Summer Session

by Merry Jones

  Looking down at the stream, she was again aware of the bike, sensed that something about it wasn’t right. Glancing back, she saw what it was: in ninety-degree heat, the rider was wearing a hooded sweatshirt. With the hood up.

  Instinctively, Harper picked up her pace. No one else was around, and she was suddenly aware that only a thin layer of swaying walkway separated her from an abyss of empty air.

  Calm down, she told herself. There’s no reason to think that guy intends any harm. She stopped walking to let him pass. But he didn’t pass. He pedaled right behind her, moving at her pace. Maybe she knew him? Harper turned, looked directly at his face and saw a ski mask. A ski mask? In this heat?

  Harper smelled smoke, heard warning shots, spun around and hurried ahead, her left leg unsteady. No mistake: the guy was following her. Who was he? What did he want? Was he a robber, a rapist? Damn. Breaking into a run, Harper thought of the gun in Graham’s book bag. Could she unzip the bag and pull it out in time? Maybe she’d be better off sticking her strong leg out, knocking the bike over as it neared. Or rushing him, shoving him off balance. Before she could decide, the bike caught up to her; the rider’s arm jutted out and grabbed the strap of Graham’s book bag, knocking Harper off her feet, dragging her.

  Reflexively, Harper bent her arm, locking the bag against her body, not letting go. The rider had underestimated her strength; his bike jammed, bucking, and he half fell, half jumped off, his face hidden under his woolen mask. He was taller than Harper, more muscular, and he wrestled for the bag, shoving her against the railing, pummeling her head. Harper fought back, ducking his punches, kneeing him in the groin, pounding his gut even as he landed several neat jabs to the sides of her skull. She kept fighting as pain and light flashed in her head, and the tunnel vision of war took over, focusing her completely on the battle, blocking out all else. Except, oddly, for the smell of peppermint. Peppermint? Her attacker was sucking a breath mint? She dodged a fist and grabbed his arm, scratching deep under the sleeve, tearing skin off, drawing blood. Harper hung on to the bag with a death grip, trained never to separate from her gear.

  But the guy would not stop. His arms closed around her waist and, while she punched and kicked, he lifted her, hefting her until her waist was level with the spikes of the bridge railing, the gorge gaping hungrily below. She grabbed for the spikes as a handhold, felt them dig into her belly, and her mind grappled with the news that her feet were no longer in contact with the bridge, that she was dangling in air. That her life was in the hands of a masked, peppermint-scented mountain biker who was wordlessly about to heave her off the bridge.

  Harper opened her mouth to yell for help but swallowed air, making no sound. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t do anything but swim frantically through air and grab hold of the railing, letting go of Graham’s book bag and her big leather sack. Of everything but her life.

  As soon as she released the book bag, the rider dropped her and snatched it up, speeding away on the bike, leaving Harper on her knees in the middle of the bridge, dazed, bruised and indignant.

  Slowly, cautiously, Harper got to her feet and took inventory, assessing the damage. Skin had been scraped off her knuckles, her head had been throttled, and her cheek bled where she’d been punched. She’d landed on knees and elbows when the guy had released her, and the jolt of impact reverberated through her bad leg. She felt off balance, dizzy with vertigo. Wiping a trickle of blood off her face, she decided her injuries were minor and stumbled back toward the campus side of the now-deserted bridge.

  Explosives flashed in her peripheral vision, and she heard blasts of gunfire. Keep going, she told herself. Do not have another flashback. She was still alive, hadn’t been dropped into the gorge. Her head throbbed, but she wasn’t tottering off her feet. Even now, she had reasons, however feeble, to be thankful.

  Clinging to the guard rail, dragging her leather bag, she moved cautiously, painfully, to the end of the bridge. Finally on solid ground, she took refuge under a cluster of trees, eyes closed, catching her breath, regaining her equilibrium. When she felt steadier, she looked around.

  Not ten feet away along a wooded path, among a clump of weeds, was Graham’s book bag.

  Why would someone be willing to kill her for the bag, only to toss it seconds later?

  Aching, wincing, Harper got to her feet and picked it up. Contents were strewn across the ground. Graham’s papers, textbook. Phone, keys and snacks. No money. No gun. And no pill bottle.

  No surprise.

  Harper looked around; nothing else lay abandoned on the ground. Damn, her head hurt. So did her leg. So did the rest of her. Who the hell had been on the bike? Who had even known that she had Graham’s book bag?

  Larry knew. And, of course, Ron. But neither of them would attack her. Maybe Larry had told someone else that she had the bag. But who? And why? Who would try to kill her for six hundred dollars, a gun and a few pills?

  Harper held her leather sack to her chest and looked around, searching the space between tree trunks and hedges, seeing not a single soul. Above her, tree branches shook. Harper dove behind a forsythia bush, peered out.

  A squirrel, she told herself. It was just a squirrel jumping branches. There was no one, nothing to fight. The guy on the bike was gone. She was alone.

  Harper limped past Balch and Ridley dorms toward Noyes Lodge where she was to meet Detective Rivers, painfully aware that she had no gun, no money. No pills. Nothing substantial to give her. Harper was furious with herself. Somebody had attacked her and, for all her combat experience and training, she hadn’t taken him down. She couldn’t even identify him or his bike. All she knew was that he’d been strong enough to lift a furious five-foot-three-and-a-quarter-inch, hundred-thirty-pound woman easily off her feet. And that he chewed breath mints.

  Sore and bruised, she made it to the deck behind Noyes, where Detective Rivers waited at an outdoor table.

  Rivers got to her feet, open-mouthed. ‘What the hell happened?’

  Harper stuffed the book bag into the detective’s arms, plopped on to a chair and told her.

  Detective Rivers fished some cubes out of her iced coffee, wrapped them in a tissue and pressed the wad against a cut on Harper’s cheek. She wanted Harper to go to the hospital.

  ‘One pupil is dilated. You might have a concussion.’

  ‘I do have a concussion. But I’m not going to the hospital. They’ll just tell me to rest.’

  ‘I got to tell you, Mrs Jennings, you look awful.’

  ‘I’ll be OK. Really. I’ve been hurt a lot worse than this.’

  Rivers shook her head.

  ‘I’m a vet.’

  ‘Yeah?’ The detective looked surprised. ‘Really? Where?’

  ‘Iraq. Mostly north of Baghdad.’

  ‘Huh. Interesting.’ She smirked. ‘You don’t seem military.’

  Whatever that meant. ‘I’ve got the scars to prove it.’ Harper rubbed her aching leg.

  ‘My whole family’s army. Four generations. We were in the First and Second Wars. Korea. Dad was Nam. I got a baby brother in Afghanistan.’

  ‘How’s he doing?’ Harper didn’t know what else to say.

  ‘Still breathing. At least he was on Saturday. He calls my mom. So what were you? Army? Guard?’

  ‘Army. I got out as first lieutenant. ROTC in college.’

  Detective Rivers nodded. ‘So I was right; you were never a grunt.’ She pulled on a pair of latex gloves, unzipped the book bag and began digging around. ‘A vet, huh. Well, even for a seasoned war vet like you, Mrs Jennings, that scene today has to be tough. It sure is for me. In fact, for me, today is as bad as it gets. When I see a dead kid, especially a suicide, I wonder why I do this. There’s got to be better ways to earn a buck.’

  Harper agreed. Seeing dead kids sucked. She blinked, erasing the boy with no face.

  ‘So. Why’d you look inside?’

  Inside? Harper blinked, confused.

  ‘You opened the book bag. Why?’
>
  Oh, the book bag. ‘I was looking for an ID. To make sure whose it was.’ Actually, she couldn’t remember.

  Detective Rivers eyed her, all business, like an MP. ‘And that’s how you found the gun.’ She sifted through textbooks, notepads, half-eaten snacks. ‘So the guy who mugged you, he took the gun and the money. Anything else missing?’

  ‘A bottle of pills. It was there earlier, but I didn’t find it with the other stuff.’ Harper put the ice against her temple, pressing on the pain.

  ‘Pills?’ Detective Rivers cocked her head. ‘What kind of pills?’

  ‘I don’t know. The label didn’t have a name. It just had a code on it. RKM . . . 93? Something like that.’

  The detective’s eyes riveted on Harper. ‘You’re sure. RKM93?’

  Harper pictured the vial. ‘No. Not positive.’

  ‘Did the label have a pharmacy name?’

  ‘No – just the name of the Neurological Center.’

  Detective Rivers set the bag down, drew a deep breath. ‘Who else knew about this bag? Did you tell anyone that you had it? Or what was in it?’

  Harper hesitated. She’d already considered Ron and Larry and decided that neither would hurt her. Even so, she had to answer. ‘I discussed the pills with my husband’s doctor at the Neurological Center. And Graham’s room-mate knew about the money. I don’t know if he knew about the gun.’

  ‘Forget the gun.’ Detective Rivers snapped. ‘I’m interested in the pills.’

  ‘The pills?’

  Detective Rivers pursed her lips. ‘This isn’t public information, Mrs Jennings, OK? Back in May, we had a coed jump into the gorge. A week later, a kid drove his Wrangler into the lake. Same weekend, we had a series of rapes; all four victims accused a student in College Town. And a few weeks later – you must remember – we had an arsonist setting residence fires along Dryden Road. An exchange student – an English kid – died in one. We’re pretty sure he was the arsonist.’

  Harper didn’t remember the incidents; for the last several weeks, she’d been completely absorbed by Hank’s condition. But she didn’t see what the detective was getting at. The sad reality was that some students suffered depression and committed suicide by jumping off bridges. And students drove recklessly, sometimes drunk, and had terrible accidents. And, statistically speaking, out of the tens of thousands of people on campus, someone was sooner or later bound to be a rapist or an arsonist. So what was the point here? Why was Detective Rivers seemingly recounting every tragic incident that had occurred to students in Ithaca that spring?

  ‘Thing is, it could be pure coincidence. But in investigating each of those events, we found bottles of pills from the Neurological Center. They had no name, just a code number. RKM93.’

  Harper blinked, heard gunfire, hunkered down. What were those pills? Did Ron know about the other incidents? He must. The police would have told him. But why hadn’t he told her about them? Maybe, she reasoned, because he knew the pills had nothing to do with them.

  ‘Well, if you knew the pills came from the Center, why didn’t you talk to people there? They’d tell you what they were.’

  Charlene Rivers smiled. Her smile was a grim-looking thing, twisting downward at the sides. ‘Good idea, Mrs Jennings. In fact, we did. I did. Personally.’

  She paused, losing the smile. ‘They told me the drug isn’t related to the deaths. It’s some new wonder drug, a miracle designed to enhance learning or improve memory. Something like that. They said a few thousand people had been testing it. It’s actually in final trials, and the FDA is about to approve it.’

  ‘Really?’ If it were such a miracle drug, so widely tested, then wouldn’t Ron have recognized its code on Graham’s vial?

  ‘Mrs Jennings, did you know they pay people to test experimental drugs? Kids here on campus, for example. If they’re over eighteen years of age, kids can get paid to take drugs. Perfect, huh?’

  Detective Rivers didn’t expect and Harper didn’t give an answer. She was pondering why Dr Ron Kendall hadn’t recognized the code on the vial. Or had pretended not to.

  ‘So. Graham Reynolds. Another dead kid carrying RKM93. In two months, in addition to the fires and rapes, we’ve got, what, four bodies?’ Detective Rivers zipped the book bag closed. ‘Could be a coincidence.’ She removed her gloves. ‘Probably is. I mean, over the past six months, hundreds of people around here have been taking this drug, and we’re talking about what – seven or eight incidents? Do the math. It’s not all that high of a percentage. Still. It makes you think.’

  But Harper couldn’t think. Her head was bruised and her mind was tangled.

  ‘Mrs Jennings, lots of violence is associated with those pills. Suicides, arsons, rapes. So those pills trouble me. We don’t know for certain that they played a role in your attack. But just in case there’s a connection, I think you should take extra precautions. For your safety.’

  Precautions? Harper pictured firearms, helmets.

  ‘For starters, don’t wander around alone. In fact, don’t be alone.’

  Harper sighed. ‘Don’t worry, Detective. I’ll be fine.’

  Detective Rivers eyed her, unconvinced, and she took down Larry and Ron’s names, mentioning that she’d already met Dr Kendall. She asked if Harper remembered anything else about her assault and filled out a report detailing what had happened on the bridge. Harper held on to melting ice cubes, focusing on their numbing coldness to ground herself in the present, resisting flickering images of Sameh and Marvin, ignoring explosions that threatened to storm her mind.

  Detective Rivers had been reluctant to drop Harper at the parking lot; she’d wanted to take her to the hospital. But Harper had been adamant. She rode home on her Ninja and trudged into the house, dropping her heavy leather sack on to the kitchen counter, checking the clock. She had barely half an hour to clean up and get to her appointment with Leslie. Head pulsing, she plodded to the first-floor bathroom and ran the shower above the claw-footed tub.

  Wincing as her wounds met water, Harper considered the possibility of ever again taking an actual bath. She pictured sinking into bubbles scented with jasmine, leaning back against the porcelain, soaking until the water got cool. Someday she’d do that. But not yet. For now, she’d stick to the comfort zone of her combat shower. Habit and training allowed thirty seconds to get wet, sixty to scrub, ninety to rinse. Rinsing, standing under warm streaming water, Harper closed her eyes. Graham stared up at her from the depths of the gorge. She turned off the water, stepped out of the tub, wrapped herself tightly in thick terry cloth.

  Even later, when she was dry and dressed, she couldn’t shake the sensation that the ground beneath her was giving way and that she faced an impending endless fall.

  By the time Chelsea Johnson got off work, she’d almost forgotten about the guy. He’d said he’d be waiting for her, but lots of guys hit on her and she hadn’t taken him seriously. Even so, there he was, leaning against a blue Chrysler convertible, gazing up at the sky.

  She snuck up behind him, making her first mistake, and covered his eyes with her hands.

  ‘Guess who—’

  He spun around before she finished asking, smacking her head, yanking her by the hair. ‘Jesus. Don’t ever do that.’ He released her hair.

  ‘Hell with you – I was just fooling around.’ There were tears in her eyes. She was done, turning, walking away.

  ‘Hey, wait.’ He put a hand on her arm. ‘You all right? Chelsea? Look, I didn’t mean to snap. It was just – you know – a reflex. Involuntary. You shouldn’t sneak up on somebody.’ Gently, he led her back to the car, opened the passenger door. ‘Come on.’

  Chelsea hesitated. Her chin wobbled.

  ‘Please?’ He had a puppy-dog smile. Sad, pleading eyes. A few zits, but he was buffed, and his eyes just wouldn’t let go. She got in, making her second mistake, and when he helped with her seat belt, she let his arm brush against her breast.

  ‘What’s with the seat?’ Green plastic lined
the passenger side.

  ‘Sorry. My buddy got drunk and tore up the leather. I’m having it fixed, but meantime this’ll do.’ He popped a pill and handed her a flask.

  Chelsea sipped, tasted fruity punch.

  ‘You like it?’

  Chelsea drank some more, nodded. ‘It’s sweet. What’s in it?’

  Larry grinned. ‘My specialty. A little of everything.’

  She took another long swig, her final mistake. ‘So where we going?’ She shouted to be heard over the music.

  The top was down; his hair ruffled, dancing in the wind. ‘Buddy of mine has a place by the lake.’ He reached over and gave her left breast a squeeze.

  Chelsea smirked, pushing his hand away, shaking her pointer finger. College boys were nothing new to her. She knew how they liked to party. Fact was, Chelsea liked to party, too, but she’d been around enough to know how to pace herself. If she wanted Mr Chrysler to stick around, she’d have to be careful about how hard and fast she played. She leaned back, drinking some more. It had been a long day at the coffee shop, and, now that she was sitting down, she felt it. Her feet throbbed; legs ached. The wind in her face made her eyes burn; she shut them, taking sips from the flask, listening to the music, the engine and the wind. Drifting.

  The truth was that Larry had planned to mess with her, not necessarily to kill her. That part solidified when she fucking snuck up on him, startling the shit out of him. What was she – a moron? From then on, everything about her irritated him. Her coarse, trailer-trash voice. Her cheap rhinestone nails. And all those rings; did she think she could mesmerize men with the motions of her fingers? Like a damn belly dancer? Even her tits pissed him off. They were puffy round ones, and she used them as a lure, pushing them up, showing them off. She was so damned transparent. And so stupid. Even after he slapped her, she got into the car, simply because he looked sad.