Behind the Walls (18 page)

‘Well? Can I come in?’

Oh God, oh God. Rivers wanted to come in? Bad sign. Obviously, she didn’t want to deliver bad news on the doorstep. Harper wanted to refuse her. To say, no, you can’t come in. Because, somehow, if nobody told her that Hank was dead, he wouldn’t be. Officially, anyway. As far as she knew, he’d still be alive. Wouldn’t he?

Rivers took a step forward.

Harper’s head moved again, up and down. She opened the door. Rivers went in. Harper hesitated, gripping the doorframe. Making herself breathe. Finally, she followed the detective into the house.

‘Can we sit?’

Harper had to read Rivers’ lips; blood rushed through her head like a waterfall, drowning out all other sounds. She was shivering violently, couldn’t get warm so she pulled Hank’s parka from the closet, put it on. Hunkered into it. Smelled Hank. Oh God.

Rivers was touching her arm, asking questions. Moving her lips: ‘What’s wrong? Are you sick?’

Harper wrapped the jacket around her. ‘Chilled,’ she managed.

They sat at the kitchen table, Rivers across from her. Studying her.

Harper waited, aware that time had slowed. That each moment was stretching and distorting. She heard her pulse, her lungs. She felt like screaming. Dammit, why couldn’t Rivers just get it over with and tell her what happened to Hank?

Ask her, she told herself. Just go ahead and ask.

But she didn’t have to. As soon as she opened her mouth to speak, Rivers reached into her pocket and took out an envelope. ‘Mrs Jennings,’ she began. ‘I’m afraid I have some unpleasant news. There was a suicide tonight.’

Suicide?

‘A man jumped off the Thurston Avenue Bridge.’

A man? Harper waited for Rivers to utter Hank’s name. Why was she being so oblique? Shouldn’t she be more empathetic? Shouldn’t she prepare the widow for her loss, offer condolences?

‘A bunch of students saw him. A man was there, trying to talk him down. The kids tried to help.’

Harper strained to listen to Rivers’ details. Apparently, as the students approached, the man had tried to help him, offered him a job. But the jumper had refused, cursing and shouting that he’d never take a deal with ‘that fucker’. Promising that ‘your boss is going down’. Then he’d jumped.

The kids had called 911; in a matter of minutes, the body had been retrieved from the gorge.

Harper’s pulse slowed. Rivers still hadn’t said Hank’s name. Hadn’t even hinted at it. And the story – well, the guy didn’t sound like Hank. For one thing, Hank wouldn’t have made such coherent statements. His words would have come out differently, in short spurts. So this dead man wasn’t, couldn’t be Hank.

Relief washed over her, made her giddy. Hank was alive. Although, if he didn’t come home soon, he might not be that way long; she might kill him herself. Where the hell was he? She pictured him out at a bar. With another woman. His head too close to hers. Damn, she needed to stop imagining—

‘Mrs Jennings?’

Lord. She hadn’t heard a word the detective had been saying.

‘I gotta tell you, you don’t seem like yourself. You might be coming down with something.’

‘Sorry. I’m  . . . fine.’

‘As I was saying, his cell phone shows that he’s called you several times today.’

What? Harper felt blood drain from her head.

‘And there’s another reason we think you know him. He had this in his pocket when he died.’

Rivers held up a piece of scrap paper. Handwritten letters spelled: HARPER REYNOLDS. Reynolds was crossed out, replaced with JENNINGS. And her address and phone number.

The realization hit Harper hard: it was Burke. He was dead. Burke Everett had jumped off a bridge.

Harper couldn’t get warm. She wrapped Hank’s parka around herself and heated up some coffee, but kept shivering anyway.

Burke was dead? Oh God.

If she’d taken his phone calls, agreed to help him, would he still be alive? Was his death her fault?

She pictured him flying off the bridge. Lying limp and lifeless in the gorge.

A detail about his death resonated in her mind. She tried to figure out what. But Rivers kept interrupting, asking questions. Wanting to know who Burke was, how Harper knew him. Why he’d been calling her.

Harper told the detectives about serving with Burke in Iraq. About his recent visit and urgent need to talk with her.

Damn you, Harper.
Don’t tell them another word
. She heard Burke’s voice as clearly as if he’d been sitting beside her.
They won’t believe you anyway. They’ll tell the Colonel anything you say
–
you’re digging your grave.

Rivers frowned. ‘After all these years, Mrs Jennings? Isn’t it strange that Mr Everett suddenly came all this way for a visit?’

‘Not really. Another guy we served with just died. Burke came here after the funeral.’ And suddenly, Harper knew what had been bothering her: Peter Murray. He hadn’t simply died; he had hanged himself.

First Pete, now Burke. Both dead. Both suicides. Harper shivered.

Rivers nodded. ‘I see.’

‘Actually, our friend committed suicide.’

Burke hissed:
Shut the fuck up, Harper
–
you can’t trust her. Baxter has the cops—

‘Suicide?’

Harper swallowed hot coffee. Felt it cool as it made contact with her icy gut. ‘His name was Peter Murray. He hanged himself.’

Rivers met Harper’s eyes.

‘Also a suicide.’ Rivers repeated.

Harper nodded. Hugged herself inside the parka.

‘And when was this funeral?’

‘Recently. A week or two ago.’

Rivers jotted down notes. Raised an eyebrow, waited for Harper to go on.

‘Burke was torn up about Pete’s death. In fact, he  . . . he sounded paranoid. Truthfully, I think he’d lost it.’

Stop, Harper. I mean it – button your trap.

‘What do you mean “lost it”?’

Harper slid deeper into the parka. ‘He had a theory about why Pete died. He was positive everyone who’d served on a special detail was in danger from a retired Colonel who was having us followed.’

Shut the fuck up, Harper!

‘He said that, with Pete dead, he and I were the only ones left who could bring this Colonel down – he was irrational.’

Rivers watched her for a moment, then sighed. ‘Some of these military guys, they come home changed. They can’t readjust. My cousin’s kid is like that. Can’t hold a job, doesn’t want to do anything. We worry about him.’

Harper wrapped her hands around her coffee mug, trying to warm them. ‘Burke said his marriage broke up.’

‘See? That might have been what sent him off. What about work? Do you know if he had a job?’

Harper didn’t. But she knew something else: that Burke’s death was her fault. ‘I told him to get lost. He was calling constantly, warning me about the danger we were in. He even showed up here at the house and got Hank upset – the guy was out of control.’ She paused. ‘But instead of getting him some help, I told him to buzz off. I just  . . . abandoned him.’

Rivers crossed her arms. ‘So you’re blaming yourself for this man’s death?’

Maybe. A little. Yes. ‘He needed help. I didn’t look out for him. I left him on his own.’

They sat in silence for a few moments, drinking coffee.

‘It wasn’t your job to take care of this guy.’ Rivers finally spoke. ‘You’re not in Iraq any more; he’s not your responsibility.’

But he was. He’d been one of her guys; he’d come to her and she’d let him down.

‘You couldn’t have known what would happen and probably couldn’t have stopped it anyway.’

Harper wasn’t sure about that. She nodded anyway, so the detective would stop talking.

More silence. Harper stared at her coffee mug. Saw Burke diving off the bridge, the laces of his sneakers flying.

‘Well. Anything else you can share on this guy?’ Rivers pushed her chair away from the table. ‘Because, first glance, seems pretty open and shut.’

It did?

‘Guy was having a breakdown. He was depressed, losing control. Becoming delusional. Finally committed suicide.’

Suicide. Something icy ricocheted inside Harper’s chest. She pictured Burke waiting for her to call back. Not daring to come to her home because she’d forbidden it. And, while she’d been out drinking with Salih, he’d given up. Lost all hope. Gone to the bridge and jumped. She heard the thud of his landing. Shuddered. Closed her eyes.

Detective Rivers stood. ‘Where’s your husband?’

Her husband? The question startled her. All evening, she’d been listening for Hank’s car to pull into the driveway, but Detective Rivers didn’t know that – why was she asking about him? What did she know?

‘You’re not in great shape, Mrs Jennings. I don’t want to leave you here alone.’

Harper released a breath. ‘I’m fine. Hank’ll be back soon.’ She hoped.

She glanced at the clock. Twenty after nine. Where was Hank?

As if in answer, a car door slammed outside. Hank was back. Unless it was more cops. No. She recognized the footsteps coming up the back stairs. Hank’s gait. Harper froze, couldn’t move. Rivers took their cups to the sink. Getting ready to go.

The kitchen door opened and Hank burst in wild-eyed. ‘Hoppa?’ He looked around the kitchen. ‘Happened? Police.’

Rivers sat again, reviewing what had happened for Hank. Asking what he knew about Burke. What Burke had said the day he’d come to the house.

‘Jumpy. Wanted to see. Hoppa.’ Hank didn’t look at her. ‘Wouldn’t tell. Said urgent. Danger. Not. Why.’

‘He was jumpy?’

Hank nodded. His eyes glowered. ‘Looking. Behind him.’

Rivers sighed. ‘Well, that fits.’

‘Fits what?’

‘What we know so far.’ Rivers’ eyes travelled from Hank to Harper, back to Hank. ‘Mr Everett was extremely troubled. Possibly troubled enough to take his own life.’

‘Self killed?’

‘He jumped off a bridge.’

‘Damn. But kill. Why?’

‘Because of me.’ Harper finally spoke. ‘Burke asked me to help him. And I didn’t.’ Harper wanted Hank to hold her, warm her in his big muscled arms. But he didn’t. Might not ever. She huddled into his parka across the kitchen from those arms, speaking to him for the first time since she’d left the house that morning. ‘He must have come here looking for help again, and I wasn’t here.’

‘But kill self? He wait could. Or come back.’

‘Mr Jennings, the guy wasn’t thinking straight.’ Rivers folded her arms. ‘His buddy just killed himself. His marriage fell apart. He never readjusted to civilian life. He came to his old army pal but even she couldn’t help him.’

The words felt like a blow to the gut; Harper let out a soft involuntary grunt.

‘Not to say it’s your fault. You didn’t do anything wrong. Mrs Jennings, look, statistically, each year there are twice as many suicides as murders – and that number is even higher among war vets. Given all the factors I just rattled off, it looks like a cut and dry suicide.’

Harper sat silent, only half listening to the detective, her thoughts spinning. It wasn’t her fault that Burke had died – was it? She didn’t dare look at Hank. Wished he would do something to reassure her – move his chair closer. Take her hand. Something. And, oh God – the detective would leave soon. What would happen then? Would Hank want to talk? Later, would they sleep in the same bed? She bit her lip, looked at her hands, began her spiral again. Oh God, Burke was dead. But it wasn’t her fault, was it?

Harper watched Rivers, not listening any more. But Rivers was looking at her, so she tuned in, heard: ‘ . . . second dead body connected to your wife in as many weeks  . . .’

Harper sat straight. Cleared her throat. Tuned in.

‘ . . . don’t seem connected to each other, but they’re both connected to her  . . . understandable if she’s shaken up.’ Rivers eyed her but talked to Hank. ‘ . . . keep an eye on her if I were you.’

Two bodies. Harper saw Zina again, her slumped body bathed in blood. And she imagined Burke, battered on the floor of the gorge. She recalled the indifferent stillness of Zina’s flesh.

‘Any news? Zina case?’

‘Nothing I can discuss yet.’ Rivers watched Harper. ‘Mrs Jennings, are you OK?’

She wasn’t. Zina had come to her for help and died. The same thing had happened to Burke. No question. Somehow, everything was her fault. She was toxic. No wonder Hank was done with her. Her stomach wrenched and she tasted bile. Harper stood and dashed to the powder room, about to be sick.

‘Hoppa?’ Hank waited outside in the hall.

Harper rinsed her face, patted it dry. ‘I’m OK.’ She stepped out of the powder room, drained.

Hank didn’t say anything, just followed as she walked back to the kitchen.

‘Are you all right?’ Rivers stared at her. She was standing, as if about to go.

Harper’s face got hot. ‘I’m fine. Just upset – I haven’t eaten much, and I guess I had too much to drink this afternoon.’

Silence. Two pairs of eyes watched her.

‘I  . . . I was working at Langston’s. And I ran into Zina’s brother. He was there, at the exact spot where I found her—’

‘Excuse me?’ Rivers interrupted. ‘You ran into who?’

Harper felt Hank’s glare. ‘He was drinking, visiting the place where she died.’

The detective’s mouth dropped. ‘Which brother?’

‘Salih. Salih Salim – musical, isn’t it?’

‘You discussed the murder with him?’

Well, sort of. ‘A little. I mean, I said I’d found her.’

Rivers sighed, crossed her arms. ‘Mrs Jennings, tell me exactly what was said.’

‘He  . . . actually, he thinks their family killed Zina. He suspects an honor killing because Zina defied their parents.’

‘Where is Salih?’

Harper told her where she’d dropped him off, and the detective headed for the door. ‘Mrs Jennings,’ Rivers stopped as she was leaving. ‘If Salih Salim contacts you again, let me know immediately.’

‘But why? He’s not the one who—’

‘We’ve been trying to contact Zina’s family since her murder. So far, we haven’t been able to locate a soul. Every single one of them seems to have left the country.’

Harper waited, but Hank didn’t say anything. After Detective Rivers left, he turned to the refrigerator, got out some sliced turkey and cheddar cheese. Started to make a sandwich.