Behind the Walls (33 page)

‘In the passageway? He was with you?’

Harper tried, but couldn’t shake her head, managed to croak, ‘Following me.’ And then something else occurred to her. ‘Where’s Angus?’

Harper woke up, full of painkillers, staring at an IV pole and bag of fluids. In the hospital. Again, she saw the explosion at the checkpoint, her patrol blowing up. Felt the thud of landing on a burn-out car, her leg  . . . She reached down, felt her leg. No bandages. What? She tried to turn her head to look around, but couldn’t move it. Wait – how come—?

‘You up, Hoppa.’ Hank stood above her, taking her hand. ‘Feel how?’ He leaned over, kissed her.

Harper closed her eyes, her memory spotty. ‘I’m in the hospital.’

He explained that, yes, she was. And had been for two days under heavy doses of pain medicine. She’d been X-rayed, MRI’d, examined all over. Tests had shown that her neck was sprained, her larynx bruised, a couple of vertebrae dislocated. Her ribs were bruised, her hands raw from rope burn. From head to toe, she was banged up and scraped. While she’d been running from Salih, adrenalin had probably masked the pain of these injuries, but once she was safe, it had erupted hot and fierce. The pain medications had made her groggy, and, when she’d been awake, she’d had flashbacks of being injured in Iraq, of the explosion that had killed most of her patrol and nearly taken her left leg. She’d cried out, she’d fought. And then she’d slept again.

Hank held her hand. ‘Hungry?’

Harper couldn’t see the tray, but she smelled something sweet. Trying to sit, she reached for the control, couldn’t find it. Hank pushed the button and raised the bed for her; sitting up, she regarded the tray in front of her. Hospital pancakes. A scrambled egg. Some kind of pink meat. Apple juice. Jello. Jello?

Hank pulled the tray over, cut the pancakes for her. Harper couldn’t remember when she’d last eaten. Wasn’t sure if she wanted food. But Hank held a syrupy blob to her mouth, and she ate.

‘Good,’ Hank beamed as if she’d finished a marathon. ‘Good eating, Hoppa.’

She chewed in a haze. Felt grimy, wanted a shower.

‘Mother your called.’ Hank shoveled more pancake.

Oh God.

‘Wants come out here.’

Harper almost choked. Her mother? ‘Uh uh.’ Her mouth was full, and her voice unaccustomed to talking. ‘
No
.’ Harper’s mother meant well, but required too much attention. Harper always took care of her, not the other way.

‘Told her. Visit later. Better.’

Harper let out a breath, swallowed. On her own, she lifted the juice, pulled the top off with shaky hands. Lord, she was weak.

‘Help you?’

‘I got it.’ Almost. She pulled, finally lifted the foil top from the plastic cup, took a drink. All without moving her head and neck, which were still stabilized in the brace. ‘Can they take this thing off?’

‘Soon.’ Hank took the empty cup. Cut another slab of pancake.

Harper was still chewing when Detective Rivers came in. And that’s when breakfast stopped.

‘She better today? Think she’s coherent?’ Rivers addressed Hank.

‘Eating.’ Hank stood bear-like, blocking the detective. Protective.

‘Good. So she can keep on eating. I won’t stay long.’

‘Not strong.’

Harper sat chewing, listening to them discuss her as if she weren’t there.

‘I’m not going to give her a workout, Mr Jennings. I’m just going to talk.’

‘It’s OK, Hank. Good morning, Detective.’ She had a few questions for Rivers, was eager for the chance to ask them.

Rivers came around the bed, took a seat opposite Hank, beside the window. ‘You look better.’

Harper hadn’t considered how she looked. Knew it couldn’t be good.

‘You up for talking a bit?’

Harper swallowed. ‘Sure.’

‘Because you might have some insights about what’s happened. After we sent you off in the ambulance, we found another body.’

Harper couldn’t turn her head. Her eyes moved from side to side, Rivers to Hank. Hank to Rivers. Waiting. Whose body? Rick’s? Salih’s?

‘Turns out he was a professor of Archeology. Frederick Charles Wiggins. He had deep scratches on his arms and face, bruises on his sides as if he’d been beaten up. And two knife wounds – one that pierced the heart.’

Made sense; Harper had fought him pretty hard.

‘And he was posed, just like Zina. Leaning against a tree outside, right where she was.’

Against a tree? How had he gotten there? Maybe Angus moved him? He must have. He was the only one—

‘He was dressed in some kind of costume. Feathers  . . .’

‘He wanted to be a shape-shifter. Recreating Pre-Columbian rituals.’ Harper’s voice was weak, still hoarse.

Rivers tilted her head. ‘Mrs Jennings, did those rituals involve taking out people’s hearts?’

Harper stiffened.

‘If they did, he wasn’t the only one recreating them. Because someone took his.’

Someone took Wiggins’ heart? But who? And why? Wiggins was the guy trying to become a Nahual. He’d been the only one with even a remote reason to take hearts.

‘I don’t get it – Wiggins was the one taking the hearts.’

Rivers squinted. ‘How do you know that?’

‘Because I heard them talking about what he’d done to Zina.’ She hesitated. ‘And because he tried to take mine.’

Hank’s mouth opened. ‘Hoppa.’ He took her hand, turned to Rivers. ‘Upset now. Enough.’

‘Just a few more things.’ Rivers leaned forward so Harper could see her more easily. ‘It’s interesting what you’ve just said, Mrs Jennings. Because it’s consistent with our findings. Wiggins’s heart was removed, but not the way Zina’s was. Zina’s body had minimal damage. The cuts were neat and skilful. The breastbone opened with almost surgical precision.’

Or with the care of a Nahual.

‘This one was ripped open, mangled. Looked like it got hacked with an axe. Clearly, not the work of the same guy.’ She paused. ‘So do you have any idea who could have done it?’

Maybe. ‘Angus Langston was the only other person there.’ But she couldn’t figure out why Angus would mess with Wiggins’ body, let alone take his heart.

‘Interesting. Because Angus took off. He tried to split.’

Tried?

‘We picked him up for a DUI yesterday. He was speeding out of town.’

Had Angus taken the time to cut out Wiggins’ heart before he ran? Harper couldn’t picture it. Didn’t want to.

‘That it?’ Hank asked.

‘It’ll do for now. It’s good to see you getting better, Mrs Jennings.’ Rivers stood, started for the door. ‘I’ll be in touch.’

As she was leaving, Harper remembered what she’d wanted to ask. ‘Detective – wait. Have you found Rick Owens? And what about Salih?’

Neither had been found.

The police had looked for Salih in the passageway, had watched the house and the ramp exit to make sure he couldn’t leave. They’d scoured the tunnels with dogs. But the dogs ran into dead ends or seemed to lose the scent. Two days after he’d entered them, Salih hadn’t emerged from the passageways. Harper wasn’t surprised. Chloe Manning’s body had gone undiscovered for almost a hundred years. The secret corridors were too twisted and gnarled to be untangled so quickly by a few men and dogs.

Harper came home the next day with a cervical collar and pain pills that made her mind foggy. She disliked dozing off, disliked more the shuddering pain that radiated through her body without them. Despite her loopiness, Harper played hostess to a stream of visitors. Detective Rivers and her sometime partner, Detective Boschi, checked in, reporting that Angus had confessed to stealing relics, but vehemently denied having anything to do with killing Wiggins, whom he called Digger, or anyone else. He admitted that he had information about other crimes, but, hoping to make a deal, he refused to give details until he could negotiate.

Vicki and Trent came with flowers, balloons, bonbons and Scotch. The Archeology Department sent a fruit basket. Professor Schmerling and Dean Van Arsdale came by with chocolates, awkwardly apologizing for Professor Wiggins, muttering that they’d known he’d been eccentric but had never dreamed he’d been so disturbed. Phil and Stacey arrived with questions and a huge tin of candy corn. The press called often; Harper’s mom called even more often, still wanting to fly out, refusing to believe that Harper was ‘fine’ as she claimed. Hank stayed steadfastly by Harper’s side, answering the phone, limiting the number and length of visits. He seemed to relish his role of caretaker, making decisions, taking control.

Harper’s throat began to heal, but she still didn’t speak much. Found herself listening more, thinking that most of what people – even her friends and professors – said was blither. She wondered if Hank, unable to converse well, felt the same distance as she did from others. She thought of them as ‘talkers’. Of herself and Hank as ‘watchers’ and ‘listeners’.

The first few days home passed in a haze of medication. Harper saw the news reports about the murder at Langston’s, heard reporters’ references to the election held earlier in the week. Even with the references, she didn’t think of Colonel Baxter right away, and she didn’t remember Burke’s letter. She didn’t think of the letter even when she watched a feature about the landslide victory of an Iraqi war veteran, a former army colonel elected to Senate from the state of Tennessee. That news upset Harper, but it wasn’t until Friday, walking past the front door, that she actually saw Burke’s envelope under a paperweight on the foyer table. That was when she remembered the list of shipment dates and serial numbers. And it was when, with Hank hovering and telling her not to lift her heavy leather bag by herself, she went to get her phone.

‘You said you needed evidence of theft,’ she said. ‘These shipment numbers will prove that Baxter stole millions.’

‘Mrs Jennings,’ Detective Rivers sounded tired. ‘The man is now a United States senator. He just won by an overwhelming majority. And, frankly, this alleged theft occurred years ago, while I have more than a couple of open homicides to investigate.’

‘I hope those include Burke Everett’s. Because I think these papers will show motive for his murder, evidence that it wasn’t suicide. And they’ll show why Rick Owens was coming after me.’

‘Mrs Jennings, maybe you should—’

‘Baxter sent Rick.’ Harper’s voice was hoarse and strained. ‘To silence Burke and me. About Iraq. Ask Angus – he was there when Wiggins killed him.’

‘Hoppa. Calm down.’ Hank stroked her back. Hovering.

‘Detective, Rick killed Burke – I’m sure of it!’

‘Hoppa – stop.’

Harper scowled, pushed Hank’s hand away. ‘And Wiggins killed Rick after he chased me through the passageway, and—’

‘Whoa. Settle down, Mrs Jennings – your husband will have my hide.’ She paused, sighed loudly. ‘All right. You win. I’ll stop by and check out the letter.’

Relieved, Harper ended the call and set the envelope back on the foyer table under the paperweight. And noticed Hank glowering.

‘What’s wrong?’

He simmered. ‘You. Don’t listen. Need rest.’

‘I’m fine, Hank. You don’t need to stand over me every second.’

As soon as she said it, she was sorry. Lord, how ungrateful was she?

‘I didn’t mean that  . . .’

But it was too late. Wounded, Hank turned away, started for the door. ‘Super. Market. Going. Now. OK?’

Harper went after him, called to him, but he didn’t stop. Who could blame him? All week, he’d helped her eat and bathe and dress and move. And now, she’d snapped at him? What was wrong with her?

When he came back, she’d apologize. Meantime, it would be good for Hank to take off for a little while. It would be fine.

Harper dozed on the den sofa, felt someone standing beside her, assumed it was Hank. She opened her eyes and saw not Hank, but Angus, staring at her. Smiling. Harper froze – when had Angus been released? Slowly, cautiously, she sat up. Looked around for Hank, remembered he was gone  . . .

‘Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you – the door was open.’

It was? Harper didn’t remember it being open. But she felt relieved. And foolish. It wasn’t Angus who’d come to see her; it was Jake. She greeted him, moved to the end of the couch. ‘Come sit down.’

‘So. You doing OK?’ he sat, studying the cervical collar, her bruises.

‘Better.’

‘Look. I want you to know. I had no idea what my brother was doing. He knew better than to tell me.’

Harper still couldn’t turn her head much, so she twisted her body to face him.

‘Angus.’ Jake shook his head. ‘He probably started selling relics after he found out about the will. Probably thought that by ripping off the collection, he was taking what was rightly his. But the killing? Zina?’

‘Angus didn’t kill her. That was Zina’s brother,’ said Harper.

‘What about Digger? You must have seen him. You were there, right? The guy in the feather jacket with a stuffed cat on his head. Wiggins.’

Oh. Wiggins, Digger, the Nahual. All the same person. ‘Salih Salim killed him. Not Angus.’ But it struck her that the detectives hadn’t mentioned Wiggins’ cathead. Maybe they’d thought it unnecessary, too much gruesome detail.

Jake paused, took a breath. ‘You know, Angus and I – we’ve known Wiggins for just about always. Digger. His dad was our dentist. And his mom was a drunk, so he hung around our house until he became part of the family. Went on digs with us – that’s how he got the name. Growing up, he was like a brother.’

Really? Wiggins?

‘After a while, my father spent more time with Digger than he did with us.’

Harper didn’t know what to say. ‘Maybe it just seemed that way.’

‘No. He did. Digger became father’s protégé. They were always in the study, talked about research, spiritualism, symbolism. God knows what all. My father brought him to conferences. To South America. Utah. All over. Until that girl died. Carla.’ Jake looked into the air. ‘After that, Digger went away for a while.’ He looked at Harper, smiled oddly.

‘All this time, you knew?’

‘Yep. She wasn’t his first, either.’

Jake’s grin was crooked. ‘We had a dog. Aubrey. I found him behind the house. His chest was ripped open.’

Harper recoiled.

‘There were also birds. A cat. Even a deer. Over the years, all over the property, animal corpses would show up,
sans
hearts. The owls were the messiest. He plucked out their feathers.’