Winter Break

by Merry Jones

  ‘No, not me. Ed—’

  ‘And you put my mother and me in the middle of it?’

  ‘You’re not in the middle—’

  ‘Lou?’ Vivian called from the living room. ‘Where’s my drinkie?’

  ‘On its way,’ he shouted, watching Harper. ‘Look. It’s Ed’s business. Nothing to do with you or your mother—’

  ‘A gun in my house? The mob coming after money hidden in my house?’

  ‘You’re right.’ Lou stared at the ceiling. ‘I agree, Harper. I was careless, and I apologize. I’ll take care of it. Okay?’ Lou took out another glass for Vivian, poured Scotch.

  ‘Lou!’ Vivian yelled. ‘I can’t reach the top of the tree. I need help.’

  ‘We done here?’ He picked up the drinks, eager to go.

  ‘Take care of it fast.’ Harper watched him carry the glasses out of the kitchen. ‘By the way, Rita said something else.’ She put her glass in the sink. ‘But I guess it doesn’t matter; the message was for Ed.’

  Lou spun around. ‘What’d she say?’

  ‘Like I said . . .’

  ‘Tell me. I’ll let him know.’

  Harper made herself sound casual. ‘She said that Wally knows where Ed is, and Ed should watch his back.’

  Lou said nothing. He nodded slightly, and Harper thought his skin drained of color before he turned and walked away.

  Harper said she was tired, and ate spaghetti in her room, watching television. According to the news, that boy from Elmira still had not been found. She dozed off during Jeopardy, was awakened by the gong of her phone.

  Hank called early. His voice was dejected again. ‘Nothing wrong. I’m fine.’

  ‘Don’t even say that. I can hear it—’

  ‘Ankle twisted,’ he blurted.

  Damn. ‘How? What happened?’ Harper clutched the phone. Hank’s right side had been weakened by his accident; maybe he wasn’t strong enough for fieldwork.

  ‘Not bad. Slipped. On rock.’

  ‘Is it swollen? Make sure to elevate it. And ice – do you have an ice pack?’

  ‘Hoppa, stop,’ Hank snapped. ‘Care can take of it fine know what to do.’

  Okay. Apparently, Hank was frustrated. Probably in pain and not wanting to admit it. Harper was concerned, but kept quiet, didn’t want to question Hank’s abilities. After all, he was an experienced outdoorsman, a PhD geologist and strong athlete, didn’t need her advice about first aid. So she said nothing, just lay on their bed, worrying silently, staring out the window at the silhouette of the fraternity house against the night sky. Waiting for Hank to continue the conversation. Missing him.

  ‘Tell me.’ Hank broke the silence. ‘You? Baby?’

  She thought of the gun upstairs. ‘We’re fine.’

  ‘Tell me. What’s wrong? Something.’

  Hank knew. Of course he did. He could hear the tension in her voice. ‘Nothing. Just I miss you.’

  ‘I miss. You, too.’

  Silence again.

  ‘Vivian?’ he asked.

  Harper took a breath and let her answer spill out. How Vivian had bought everything for the baby – high chair, car seat, stroller, toys, layette. How the whole living room was full of who-knew-what.

  ‘Trying to be nice.’ Hank made excuses. ‘She wants to give—’

  ‘No, Hank. She’s not being nice. She’s trying to tell me what to name the baby. And she knew – I told her not to shop, I said we wanted to pick things out ourselves. I made it clear that we were waiting until later—’

  ‘Hoppa. Breathe.’ His voice was firm, commanding. ‘Don’t upset. Rest. Calm. Name we’ll pick. Return gifts later, shop later.’

  He was right. She had to stop getting upset with Vivian; it wasn’t good for her or the baby. But the problem was bigger than just Vivian.

  ‘It’s not just Vivian,’ she blurted. ‘It’s her boyfriend. He has—’ She barely stopped herself before she said ‘a gun’. No point making Hank worry when he was hundreds of miles away and could do nothing.

  ‘Boyfriend has what?’

  ‘I don’t know. Insomnia?’ Whew. Good thinking, she told herself. ‘He creeps out in the middle of the night. He spends wads of cash and won’t say how he’s earned it. He’s . . . I don’t know. Sneaky?’

  Hank chuckled.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Sorry. Not funny really. Just you’re surprised. At sneaky? What kind of man. Vivian with ever? Expect what? Saint? Scholar?’

  Hank was right. Her mother had neither great taste in nor much luck with men. The best of them, after all, had been Harper’s father, a professional liar, embezzler, swindler, cheat. A distant memory flashed: strong arms scooping her high and holding her up in the air. The sense of being safe. And of something else – pride? She closed her eyes, crushing the image, replacing it with another one: those same arms locked in handcuffs as police led him away.

  ‘Nice to her?’

  What? Nice? Oh, wait. He meant Lou. ‘Too nice. And affectionate.’ She thought of their bedpost bumping the walls the other night. ‘He seems nuts about her.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘You’re right. He’s probably okay.’ Even though he has a gun. And a suitcase full of cash. And fake IDs and an alias. And a hit out on him by a guy named Wally.

  They talked some more. About Harper’s expanding belly. Her upcoming doctor’s appointment. Life in Texas. Their first Christmas apart. When they hung up, even though she hadn’t told Hank everything, Harper felt reassured. The sound of his voice, even though he was far away and in pain, grounded her. And at least for a little while, she felt calm.

  The body was too stiff, wouldn’t cooperate. They got it down the steps, laid it on the floor.

  Sty shook his head. ‘Obviously, this is not going to fit in the back of my car.’

  Evan crossed his arms. ‘No shit.’ He was out of breath. Tired of cleaning and carrying. Tired of listening to Sty.

  ‘He’d fit after rigor passes, but that could take up to three days.’

  ‘Which we don’t have. I’ve got to get home Christmas Eve.’

  ‘So do I.’

  ‘So what do we do? We have to leave, and he can’t just lie here—’

  ‘I didn’t say he would, did I? I believe all I said was that he wouldn’t fit into my car—’

  ‘Don’t go semantic on me, Sty. What you said or didn’t say isn’t the fucking issue. The only fucking issue is what the fuck are we going to do with him?’

  Sty’s lips curled into a snaky smile. ‘Getting testy, are we?’ His eyes were cold and lizard-like. ‘This kind of reaction is beneath you, Evan. Don’t give in to childish fits of pique. They make you careless and panicky. We can’t afford them.’

  Evan felt his face heat up; he fought the urge to strangle Sty. His fingers ached to close around Sty’s throat. Evan imagined his tongue protruding, his eyes bulging. But he held back; even though Sty was turning out to be a pompous arrogant asshole, he still needed him. Looking away, Evan deliberately slowed his breath, waiting a few beats before speaking. ‘So. What do you suggest?’

  ‘I mentioned before that I’d given the problem some thought and come up with a viable solution.’ Sty pointed into the sitting room. Against the far wall, beyond the sofas, in a corner wedged between a grandfather’s clock and a bookshelf, stood a hideous oversized armoire.

  ‘That?’ Evan’s eyebrows rose.

  ‘No one would miss it. If they did, they’d just assume it finally got junked. I’ve measured it. The interior space is ample: seven feet four inches tall by forty-two inches wide. We load it up, strap it to the top of my car, and dump it as planned.’

  Sty led the way across the sitting room, Evan followed and, even grunting and straining, the two were unable to lift the bulky armoire. Finally, they tilted it and, after moving sofas and tables out of the way, inched it into the hall. There, they opened it, lifted Sebastian and managed to stuff him into one side, leaning him against a bar that divided the thing into two par
ts, pressing against the doors until they clicked securely shut, closing Sebastian into what was now his casket.

  For a moment, they stood, winded and recovering. Evan eyed the armoire cautiously, as if expecting it might hurl out its occupant.

  ‘Should we load it onto your car?’ He wiped sweat off his forehead.

  Sty stretched his back. ‘Not yet. Let’s finish up here.’

  Evan cocked his head.

  ‘Put the furniture back where it was. And move your mattress into Rory’s room.’

  Really? ‘My mattress? Now?’ Evan didn’t relish the idea of sacrificing it.

  ‘Of course, now. We need to be thorough. Everything has to be completed, calmly, neatly and efficiently before we leave campus. Let’s get this done.’ Sty started up the stairs.

  Eyes narrowed, lips pursed, Evan watched him. ‘Then that includes you giving me your inflatable.’

  ‘Tsk tsk. Fear not, little Evan. You will have it by bedtime. I’ll even read you a story.’

  Evan’s jaw tightened. He had to take a moment at the base of the stairs to quell the urge mounting in him. By the time Evan quieted down and got to his room, Sty had pulled the sheets off the bed and lugged the queen-sized mattress to the door.

  Together, under the dim hall security lights, they managed to push, twist and drag it up one flight of steps, over the railing and across the hall to Rory’s room. Once inside, though, Sty caught his foot on the bed frame and stumbled into his end of the mattress, shoving it into Evan, who was knocked off his feet against the window.

  ‘Christ,’ Evan struggled with the mattress, shoving it aside, standing again and righting the curtain.

  For a few seconds, Sty held his shin, wincing in pain. Then, wordlessly, they lifted the mattress, shoved it onto the box springs, in place of the one they’d disposed of. When it was done, Evan stormed out and headed down the stairs. But Sty took a moment at the door, checking the room one more time, making sure that they’d thought of everything, that the place looked untouched.

  Harper didn’t want to work on her dissertation, didn’t want to read or watch television or sleep. Her body ached from lack of use; it wanted to work out, to move and stretch and jog and lift. Longed to get on her Ninja and roar through town, along the highway, around the lake. Anywhere out of the house.

  But she couldn’t. Instead, she put her hands on her baby bump, gently patting it, remembering why the doctor had ordered her to rest. Picturing the baby – a chubby miniature Hank. Imagining holding it, smelling its hair. Feeling its little toes and velvet skin.

  ‘You comfy in there?’ She pictured the baby curled up tight inside her belly. ‘Or are you claustrophobic like your mom?’

  Of course it wasn’t. The baby felt secure and warm, not trapped; her womb wasn’t a prison, confining like her house. She gazed at her bedroom walls. Four more months, she thought. Four more months of sitting down, lying down, staring at walls. Lord. Her muscles whined, longing to work. Begging to.

  Stop it, she told herself. She would see the doctor, talk about her restrictions. Maybe they’d be eased; she hadn’t had many contractions lately. Just a few. Maybe she could at least take walks.

  Harper sat up, fluffed her pillows. Turned onto her left side too fast; pain shot from her left hip down her leg. Damn. She flipped onto her back, letting the pain subside. She needed exercise; her left leg was weakening from too little use. The war injury was flaring up again. Never mind. She couldn’t complain. At least she was alive, unlike the rest of her patrol. Again, she saw them at the checkpoint; the flash of light, the sense of flying through hot white air—

  No. She would not revisit those memories; they sucked her into a useless endless vortex of sorrow. She lay back, resisting the spiral. Reminding herself that she had more pressing issues to deal with. Like Lou, his case of money. His gun.

  Carefully, she rolled onto her right side. Maybe she should call Detective Rivers and tell her about Rita’s phone call. About Wally and the hit that he’d supposedly taken out on Ed. Then again, she had no proof of what Rita had said. No proof that Lou was actually Ed. Didn’t even know who Wally was. And wasn’t eager to raise havoc with Vivian by calling police on her boyfriend.

  Still, she had to do something. Didn’t trust Lou. The package with the rat, his late-night wanderings, Rita’s phone call, his fake IDs, the gun and money – Lou was trouble. Might be endangering her mother and her – and the baby, and that was inexcusable. She’d give him the night to think about their talk. But in the morning, she’d tell him to get his affairs in order or she’d call Detective Rivers and let him explain himself to her.

  Her decision wasn’t satisfying, but it was the best she could do for the moment. Harper reached over and turned out the lamp on the nightstand, lay in the dark, staring out the window. Her eyelids were growing heavy, and she was about to shut them when, in a window of the fraternity house, the curtains slid to the side, and something – a man’s head? A mattress? Something fell against the windowpane. Arms reached out, yanking the thing away, quickly straightening the curtains again.

  For a moment, she stayed there, trying to deny what she’d just seen. This was the second time she’d seen the curtains move. Which meant that someone was definitely in the fraternity house, which was supposed to be closed and empty. Oh God. Was it the hit man watching for Ed? Or maybe it was the naked guy? The missing kid from Elmira – could he be in the house? Hiding there? Or being held prisoner?

  Ridiculous. She was overreacting, putting things together that didn’t fit. Maybe the curtain hadn’t moved. Maybe she’d invented that scenario out of boredom. The same thing often happened to prisoners of war – when they were held in seclusion many began hallucinating because of sensory deprivation. Harper wasn’t that far gone, wasn’t hallucinating, but the same principle could apply. Her mind might be compensating for the unbearable monotony of her doctor’s ordered bed rest – might be creating its own stimulation. Imagining movement. Connecting unconnected events. Exaggerating the significance of details. Distorting.

  She was still considering those possibilities when, careful not to alert Vivian and Lou, she snuck outside into the darkness. And she was still contemplating them when she stood on her front porch, shivering, toying with the key in her coat pocket, waiting for Detective Rivers to arrive.

  ‘Tell me again what you saw?’ Detective Rivers was tired. She’d pulled a double shift twice that week because Boschi was out with the flu. She was beginning to wonder about Harper Jennings – was she off balance? Her pregnancy affecting her? Her husband was away, and her mother visiting. Still, she’d been a reliable – if too independent and daring – source in the past. Rivers owed it to her to come out personally to follow up on her call.

  Harper described what she’d seen. A man falling against the window. And maybe a mattress. ‘It’s not the first time I’ve seen that curtain move. I think someone might be in there who shouldn’t be.’ She held off voicing her suspicions about the missing boy. Stuck to the facts.

  ‘So you think someone’s trespassing?’

  ‘Maybe. Someone was in there.’

  Rivers sighed, eyeing the fraternity. It hunkered dark and silent, slumbering in the snow. ‘Okay. I’ll go check it out.’ She stepped off Harper’s porch, into the snow.

  Harper hustled, going with her.

  ‘Mrs Jennings, I can handle this—’

  ‘Please, Detective. I won’t get in your way – promise.’

  ‘It’s not protocol for a civilian to come along—’

  ‘Okay – I won’t actually come along.’ Harper waited and let Rivers move ahead through the snowy yard. ‘I’ll stay way behind you.’

  Rivers didn’t bother to argue. The call, after all, was trivial, the danger level nil. No doubt the disturbance would turn out to be nothing. Some fraternity boys sacking out in the house when they shouldn’t be. Maybe with some girls. Small stuff. She climbed the front steps, rang the doorbell, heard it chime inside. Waited. Got no answ
er.

  ‘You wait here,’ she told Harper. She stepped off the porch, took a hike around the perimeter of the building, flashing her light left, right, up, down. Behind the house, by the back door, she saw some disturbance in the snow, as if someone had tried to brush over footprints. Large green trash bags were lined up beside the kitchen door with the trash cans, waiting for pickup. Something bothered Rivers about that; the house had been empty for almost a week. Shouldn’t the garbage have been picked up? She’d have to check the sanitation schedule – possibly it was different during the holidays. She kept walking; saw no tire tracks in the driveway. Went to a window and flashed her light through, saw a dining-room table lined with chairs. A dim glow coming from the hall – probably a security light. But no sign of life inside. She moved on. Looked into the kitchen, games room, sitting room. Came back around to the front of the house, saw Harper waiting for her at the front door. Which was now wide open.

  Evan and Sty sprawled on a plush leather sofa in the shadows of the sitting room.

  ‘What did you tell Phil about why we needed his truck?’

  ‘To move a senior’s furniture out. But he didn’t seem to care, just said go ahead and take it.’

  Evan eyed the armoire. ‘But we can’t lift that thing,’ Evan reasoned. ‘So how are we supposed to get it into the bed?’

  ‘Are you serious? It’s obvious. We drag it out the kitchen door. I pull the pickup over to the porch, and we tilt it onto—’

  Chimes suddenly rang out, interrupting him. Evan and Sty froze, mouths open, mirroring each other. Who was at the door?

  ‘Who is that?’ Evan whispered.

  Sty put a finger to his lips. ‘Shhh.’

  The chimes peeled again.

  ‘Who the fuck . . .?’ Evan’s blood had stopped pumping; he slipped off the sofa and scuttled backwards into the corner.

  ‘Stop, you imbecile,’ Sty growled. ‘Hold still.’

  For a moment, they sat motionless, waiting. Then a light flashed from the porch into the dining room.

  ‘Shit,’ Evan breathed. ‘The cops?’

  Sty said nothing.

  ‘We’re screwed.’ Evan hugged his knees.