Behind the Walls (8 page)

‘His mom found him on the end of a rope in her garage.’

Pete Murray had hung himself? Wow. But then, lots of war veterans had invisible emotional and psychological wounds. Maybe Pete had PTSD. Lord knew that could be deadly. If she hadn’t found support – if she hadn’t met Hank and found help from Leslie – who knew what would have happened? Maybe she’d have hanged herself, too. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder could rip your mind apart. Could be lethal.

‘At least, that’s what they say. But you and I know better.’

What? ‘Wait. You’re saying he didn’t hang himself?’

‘You knew Pete. He wouldn’t impose on his family that way. No, he would never off himself. Listen, Harper – you were Baxter’s temporary assistant. Think back. There were five of us in that detail. Two are already dead. And one is the Colonel’s personal secretary.’

Interesting. Nice gig. ‘Rick Owens? Owens works for the Colonel?’

‘He’s his fucking personal butt kisser. Which leaves just the two of us loose.’

Loose? What the hell was he talking about?

‘I’m getting some coffee. You want anything?’ She started to stand.

‘Wait.’ Burke grabbed her arm, stopping her. ‘Remember when he – when Baxter left? How we loaded the helicopter?’

Vaguely.

‘Remember he had us transfer a bunch of crates?’

She thought back, felt the heat, the dust. Heard the Humvees’ motors. The deafening whirr of the helicopter’s blades. And she saw the men: Owens, Everett, Murray and Shaw loading it with supplies. Knapsacks. And stacks of boxes.

‘I remember. So?’

‘So great. Would you testify to that?’

Testify? What? ‘Burke.’ She tried to sound non-judgmental. ‘I don’t have a clue what’s going on with you, but – honestly. You need help.’

‘Listen to me, Harper. Put it together,’ Burke sputtered. He still held her arm, tightened his grip. ‘Jesus Christ. What do you think was in those boxes?’

She shrugged. ‘Supplies?’

His eyes were too bright. ‘Guess again.’

Not supplies? What was Burke thinking? That the crates held drugs? Or – oh God – stolen artifacts? She’d heard about priceless ancient relics being looted from Iraq  . . . But no, that was ridiculous. The Colonel’s crates had been legit supplies. ‘Burke, this is bullshit. Get help.’ She removed his hand from her arm.

His whisper was raw. ‘You know that Baxter started his own foundation. It sponsors some serious organizations. Militias and such. Survivalist stuff.’

Really? Harper doubted it; Burke was unbalanced. If he was right, Baxter’s activities were surprising. Maybe even disturbing. But it was his right to sponsor organizations, wasn’t it? This was a free country.

‘Not just your usual survivalist groups, either. I’m talking dangerous people. People infiltrating high places. People who make all those skinhead militia extremist freaks look like your grandma’s Canasta club.’

Actually, Burke sounded kind of like a dangerous extremist freak himself. What had happened to him? And why was he so fixated on Colonel Baxter?

His eyes gleamed. ‘And now, guess what? Baxter is running for the United States Senate. State of Tennessee.’

So what? Again, even if it was even true, what difference did it make? What did he expect her to do about it? ‘Burke. Seriously. What point are you trying to make?’

‘Harper – he’s funding the campaign with his own cash. Don’t you get it? He’s spent a few million so far.’

And? Wasn’t that his right? ‘So?’

Burke’s eyes darted from the window to the door to Harper. ‘Baxter didn’t get rich on a military salary. And he didn’t inherit any big money either. His dad was a high school history teacher. And he didn’t marry money.’

‘How do you know all that?’

‘The Internet – you can find shit out about anybody.’

Harper sighed. She wanted to get Burke help but didn’t think he’d allow it. ‘So you’re saying what? That Baxter got his money from Iraq? That he stole something?’

Burke smiled. ‘Bingo.’

‘What did he steal?’

He tilted his head, scowling. ‘Money. Harper – the US sent billions over there to be used at the discretion of the military.’

She knew about it. Everyone did. The Commander’s Emergency Response Program was set up to provide cash for local programs and projects. Funds were supposed to turn enemies into friends, sponsor local initiatives, counter the root causes of instability and marginalize extremist groups.

‘Literally, billions are missing. Tons of crates filled with hundred dollar bills.’

‘So you think Baxter dipped into CERP and he’s using that money to fund his campaign?’

‘And his lifestyle. And his foundation. Believe me, our Colonel is one ambitious and dangerous dude.’ He looked around again.

Harper frowned. It was no secret that CERP funds had been badly managed. But Burke had no evidence. He was irrational, pooling together unrelated events, jumping to conclusions. ‘I don’t know—’

‘You think I’m nuts.’ His leg wouldn’t stop twitching. ‘Believe me – I thought it was fucking nuts, too, when Pete called to talk about it. But a couple weeks later, boom – Pete shows up on the fucking end of a rope. This is for real, Harper. A lot is at stake. You and I are in danger.’

‘No, Burke. I don’t—’

‘We’re the only ones left who knew about the theft!’

‘Except that I didn’t know about it. In fact, I still don’t—’

‘That doesn’t matter, don’t you get it, Harper? He
thinks
you know. Or that you
might
know. And he can’t afford to have anyone knowing or even
maybe
knowing. That’s why he hired Rick. He bought him off.’

Burke’s eyes popped, pupils dilated. There was no point trying to reason with him. Harper let him go on ranting. When he finished, she simply asked, ‘Bottom line, Burke. What do you want from me?’

He let out a long sigh. His eyes drilled into hers. ‘I need to know that you’ll back me up.’

Back him up? ‘Back you up how?’

‘I’m going to expose him. So if and when the time comes, I need to know you’ll confirm what happened with the boxes. Testify that we loaded all that cargo at the Colonel’s orders.’

‘Burke, I’m sorry. I’m not agreeing to do anything until I’m sure what’s going on. Because, frankly, I see not one real piece of evidence to back up your accusations. In fact, the only evidence I see here indicates that you need help and some serious meds.’

‘I swear, I’ll get you evidence.’

‘Aren’t you married, Burke?’ She interrupted, redirected his attention. ‘How’s your wife?’

Burke’s eyes narrowed. ‘How’d you know about that?’

‘About what?’

‘Who told you?’

‘Nobody told me anything. I’m just asking—’

‘She threw me out. Said it was the war.’

Harper nodded, unsurprised. ‘Sorry. Maybe she was right. You should get help.’

‘I’m not fucking nuts, Harper.’ His gaze pierced her.

A man in a tan suede jacket walked into the bakery, looked around. Talked on his cell phone. Went to buy a Danish.

Burke stiffened, eyeing the man. ‘Gotta go. It’s not safe. Look – I get that you won’t believe me until you see proof. But at least be cautious, will you? Oh – and don’t tell anyone you saw me. Don’t even mention my name.’

‘Burke, that’s—’

‘Harper, you and I are the only witnesses left. We’re liabilities. I’m not fucking with you – Rick’s his lackey. And Pete’s dead. That’s evidence enough, isn’t it? That should show you how big this is.’ He stood, whispered in her ear. ‘I’ll explain more next time we meet.’

‘What makes you think –’ Harper began, but Burke darted away before she could finish her sentence – ‘that there’ll be a next time?’

The Ninja sped back up the hill, found its way to Stewart Avenue, then up to College Town. Seeing Burke Everett had rattled her. Brought back images Harper didn’t want to see. She fought with her memory, focusing on shops windows filled with Halloween decorations: jack-o’-lanterns, skeletons, witches, ghosts. Reminding herself that pedestrians, not checkpoint patrols, stood at intersections; that students toting backpacks, not soldiers lugging heavy gear, occupied the sidewalks. Snipers weren’t aiming at her; IEDs weren’t buried in the road. Harper raced ahead, trying not to think of Burke Everett or their time in Iraq. But as she crossed the bridge toward campus, she distinctly saw the woman in a burqa standing beside the street. And, oh God. She recognized her. Had seen her before. Knew what she was planning. And this time – even if it killed her – this time, she would stop her  . . .

Harper swerved, made a U-turn, got off her bike. Set out on foot, chasing after the woman, and, locating her, Harper raised a weapon, confronted her. Ordered the woman to put her hands on her head and get on the ground. But the woman stood there, defiant, unmoving. Harper repeated her orders. Asked if the woman understood English. Gradually became aware of voices behind her. People crowding around  . . .

‘She has a bomb,’ Harper warned. ‘It’s hidden in her burqa. Stay away – she’ll detonate it!’

Nobody responded. Nobody ran to help. Nobody seemed concerned. They stood still, watching her. Tittering. And laughing.

Harper blinked, looked around. Slowly, the sand of Iraq faded, became the concrete of Ithaca. The soldiers became students. Oh God – her gun turned into a flashlight. And the woman – the suicide bomber? Her burqa was flowing, long and black. She stood outside a hookah shop, an inanimate mannequin dressed like a Halloween witch. Complete with broom.

Oh God. Harper felt her face burn. She hadn’t had so severe a flashback in more than a year. Faces surrounded her, leering, questioning, mocking.

‘Look out – the mannequin has a bomb.’ Someone snickered.

‘What is she on?’

‘Whatever it is, I want some!’

‘Cut it out – she’s mentally ill.’

‘Right. Listen to the Psych major.’

‘Seriously.’ Someone touched her arm. ‘Are you OK?’

Harper took a step back. Looked at the faces. Oh God. ‘Fine.’ Another step back. ‘I was just – I’m fine.’ She fled to her bike, set it right, jumped on and sped away, feeling eyes on her all the way across campus until, ignoring the graveyard, pumpkins and skeletons in the yard next door, she finally made it home.

Hank looked up from a soup pot. His eyes were twinkling like usual, and something smelled wonderful. ‘Chili.’ He told her. ‘Veggie.’

‘Yum.’ Harper tried to smile. Tried to stop trembling and act normal. She kissed him, asked how he was.

‘Mood. Better.’ He stirred in some cumin. ‘Busy. Helps.’

He was talking about his feelings. A good sign.

‘You?’

Harper looked away. He wanted to know how she was. What should she say? That she’d just had a humiliating flashback? Or endured a crazy visit with paranoid Burke Everett? Or accepted Zina’s assistantship, about which he’d had serious reservations? No. She couldn’t risk talking about any of those things, at least not yet. Hank was feeling better but his mood was probably still fragile. She didn’t want to upset him and send him into another bout of depression. ‘I’m fine. I had a busy day, too.’

He nodded. ‘Good. Stuff done?’

He assumed she’d been in the library, gathering research for her dissertation. It was where she should have been. ‘Not a whole lot. I wasted time.’

He shrugged, tasted his chili. ‘Some days. Happens.’

‘Need any help?’ Harper took out her phone, texted Leslie:
Can U C me? Bad flashback.

‘Salad. Make.’

Harper took out a bag of pre-washed lettuce, a bag of walnuts. Maybe it wasn’t really a relapse. Maybe her PTSD wasn’t getting worse; she’d just been reacting to seeing Burke again, and the flashback had been like an allergic response. A case of emotional hives; embarrassing, but not really a big deal. Her face reddened at the thought of the witch in College Town. The crowd staring at her  . . .

‘Today. Nahual here.’

What? Harper looked up, saw Hank’s playful smile. She crumbled blue cheese into the salad bowl. Why would he ask that? ‘A Nahual. You saw one?’

‘Yes. True.’

‘Not funny.’ What was he doing? Why would he make light of Zina’s fears? Was he mocking a dead woman? No, Hank wouldn’t do that. So what was he doing? Harper began slicing an onion.

‘Want. To meet. Him?’

Really? ‘You’re asking if I want to meet a Nahual?’ He was going to introduce her to a shape-shifter? Harper looked at him, confused.

Hank turned off the stove, stepped over to her, took the knife from her hands and set it on the counter. When she turned, he engulfed her in his arms and kissed her.

‘Hoppa. I am. Nahual.’ His breath tickled her ear. ‘Shift. My shape.’

Oh my, Harper thought as Hank pressed against her, and, feeling what he meant, she laughed out loud. It was funny. Hank was joking, must really be feeling better. And so, despite her troubling day and unsettled thoughts, she accompanied him upstairs, hoping that Hank’s depression was easing and that his big warm body would comfort her. Or at least for a while, empty her mind.

Afterwards, eating dinner, Harper intended to tell Hank about her day. But every time she began, she stopped herself, heard Leslie warn, ‘He’s probably struggling more than he lets on.’ Was he struggling? She watched him eating, spooning up his chili with gusto.

‘Something?’ Hank felt her watching him.

‘No.’ She smiled. ‘Not really.’ A lie. Why not just blurt out the truth, that, after taking the assistantship despite his objections, she’d had a disturbing visit from a paranoid guy she’d served with, followed by her worst flashback in a year?

‘Know you. Tell me. What?’

Damn. Hank was no fool; he knew something was bothering her. But she heard Leslie warn that Hank was vulnerable: ‘I’d keep a close eye on him if I were you.’ Harper wasn’t sure how stable Hank was, didn’t want to send him spiraling back into feelings of powerlessness and depression. He was watching her, waiting for an answer.

‘It’s been a long day, that’s all.’ Not a lie. That was true. Harper took a sip of wine. Avoided eye contact.

‘Talk. Me.’ He ripped off a chunk of fresh bread. ‘Want?’ He held the chunk out.

‘Thanks.’ Harper took it, stalling by spreading butter on it. Maybe she should just tell him part of what had happened. Maybe about the assistantship. But that might start a whole chain of anguished conversation about Zina’s death and bad karma and danger, would no doubt depress him again. Better if she began with Burke Everett’s visit and his insane claims about the Colonel; after that, she could tell him about her flashback.