Behind the Walls (14 page)

‘So here’s my thinking.’ Vicki leaned forward, elbows on the table. ‘From what I’ve heard, Zina wasn’t carrying any weapons. Was she?’

‘No.’

‘Not even scissors or a steak knife. Not one thing to protect herself?’

‘No.’ Harper bit off a chunk of scone, unsettled. Wondering what mood Hank was in. Why he hadn’t even said ‘good morning’ before going outside.

‘So?’ Vicki seemed to think her point was obvious. ‘So, I think that means that Zina wasn’t afraid of her family. She didn’t believe she was in danger.’

‘Well, I guess she was wrong.’ Harper drew a breath. Maybe she was being selfish to want her issues to take precedence over Zina’s. Maybe Vicki was right that discussing the murder was more important. Even so, Harper drifted away, thinking about Hank, how she should approach him. What she should say. She looked out the kitchen window. Didn’t see him. Wanted to go outside. To talk to him.

Vicki went on. ‘But, obviously, she knew her family and their beliefs. She had to know—’

‘Maybe she didn’t take the beliefs seriously, Vicki.’ Harper finished her coffee. ‘No one had any reason to think her family would commit an honor killing until after the murder.’

‘Well, that’s just weird.’ Vicki held her cup, sat straight. ‘Imagine you come from a family – from a culture – that dictates the death penalty for certain acts. And you knowingly commit one of those acts. Can you imagine not considering that? Not taking precautions to protect yourself?’

‘No, I can’t.’ Neither could she imagine Zina’s mindset, her background and its conflicting values. ‘But we’re Westerners. We really can’t know what Zina was thinking. We can’t comprehend being part of a culture where women get killed for having relationships with men. Or wearing make-up. Or going out alone, or—’

‘But Zina wasn’t a fool. She was a bright woman. Worldly. Educated. And yet she seems to have been oblivious to the dangers of going against her culture.’ Vicki broke off a piece of scone, toyed with it.

‘What are you saying?’

‘I guess I just don’t want to believe her family would, you know  . . . do that.’

‘You’d prefer it if a random stranger had killed her?’ Harper didn’t want to consider that possibility.

‘You know what?’ Vicki chewed slowly. ‘I would. Yes.’

Harper felt a chill, pictured the moment Zina realized that her own flesh and blood was taking her life. She imagined meeting the killer’s familiar eyes, searching them for compassion, feeling cold steel pushed through her body  . . .

Harper stood, went to rinse out her coffee mug, realizing that, yes, she no longer wanted to talk about Hank. Compared to Zina’s death – the betrayal by her family – she and Hank had no problems at all. She looked out the window, saw Hank pushing a wheelbarrow filled with leaves. A year ago, he’d struggled even to walk. Now, he was doing yard work. And driving the car.

Vicki had stopped talking, was waiting for a response. ‘Harper?’

‘Sorry.’ She had no idea what Vicki had been saying. But, suddenly, watching Hank, she thought she knew why Zina hadn’t been afraid. She’d known the culture and its rules, but had been too close to her family to see them objectively. Zina had underestimated the people closest to her, hadn’t grasped the extent of their passion or the depth of their resolve.

Zina made a fatal, though not uncommon mistake.

‘I have to go out,’ Harper ran to the closet and pulled on a fleece jacket.

‘What? Harper?’ Vicki stood up, gaping. ‘I thought you wanted to talk!’

‘Not now. Don’t have time.’ Harper hurried to the door. ‘Sorry to run off. Just leave everything, OK? I’ll clean up later  . . .’ And she was out the front door, rushing over to Hank.

He looked up as she approached, didn’t say anything. Nodded, as he balanced carefully and pulled the rake, gathering leaves. Harper went to a pile a few yards away, ordered her left leg to bend, and, despite its complaints, began picking up arm-loads, dropping them into the wheelbarrow. When it was full, she rolled it to the back of the house, tossed them over the fence on to the floor of the woods. Then she returned to the front yard, repeated the process. Again and again. And again.

At some point, Vicki came out, looking confused. ‘So. I guess I’ll go.’

Harper picked up some leaves, wiped her brow. ‘OK. Yeah. I have to do this. Thanks for the scones.’

‘Trent. Say. Hi.’ Hank called.

Vicki wandered off. ‘Dinner Tuesday?’ she shouted.

Harper nodded, waved back. ‘Bring dessert!’

At some point, Harper noticed that her left leg was seriously throbbing. But she didn’t give in, wouldn’t stop until Hank did. And Hank wouldn’t stop.

It took a few hours to clear the front lawn. Finally, they returned the wheelbarrow and the rake to the garage.

Hank was sweating, flushed with exertion. But his eyes twinkled with energy. And as he put an arm around her, he was smiling. ‘Talk. Now.’

Harper’s phone was ringing when they went inside, but Harper let it go, interested only in talking to Hank. He led her into the kitchen, poured coffee. Two mugs. Sat at the table. Waited until she sat. Met her eyes. The twinkle had faded.

‘I was mad.’

‘I know.’

‘I was. Wrong.’

‘No. You had a right to be mad. I was wrong. I should have called and—’

He put a hand up. ‘Me first. Talk.’

OK. Harper lifted her coffee, took a sip.

‘I’ve been. Thinking. Hoppa.’

She waited.

‘Whole year now. I’ve. Not had a. Life. Too much on. On you. Leaned on you. Burden.’

‘No, you’ve never been—’

He covered her lips with his finger, hushing her. Harper wanted to assure him that he had never been, never could be a burden, but he wouldn’t let her speak.

‘Me first. Talk first.’

OK.

‘Hoppa. You.’ He stopped, took a breath, rearranging his lips and tongue. ‘You need your life.’ He swished coffee in his mouth, moistening it. Swallowed coffee. ‘To do. Your thing. Go where you want. Not worry. Poor. Hank.’

What? Harper’s chest fluttered a warning. ‘But I don’t—’

‘No. Listen.’ Again, he stopped her. ‘Change. We need. We. Both need change.’

Harper’s throat tightened. Her hand rose to her mouth. What kind of changes? What was he saying?

‘I can’t be. Any more. Pris–prisoner.’

A prisoner? ‘You haven’t—’

‘Not your fault. Not about. You. About. Me.’

Her stomach flipped, heart raced. Was Hank giving her the old ‘it’s not you it’s me’ line? Dumping her? No, of course not. He couldn’t be.

‘I need to. Go. Work. Do. Man be.’

Harper couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. She sat riveted. Frozen.

‘You do.’ He strained to form the syllables. ‘What you want. Where. And when. You want.’

Was this really happening? Was Hank telling her to just go wherever she wanted? Tears filled her eyes, blurred her vision.

‘I need also. Need to go. Drive. Do. What I want.’ He paused, watching her. Not looking quite like himself. Altered in some way. Hank, but not Hank. He inhaled. ‘Indy. Pendent.’ Exhaled.

Harper’s eyes swam. Do not cry, she ordered herself. You are stronger than that. You love this man, and if he’s dumping you to prove he can be independent, that sucks. But at least sit up straight and show some spine. Harper sat up, but blinking, she sent a single fat teardrop spilling on to her cheek. She slapped it away.

‘Crying? Don’t.’ Hank reached out, touched her face. ‘Not bad. Change. Good. Both. For us.’

Really? Harper’s chest hurt when she breathed. She crossed her arms, bracing herself. She wondered what she could say. Whether she’d even be able to speak, with her throat so choked.

‘The truth. I’m saying. Not. Pretend.’ Hank who wasn’t quite Hank paused to lick his lips. Moved them around as if limbering them up. This was more than he’d said at one time since his accident. ‘You need, Hoppa. To tell truth, too.’

Hold on. Was he saying she hadn’t been honest with him? ‘What are you talking about?’ Instantly, hurt became anger, and Harper’s finger rose, jabbing the air. ‘I have never lied to you, not ever. About anything.’

‘No.’ His eyes were steady, his voice grave. ‘But truth not said. Same as lies.’

Harper felt as if he’d slapped her, covered her cheek. ‘Hank, I have not hidden the truth!’

‘Burke.’ One syllable. It struck like a thunderclap. ‘And took Zina’s. Job.’ His voice was a low rumble. Or no – was that gunfire?

Harper heard shots, felt the ground explode as she scanned the area for something – anything to fend off the flashback. She saw napkins, jam. Leftover scones. A butter knife. Picked up the knife, pressed it deep into the palm of her hand until sharp pain pushed the encroaching battle away, grounding her. She closed her eyes, wincing, and made a fist.

‘Told me. You weren’t taking. Job. But took. It.’

Harper listened, heard no guns. Looked around for snipers, saw only her kitchen walls. Focused. ‘We’ve already been over this, Hank. I was going to tell you about all of that, but I didn’t get a chance. Let me explain everything now—’

‘Missing point.’ Hank cut her off.

What point? ‘No. You said I’m not truthful. But that’s not fair; I haven’t tried to hide anything from you.’

‘Me either.’

‘You? You mean you’re hiding things from me?’

‘No. Just do. Now. My thing. Own. Like you.’

Harper pictured him backing out of the driveway in the night. Staying out for hours. Raking the leaves. Doing things without her for the first time in over a year.

‘Two lives. Do own things. Each. Apart.’

‘Apart?’ Her voice wobbled.

His eyes hardened, held on to hers. ‘Each. Hoppa. I love. You.’ He paused. ‘But we can’t. Like before. Be. Need change. Big.’

Harper drew a breath. She understood Hank was going through dramatic changes. But did that mean he wanted to separate? Was he breaking up their marriage in order to prove he could be independent? And who put him in charge of dictating what was to change? Was he saying that things had to be his way or no way, putting her on some kind of ultimatum, a wife probation? Well, no thank you. That wasn’t going to fly. She stood, pushed her chair away from the table.

‘Listen, Hank. It’s my turn to speak now. Maybe I’ve screwed up. Maybe I’ve done something – or a bunch of things – that really pissed you off. But I have never ever deliberately hurt you or stood in your way. I have been your staunchest ally since I married you. I love you. If that’s not good enough, then fine. Be as independent and apart as you want. Do your thing. You want change? You got it.’

She spun around, accidentally knocking the coffee mug off the table. Heard it shatter on the floor. Heard Hank call, ‘Hoppa, wait – look. Hand. Bleeding,’ as she sped from the room.

He stood, yelling, ‘Hoppa, stop. Come back – please!’ But Harper didn’t hear him; she’d already left the kitchen and was halfway to the door.

Burke Everett hadn’t shaved in a couple of days. Kept the hood of his sweatshirt up, concealing his face. Moved around College Town, never staying in one place long, crashing overnight in some apartment with a bunch of stoners, half in Halloween costumes where nobody knew who anybody was. Spending the day trying to blend in with scruffy potheads who hung out around there. Keeping his eyes open.

So far this morning, he’d seen three of the Colonel’s people. Three that he was sure of: two in a black sedan. Christ, they might as well have carried a sign announcing themselves. One was subtler, hanging out near a pizza shop. His shoes had given him away, all laced up with their military shine. With tattered jeans? Really? Did they think he was stupid? At least they hadn’t spotted him – so far, he’d seen them first and disappeared.

Meantime, he’d tried to reach Harper, even had gone to her house to warn her. But she’d been out, and her husband, well. No point telling him anything. There was something seriously wrong with that dude. Big guy, good-looking, but he moved like a wounded gorilla. Couldn’t even talk. Maybe he was one of those brain injury guys. Burke had heard that a lot of guys got head wounds from IEDs, got all kinds of weird afterwards. Harper had called afterwards, left a pissed-off message, telling him not to come to the house. Probably she was embarrassed about the guy, trying to shield him from people. Burke understood. Harper was one of the good ones, all about being strong. Being loyal.

Which was probably why she hesitated to take a stand against the Colonel – he was her superior officer. She probably couldn’t believe a man of his stature could be so corrupt. Well, she was wrong. And, by the way, speaking of loyalty, Burke was Army, too, wasn’t he? Where was her loyalty to him?

Someone bumped smack into him, walking fast. Fuck – he hadn’t seen the guy coming. If that had been one of them, he’d be dead. Just like Pete. Time to move on. Burke kept his head down as he walked. Time to get out of town. Leave them here, crawling all over Ithaca looking for him. His car was parked off Stewart Avenue, and he headed that way. Watching over his shoulder. Feeling eyes on him. What was that guy doing across the street, just standing there as if smoking a cigarette? Why was the guy looking at him? Burke quickened his step. The guy didn’t follow. Didn’t make a call. False alarm.

At the corner, he turned sharply, suddenly, watching to see if anyone was on his tail. Some chick, yakking on her cell. He stood against the wall, watching until she passed. Then backtracked. She didn’t follow. Didn’t even glance his way.

But those guys were good. Might have tag teams. The chick might right that second be telling her contact on the phone where he was headed. Burke slipped a hand into the pocket of his sweatshirt, clutched his 9 mm. Felt better. Life was better with a Beretta. He chuckled; not a bad slogan. He should send it to the company. Maybe they’d buy it from him. But first, he had to get out of town. Kept his head down. Kept walking.

Harper’s hand was bleeding. Her palm was wet and sticky, a small incision right smack in the center. Who knew a butter knife could break skin? And who cared? It was only fitting that she’d bleed after what she’d just heard. Harper sped to the door, aware that Hank was coming after her, calling her name. But she didn’t stop, couldn’t. She grabbed her bag from the front table and kept moving, not stopping for Hank, the sharp pain in her left leg, her bloody palm, the frat guys’ raucous Homecoming party revving up in the yard next door, her phone chiming its gong sound. Smearing tears off her face, Harper popped her helmet on, hopped on to her Ninja and rode away, aware of Hank on the front porch, yelling words her engine drowned out.