Hope's Peak (Harper and Lane)

by Tony Healey

  She thinks of Bob Dylan singing “Like A Rolling Stone.” That’s Harper, a stone without a home, rolling from place to place. On her own.

  Ida goes to bed, leaving Harper to dream her dreams in private, hoping that with enough rest her visitor might find some peace. But for Ida there will be none. That night, sleep finds her.

  And, in her dreams, so does he.

  “Oh thank Christ you’re here, Lester!” Ceeli lets him in, closing the door behind them. She leads him into the living room and they sit on the sofa. There are a few lights on in the house, and darkness beyond the windows. “I’ve been worried sick. I didn’t know what was happening.”

  She can see Lester’s shock at her appearance. Her eyes have nearly closed up, the bruising has come out fully. She is talking funny because her jaw doesn’t want to work.

  “What’d he do to you?” he asks her.

  “Beat me. I thought he was gonna kill me when he found out about us,” she says. “What happened when he got to your house? You haven’t been answering your phone.”

  “Difconnected it.”

  “Oh.” Ceeli studies his face. “So . . . what happened?”

  Lester licks his top lip, the one that’s twisted up in the center, revealing his teeth and gums. “Nothin’. He didn’t fhow.”

  She frowns. “He didn’t? That’s strange.”

  Lester shrugs.

  “Maybe he went off someplace,” Ceeli says, though her tone does little to hide the fact she is unconvinced.

  Lester scratches the side of his face. “How’d he find out?”

  “Julie next door, she told him. I think maybe she caught us up to something,” Ceeli tells him. She reaches out, takes his hand in hers, gives it a squeeze. “But don’t worry, honey. It’s out in the open now. We can be together. And there ain’t gonna be no worryin’ about Mack, Julie, or anyone else.”

  Lester pulls his hand away. “Don’t want that.”

  “Lester honey?

  He puts his hands on her shoulders, forces her back on the sofa till she’s lying in front of him. She looks nervous, a little scared. And he can see it—she’s excited. “Thif if what I want,” he says.

  “Oh, honey, I wish I could . . . I’m so sore.”

  Lester lies on top of her. He kisses the side of her neck, his warped lips making sucking noises on her skin.

  “Please . . . ,” Ceeli begs him.

  He looks at her blackened, puffy face. Her sad eyes peering out from deep bruises.

  “You want to know how it feelf?”

  Ceeli struggles, but he is strong. He is experienced. She lets out the beginnings of a scream as he tears her clothes off and clamps his hand over her mouth. She tries to hit him with her right arm. Lester pins the arm up over her head, holding it against the armrest of the sofa.

  He looks into her eyes. “You’re trouble. You’re all trouble. But they are different. They’re good. You . . . you’re nothing.”

  Lester’s grip eases, and for the briefest second, Ceeli thinks he is letting her go, but then he brings a cushion down on her face. Pressing, pressing, pressing . . .

  All those times he managed to restrain himself from killing her, from strangling her to death. Now he can follow it through. Lester lifts the cushion, throws it to one side, and grips her neck in his bare hands. Ceeli tries to pull his forearms away, but his arms are locked. She tries to fight, tries to breathe, suck in one last breath. Lester shifts his grip so he can manage it with one hand, and yanks down his bottoms to grant freedom to his throbbing cock. Ceeli passes out in front of him. Lester lets go, reaches into his pants, and removes the white mask, the belt. He puts it on and there’s a change in the air. He has arrived.

  Lester slaps Ceeli around the face. Her eyes open, then widen at the sight of him with the mask on.

  Now you’ll feel it.

  Julie turns off all the lights and carries her book upstairs. She’s been a fan of Stephen King for years, but his latest fails to keep her attention. And yet sometimes books have a way of surprising you. You read fifty pages, thinking it isn’t connecting, and then something clicks and you’re in. She thinks she’ll give Mr. King another night or so of reading, to give him the benefit of the doubt, but it’s not looking hopeful.

  Julie puts the book down and heads to the bathroom. She turns on the water, squeezes toothpaste on her electric toothbrush, and puts it in her mouth. It vibrates away as she works it around her mouth, massaging her gums, getting in all the nooks and crannies.

  SMASH!

  Julie stops the toothbrush and listens. All is silent. She puts the brush back in her mouth, turns it on, dismissing the sound. Maybe she’s hearing things. Maybe it’s something outside.

  SMASH!

  She stands there, looking in the mirror, as if her reflection can explain to her the noise coming from downstairs. She stops the toothbrush, spits into the sink, and steps out on the landing. The bottom of the house is dark. Still. Quiet.

  Julie watches the stairs for movement, but there is none.

  Call the police.

  She doesn’t know what to do. What if it’s a cat that got in? That happened once before—she locked up for the night and didn’t realize a cat had gotten into the house during the afternoon. In the middle of the night, she woke to find it bouncing off the walls, smashing all of her china.

  Julie throws the light on in the hall and starts down the stairs.

  What if it’s not?

  She hesitates, the step under her foot creaking with her weight. That’s when she sees him. He has a white hood on his head, belt tight around his neck. He looks up at her with dark eyes.

  Julie backs up, blood turned to ice water. The man takes one step at a time. She can hear his breathing. She can feel his eyes burning into her. She backs up against something hard. It’s the wall next to the bathroom door.

  Quick!

  She darts inside the bathroom and slams the door, fumbling with the latch, trying to get it to move with fingers that are numb, hands that have turned to jelly. An incredible weight shoves the door toward her, smashing her in the face. Julie falls back, and the door thunders against the tiles on the wall. The man stands in the doorway. She whimpers, looking up at him, her heart jackhammering under her nightshirt. Tears fill her eyes as he walks toward her, as he dominates her vision.

  “What are you going to do to me?” she whispers, her throat so dry she can barely form words.

  The man bends down, face inches from hers. “What d’you think?”

  He finishes and gets up. Carefully, he unbuckles the belt around his neck, then handles the delicate white material of the torn hood, almost as though he were cradling a newborn. She’s the first of his victims to get anywhere near it. He can’t believe she’s ripped it. Lester folds the hood, slips it into his pocket. On his way out of the bathroom, he flips the switch and the light goes off.

  “Night,” he says as he goes down the stairs and out through the back door. Glass lies in shattered pieces on the floor. It crunches underfoot as he flees into the night.

  No one saw him arrive. No one sees him leave. He is a ghost among the living. The giver of freedom.

  The taker of life.

  12

  Someone is humming.

  Harper opens her eyes and feels a sharp stabbing pain in the middle of her forehead. She sits up, groggy, feeling the worse for wear. “Christ, what happened to me?”

  Ida walks in, apron on, smile on her face. “Morning.”

  “Morning,” Harper croaks. She looks at the happy black woman standing in front of her, wondering how she could possibly be tip-top while she feels like death personified. “You’re not hung over?”

  “No! You want coffee?”

  “Yes, please God,” Harper says, getting up gingerly, as if she’s a patient who’s been operated on. “Do you mind if I use your bathroom?”

  “Not at all. You know where you’re going. Have a shower, if you like. I left you out some towels. I had an inkling you
might have a change of clothes in your car, and found all that in your trunk. Sorry, I had to use your keys. I didn’t touch any of your stuff.”

  “Wow, you’re really thorough,” Harper says, thinking of the overnight bag she always takes with her. There’s everything in there—change of clothes, toothbrush, toothpaste, perfume, hairbrush . . . even condoms, should she need them.

  Hope she didn’t poke around in there . . .

  “Go on up, Jane. Coffee will be waiting for you.”

  “Thanks,” Harper says, pausing on the steps. “Hey, you’re a really nice person, Ida. Does anyone ever tell you that?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Well, they should,” Harper says. A half hour later she is in fresh clothes, hair still damp from the shower, and she feels better. It makes all the difference in the world just brushing her teeth. One of the things that’s always made her laugh is when, in a movie, two lovers wake up after having a drunken one-night stand, and full-on kiss. She could never do that.

  Last thing I want is to exchange death breath.

  “Have a seat, sugar,” Ida says. “Bet that feels better, don’t it?”

  “Oh yeah,” Harper says, smiling. She looks at the clock on the wall. “Jesus, is that really the time?”

  Ida puts a mug of coffee in front of her. “Thought I’d let you sleep. You looked tired last night.”

  “I was,” Harper agrees. “I needed some rest, I think.”

  Stu calls. Harper takes it outside. “Hey,” she says, holding the phone to her ear.

  “You alright? I didn’t hear from you last night.”

  “I stayed here at Ida’s.”

  A second of silence, then: “Isn’t that, like, a bit weird?”

  “No, I don’t think so. It feels like I’ve known her for ages.”

  “I know, Jane, but—”

  “Stu, honestly, I’m fine. How about you?”

  “Albie called me. There’s a murder scene bears a close resemblance to Magnolia, Alma, and Gertie. Raped and strangled. It’s in a house. He’s at the scene now. They pulled DNA and are comparing it to what we have on file so far. Albie said he won’t say dick about this to Morelli, before you start worryin’.”

  “Wow. Okay. I didn’t expect that,” Harper says. “I’ll get there as soon as I can.”

  “Look, let me check it out; I’ll let you know what I find. There’s nothing you can do right now. I promise I’ll call soon as I can, and let you know what’s going on.”

  “Okay,” Harper says through gritted teeth. “But right away, you hear?”

  “Yes, mon capitaine,” Stu says. “And, uh, thanks for the reply last night. I didn’t know what you’d make of my text. I actually thought it might be a mistake sending it.”

  “Why would you think that?”

  “You’re a hard girl to read, Jane. What with what happened at the station, and the way you took off the other night, I thought maybe you were having second thoughts.”

  “I took off because I wanted to be in my own bed,” Harper tells him. “But that doesn’t mean I wanted to leave yours.”

  A pause. “You realize that statement makes no sense, right?”

  “Oh shut up. I’ll talk to you later when you’re not being so obtuse.”

  Stu laughs on the other end. “Okay,” he says. “I love you, kiddo. I want you to know that.”

  “Stu, I . . .” Harper swallows. Her throat is dry. “Take care.”

  “I will.”

  The line goes dead and she puts the phone in her pocket. In that moment, on Ida’s porch, with the sun high above the tree line, she feels a sudden pang of loneliness.

  I don’t know how she can live out here, Harper thinks. It’s peaceful, but there’s such a thing as being too peaceful. I’m well rested having come here, but it’s too far removed from everything.

  She feels as though she is at the bow of an ocean liner, leaning on the railings, gazing upon an endless vista of blue sky and even bluer sea. A sense of being lost in place and time.

  But there is Stu, and there are the victims awaiting their retribution. And there is Ida, who is as much a victim herself as her mother was. They are the anchors keeping Harper tethered.

  It’s midday, and Ida has started her music. Robert Cray spills from inside the house—his clear tenor and riotous band causing the very air to quake.

  I need to leave soon, Harper thinks. She sighs and goes in.

  “Run this by me again?” Stu asks, looking at the broken glass on the floor.

  “Yeah,” Albie Goode says. He consults his notebook. “Victim’s name is Julie Halbrook. Her sister was due to stop by, got no answer, came around the back, saw the broken glass, and called it in.”

  They walk to the hall. There are men and women working the carpet on the stairs, pulling glass fragments from the wiry fibers.

  “And the body?” Stu asks, looking up to where the bathroom door is open.

  “Officer attending the scene discovered her up there. She’s been moved to the morgue.”

  “Right.”

  Albie flips through the pages. “Uh . . . found on her knees, raped. Strangled from behind, we think. Looked like she took a good beating, too.”

  Stu shakes his head. “Fuck.”

  A young police officer calls Albie over to her. “Excuse me a moment, Stu,” Albie says.

  “Sure, no problem.”

  Stu walks outside, stretches the stiff muscles in his back. Several neighbors have gathered on the other side of the street and are talking among themselves.

  He dials Harper’s number. “Hey.”

  “How’re you doing?”

  “They’ve already moved the body. Doesn’t matter. It’s the same MO, Jane. Aside from the fact she’s white, and there was no crown. But it’s too much of a coincidence for it to be anything else.”

  “God.”

  “I know,” Stu says with a sigh. “Thought I’d give you the update. We should have access to their reports in a couple of hours. We’ll see how they do with any foreign DNA they find on the body.”

  “Yeah, we know how that’s going to go, don’t we?”

  “Talk soon,” Stu says, closing the phone.

  The neighbors to the left of Julie Halbrook are being questioned by officers on their front lawn. Stu looks to the right—that house is dark and quiet.

  He ducks under the yellow tape and crosses the lawn. The doorbell doesn’t work so he knocks on the door, hard. When no response comes, he knocks again.

  “We already tried that,” a young police officer calls across. “No one home.”

  “Yeah, well . . .” Stu looks down the side of the house. It’s overgrown and trashy, but there’s a definite path there, stamped into the short grass. “Anyone tried the back?”

  The officer shakes his head. “Want me to tag along?”

  “Might be a good move.”

  He heads down the side of the house, right hand behind him, over his holster. He notices a window into the kitchen. He glances in, sees no movement, then makes his way around the back.

  The door is open.

  Stu pulls out his gun, holds it at the ready. “Pull your sidearm, officer.”

  The younger man swallows with nerves and fumbles his gun from the holster.

  “Shouldn’t we call some of the others over?”

  Stu steps inside the threshold and calls out. “Hello?”

  Nothing moves in the house. Stu signals for the officer to follow behind, and pushes on into the house, checking every room as he goes. Dining room. Living room. Pantry.

  “Stick around down here. I’ll clear the top,” Stu whispers, already heading up the staircase before the officer can object in any way.

  “Police department. Anybody home?” The steps creak with every footfall, but he continues up at his own pace. There is a stretch of bare wall at the very top, then a bathroom. Next to that, a bedroom. The door is ajar. Stu nudges it wide open with his foot and goes in with his gun ahead of him,
checking every corner. He backs up, walks along the landing. The second bedroom is open; there’s no one in there. “Clear!”

  The officer is waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs. “What do you think happened here, Detective?”

  Stu heads down the stairs, smiling. “Looks like they forgot to lock their back door, that’s what.”

  Harper answers her phone: “Albie?”

  Ida turns the music down while Harper is conversing.

  “Hey, Harper.”

  “Stu told me you called him about a crime scene this morning.”

  “He did?”

  “Yeah. I appreciate you keeping us in the loop.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  “So, did they find anything on the DNA?”

  “Yes. DNA from the semen was a match, Harper.”

  Harper is shaking her head. “I don’t know what this guy is doing, Albie. I don’t understand him. His behavior is . . . erratic. Why now? Why go on a killing spree all of a sudden?”

  “Beats me. It doesn’t make any sense to me either.”

  Harper sighs. “Anything else?”

  “The captain’s pulling his hair out. What’s left of it anyway. Member of the press tried to get in here.”

  “Jesus,” Harper says. “We’ll catch a break. Mark my words.”

  “Right you are, boss,” Albie says, ending the call.

  Ida lights a cigarette. “The woman that Detective Raley got called to . . . it’s the same killer isn’t it?”

  “Looks that way, yes,” Harper tells her. “DNA is a match.”

  Ida’s hand goes to her neck. She watches as Harper rounds up her things, shoving them hastily into her bag. “How about meeting us in the parking lot next to the Buy N Save later?”

  Ida sucks on the cigarette, blowing a steady trail of blue smoke out one side of her mouth. “Sure, no problem.”

  “You can always say no . . .”

  She shakes her head. “No need to. We’re in this together, am I right, sugar?”

  Harper nods at the door. “I guess we are. I’ll be in touch, Ida. Thanks for letting me stay.”

  “Don’t you mention it. Now go, get gone,” Ida says, waving her off.