Winter Break

by Merry Jones

  Rivers followed, saw a man standing in the kitchen, putting cups away, his back to them. She noted his full head of gelled salt-and-pepper hair, height just shy of six feet. Flannel shirt and jeans. Solid frame, a little thick around the middle. Harper’s father?

  ‘You said you saw a naked man out here?’ Rivers gazed at the snow.

  ‘Running. Another guy was chasing him. They fought.’ Harper hurried to the spot where they’d re-entered the woods. ‘I went after them, but didn’t find them. Couldn’t even find footprints – too much debris on the ground. I’m afraid he’ll freeze to death.’

  Rivers looked around, saw some disturbed snow near the driveway. Walked to the woods, listened, heard nothing. The story was implausible; even so, Harper Jennings had been reliable in the past. So, somewhat reluctantly, Rivers made a call. Minutes later, floodlights probed the wooded patch behind the fraternity, and three uniformed cops searched the area with high-intensity flashlights.

  After half an hour, they’d found nothing. They gave it another fifteen minutes. Still nothing.

  Harper had wanted to help, but Rivers ordered her inside. As the search was winding up, they met on the back deck.

  ‘They didn’t find him? But, Detective, I saw him – he was back there.’

  ‘The area isn’t that big,’ Rivers reminded her. ‘We saw no sign of anyone, naked or otherwise.’

  ‘But where could he be? He didn’t come out this way – and there’s a high fence on the other side.’

  Rivers watched her. Harper looked strained, shaken. But steadfast. She believed she’d seen this man. ‘I don’t know.’

  Vivian came out the sliding door. ‘Nothing?’ It wasn’t really a question. ‘No surprise. Detective, I’m sorry. I told her it was just her post-war condition again. She sees things—’

  ‘I do not see things—’

  ‘Yes, you do – you told me yourself – or it could be her hormones.’

  ‘Ma. What are you saying? This was not PTSD or hormones . . .’

  ‘All right.’ Detective Rivers raised her voice. ‘I don’t know what you saw, Mrs Jennings. But at the moment, nobody is out there. Maybe it was just kids, horsing around, playing polar bear. Streaking in the cold. Acting on some dare. Doing drugs – we get all kinds of crazy calls in the winter.’

  Harper looked pale. The police crew was packing up the lights, loading their truck.

  ‘Can we go inside?’ Rivers suggested.

  The man wasn’t in the kitchen any more. Harper wandered to the table, took a seat, seemed distracted.

  ‘I apologize for my daughter. She shouldn’t have bothered you,’ Vivian droned.

  Rivers glanced at Harper, saw no reaction. Harper was apparently deep in thought. ‘Nothing to apologize for, Ma’am. Your daughter was right to call. Even if it was a prank or just kids being kids, she had no way to know that. And, given what’s gone on around here the last few years, it’s best to rule out the worst scenario. Trust me, it’s better to call than to be sorry you didn’t.’

  ‘Would you like some cocoa, Detective? I can ask Lou to make—’

  ‘No, no thanks, Ma’am. I’ll be on my way. You all right, Mrs Jennings?’

  Harper didn’t answer.

  ‘Harper,’ Vivian scolded.

  Harper looked up. ‘You’re leaving?’

  ‘I am. Anything else happens, you let me know. Give your husband my regards when you talk to him. And have a merry Christmas, okay?’

  Harper nodded, returned the wishes, thanked her for coming out. Vivian walked Rivers to the door, whispering, repeating that Harper was under stress, having a difficult pregnancy, upset that Hank was gone. Rivers found her apologies disloyal and cloying, her perfume irritatingly sweet. Again, she wondered at the contrast between Harper and her mother. Mused about how odd families could be.

  Just to be thorough, before she left, she walked around the property again, looking under the deck, up the driveway, among the shrubs. As she walked to her car, she looked back at the house. A man stood upstairs, watching her from the window, silhouetted by the light.

  In a dark bedroom on the third floor of the fraternity house next door, two figures hunkered by the window, peering out. Nearby, on a bed, an unconscious young man lay under a blanket, his hands and feet tied, his body bludgeoned.

  ‘You think they’ll look here?’ Evan whispered.

  ‘No. Why would they?’

  Really? Wasn’t it obvious? ‘Because it’s here.’

  ‘But it’s closed up tight. Nobody’s here. Remember?’

  Evan considered that. Still, he was concerned. ‘Maybe we should move him.’

  Sty didn’t answer. He picked up his flask and drank. Passed it to Evan.

  ‘I mean, just for argument’s sake. What if they come looking for him?’

  ‘We won’t answer the fucking door, that’s what.’

  Evan took a drink. Dim light spilled in from the neighbor’s driveway, just enough to create shadows. Just enough that he could see Sty’s eyes darting side to side. A sign that he was thinking.

  ‘What?’

  ‘They won’t come here.’ Sty sounded certain. ‘But if they did, they’d need a warrant to come in. And they have no cause to get a warrant. We left no footprints. No evidence leads here. So no warrant, no cops.’

  Evan wasn’t convinced. He took another swig, mentally replaying what had happened. Making sure that they’d left no sign of themselves in the woods, in the yard of the fraternity, in the driveway of the house next door. Obviously, someone there had seen something and called the cops. But what? How much had the neighbor seen? Enough to identify him? He peeked between the curtains at the police and their searchlights, at the windows of the neighbor’s house. He’d seen the couple who lived there, had often said hi. The woman was short and blonde. Perky, sexy except for her limp. She rode a damned Ninja motorcycle. And the guy – he was solid like a linebacker, but he had some sort of disability. Walked crooked. But they couldn’t have recognized him – they didn’t know him from any of the forty other guys living in the house. And it was dark out. No, if they’d recognized him, the cops would be ringing the doorbell. Which they weren’t. Besides, he wasn’t even officially there, was supposedly staying at Sty’s apartment until the Christmas performances were done. If the police asked, he had answers. They both did.

  Sty was silent, drinking. Watching out the window.

  Damn. Fucking kid running outside. What had the neighbors seen?

  The kid stirred, making an awful high-pitched wail. Like a siren. Sty got up, held the kid’s head up and poured some more stuff from the red Solo cup into his mouth. Came back and crouched by the window again.

  ‘I don’t think he was really conscious. But if he was, he won’t be now. That stuff’s strong. It’ll keep him out a while.’

  Evan shrugged. ‘Sty. We really ought to just do it.’ Actually, he’d wanted to drop their plan and kill the kid as soon as things began to go wrong. But Sty had stopped him, lecturing him about their higher purpose. Going on again about his heroes, those guys Leopold and Loeb. Christ, Sty was obsessed by those two, even though it had been a century since they’d killed anyone. Evan knew it was useless to interrupt once Sty got started; Sty had to run through his entire speech. That was part of his obsessive personality. So Evan watched out the window, only half listening as Sty recounted the strengths and flaws of the two Chicago killers.

  ‘Those two had everything. Wealth. Education. Sophistication. Genius IQs. And their challenge was simple: commit a perfect crime. Leave no clues. Never even be suspected. Get away with one simple murder.’

  Evan watched searchlights bathe the woods, saw police scurry among the trees.

  ‘Picture it. 1924. No such thing as DNA evidence. None of that high-tech CSI shit. All they had to do was leave no overt clues. Yet, despite their superior intellect, they failed miserably, got caught and convicted. Loeb died in jail.’

  Evan shook his head, sick of hearing about these two
guys. But Sty was fixated on them, reading everything he could find about them, seeing movies based on them, analyzing their philosophies, and he’d become convinced that the two would have succeeded, would never have been caught after killing that Chicago boy, had they not had their eyes on the wrong prize. Instead of focusing on getting away with their crime, he believed they should have concentrated on perfecting the act itself.

  For Sty, the critical factor was the experience of murder; he insisted that it be done in a precise and studied manner, not in a haphazard hurry. For that reason, he’d refused to let Evan simply kill their victim.

  ‘We have the benefit of learning from their mistakes, Evan. We take pains at every step. We do nothing swiftly or impulsively. We stick to our plan, adapting it slightly, but we stay grounded, moving with caution, precision and discipline.’

  Evan wondered what the cops would find outside. Footprints? Blood? He replayed chasing the kid, how angry he’d been. The feeling of his knuckles slamming into an eye socket. Of landing on the kid’s leg, feeling something snap. Of his own blood bubbling and rushing, the sense of floating and looking down at the scene from somewhere up high.

  Sty was still talking, insisting that all was not lost, that despite unforeseen obstacles, their plan was still intact. They were smarter than his heroes, would learn from them.

  His voice was annoying, but Evan let him ramble on. And they stayed there, peeking through the curtains until the searchlights went out and the last of the cops drove away.

  Harper lay in bed, staring at the window. Waiting for Hank to call. Seeing the naked guy running out of the woods, over and over. Stop it, she told herself. Think of something else. So she thought about the baby, which brought to mind the contraction she’d had earlier, when Detective Rivers had been there. Which reminded her of the police and the searchlights. Which reminded her of her own search of the woods—

  When the phone rang, she grabbed it. Paused a moment, to control her voice.

  ‘I felt the baby move today,’ she struggled to sound cheery.

  She heard Hank’s grin. ‘Kick you? Tough guy?’

  ‘Guy?’

  ‘Girl?’

  Either way. ‘It wasn’t a kick, more like a somersault.’

  He chuckled. ‘Baby gymnast?’

  Harper smiled, but hearing his voice, she ached to have Hank home. To snuggle against his big bear-like body. To fall asleep wrapped safe in his arms. Of course, she didn’t dare let him know how much she missed him. Nor did she dare tell him about Rivers’ visit or the naked man she’d gone looking for in the woods.

  Instead, Harper put a hand over her belly, determined not to say anything that might upset either of them.

  Hank asked. ‘How’s Mom?’

  ‘The same as always.’ She put a deliberate lilt in her voice.

  ‘That bad?’

  Bad? Would ‘bad’ cover it? ‘Only sometimes.’ At all other times, worse.

  She felt like a whiner, saying even that. She was Army, had made it through a war and survived wounds; had no business griping about small stuff. So she added, ‘Her boyfriend cooks.’ She didn’t mention that what he cooked had been inedible. ‘He made dinner tonight.’

  Hank talked about his work and sounded elated. Energized. In short clear phrases, he told her he didn’t mind performing routine mechanical tasks instead of managing the whole field study, as he would have before his accident. ‘Feels good just working. Again.’

  After the call, Harper set the phone on Hank’s pillow and lay beside it, replaying his baritone, ‘I love you.’ Savoring it, she closed her eyes. And saw not Hank, but a naked stranger bursting out of the woods.

  Damn. She couldn’t escape him; his frantic image wouldn’t go away. Harper turned over, but kept seeing him hightailing it across the yard, his pursuer at his heels. She saw him hit the ground struggling, and lying pinned down in the snow. And she saw his frightened eyes lock onto hers, pleading, ‘Help me.’

  She tossed some more, determined to break the endless loop of images. Change channels, she told herself. Think about something else. Not about her mother or Lou, or how they’d discounted everything she’d said. And not about Detective Rivers or the way she’d seemed to doubt her. No. About the nursery – yes, she could think about fixing it up. Buying stuff for the baby. Sheets. Onesies. Diapers. A mobile for over the crib. But, as she pictured the room, a face with desperate eyes kept appearing, replacing woolly lambs on a musical mobile or a box of wipes on the changing table. He was everywhere, and he wouldn’t go away. Harper closed her eyes and saw him. She opened them and saw him again. His face desperate and frozen with fear, mouthing: ‘Help me.’

  Help me.

  How could she just lie there, doing nothing, when a man had asked her to help him? It was against her nature. Against her training. And yet, there she was. Lying in soft flannel PJs and a warm bed while some poor dude might be freezing his bare butt off, beaten up in the snow behind her house.

  But he wasn’t there. The police had found nothing.

  She turned over yet again, forced her eyes to close. Began the relaxation exercises Leslie had taught her. Breathing deeply. Letting the tension out of her toes, her feet, her ankles. She moved up her body slowly, breathing from her belly, giving in to gravity, letting the bed hold her up. She was concentrating on her shoulders, releasing the stress, when she heard a creak downstairs. And another.

  The sounds of old floorboards being walked on.

  Someone was downstairs, moving around.

  Her mother and Lou had gone to bed around midnight. Harper looked at the clock. Ten after two. So who was downstairs? A prowler? The naked guy? His attacker? Harper sat up, perfectly still, listening. Waiting. Hearing nothing for a minute. Then a creak. And hushed padded steps.

  In an eye blink, Harper was out of bed, hurrying through the dark hallway to the staircase. Avoiding the noisy spots on the steps, she glided down silently, descending into the foyer just in time to see Lou going out the front door.

  Lou was leaving? In the middle of the night? Sneaking out on her mother?

  No, that was crazy, she told herself. Two hours ago, she’d heard their headboard slamming the wall in the throes of their passion. Maybe he was just going out for a smoke.

  Harper went to the living room, parted the curtains and peeked out. Lou was not smoking. He was walking off the porch, across the snowy front yard all the way to the street where he disappeared behind the hedges. He reappeared beyond them, walking under the streetlight, past the fraternity and out of sight. Harper stood watching, confused. In a few seconds, Lou reappeared, looking up and down the street. Was he waiting for someone? At this hour? He walked back to the hedges. Passed them. Looked over his shoulder. Stopped to gaze left and right. Kept walking. Kept looking.

  Harper kept watching until, finally, he started back towards the house. From the living room, she watched the door open slowly, saw him tiptoe inside.

  ‘What’s up, Lou?’ Harper crossed her arms.

  He actually jumped, yelping. ‘Christ, Harper. Shit. You fuckin’ gave me a heart attack. What the hell are you doing here?’

  What was she doing there? Wasn’t this her house? Wasn’t it her right to be anywhere in it she wanted? Harper stood to her full five-feet-just-over-three-inches. ‘I’m wondering the same about you.’

  Lou pushed his hair back. ‘What? Me? Nothing. No reason.’ His eyes stopped hopping around, settled on hers, widening. ‘I, uh, I just couldn’t, you know, sleep. So I went out for a smoke, but then, wow. The strangest thing – I could swear I saw something move out there.’ His eyes grew wider. ‘And I thought it might, you know, be your guy. From before? So I walked around, looking. But I must have been wrong. Nobody was there. Must of been a raccoon or something. Anyhow, I got cold so I came back in. Whereupon you scared the living crap outta me.’

  He grinned, walked over, stood too close. His eyes were bulging, forcing themselves not to waver. To look directly into hers. But his bulgi
ng straining eyes were unnatural, gave him away. But why? Why would he lie about not being able to sleep?

  ‘Don’t know about you, Doll. I got the munchies.’ He smiled, baring perfectly even, too-white teeth. His arm snaked around Harper’s waist, and she pushed it away but went with him to the kitchen, not because she trusted him, but because, suddenly, she craved cornflakes.

  Even as she dug into a big bowl of cereal drowning in two percent, Harper kept her eyes on Lou, trying to figure out what he’d been doing outside, and what he was trying to hide.

  But Lou wasn’t revealing a thing. ‘What’s the deal with you and your mother, Harper?’ He shoved a forkful of leftover peach pie into his mouth. ‘I gotta tell you. You’re all the woman talks about. How proud she is of you.’

  Not possible. ‘Yeah?’ Harper picked up her milk, wished it were whiskey. ‘How sweet.’

  ‘But then the two of you go at it like a pair of bat shes.’

  Bat shes? What, female bats? Unless he meant banshees. Either way, the relationship was none of Lou’s business. Harper swallowed cereal.

  ‘She’s not as tough as she looks.’ He spoke with his mouth full. ‘She’s been through a lot, you know. Between you and I, I don’t think she ever got over that deal with your father—’

  ‘Excuse me?’ Harper put her hands on the table. That was it. Lou was completely out of line. Her family’s history was not his to discuss.

  ‘He had her completely bamboozled. She had no idea he was doing one of those Fonzi schemes.’

  ‘Ponzi.’ Why was she bothering to correct him?

  ‘Bottom line, she was traumatized. She hasn’t been able to trust anyone ever since. Especially men.’

  As if Harper didn’t know this? Did Lou think her mother had been the only one traumatized by her father’s deceit? Or that it was her responsibility to deal with her mother’s issues? Harper scooped up cereal, letting Lou talk on with a wad of pie in his cheek, his fork pointing at her.

  ‘I get Vivian,’ he continued. ‘I get why she’s picked losers all these years. You know why? Because if they’re losers, she doesn’t get disappointed. She can’t get hurt if she doesn’t expect anything from a guy. That’s why.’