside. After all, Hank wouldn’t go far. Would he? She watched the door.

Damn. Harper couldn’t help it. She hurried after him on to the front porch;
Season of the Witch
blasted from next door. But where was Hank? She looked around. Scolded herself for upsetting him. She was supposed to be there for him, helping him through this crisis. Instead, she’d gone off on her own without even telling him, just to look at some relics – well, some incredible relics. But she hadn’t even considered how he’d feel  . . .

Nearby, through the music, she thought she heard the revving of a car’s engine. And suddenly, Hank’s Jeep, parked for months in the garage beside the house, zoomed in reverse down the driveway into the street, jerked into drive and sped away.

Harper stood in the middle of the front yard, chilled and ankle-deep in leaves, her mouth hanging open. Hank hadn’t driven in over a year, not since his accident. His right side was weaker than the left. Would he be able to steer? To control the gas and brake? Damn it. What was he doing?