by Merry Jones
Still, Harper had tried to think of alternatives. ‘But Hank. You know how things are between my mother and me—’
‘Vivian loves. You.’ Maybe. But did he think that made up for all the rest?
‘Look, what if I promise that I won’t be alone?’ Harper had tried to negotiate. ‘I’ll have friends come by. Every day.’
‘Who?’ He’d frowned, his arms still crossed. ‘Friends are away. And whole month. You’ll need help to shop. Cook. Clean.’
As if her mother would help with any of that. Harper couldn’t even imagine Vivian cooking or cleaning. After her father had gone away, Harper as a young teen had done all the chores, taking care of her mother more than her mother had of her. But Hank had a point. It was winter break at Cornell, and every single one of her friends was traveling. Janet and Dan were skiing in Jackson Hole. Ruth was in Costa Rica. Even Vicki, Trent’s wife and Harper’s best friend, was going on a cruise. Harper, it seemed, would be the only living soul staying in Ithaca for the holidays. Still, there had to be some other choice – anybody but her mother.
Hank had scowled, waiting.
‘Look. I’m pregnant, not helpless. I’ll be fine.’ Harper had actually stamped her foot.
‘Hoppa.’ Hank had stepped over, placed his hands on her shoulders. ‘Docta said rest. No strain. Listen to her. For baby.’
He’d been right; Dr Parsons had told her to not to exert herself. She’d been having early contractions, and Parsons had threatened bed rest if they worsened. So, Harper had relented. Her mother would stay for a month; Harper wouldn’t be alone and Hank would feel comfortable about leaving.
Neither of them, though, had expected her mother to bring a date. Not that Harper was surprised. In the fifteen years since her father had left, Vivian had been through dozens of relationships. Men were essential to her; without one, she shriveled, couldn’t survive. Harper had stopped getting to know them long ago; to her, the men blended into a long line of receding hairlines and too much aftershave. This latest one, Lou, was different; he had thick gray hair and no aftershave at all. But what was he doing in her home?
Never mind. Lou kept Vivian distracted; at dinner, he’d even been a buffer between them. Harper stopped fuming, began to let the tension out of her shoulders. And gasped at a sudden flutter in her belly. It wasn’t a contraction; this was gentler, deeper. More like a tickle – the baby? Was it moving? Kicking? Harper’s hands went to her tummy; her mouth opened, amazed. She wished she could call and tell Hank, but he had no cell reception in the field. Lord, she missed him. Harper held her belly, hoping for another flutter, picturing a tiny person swimming in her body, doing flip-turns. She concentrated, waited, but felt no more movement. Still, she stood at the window, gazing out, not giving up.
Outside, the street was deserted except for a sole black car, driving slowly by the house. The sky was starless, full of thick clouds that promised more snow. The ground was blanketed in white from the street back to the woods, and the fraternity next door stood dark, abandoned for intersession. The night seemed frozen; nothing moved, not Harper. Not the baby.
Harper was about to give up; the baby wasn’t cooperating. She moved away from the window, and noticed a flicker of light, coming from the woods. What? She stepped back to the pane, looked into the trees. No light. Nothing but the frigid stillness. Chilled, she stepped away from the window, and – flash – another flicker.
Harper pressed her face against the cold glass and peered outside, her breath steaming the pane. Through the darkness, she saw a flash among the trees, and then a rustle of foliage near the edge of the woods. Was it an animal? A deer? And the flashes – had they been from a hunter’s gun? Suddenly, a dim figure burst out of the woods, sprinting away, on two legs. Not a deer – a man. And he headed across the fraternity’s back yard to her driveway where the motion sensors Hank had installed in the fall picked him up and, suddenly, the whole area was bathed in light.
Oh God. Harper blinked. The guy was naked? She gaped, confused, as another figure dashed out of the woods, tackling the first, pinning him in the snow, punching him. The naked guy flailed and struggled, rolled onto his back, apparently dazed. But looking up, he seemed to see Harper in the window. His eyes widened, locking onto hers, and his lips moved, mouthing something. Was it ‘Help me’?
Before she’d even processed the words, Harper’s training kicked in. She grabbed a flashlight from the nightstand and rushed to the door, glancing back out the window to see the assailant flipping the naked guy over his shoulder and carrying him back toward the woods.
Harper’s weak left leg nearly buckled as she flew down the stairs, but she kept running. Through the hallway. Into the kitchen, toward the deck door.
‘Harper?’ Her mother looked up from her brandy.
Harper didn’t answer. She pulled the door open and headed out into the night. Vaguely, Harper heard chairs scraping, voices asking: ‘Where’s she going? What the hell?’ But she didn’t stop; she hurried out, off the deck, past the end of the driveway across the snowy back yard to the woods.
‘Harper!’ Vivian’s cigarette and whiskey baritone blared. ‘What are you doing? It’s freezing out—’
‘At least get a jacket,’ Lou called.
She heard them, breathlessly discussing how bizarre she was as they chased her, but she didn’t stop. Her socks got cold and damp as she crunched through ankle-deep snow, but she kept on going, heading for the spot where she’d seen the naked guy emerge.
‘What the hell, Harper?’ her mother croaked. ‘Are you crazy? You don’t have boots or a jacket or—’
Harper spun around, lifted her finger to her lips. ‘Shhh! Quiet,’ she commanded.
‘No, I will not—’ Vivian began, but Lou grabbed her arm, shaking his head while stepping slowly forward, indicating that they should humor Harper until they caught up to her.
But, despite her lingering war injuries, Harper was in far better shape than they, and by the time they got to the edge of the woods, she had already moved out of sight. All they could see was the intermittent beam of her flashlight.
Harper stepped over twigs and into ice-coated puddles, aiming the light forward, to one side, then the other. Her feet were soaked and freezing; her toes were numb. She stopped and held still, listening for sounds of struggling. Hearing only the persistent carping of her mother and Lou as they plodded after her.
‘She’ll catch her death – what can I do? She’s supposed to be resting, not running around barefoot in the snow. That girl will kill me, I swear.’
Harper moved deeper among the trees, looking for footprints. But here the snow was thin; the branches had caught most of it before it hit the frozen ground. And there was no clear path – just narrow spaces between trunks and stumps.
She paused several yards deep, thinking. Obviously, anyone out here would know she was coming. Would have seen her light. Would have heard Lou and her mother talking. She stopped, not knowing which way to go, how to proceed.
‘Hello?’ she called. ‘Who’s out there?’
She didn’t expect, and didn’t get, an answer from the men. But Vivian shouted, ‘Harper, come out of there right now. I’m freezing. Lou’s coming in after you – if he falls in the dark and breaks a leg, it’ll be your fault.’
Harper pictured Lou in a body cast, plastered to her sofa for months. ‘Don’t come after me. Go home.’ She rotated slowly, shining the light into the stillness, looking for movement or skin tones, or the steam of someone else’s breathing. In Iraq, she’d been able to sense the presence of an enemy, a tingle of alert. But now, the only tingle she felt was in her frozen toes. What was she supposed to do? What had those guys been doing out there?
‘Harper, I’m warning you. I’m calling Hank—’
‘No – don’t.’ Oh God. She would, too. Her mother would call Hank and leave him some frantic message and get him all upset. ‘I’m coming.’
Harper made her way back, stepping over stumps and sticks, frozen wadded
leaves and icy puddles, favoring her weak left leg. As she approached her back yard, her mother barked, ‘L-Lou – g-grab her.’
Lou obeyed, wrapping an arm around her and holding on the whole way back to the house. ‘What the hell, Harper? You got more sense than this. This is nuts.’
Lou was shivering; her mother’s teeth were chattering. ‘Y-you p-probably gave us all pn-pneumonia. What’s wrong with y-you, running outside l-like that?’
Shaking with cold, Harper clenched her jaw, and kept walking. Maybe she shouldn’t have run out like that, without a jacket and boots. Or a weapon. What had she been thinking, going after a target unprepared? She looked over her shoulder at the dark hunkering woods. Nothing moved there, and no light flared.
When they got back to the house, Lou put on the kettle to make cocoa and pulled out jackets to warm them. Harper curled into a parka, shivering.
‘Feel my hands, Lou, how cold they are.’ Vivian put her fingers under his sweater. ‘What were you thinking, Harper? Lou or I could have had heart attacks out there. And what about my grandbaby? It’s not just you any more . . .’
Harper closed her eyes, trying to shut out the yammering so she could think. But her mind seemed stuck; her only thought was the face of a naked man, mouthing, ‘Help me.’
‘Got any marshmallows?’ Lou searched a cabinet.
‘Trust me, Harper wouldn’t buy marshmallows. Don’t even bother looking.’ Her mother’s voice was deeper than Lou’s, more weathered. As usual, she assumed she knew everything there was to know about Harper. Harper wished she’d had marshmallows just to prove her wrong.
Lou passed around mugs of hot cocoa and a plate of ginger snaps. Vivian asked for whiskey to spike her cocoa. Suddenly, it was a party.
Harper huddled inside the parka, trying to remember where she’d left her phone. Her brain felt frozen, unable to think. But she remembered plugging it into the charger. So the phone had to be upstairs. She stood, started for the door.
‘Now, where is she going?’ Vivian talked about her as if she weren’t there.
‘To get my phone.’
Vivian was behind her, following. ‘Why? Who are you calling? Hank? Don’t call Hank. He’ll only worry—’
‘Hold on.’ Lou came up around front, standing in her way. ‘Why don’t we sit down, warm up and talk about things before anybody does anything else.’ It wasn’t a question.
Harper eyed him. Who the hell did he think he was, blocking her in her own home? Reflexively, instantly, she sized him up – Lou was taller by eight inches, bulkier by some seventy pounds. But he was also at least twenty-five years older. Fit but untrained. She could take him down in a heartbeat. In fact, she’d already taken a stance, balanced, knees slightly bent, ready to strike. But Lou wasn’t hostile; he was smiling. Lord, his teeth were so white – were they real? Probably dentures or caps. His arms moved out for her; she blocked them, her hands tightened into fists before she realized that he’d only wanted to hug her. Oh God. What was she doing, preparing to flatten her mother’s boyfriend? But wait. She was surrounded, closed in from the rear and the front. Flight or fight responses kicked in, and flight wasn’t possible. An annoying buzzing droned on, grating Harper’s brain, and she smelled gunfire. Saw smoke, heard the rattle of gunfire. No. She was home, not in Iraq. She needed to startle her senses, prevent a flashback. Harper spun, shoved her mother away to get to the refrigerator, opened it, grabbed a lemon. And bit.
Acidic sour juice rattled her, interrupted her brain. Grounded her with its intensity. Images of Iraq flitted away, leaving her facing a startled mother and gaping Lou. Again, Harper saw that dangerous spark flare in Lou’s eyes. She looked directly at it, undaunted, ready to take him on.
‘You’re eating a lemon?’ he asked.
Harper looked at the lemon in her hand. Set it on the counter. Shrugged and smiled, didn’t want to explain.
Her mother was finally silent. She and Lou watched her, baffled.
‘I need to go get my phone.’ She didn’t bother pointing out that they had no right to stop her. ‘Not to call Hank. I’m calling the police.’
‘The police.’ Lou repeated. Had his voice faltered? Had his gaze done a quick shimmy?
Harper studied him as she continued, hurrying. Time mattered. ‘There was a man out in the cold. Naked, and someone carried him into the woods.’
Silence. Blank stares.
‘He saw me at my window, asked me for help.’
More silence. Continued stares.
Vivian plopped into a seat at the kitchen table, poured more whiskey into her cooled cocoa. Took a long drink. Stared at the wall.
Harper went on, aware that a man’s life could depend on her. ‘Look – the police will have search lights. I need to call them before he freezes to death.’
Lou shook his head. ‘Harper. Your mother and I were down here. We would have heard something. Yelling. Or a scuffle.’
‘Jesus, Harper. It’s just goddam kids. What the hell’s wrong with you? Thinking of the worst possible scenario—’
‘They’re probably doing drugs out there, that’s all. Or a party. A bunch of kids, you know, getting it on—’
‘You’re making a big deal out of something you don’t know anything about—’
Harper started for the stairs, stopped as her midriff tightened. A contraction suddenly gripped her. She came back to the table and sat.
‘Harper, that’s right. Sit.’ Lou sat opposite. ‘You might not realize it, but you’re under a lot of stress.’
What? She inhaled deeply, exhaled slowly.
‘Your mother’s told me about your husband’s accident. How he almost died. How he got brain damage. And now, he’s gone away for the first time since he got hurt.’
Vivian sat beside Lou, nodding.
The contraction tightened.
‘Besides which, you’re pregnant.’
Vivian put a hand on Lou’s.
‘I don’t want to sound sexist; I’ve had some experience with pregnant women. And that experience tells me that they get pretty off the wall. Hormones fluctate, see.’
Fluctate? Did he mean fluctuate?
‘And their emotions take over—’
‘He’s right, Harper. I was that way with you.’
‘So, my point is, things might not in actuality be exactly as you perceive them.’
‘Bullshit.’ Harper breathed, waiting for the contraction to pass.
‘Christ, Harper, you’re making me nuts—’
Lou cut her mother off. ‘Hear me out. Your own doctor said you’re in a fragile state, didn’t she? So your body chemistry is changing, influencing your perceptions. You might be interpreting things different than they are. Thinking something’s sinister when it isn’t. You don’t want to embarrass yourself by calling the police. That’s all I’m saying.’
‘Lou’s right.’ Vivian clutched her cocoa mug. ‘But it’s not just her hormones. She has that STPD thing – or no—’ She looked at the wall, concentrating. ‘It’s PTSD. From the war. It makes her have those flashbacks and she loses touch with reality. She sees things that aren’t even there—’
‘Ma!’ Harper sputtered, holding her belly. ‘I know what I saw.’ Didn’t her mother believe her? Did she think she’d invented the guy?
‘It’s not your fault, Harper.’ Vivian turned to Lou. ‘But I’m thinking it’s her hormones combined with her post-trauma shock disability, combined with Hank taking off—’
‘That’s enough!’ Harper shouted. Her temples pulsed, even as the contraction eased. She wanted to correct – no, to throttle both of them, but she couldn’t take the time. A man’s life was in danger. She stood, too incensed to speak. Breathing evenly, her belly still recovering, she headed out of the kitchen to the stairs, grateful that, this time, no one followed her. Time was precious, had already been wasted. How long had it been since she’d seen him? Eight minutes? More? How long could a naked man survive in the snowy cold woods?
Shaken, more
from the conversation than the contraction, Harper moved carefully up the stairs. Breathing evenly, she hurried to her room, found her phone and made the call.
Detective Charlene Rivers was no stranger to the Jennings home. She’d been there on numerous occasions. First, when Hank had his accident. Later, when some of Harper’s archeology students had become involved with stolen drugs and homicide. Most recently, when Harper had been caught in a web of stolen archeological relics and murder. In the last two years, in fact, she’d had to visit the Jennings home more often than any other in Ithaca or Tompkins County, and each visit had connected to the grisliest crimes of her career. So it was with some trepidation that she walked up the path to the front door, and with some hesitation that she rang the bell.
The woman who answered wasn’t Harper Jennings. She was older, her skin weathered, as if she’d been around the block and then some. The kind Rivers would see in a bar at three in the afternoon. Too much eye shadow, skinny jeans that struggled to contain her hips, and a painfully tight red sweater. Her long hair sprayed and bouffant, dyed an unnatural shade of auburn/blue.
‘It really was nothing . . .’ she began when she saw Rivers’ badge. Her voice was scraped, gravelly and deep. Too many cigarettes, too much booze. ‘My daughter overreacted. She shouldn’t have bothered you.’
Her daughter? Rivers blinked, filing away the information. Noting the contrast between this woman and Harper Jennings, with her trim athletic figure, neutral, functional wardrobe, cropped hair, and shiny-scrubbed make-up-free face.
But Harper was at the door now, scowling at her mother – almost pulling Rivers inside. Rivers stepped over the threshold, noting the changes. The foyer had a new floor, new paint. And in an open parka, Mrs Jennings looked to be about halfway through a pregnancy.
‘Detective. We don’t have much time,’ Jennings zipped up her jacket, led the way through to the kitchen, the back door.