by Merry Jones
‘No.’ Was it Rick’s? She reached for it, took a closer look.
‘Seems several calls were made on it to your phone. And several more to a private number in Tennessee. Which happens to be the private line of your old friend, Colonel Baxter.’
Harper sat up straight. This was it: evidence to support her story. ‘See? The calls prove that Rick worked—’
‘All it indicates is that the owner of the phone had contact with both you and Baxter. You said Rick worked for him; it makes sense they’d talk. But working and talking don’t mean—’
‘Not by themselves. But Rick knocked the wall down to come after me.’
‘Possibly to try to save you after you fell through. There are lots of interpretations possible, here, Mrs Jennings. I admit that your story is compelling, but like I’ve said, it needs to be substantiated. Right before an election, I can’t go making wild accusations against a candidate.’
‘What about after the election?’
Rivers started again, repeating her speech about the need for evidence, and Harper nodded as if paying attention while she lowered the phone to her lap, pushed a button through the plastic, turning it on. Pressed the send button. Saw numbers come up, recognized hers, memorized another. Shut the phone off and gave it back, repeating a phone number in her mind.
Vicki still liked newspapers, but Trent did his reading online. Both sat with Hank and Harper at their kitchen table, summarizing what the media were reporting as they munched bagels and breakfast scones. Tales of the Langston house were sweeping not just through Ithaca, but through the country.
‘Says here that Chloe Manning was nude beneath her fur coat.’ Trent seemed amused. ‘Must have been quite a party.’
‘Apparently, one to die for.’ Vicki took a bite of cinnamon walnut.
‘And you, my dear Harper, are the celebrity du jour.’
Harper’s phone gonged again. It sat on the counter, had been ringing non-stop; Harper had stopped answering. Mostly the calls were from reporters wanting sound bites.
‘Turn off?’ Hank offered.
Harper shrugged. She didn’t care. Hank stood, heading for the phone. The gong stopped.
Trent went on. ‘Your ordeal in the passageways fascinates the public. Coupled with the discovery of the long lost starlet. Goodness, I’m amazed there was anything left to find. It’s been, what, almost a century since she wandered off?’
‘It must have been cool and dry in there.’ Vicki offered. ‘She’d be, like, mummified. Was she, Harper?’
Harper spread butter on to her scone, thinking again about Rick.
‘Was she?’ Vicki repeated.
‘Hoppa. Tired.’ Hank chided Vicki. ‘Too much.’
‘Oh, of course. Sorry. Trent, we are so insensitive. Are you feeling OK, Harper?’
Everyone looked at her, assessing her wellness. She put down the butter knife. ‘Fine. I’m fine.’ She glanced at the newspaper. ‘What else does it say?’
‘You’re sure you want to hear?’ Vicki looked at Hank.
‘Hoppa. Not. Need. Now.’
‘No, I’m fine. Tell me.’
‘Well,’ Trent drawled, ‘the media seem to delight in the fact that as one corpse is found, another has vanished.’
Rick. Where was Rick?
‘They make it sound like Langston’s house has grabbed fresh meat, relinquishing Chloe Manning only after it swallowed your assailant, whom they say you’ve identified, but they don’t give his name.’
Harper saw his open eyes, open chest. Had she mentioned his chest to Rivers? She couldn’t remember, doubted that she had. Needed to remember.
‘And Dean Van Arsdale is quoted, addressing the university’s dismay at the damage to the collection. They quote him as being appalled and pained at the loss. He says that these traffickers have looted perhaps the most unique and enlightening collection of Pre-Columbian artifacts in the world. And on and on.’
‘What did he say about the broken artifacts?’
‘Broken artifacts?’ Trent scanned his computer screen.
‘It just refers to “damage”.’ Vicki rechecked the article. ‘What got broken?’
Harper shrugged. ‘Don’t know yet.’
‘More coffee?’ Hank changed the subject.
Harper stared at her scone. None of the news items, directly or indirectly, had mentioned Colonel Baxter. Of course they hadn’t. Rivers wouldn’t have revealed anything, had insisted there wasn’t any hard evidence against him. Baxter had led to the destruction of relics, the deaths of Pete, Burke and Rick. But nothing would happen to him? He’d be elected to the Senate. Then what? Amass more power, run for president? Burke had said the Colonel had bigger plans than she could imagine.
Harper tried to figure out how to stop him, but her thoughts disconnected, interrupted by questions. Who were the traffickers? Who was Joe? Or Digger, the ‘priest’ who’d killed Carla Prentiss? Where was Rick’s body?
She tried to shove these thought aside; the election was less than twenty-four hours away. There was limited time to get to the Colonel. She needed to think, to be away from the chatter. Harper pushed her chair away from the table. ‘I’ll be right back.’
Apparently, she’d interrupted Trent in the middle of a sentence; he frowned, offended.
‘OK? Hoppa? You?’
‘Yes. Fine.’ She pecked Hank’s cheek, squeezed his shoulder as she passed.
‘Want company?’ Vicki started to get up.
Harper’s, ‘No,’ was too emphatic. She added, ‘Thanks, Vicki. I just need a second or two.’
Not certain what she was going to do, Harper headed for the hall. On the way, she grabbed her phone.
When he picked up the call, he said, ‘Harper?’ He didn’t sound surprised to hear from her. In fact he sounded glad. ‘I’m glad you called.’
‘Rick’s dead.’ She closed the door, leaned against the bathroom wall.
Silence. Then, ‘What?’ His voice was thin.
‘He’s dead. They haven’t found his body yet, but I saw him.’
‘What the hell happened?’
‘What do you think?’ She snapped, had no patience for bullshit.
He hesitated. ‘I have no idea.’
‘You sent him after me and Burke, didn’t you?’
‘What?’ A pause. ‘Harper, are you telling me that you killed him?’
‘Me?’ Why would he say that? ‘No. But I would have if I hadn’t fallen.’
‘Look, I don’t understand what you’re saying. I asked Rick to bring you guys on board. I owe you – all of you. And I’m finally in a position to pay you back. Harper – I thought I explained all this last time we talked. Rick was supposed to convince you, Everett and Murray to accept my offers, that’s all.’
The man was buttery smooth, sounded sincere, caring. No wonder voters loved him. Harper sat on the toilet lid. ‘Well, Rick’s idea of “convincing” us was rather forceful. It involved a gun.’
A slight pause. ‘That’s not – no, that’s just Rick. He’s carried since the war. It’s legal; he has a permit – the gun has nothing to do with what he’s doing for me.’
‘Really? Because Rick stalked me, broke into my workplace, snuck up on me with his weapon. Tried to force me at gunpoint to accept your offer.’
The Colonel swore under his breath. ‘Harper, I swear I have no idea what you’re talking about. What you’re describing is unbelievable. It’s way beyond what we’d . . . I’d never have imagined . . .’
Really? ‘Well, you better imagine it, sir. Because while he was attacking me last night, somebody killed him.’
Baxter didn’t reply for a moment. Harper heard background voices. Papers shuffling. Machines whirring. The sounds of a political campaign in its final hours.
Finally, ‘It’s chaos here today, sorry for the interruptions. Now, tell me. How? Who?’
‘How is still uncertain. But it was some guys who traffic stolen antiquities. He ran into them while coming after me.’
‘Antiquities? What? Look – damn. Hold a sec.’ His voice muffled as he covered the phone and spoke to someone. When he came back, he sounded shaken. ‘Harper, this is terrible news. Terrible. Rick was like a kid brother. He was my go-to guy. I trusted him with my life.’
And with the truth about the money you stole? Harper couldn’t help it; she had to ask. ‘Sir, back in Iraq—’
‘I’ll never forget how the four of you saved my life.’
‘Yes, sir – but—’
‘I’ve told you, I’ll never forget your courage. I’m deeply indebted.’
‘It was our job to protect you. But, sir, that cargo we loaded. What was it?’
Oh God. Had she really just said that?
‘The cargo? I don’t remember. Supplies. Standard stuff. Why?’ He didn’t sound elusive. Not even a little shady.
Was he that good a liar?
‘It wasn’t money?’
‘Money?’ He let out a low whistle. ‘What gave you that idea?’
Harper fudged. ‘Just a rumor.’
‘Great, wonderful. That’s all I need. Another rumor. Ever since I started running for office, there’s been one after another. Now, what are they saying? That I did what, stole a helicopter full of money? What’s next? That I started the war? Who thinks this stuff up, anyhow?’ He sounded indignant. Wounded. Honest.
Could Burke have been wrong? Had he or Pete invented the cargo story?
‘Wait.’ The Colonel changed focus. ‘Didn’t you say they haven’t found Rick? So are you sure? How do you know he’s actually dead?’
God. Did he think she didn’t know dead when she saw it? ‘Because, like I said, I saw him.’
More background sounds. Another interruption.
Then: ‘Thanks for letting me know.’ Colonel Baxter lowered his voice. ‘The election’s tomorrow, Harper.’
‘Don’t worry, nothing about Rick will hit the news before then. It won’t interfere.’
‘What? Oh. No. I didn’t mean that, Harper. I meant I’m tied up completely today and tomorrow. After that, let’s talk some more. You’ll fill me in on what happened, what you said about Rick’s odd behavior – his breaking in and so on; you’ll explain the details, OK? So we can figure this out? Remember, I can put in a good word for you with Van Arsdale. Or fix your husband up with a new position. Maybe you’ll reconsider my offer. I’d appreciate having you around, especially now that you’re the only one left.’
When she got off the phone, Harper stayed in the bathroom, holding her head in her hands, trying to make sense of the conversation. Colonel Baxter was blustery and pushy, but he’d almost convinced her that he was a stand-up guy. That the story of the theft had been invented by Pete or Burke. That the violence and deaths to members of their detail had been the work of Rick alone.
When she came back into the kitchen, the conversation stopped and three heads turned toward her.
‘OK?’ Hank folded the newspaper, slid it into the recycling bin.
‘We’ve decided you need a diversion, Harper.’ Vicki stood. ‘How about a girls’ day? A facial? Or a massage?’
‘What?’ Harper sat.
‘I called my favorite spa. They have openings in an hour. A facial or a massage – aromatherapy, deep tissue. You choose, whatever you want. It’s on Trent and me.’
‘Go,’ Hank urged. ‘Relax you.’
‘Consider it a sign of our love.’ Trent refilled his coffee mug.
Really? Harper thought about it. A massage? Zina and Burke were dead. Rick, too. Relics had been ruined – what good was a massage?
Then again, it would only last an hour. Might help her release some tension. Besides, she had most of the day free. She had an appointment with Leslie later, but that was all she had planned. Still, what was the point? Harper stood, carrying plates to the sink.
‘No, don’t.’ Trent put up a hand.
‘Clean up. We’ll.’ Hank took the plates from her.
Harper went for her bag.
‘Leave it. You won’t need it.’ Vicki grabbed her arm, led her out the door. ‘I’ll drive.’
‘No, it’s OK.’ She headed for the Ninja. ‘I’ll take the bike. You won’t have to drive me home.’
‘I don’t mind. The whole point is that you can relax.’
But Harper climbed on to her motorcycle, rolled it down the driveway to Vicki’s car, following her into town.
The first day of November was brisk, the air refreshing. The sky bulging with blue-gray clouds. Harper sped along, trying to be in the moment, but kept seeing herself wandering an endless dark tunnel that led to Chloe Manning’s skeleton. Zina’s lifeless body. Rick’s dead eyes. Or a mound of broken crates and smashed artifacts.
Her mind mimicked the passageways, tangled with thoughts that led nowhere, or into and around themselves in an endless loop.
A massage, she decided. She would have a massage and let go, stop thinking for an hour. A whole hour.
Ahead of her, Vicki turned right. The spa was just a few blocks away, on Audubon. Harper followed, was halfway through her turn when she noticed some pedestrians standing at the corner. One of them was Salih Salim.
Harper was surprised to see him; Rivers had said that she couldn’t find him or his family. That they had disappeared. But there he was, right out on the street.
Harper pulled over to the curb. ‘Salih?’ She pulled off her helmet.
He turned, startled. ‘Harper?’ He seemed surprised to see her, but grinned, stepped over to embrace her. ‘Good to see you again!’
‘Where have you been, Salih? The police wanted to talk to you about your sister and—’
‘No, no. I’ve been away.’ His smile vanished; he looked away. ‘With the family. It’s been a difficult time for us.’
Harper nodded. Of course it had. Zina had been murdered.
‘Our business is shaky at best.’
What? He was upset about business? Not Zina? ‘And your sister . . .?’
‘Well, of course.’ His eyes didn’t rest, kept moving. ‘My sister. Despite my family’s claims to the contrary, they all feel Zina’s loss. In fact, that’s where we’ve been. I convinced my . . . my father decided to provide for her funeral. We all went back home to bury her.’ He paused, took a breath. ‘I got back just yesterday. A quick trip.’
Harper nodded, didn’t know what to say.
‘So there’s nothing to do for her any more. She’s at peace. And now, I have to hurry and salvage our business or it will die, too.’ His mouth formed a sad twisted smile. ‘Good to see you again, my friend.’
They hugged, separated, waving goodbye. Then Harper remembered Zina’s bracelet. It was back home, still in her bag. ‘Oh – Salih? I have something to give you.’
‘To give me?’ He called as he walked away. ‘What is it?’
‘Something of Zina’s.’
He stopped, turned. Met her eyes. Looked away, at traffic. Hurried.
‘I can bring it to you.’
‘Good, if you don’t mind – I’m at the same hotel as before. Oh – I don’t use my own name. I’m registered as Smith. Come by, say, around three?’ He waved, turned, and, as the light was green, headed across the street.
Naked under a sheet, listening to music that sounded like water, Harper smelled scented oils that reminded her of the oil burning around Rick’s body. She thought of seeing Salih, of how hurried he’d seemed. Of taking Zina’s bracelet to him. But her thoughts wandered and waned, and gradually faded altogether as she paid attention only to the hands of Kara, the masseuse.
The hands worked steadily, slippery and lubricated, building friction, causing waves of heat to roll through her muscles, one by one. Soreness Harper hadn’t known about rose up and fought, only to be vanquished, banished by Kara’s hands. Aches she’d tolerated as permanent were soothed. Her left leg almost wept with sweet release. For an hour, the hands of a stranger pulled the tension from her tissues, and Harper was immersed in sensations, indifferent to time
.
Afterwards, wrapped in a terry robe, she sat with Vicki, sipping water with lemon slices. Vicki’s face was bright red, glowing.
‘Was yours good?’
Harper nodded, closed her eyes, almost too relaxed to speak. ‘Yours?’
‘Mmmm.’
They sat, speechless. Sipping. Finally, forced themselves to shower and dress. Harper thanked Vicki. Hugged her. Reminded her of their Tuesday night dinner. And got back on the Ninja, almost too relaxed to drive.
But she did drive, floating on her Ninja all the way home. Hank was outside, working a leaf blower. He shut it down, beaming. ‘Bought today this.’
Half the front yard was already clear, the rest a speckled sea of leaves, even though they’d raked just days ago.
Harper forced a smile, aware that, until recently, Hank would have discussed the purchase with her before making it. And would have wanted her to go with him to the mall. But never mind. Hank was his own man again, and that was good. She walked over, gave him a hug. He smelled like the outdoors, hard work.
She looked at the leaf blower. ‘So you have a new toy.’
‘More. Snow blower. Bought. On sale. And mower. Drill set. Saw, too. All.’
Really? He’d bought all that? Without even mentioning it? Harper felt stung, as if disenfranchised in decision-making. The tools would allow Hank to work around the property, but where would they get the money to pay for them? Hank’s disability didn’t provide much. And she had tuition debts to pay off. Harper bit her lip, didn’t comment. Didn’t want another argument.
‘Massage? Good?’
‘Yes. Very.’ But tension was already building up in her shoulders, tightness in the small of her back. She pecked his cheek. ‘I have to go – an appointment with Leslie.’ Then, because she was practicing openness, she added. ‘I ran into Zina’s brother before. He’s back in town.’
‘From where back?’
‘He said the whole family went home to bury Zina. Maybe he meant England? Or Syria? Anyhow, I’m going to stop by and drop off Zina’s bracelet.’
‘Bracelet?’
‘Remember? She left it here that night—’