by Merry Jones
‘Who’s there?’ Her voice sounded raspy and thread-like, not as she’d intended.
There, behind the tree. Something had definitely moved. She stiffened, kept perfectly still. Nothing. A limb rattled above her head. Harper jumped to her feet, took a fighting stance, legs tensed. But the limb was silent again. It was nothing, she told herself. A bat or an owl. Behind her, something swished in the bushes. A fox, she reasoned. Or raccoon looking for dinner. Nothing lethal. Even so, she waved the light with anxious hands, looking for a murderer.
Cut it out, Harper told herself. Get on with it and find the damned phone. Rotating, trying not to lose her balance, she cast the frail beam in a circle around her feet. And there it was. Not a yard away, at the edge of the path. She scooped it up, brushed it off, tested it for a dial tone and, without taking the time to see who’d called, dropped it back into her bag, hurrying ahead. As she walked, Harper looked around to see if anyone was behind her. On a bike to grab her, or on foot to bash her on the head. She watched, making sure that the sounds she heard were merely those of the woods at night, but saw no one.
Except for Sameh and the boy with no face, Harper was alone.
Eight twenty-seven. Limping and winded, Harper waved at the guard and stopped at reception to scribble her name in the visitor’s book. And then, without catching her breath, she hurried to Hank’s room. By clinic time, it was late. He’d be in bed, probably watching television. Probably wondering where she was. The closer she got, the more anxious she was to find out the truth. No matter what it was, she told herself to give him a chance. If he admitted his mistake and begged for forgiveness, she might not strangle him.
When the elevator reached his floor, she dashed past the nursing station, not even slowing down when a nurse called out. ‘Harper? Wait. He’s been waiting for you—’
‘I know. Thanks.’ Harper hurried down the hall to his door, dizzy, head pounding. Just a few more steps. Finally, she grabbed the handle, flung the door open.
‘Hank,’ she began. ‘I have something to—’
She stopped mid-sentence. Hank wasn’t in the bed. The bed lamp was the only light on, so the room was dim. Hank was standing at the window, looking out at the driveway below.
He turned, scowling. ‘Waiting.’
He walked toward her slowly, on his own. No walker. Not even a cane. He wobbled unevenly, but then so did she.
‘Hank.’ Her jaw dropped. ‘Look at you, how you’re walking—’
‘No. Look. You.’
He glowered so darkly that, as he neared her, Harper took an unintended step back.
‘Tell.’
Tell? ‘Tell what?’
‘Not.’ He pointed to the television. ‘Killed.’
What? This wasn’t the conversation she’d planned.
‘Killed. Saw. Home. You.’
Oh God.
‘Tell. Me. Hoppa. Killed.’ He put his hands on her shoulders and faced her, studying her severely, waiting. ‘What.’ His gaze held her eyes, seared her face.
Harper stood dumbstruck. Hank had seen the news. The story about Larry and Monique must have been the lead; the reporters had been standing in front of their house. Understandably, Hank was upset. More than upset. His eyes were on fire. Why hadn’t she anticipated his reaction? It hadn’t even occurred to her that, of course, he would watch television, find out about the murders. And that when she’d been late for their nightly visit, he must have become frantic about her safety, unable to ask anyone how or where she was.
Harper didn’t know how to answer him. Didn’t have the energy to explain. Instead, she threw her arms around him, pressed herself against him, tried to hold on. But Hank would have none of it. He moved her away, resisting the embrace.
‘Tell.’
‘Hank. Don’t worry. Everything’s OK—’
He leaned over, glowering. ‘Stew. Not.’ He shook his head, frustrated. ‘Pid. Me.’
Harper juggled the syllables, felt a pang. ‘No, you’re not stupid.’
‘Else. What.’ He glared, unforgiving.
What else? He wanted to know everything? Oh God.
‘Lies. Tell. Hoppa.’ He took her head in his hands, pressing on her lump, radiating pain. Harper refused to wince, hoped he couldn’t feel the swelling.
‘No, Hank. That’s not fair. I haven’t lied to you.’
‘Jump.’
What? He knew about Graham? How?
‘What jump?’ She played dumb. Maybe she was misunderstanding him.
‘Dead. Jump. Him.’ Again, he pointed to the television. Damn.
He knew about Graham. And who knew what else. What had they said on the news? Had they connected Graham’s suicide to the murders? They must have. Larry and Graham were room-mates, both dead within days. Both her students.
Hank waited; her skin sizzled from his glare.
‘Can we sit down?’
He didn’t move, didn’t sit, but at least he released her head.
‘Hank, I haven’t lied to you. But you’re right. I haven’t told you everything that’s happened. I didn’t want to upset you.’
His jaw clenched, but he said nothing.
‘I thought you needed to concentrate on your recuperation. I didn’t want to distract you. What would be the point? Why trouble you with things that . . .’
She stopped. They both knew what she’d been about to ask: Why trouble him with things that he couldn’t do anything about? Essentially saying that Hank couldn’t function the way he used to. That Hank couldn’t protect her or their home. That he was too damaged even to handle the truth.
Her aborted sentence and its unspoken ending jarred him, and he moved away, sat slumped on the side of the bed, not looking at her.
Harper didn’t go to him. ‘Hank—’
He put up a hand, stopping her. ‘Get. It.’
‘I didn’t mean—’
‘Now. Not. Say.’
She regretted her words, understood his lonely frustration. And she ached, physically ached, for the comfort of his body, his strong familiar arms. Pained, unable to give or receive solace, she watched him for a while. Then, without a kiss, without even mentioning Vicki, she went to the door, her throat too tight even to say goodnight.
Again, passing the nursing station, Harper heard her name.
‘Was he OK?’ one of the nurses, Linda, called from the desk. ‘I tried to warn you; Mr Jennings has been inconsolable ever since he watched the news. Usually, we think it’s good for the patients to watch, you know, to keep in touch with what’s going on, but we had no idea.’
Harper was in no mood for conversation. She kept moving, but the nurse kept talking.
‘It’s sounded awful, what happened. On the news, they said those kids were your students. Do they know who did it?’
‘I’m sorry.’ Harper hurried to the stairway, avoiding the wait for the elevator. She made it to the lobby at about the same time she realized that she didn’t have the stomach to go back to Vicki’s or the ability to go home. That’s when she saw Ron, sitting on the sign-in desk, watching her. Frowning.
‘I thought I’d been stood up.’
What? Harper was baffled.
‘It’s after nine. We were supposed to meet at eight thirty.’
They were? Oh God – yes, they were. She’d completely forgotten. She’d agreed to have dinner with him. He had something to explain to her. Something about the drugs.
‘Oh Lord, Ron. I’m sorry—’
‘I’ve been calling, but you didn’t pick up.’ His eyes were strained. Tired? ‘And when you didn’t show, given all that’s happened, I figured—’
‘Sorry.’
‘No, don’t apologize. Are you all right? After what you’ve been through, it’s amazing you’re even standing.’
Ron knew what had happened? Oh, of course, he did: the news. That’s how Hank knew. That’s how, apparently, everybody knew.
‘I figured you’d come to see your husband, so I checked the sign-in book and
saw your name. So I waited. Thought you might need to eat.’ He studied her face, knitting his eyebrows. Looking her over, head to toe.
Harper looked down, saw the knees of her khaki capris covered with dirt and moss stains from her fall. Her nails were filled with soil from crawling in the woods, searching for her phone. And who knew what her face looked like? She’d showered before leaving Vicki’s, but no one would guess. She was a disaster.
But Ron didn’t seem to notice. He was concerned about the murdered students and the upheaval at her home. And most of all, about her state of mind. His arm coiled around her, leading her to his car, and, before she knew it, they were seated at a corner table in a restaurant where the lights were so low nobody could see what a mess she was. Especially not Ron.
Ron listened attentively, and Harper didn’t hold back. Words spilled; sentences poured. She repeated her theory that Larry had stolen the drugs. That Graham might have been his partner. Or maybe Monique. Or both. She reeled at the number of students who were dead, but kept control, swallowing her emotions with hot tea.
As she spoke, though, control became more difficult. When her voice wavered, Ron took her hand and assured her that the crimes would be solved. ‘This will work out,’ he promised. ‘The murderer will get caught.’
Harper tilted her head. ‘How can you be sure?’
‘Think about it. The guy is out of control, killing too many too fast. In just a couple of days, he’s murdered a waitress and two students. He’s losing it; he’ll make mistakes. They’ll catch him.’
‘You think it’s just one guy?’
Ron hesitated. ‘Yes, of course.’
Harper wasn’t sure. ‘Well, he better pray the cops find him before I do. The dude went into my house. He killed my students. On my property. This is personal; between him and me, it’s war.’ Harper spoke too loud. A man at a nearby table twisted his neck, looking at her.
Ron peered at her through the candlelight. ‘Harper, I’m worried about you.’
He was? Really? Harper swallowed more tea. ‘Don’t be. I’m fine.’ But she was still off balance, and her pulse was racing.
‘How’s your head?’
How did he know about her head injury? Had she told him? She couldn’t remember. Maybe it had been on the news. Or maybe he meant her old head injury, from the mugging. ‘It’s OK. No big deal.’
Silence while she sipped tea.
Ron watched her, grim-faced.
‘Really. Thanks for caring. I’m fine.’
Ron looked away. Sipped his Martini. ‘So. Any idea who the guy is?’
‘Not who.’ Harper lowered her voice. ‘But I think I know why.’
‘Really?’ Ron’s eyes riveted hers.
She leaned forward, closer to him. ‘Those drugs. It has to be. First, the guy mugged me. He must have thought they were in Graham’s bag. But he didn’t find them there, so he searched my house. And, again, he found nothing. So he still thinks I have them—’
‘But Harper, a whole bin of drugs was stolen. They wouldn’t fit in a book bag.’
Harper was unfazed. ‘But some of them would.’
Ron looked doubtful.
‘OK, I don’t know exactly what he wanted – the actual pills or money for them or what. But it was something to do with the drugs. I’m sure of it.’
Ron pursed his lips, thinking. ‘Except for one thing.’
‘What?’
‘Let’s say you’re right, and Larry, Graham and Monique stole the drugs. Graham was already dead. So who killed Larry and Monique?’
Good point. Someone else had to be involved.
Ron cleared his throat. ‘Harper. Leave it alone. There’s more to this than you’re aware of.’
More? Harper’s pulse picked up. She heard a bang and looked up, expecting to see pieces of Marvin. But all she saw was Ron, his liquid, golden eyes.
As if on cue, the waiter appeared to take their orders.
‘How about a steak?’ They hadn’t even glanced at the menus.
Harper shrugged. She wasn’t hungry, didn’t care about food. She wanted to hear what Ron had to say.
Ron ordered. The waiter left, and Harper waited for Ron to pick up where he’d left off. He didn’t. She had to ask. When she did, Ron took a swig of his Martini before answering.
‘I’m trying to decide how to phrase it. But I can’t think of a delicate way, so I’ll just say it. Our research indicates that, in extremely rare and unlikely circumstances, the missing drugs can have unanticipated adverse side effects.’
Harper sifted through syllables to grasp Ron’s meaning. Side effects? ‘But you said the pills were benign.’
‘Absolutely. In proper dosages. But—’
‘What kind of side effects?’ In the dim light, Ron seemed fuzzy, as if his skin lacked definition; as if he might fade into darkness.
Ron drew an audible breath. ‘Let me explain. This drug works by stimulating specific parts of the frontal lobe. In trials, that stimulation has significantly enhanced memory and facilitated several processes involved in learning. In short, it’s proved to be a miracle drug.’
He paused.
Harper waited. Bottom line, the drug helped memory and learning. She’d already known that. ‘The side effects. Tell me.’
‘Well, that’s just it. In normal dosages, when the drug is taken for limited durations, there don’t appear to be any side effects at all. It’s only when it’s taken in large doses or over extended time periods that undesired effects might arise. Mind you, they don’t always arise. But testing has shown that the drug can over-stimulate the hippocampus.’
The hippocampus? Harper tried to call up fifteen-year-old information from her undergraduate psychology classes. No luck. She had no idea what a hippocampus did. But she didn’t want to sound stupid, so she didn’t ask.
Instead, she asked, ‘Causing what to happen?’
‘Let me repeat.’ Ron leaned across the table; his voice was hushed. ‘The side effects appeared only rarely when the drug was taken in large dosages or over an extended period of time.’
Harper waited. ‘What are they?’ Why wouldn’t he just tell her? Were they so horrible?
Ron faced her, met her eyes. ‘The hippocampus. Do you know anything about it?’
‘Just that it’s part of the brain.’
‘Well, in part, the hippocampus is known to regulate impulsive behavior.’
He waited, watched Harper’s face, making sure she was following.
‘Normally, the mature brain engages many processes to evaluate behavior, envision consequences and overcome impulsive drives. But abnormally high activity in the hippocampus can override those processes, resulting in excessive impulsive behavior, even violence.’
He paused again, letting the information sink in.
‘For example, mapping the brains of serial killers typically shows extremely high activity in the hippocampus.’
Oh dear. ‘So, if some thrill-seeking kids steal it and pop a handful at a time, thinking that if a little is good, a lot will be better, then—’
Ron nodded. ‘Exactly.’
Harper didn’t finish. They both knew what she’d been about to say: those thrill-seeking kids would be at risk of side effects causing impulsive, possibly violent behavior. ‘Oh God.’
‘Now, Harper.’ Ron leaned on his elbows. ‘Let’s keep a perspective. This drug isn’t unusual; large dosages of many common FDA-approved drugs can be harmful.’
‘Harmful, in that they cause impulsive violent behavior?’
‘Even worse. Some – like common sleeping and pain pills – can kill people.’
‘So can impulsive violent behavior like jumping out a window.’
Ron didn’t answer. He examined his fingernails, avoiding her eyes.
‘And how about what happened to the waitress? Could those drugs cause someone to commit rape and murder? You think that’s what happened? Someone took too many pills and killed the waitress, and Larry and Monique?’
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Harper fired questions at Ron, but his gaze remained fixed on his hands, and she wasn’t surprised when he didn’t answer.
Harper’s eyes were on Ron but she wasn’t seeing him. She was seeing Graham impulsively and violently flinging himself out the window. He’d had an open vial of the experimental drug in his book bag. Who knew how many he’d taken? Maybe he’d swallowed a handful, thinking they’d help him with his quiz.
Instead, the pills had caused impulsive violence. In the form of his suicide.
Harper leaned back in the booth, her shoulders suddenly less tight, her breathing slower. Oddly, she felt relieved. But why? Nothing had changed: Graham was still dead, the waitress still a victim of rape and murder, and Larry and Monique still lying on slabs in the morgue. The missing pills were still out there for other unsuspecting people to swallow. Even so, Harper felt lighter, more optimistic than she had all week. The violence erupting all around her wasn’t the work of some depraved, deliberate serial killer. It was accidental, the result of a drug-induced chemical imbalance in someone’s brain. It was synthetic, stoppable. Not truly evil. And her reaction was palpable; a ripple, something like giddiness, rose inside her. When the steaks arrived, Harper dug in, suddenly starving, slicing through tender meat, soaking up blood-red juice with potatoes au gratin.
‘So you can see –’ Ron chewed – ‘it’s imperative that we find the missing drugs.’
Right. It was very imperative.
‘We can’t let any more of these mishaps occur, especially not at this late stage in the trials.’
Wait. ‘You’re continuing the trials? With what you know?’
‘Of course we are. Harper. Used as directed, this drug will help patients with learning disabilities, brain injuries, certain forms of dementia. It will dramatically enhance memory and learning capabilities. Its benefits are broad and significant—’