Behind the Walls (9 page)

‘OK? Chili?’ Hank watched her. No doubt wondering why she was so quiet.

‘Delicious.’ It was, too. Rich and spicy. But why was she making small talk? She needed to be open and talk to Hank even if it might affect his mood. She took a long sip of wine. Drew a breath. Opened her mouth, ready to begin. Chickened out. ‘Where’d you get the recipe?’ What was wrong with her?

‘Book. But changed. Improvised.’

Wow. He’d just said, ‘improvised’? That might have been the biggest word he’d managed since his accident. ‘You’re an amazing man, Hank.’

He winked. ‘Not bad. Nahual. Too.’

She met his eyes, returned his grin. Oh God. What was she doing? Playing happy housewife after publicly attacking a mannequin?

Harper took another gulp of wine. Blurted, ‘I had a visit today. From a guy I served with.’

Hank broke off a piece of bread. ‘Wow. The blue. Out of?’

‘Pretty much. He looked me up because another guy we knew there – Pete Murray – died. Hanged himself.’

Hank frowned, stopped buttering and looked at her. But his eyes sparkled, alert. Not depressed.

She swallowed more wine, measuring Hank’s mood, deciding that he was fine. It was all right to continue. She was about to tell him about Burke’s conspiracy theory that Colonel Baxter had stolen millions from Iraq’s CERP funds to start his own extreme political movement, that he’d killed Peter Murray for figuring it out. That he might kill Burke for the same reason. And might come after her.

‘The guy – his name is Burke. He’s got lots of issues. Seems paranoid.’

Hank frowned. ‘How?’

Harper was about to explain all about Colonel Baxter and Burke’s theories. And she would have, too, but just then, the doorbell rang.

The fraternity next door was celebrating in anticipation of the weekend: the rare and spectacular simultaneity of Homecoming and Halloween. The smell of beer and marijuana permeated its yard, drifted through the neighborhood. Detective Rivers had beeped her siren and flashed her lights, just to give them a scare, had watched the brothers scurry for cover, disappearing into bushes, turning lights out inside the house. When Harper opened the door, she was still shaking her head.

‘Year after year,’ she sighed. ‘It never changes. The government ought to give up already and make all that stuff legal. Make it a lot easier on us cops.’

Harper wasn’t sure exactly what Rivers was talking about. ‘Come in,’ she held the door open.

Rivers looked haggard. ‘I called you earlier, Mrs Jennings, but you didn’t pick up. So I thought I’d stop by.’

Harper swallowed. ‘We’re just eating. Join us? Want some chili?’ Her heart rate sped up a notch. Why had Rivers come over?

‘I shouldn’t—’

‘How are. You?’ Hank stood at the kitchen door, remembered the detective from the drug incident a year earlier. ‘Come in. Eat.’

‘Good to see you looking so well, Mr Jennings.’

‘Hank. Call me.’ He led her into the kitchen.

Harper filled another bowl with chili. ‘Something to drink, Detective?’

‘Water, thanks.’

The three of them sat at the table. Rivers marveled at the chili. ‘Delicious. Who’s the cook?’

‘Hank.’

Hank beamed. ‘Chef. I’m good.’

‘You sure are. This is perfect.’

Harper refilled her wine glass. Drank. What the hell was Rivers doing at their dinner table? Why were they sitting around chatting like old friends?

Rivers swallowed. ‘So.’ She turned to Harper. ‘I hear you’ve taken that Langston assistantship.’

Damn – Harper hadn’t formally told Hank yet. She glanced at him, caught his frown. Did he think she was hiding her acceptance? ‘That’s right. I accepted it just this morning. How did you find out so fast?’

Rivers smirked. ‘Mrs Jennings, I’m an investigator.’ She lifted her spoon to her mouth, chewed. ‘Frankly, between you and me, I’m not thrilled with your decision, given that the last two research assistants were murdered.’

‘Murdered?’ Harper echoed as Hank said:

‘What?’

Hank dropped his hunk of bread on to the table. Stopped eating.

‘Oh damn. You didn’t know?’

Harper saw Zina, sitting in the woods, blood-drenched and lifeless.

‘I tried to call and give you a heads up, but by now, I assumed you’d heard.’ Rivers looked from one stunned face to the other. ‘I guess you haven’t seen the news.’

No. Not since the morning paper.

‘Well, it’s been reported all day. It’ll be on the eleven o’clock news and tomorrow’s headlines.’

What would?

‘Zina Salim’s death was no accident. Definitely a homicide.’

Harper swallowed. Stiffened. ‘But I thought the crash  . . .?’

‘No. The crash didn’t kill her.’ Rivers paused, put down her spoon. Cleared her throat. ‘We don’t know why the car hit the tree. Maybe she was driving fast, being pursued by someone. Or dodging something, so she lost control of her car. But when Ms Salim got out of the car, she wasn’t bleeding much, if at all.’

‘So? Then?’ Hank’s voice was hushed.

‘So then someone killed her. And they posed her body upright, in a sitting position.’

Harper swallowed wine, remembering the last research assistant, the one from twenty-odd years ago. Hadn’t her body been propped up, seated like a sentry?

Even so, she couldn’t accept it. ‘Maybe the crash caused Zina’s injuries. Maybe she fell or crawled out of the car and tried to get up but couldn’t and died in a sitting position.’

Again, the detective paused, dabbed her mouth with her napkin and looked directly at Hank, then at Harper. ‘Well, I suppose that would have been a possibility. Except for one thing.’

‘What?’ Harper looked at Hank; his face was blank. Puzzled.

Rivers pursed her lips. ‘The fatal injuries weren’t caused by the car crash. This murder is exactly like the one from 1989.’ She met Harper’s eyes. ‘Zina Salim’s body was mutilated. The killer took her heart.’

They washed the dishes in silence. They both knew the implications. Had discussed them at length with Rivers. Harper rolled the conversation around in her mind.

‘What do you think it means?’ Rivers had addressed them both.

Hank had been silent, waiting for Harper to answer. Knowing what she’d say.

‘I have no idea.’ Harper had condensed her comments. ‘But in many Pre-Columbian cultures, taking hearts was an accepted practice. Victors cut them out of vanquished enemies. Priests would sacrifice the hearts of conquered warriors to the gods.’ She’d stopped, leaving it at that.

‘Go. On.’ Hank had pressed. ‘Tell eating them.’

Oh Lord, really? Why was that relevant?

Rivers looked puzzled. ‘Eating?’

Harper sighed. ‘Well, it’s not proven. But, yes. Some scholars theorize that Pre-Columbians believed that a person’s strength was located in the heart. So, to acquire someone’s strength, they took the heart out and  . . . ate it.’

She’d cleared her throat, tried not to think about the fate of Zina’s heart.

Rivers had folded her hands on the table. ‘So this heart-taking is Pre-Columbian in origin.’

Harper had shrugged. ‘It may be. But we can’t be sure—’

‘Pre-Columbian, just like Langston’s relics. The ones that both victims just happened to be working on when they were killed.’

Harper had nodded.

‘Is it common knowledge about the hearts? Would lots of people know about this practice?’

‘Not. Lots.’ Hank shook his head.

‘But it’s no secret,’ Harper added. ‘Anyone who’s read about Pre-Columbian history would know. Or traveled and visited ruins. Or studied—’

‘OK. I get it,’ Rivers cut her off. ‘So there’s a select group who’d see the connection. But they don’t have to be experts or scholars like yourself.’

Like herself? What? Had Rivers been implying that she’d had something to do with Zina’s death? Harper had bristled, straightened her posture. Prepared to defend herself.

But Rivers had simply sighed and asked Harper and Hank to let her know if they had further thoughts concerning the murder. Then, thanking them for the chili, she’d taken off, advising Harper to be careful working with the relics. ‘Remember, two women have already died at that place.’

Silently, Harper and Hank finished in the kitchen. It wasn’t until they were in bed that she finally spoke. ‘Just so you know, I was going to tell you I’d taken the assistantship. I just didn’t—’

‘You can. Still. Quit.’

She took his hand. ‘I know.’

‘Will you?’

She probably should. Under the circumstances, no one would blame her. ‘I promised Schmerling I’d do it. They’re counting on me.’

‘Schmer. Ling would. Understand.’

‘But I can’t just quit – I haven’t even started yet.’

‘Can turn down. Murderer. Loose.’ He lay on his side, facing her, his eyebrows furrowed. ‘Zina. Saw Nahual. Sensed danger.’

‘Her imagination ran away with her.’

‘She’s dead, Hoppa. Not imagined. Killed. Real. Job bad. Karma. Evil.’

There he was with his bad Karma Juju Hoodoo Vibes again. ‘Hank, don’t even pretend to believe in superstitious mumbo—’

‘Places. Things. Can. Be bad.’ He didn’t smile. Seemed serious. But how could he be? Hank was a geologist, had a PhD. Had traveled all over the world. How could he believe that locations could possess ‘good’ or ‘bad’ vibes?

Obviously, he must not mean it literally. He must just be worried about her. ‘It’s OK, Hank. I can take care of myself. I’m not like Zina – I’m Army. A trained combat officer. I mean it – bring it on. Let her killer try to mess with me – I’ll take him down in a heartbeat.’ Oops. Wrong expression.

‘Damn Hoppa.’ Hank wasn’t impressed. He sighed. ‘OK. But. With. I’m going.’

Really? He’d go with her? And do what? Hold her hand? Hang around bored all day? ‘How about this: I’ll go and assess the situation. If it seems even the least bit dangerous, you can come along—’

‘No, this how about? Come. Me. Along. Assess. With. You.’ He sounded adamant.

‘It’s not necessary.’ She leaned over and kissed him. ‘But thank you.’

‘Hoppa.’ He wasn’t backing down. ‘Dead. Serious.’

He was right. It was serious. Harper saw Zina’s slumped, blood-soaked body. Why was she making light of the danger, ignoring Hank’s concerns? Maybe he was right that she should turn down the assistantship, forget about working with the relics. She pictured herself at Langston’s – personally examining rare, never-displayed ancient artifacts, documenting them, holding them in her hands. Making tangible contact with a culture lost centuries ago – how could she explain to Hank the thrill she felt even thinking about it? No, she didn’t want to give up this opportunity, wouldn’t be so easily scared off.

‘Killer. There.’ Hank persisted. ‘Zina. Nahual saw.’

‘What are you implying? That an actual Nahual was protecting the artifacts, that he killed Zina and took her heart? Because that is utterly beyond ridiculous.’

Hank didn’t reply. He lay back, folding his hands on his chest, staring at the ceiling, leaving Harper to think about her attitude. Was she being foolish? Was there, as Detective Rivers suspected, a connection between Zina’s terrors of a Nahual and her murder the very next morning? Had someone been stalking her, someone she’d mistaken for a shape-shifter? And, if so, what was his motive? Did it have to do with the collection? Was everyone who worked with it going to be targeted?

Maybe. Even probably.

Damn. Hank was right. She should at least let the murder investigation proceed before recklessly putting herself in danger.

‘OK. You win. I’ll talk to Schmerling.’ She sighed. ‘I’ll tell him I don’t want to work there unless he can guarantee it’s safe.’

‘Hoppa. For real.’ Hank raised an eyebrow, doubtful. ‘Promise.’

Harper bit her nail, and her voice was husky with resentment. ‘Promise.’

She lay back against her pillows, but she tossed, picturing crates filled with carved vessels and masks, figurines of marble, silver and gold. And when she finally drifted off, she dreamed of an immense ebony warrior, poisonous serpents emerging from his mouth, his helmet and the twist of his belt.

The memorial service was well attended. The chapel in Annabel Taylor Hall was full. The press was there, as was the entire Archeology Department, along with members of the press, a number of university bigwigs, including the Provost, the Chancellor, the Dean, and a slew of people who hadn’t even known Zina, who were simply curious about the murder.

Harper sat with other graduate students, between Philip Conrad and Stacey Cohen. As a small choir sang Amazing Grace, Philip leaned over, whispering, ‘Sad about her family, isn’t it?’

It was? ‘Why?’

‘Well.’ He looked around. ‘She has four brothers and family living in New York. Not one of them came.’ He shook his head, disapproving. Covered his mouth with his hand as he whispered. ‘They wouldn’t have any part of this. Flatly refused. They said it was a matter of honor.’

Honor? Why? Getting murdered was dishonorable?

‘I don’t get it. It’s about women in their culture or their religion.’ He stopped abruptly as the singing ended and the chapel hushed.

A pastor led the twenty-third psalm, then invited people to speak. One of Zina’s housemates read a poem. ‘I Did Not Die,’ she recited. ‘By Mary E. Faye. Do not stand at my grave and forever weep. I am not there. I do not sleep  . . .’

Another housemate talked about how ambitious and smart Zina was, how she’d overcome the constraints of her family and fought to establish her own identity on her own terms. The third one broke down and couldn’t read, so someone volunteered to read her notes, in which she promised never to forget Zina, her strength, and her spicy couscous dishes.

Harper listened, moved by the statements, wondering why she’d never seen in Zina the qualities extolled by her friends. Maybe she’d been foolish to resent her, competing against her instead of getting to know her.

Professor Wiggins stood and talked about Zina’s commitment to Archeology. He confessed to being awed by her uniquely powerful and determined spirit. His affect seemed wrong, almost joyous, and his comments were followed by awkward silence until Phil got up and talked.

Phil described first meeting Zina, being intimidated by her dark, enchanting beauty, and trying to impress her with his knowledge of Indian culture, only to find out later that her family was from Syria, and that he must have sounded idiotic.