Hope's Peak (Harper and Lane)

by Tony Healey

  “Really? That’s a shame,” Harper says, unconvinced. She decides to turn on the charm, put her feminine wiles to good use. “I bet there’s quite a bit a man like you could tell me. A respected member of the parish, and all that.”

  Partman blushes. “Well, of course there was her poor mother’s murder . . .”

  “Yes.”

  Partman removes his glasses and uses the end of his tie to clean the lenses. “Then her grandpappy killing himself the way he did,” Partman says with a shake of the head.

  “How did that happen?”

  “Oh, he hung himself. I believe it was poor Ida found him,” Partman explains, a distinct note of sadness in his voice. “He was swinging back and forth. She never really stood a chance, poor thing. It’s no wonder she’s the way she is now.”

  “Does anyone see much of her?” Harper asks.

  “She lives out there in the house she grew up in, right on the edge of Chalmer. Hardly says boo to anyone when she pops into town. Does come in here from time to time, though.”

  Harper frowns. “Really? What for?”

  “This and that. Bought a typewriter off me a few months back. You know, the manual type. She came in last week, got a replacement ribbon for it. Lucky I had some in stock. They’re hard to get these days. I think she likes to live simply. I was surprised to hear she even had a TV. No video, though.”

  “Friends? Anything like that?”

  Partman shakes his head. “Not that I know of. I think Ida’s happy living on the outskirts, where it’s quiet. She buys a lot of records off me sometimes.”

  “Records?”

  “Vinyl. Twelve inches. Old stuff, you understand.”

  It never ceases to amaze Harper the little details people remember. “Right. Okay. Thanks.”

  She starts to leave, and Partman comes out from behind his counter. “Miss Harper?”

  “Yes?”

  “People around here respect her privacy,” he says, his eyes full of sadness. His voice drops to a soft whisper. “I think they pity her . . . and they maybe even fear her. Just a little.”

  “Fear her?”

  “Just a little.”

  “Why?”

  “Ida is different. You’ll see when you get up there. It really was tragic, what happened to her. To be honest, I’m a little surprised she hasn’t followed in her grandpappy’s footsteps by now.”

  The house could do with a coat of paint. Maybe two.

  Harper gets out of the car and immediately sees movement from inside.

  A black woman in her late thirties pushes through the screen door and walks out onto the porch. “Hey.”

  Harper walks to the front steps leading up to the porch. “Hi, I’m Detective Jane Harper. Would you be Ida?”

  “I would. Why d’you ask?”

  “May I speak with you?” Harper asks.

  Ida shrugs. “Sure.”

  When Harper gets to the porch, however, Ida shows no sign of going back indoors. “Hey, uh, can I see some ID first?”

  “Oh, yeah,” Harper says, handing it to her.

  “Okay.” Ida gives it back. “Do you want to sit out here? It’s awful hot inside and I don’t have a fan since my last one decided to die on me.”

  “I’m fine either way,” Harper says, sensing the woman’s initial reluctance to invite a stranger inside. “However you like.”

  Ida leads her to a swinging chair around the side. The bolts holding it in place look rusted and old, but when Harper sits in it, it’s sturdy enough. Ida sits at the other end, pulling a cigarette from a pack.

  “Care for one?”

  “No thanks. I don’t smoke.”

  Ida shrugs. “Huh. Mind if I do?”

  “Go ahead,” she says, watching Ida slip the cigarette between her lips, strike a match, and light it.

  “So what can I do for you, Detective? I don’t get many visitors out here, so there must be some special reason you’ve made the effort.”

  Harper clears her throat. “Alma Buford. She was the young woman found murdered two days ago. I’m the lead on the case.”

  “Alright,” Ida says flatly, giving nothing away.

  Harper licks her top lip. “I’m looking at the historical murders that we believe are the work of the same individual. I happened upon your mother’s case—”

  “Look,” Ida interrupts her. “I don’t really want to go into all that.”

  “I’m not going to force you to divulge anything you find too traumatic. I just want to see if there’s something about Ruby’s death that hasn’t been explored yet.”

  Ida shakes her head with disdain. “There ain’t nothing that ain’t been gone over a thousand times by now. It’s in the past. Best leave it there.”

  “I don’t mean to cause offense,” Harper says. “I’m just exploring every avenue. I want to stop this guy before he kills another innocent young woman.”

  Ida stands. “Well this particular avenue is well and truly shut. I’m sorry, Detective, but there’s nothing I can tell you. Opening old wounds is no good for anybody, especially the kind I got.”

  “Please, Miss Lane. There might be some small detail that helps us catch this man. Isn’t that worth it?”

  “Like I said, Detective”—Ida stubs her cigarette out, face tight with tension—“I think you’re wasting your time here.”

  “Well, thank you anyway,” Harper says.

  She heads for her car and glances back up at the porch. Ida is watching her, an unreadable expression on her face. Harper starts the engine and begins to drive away, not entirely sure what just happened but knowing it does nothing for her case.

  When she looks back in the mirror, Ida is still there, watching her.

  Ida watches the detective’s car kick up a trail of dust in its wake and can’t help but feel a pang of regret at the way she responded to her questions.

  But it had to be done—she’s spent her whole life reliving the past, waking from the same nightmare over and over.

  Her grandmother once told her she was touched by a wonderful gift, that she was put on this earth to help others.

  I was tainted by my ability. If I was destined to do anything, it certainly wasn’t to help people. It was to live in misery.

  She watches the detective’s car merge with the haze on the horizon and remembers finding her grandfather hanging from the rope.

  His eyes are wide open, staring straight into her. The rope still creaks—he hasn’t been dead for long. Legs completely straight, arms by his sides. Face dark purple, rope cutting in under his chin.

  But those eyes!

  They bulge from the sockets, bright red, every vein filled with hardening blood. Looking right at her, into her, past her. Ida wants to run, wants to scream, but can’t. All she can do is watch as he swings, back and forth, back and forth. Only her grandmammy’s hand on her shoulder from behind snaps her back. The old woman’s wail as she hugs Ida to her and steers her away from him.

  He’ll always be swinging, just as her mother will forever be falling. The rope will creak in the gray moment between wakefulness and sleep.

  Ida snaps to, aware that her cheeks are wet. The memory came back strong—it does sometimes, when she least expects it. She wipes the tears on the back of her hand, goes inside, snatches her keys from the sideboard, and rushes to her truck.

  Harper hears the pickup before she sees it. It rushes up from behind, engine roaring, driver waving one brown arm from the open window, signaling for her to pull over. She slows, bringing the car to a halt, the truck doing the same behind her.

  She is confident that Ida Lane is not some nutcase, driven mad by misfortune, intent on doing her harm. Still, Harper watches in her side mirror and unclips the top of her holster as Ida gets out of her truck.

  Just in case.

  She gets out of the car. “I have colleagues who would probably consider that reckless driving.”

  “Sorry. I needed to get you to stop,” Ida says breathlessly. “I was rude
back there.”

  “You were a little abrupt, I’ll give you that,” Harper says. “Have you had a change of heart?”

  Ida looks away. There are endless rows of soybean crops on either side of the road, several feet high. “Have you ever lost someone?” she asks.

  The question throws Harper for a second. “Not like you, no.”

  “I believe we all got ghosts, Detective. People we lost, people we let down. I think I been haunted by mine for too long. I feel their weight, right here round my throat, like my grandfather’s rope,” Ida says. She looks at her. “If this man is killing these women . . . and if he killed my mother . . . I want to help.”

  Harper nods. “I’m glad to hear that. Shall we go back to your house and talk?”

  “Yeah.”

  On the drive back to Ida’s, the truck now traveling at a relative crawl considering the speed she’d driven at earlier, Harper has time to wonder just what it was that changed Ida’s mind.

  The inside of the house isn’t nearly as hot as Ida said it would be. Harper has a digital recorder on the table between them. Much handier than a notepad and pen, with the added boon that she can play it back through the car stereo. Often, she will leave an interview or meeting and listen back through what’s just taken place, in the hope of finding new meaning or insight.

  “I know it’s hard, but I’d like you to think back to your mother. Did she ever have male friends hanging around? Boyfriends?”

  Ida shakes her head. “Not that I remember. There was Daddy, but she never saw him since the day she said she was pregnant. To this day, I ain’t met the man. Don’t even know his name.”

  “Can you remember if she ever had friends from work? Anyone she would hang out with?”

  “Again, it’s all a bit of a blank, I’m afraid.”

  “Doesn’t matter. You can’t force these things. They either come or they don’t.”

  Ida lights a cigarette. “I do remember my mother, though,” she says, the suggestion of a smile crossing her features. “I think about her all the time.”

  “What was she like?” Harper asks.

  “Very beautiful. No-nonsense hair. Pulled back tight, out of the way ’cause of the heat. Always there for me, always around. She was a good mom.”

  “I understand.”

  Ida draws on the cigarette, rolling the milky-blue smoke around before blowing it out the side of her mouth. Lost in thought, lost in memory.

  I believe we all got ghosts.

  “She was young, but she knew what she was doing. Always did right by me, I remember that,” Ida says, smiling now at the memory. “Sometimes at night when I had trouble sleeping, she’d sit on the bed. It’d be dark, maybe just the light from the hall. Made her a silhouette to look at. She’d just sit there and sing in that soft voice of hers. I think sometimes maybe that’s what I miss the most, that sweet, sweet singing . . .”

  I been haunted by mine for too long.

  “You sound like you miss her,” Harper says.

  “Yes,” Ida says without hesitation. “Yes, I do.”

  “I know it’s hard to talk about, but I’d like you to tell me about your mother’s death. What do you remember about it? I know you were young at the time.”

  Ida draws on the cigarette. “Only that she went missing, and was found. And then there was after.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Her funeral.”

  It’s suddenly hotter in the house, and Harper suppresses the urge to pull at her collar or take her suit jacket off. She sits as if nothing has changed, but there’s definitely a shift in the air—as if the whole house has tensed in expectation.

  “I went to see her. Laid out in the casket. You know something? It happens so fast. You must see it on your end of things. But when you lose someone like that, everything takes on a kind of quickness. There isn’t time to catch your breath. One morning your mother’s seeing you into school. A day later, she turns up dead. A short while after that, you’re visiting her in her coffin, saying good-bye.”

  Harper expects tears from Ida, but none come. She just sucks on that cigarette, as if drawing strength from it. Clutching the smoke in her lungs for as long as she can, till it burns, then slowly releasing it.

  Watching her smoke, Harper begins to see why Ida lives on her own, so far from town. Why she needs space. Harper thinks back to what Lloyd Claymore said: It was like someone took that sweet little girl and wrung her out.

  Ida takes her time, and Harper lets her. Sometimes the key to a revealing interview is letting the interviewee just talk. Giving them room to breathe and release what’s locked up inside.

  “I couldn’t believe it was her. She looked like she was just asleep. They did a real good job, let me tell you. I thought I could just reach out, touch her, and it’d all be alright. Silly, huh? I put my hand on hers and the first thing that hit me was just how cold she was. Like touching marble. And then it happened.”

  “It?”

  Ida stubs the cigarette out. “Detective, do you think a person can tell what another person is thinking? Like, hear their thoughts?”

  “I’ve heard stories,” Harper says. “But I’ll admit, I’ve never really believed that kind of stuff.”

  Now Ida smiles. “What if I told you that I touched my mother’s hand and saw the entire murder? Everything but the killer’s face. I dream about it even now. Every night, over and over. There’s barely a night goes by I don’t wake, soaking wet I’m so scared.”

  Harper sits forward. “You say you saw the entire murder . . .”

  “As if I were there. I think afterward, I passed out. It was too much,” Ida says. “I guess I got a bit overloaded.”

  “Are we talking some kind of . . . psychic thing here?” Harper asks. She is wondering how long it will take her to get out of the house without causing offense. Make her excuses to wrap it all up quick and get on the road. Either Claymore was pulling her leg, or he believed such nonsense.

  Ida smiles knowingly. “Detective, you don’t have to hide your distrust. I don’t blame you. Just another crazy black woman living out in the sticks, huh?”

  “No, no, no! Not at all!”

  Ida sits back, arms folded. “I touched my mother’s hand. It felt like an electrical charge, jumping from her to me. And nothing around me mattered anymore because the vision was on me. It felt like a heavy curtain around my shoulder, pressing down on my head. It was this weight. Everything turned black. My grandmammy’s voice called for help, but I wasn’t there anymore. I was wherever her spirit led me. Another place, away from the light.”

  “Go on . . . ,” Harper tells her in a soft voice. Part of being a good detective is allowing a person time to reveal the truth. Playing along for the sake of furthering the case.

  Cop 101 is to never tell the crazy person you can or can’t see the dragon. Just tell them you believe they can see it.

  Harper looks at Ida and wonders if she knows more than she’s letting on. The crazy person routine could be a defense mechanism, Ida’s way of coping with her experiences. Not unlike people who report being abducted by UFOs when, in fact, they were molested as a child.

  Our bodies have remarkable ways of protecting us from harm, even when that harm is psychological.

  “Let me tell you the dream, which was the vision I had. Okay? See what you think.”

  Ida describes everything to her—how it is in her head, how it plays in her dreams. “There’s wind, and it pushes over the pond. You know, the way it does. Making the water ripple, kind of fan out . . .”

  Ruby calls his name, treading through grass tall as her hip. A bird caws somewhere in the trees, which crash against a sky of washed-out nothing. Her voice falters at the sound of someone approaching.

  She turns. Her mouth works soundlessly, trying to scream, but there is no breath there, no voice left in her throat but a frightened wheeze. All she can do is stumble back, feeling out for something to steady her, to regain her footing. But there is only the
grass . . .

  Harper waits a second for Ida to finish. “Listen, Ida, how do we know this wasn’t something you imagined afterward? Dreams can be very convincing.”

  “I thought of that,” Ida says. “Maybe, I suppose. But what if I were to tell you my mother’s killer was wearing a white mask of some kind? Sorta reminded me of a pillowcase, cut to size. Does that have any bearing on your case?”

  Harper forces herself to remain nonchalant. She holds back from saying anything other than “Go on.”

  “Two holes for eyes,” Ida says. “And I think a belt around his neck, holding it in place.”

  Harper clears her throat. “How do you know this?”

  “Saw it, like I told you. It’s really vivid, like I’m actually there. I see him as she saw him, hood and all. Walking toward her, looking like something out of a horror movie. But when she calls his name I can’t hear it. It’s muffled, as if I’m not meant to know.”

  Harper nods, listening, not quite able to believe her ears.

  Eyes narrowed, Ida is doing her best to try to remember. “Either she couldn’t find her voice, or I’m not listening hard enough. But it’s not there. She calls him, turns around, sees him coming for her . . .” Ida’s voice cracks and she casts her eyes away in shame. “Sorry.”

  “It’s okay,” Harper says.

  When Ida looks up, there are tears streaming down her face. “I didn’t talk about what I saw until years after my mother passed. I felt silly, as if I were lying to myself. But I knew deep down, it really did happen. I connected with her in some way, and experienced what had happened to her. I never really came to terms with my gift until after I’d spent time in the hospital, sorting my head out. Getting straight with myself.”

  “Have you had other experiences?”

  “Yes. My grandpappy. When he died . . . I found him hanging, you know. After the ambulance took him away, I got up on a chair and took the rope down. When my hands touched it, I saw him looping it around his neck, weeping. He’d never gotten over my mother’s death. It ate away at him until he couldn’t take it any longer. I watched him prepare the noose, get everything ready. He kicked a stool out from under him and the rope bit in, as if it were a set of jaws. I’ll never forget his eyes looking straight at me when I found him. Looking into me, as he knew I would be looking into him.”