Summer Session (11 page)

‘So why didn’t you tell me this earlier?’

‘How could I? I had to identify it.’

‘Really?’ Harper frowned. ‘Because I saw Detective Rivers earlier. She knew what the pills were right away—’

‘What?’

‘She said that the same pills were found with other recent fatalities—’

‘Wait.’ She pictured Ron leaning back, covering his eyes. ‘You discussed the pills with the police?’

Harper let out a breath. ‘I didn’t plan to discuss them, Ron. But she insisted, and . . . Look, I don’t want to go into it. Like you said, it’s been a rough day.’

‘But, after our conversation earlier, I don’t understand why you’d draw police attention—’

‘Because after you and I had coffee, I got mugged—’

‘Wait – what? Are you OK?’

‘I’m fine—’

‘Harper, my God. Why didn’t you call me?’

Call him? Why would she have called him?

‘I’m fine, really. But afterwards, I met with Detective Rivers—’

‘No, don’t go on. This is crazy. Tell me in person. Have you had dinner?’

Dinner?

‘Look, I’ve got another hour or so here, then I’m going to grab a bite. How about joining me?’

Joining him? Harper looked up the empty steps. Then down the empty hall.

‘I can’t.’ She couldn’t.

‘Tomorrow, then. We need to talk.’

‘I don’t know. I have a lot to do—’

‘You’ve got to eat, Harper. And you come to the Clinic every evening, don’t you? Why don’t we meet tomorrow after visiting hours. Say, around eight thirty. We’ll eat; you’ll tell me what happened to you today, and I’ll fill you in about the theft.’

Theft? ‘What theft?’

‘Oh, sorry, I didn’t finish. I’ll tell you tomorrow—’

‘Tell me now.’

‘OK.’ He took a breath. ‘Short version. At the Center, we store all experimental drugs in coded bins. This spring, there was a robbery. A bin was emptied out. And guess what? Graham’s pills came from that bin.’

Really? ‘They were stolen?’

‘Hundreds of vials were taken. Gone. During final trials.’

‘But they aren’t harmful – I mean, you said they make people smarter.’ She wondered about Graham’s grades. Had his As been drug-induced?

‘Harper, all drugs have side effects. And if taken in large doses, those side effects can increase.’

‘What side effects?’

He sighed. ‘How about I explain it all tomorrow at dinner?’

Fine. But a detail was bothering her, nagging in the corner of her mind. ‘Today, in the coffee shop. When you saw the pills, you recognized them, didn’t you?’

Ron hedged. ‘I suspected, but I wanted to be sure before I said anything.’

‘So what Detective Rivers said about them – is it true? Have those pills been associated with rapes and fires and other violence? Were there other deaths besides Graham’s?’

His voice tightened. ‘That whole idea is misleading.’

Misleading?

‘In fact, it’s completely erroneous. That drug is perfectly safe.’ Ron was insistent. ‘But this conversation is too important for the phone. Let’s talk tomorrow. The lobby. Eight thirty.’

OK. Tomorrow. In the lobby. At eight thirty.

Wait. What was she doing? First having coffee, now dinner?

Well, why shouldn’t she? They were going to talk about stolen pills, assaults and violent deaths; that was all. And, like the man said, she had to eat.

Which she ought to do now, and quickly; it was almost time to go see Hank.

Any hopes Harper had about not telling Hank about the mugging were smashed as soon as he laid eyes on her.

‘What. You.’ His eyebrows furrowed, his jaw tightened, and he tried to stand, but his ankles caught in the footrests of the wheelchair. Frustrated, he stumbled back into the seat and slammed the armrest with his fist, his eyes never leaving her face. ‘Hoppa. You.’

She crouched at his side, wincing at the soreness of bruises and stiffness of her bad leg. ‘I’m all right.’ She kissed him, but he put his hands firmly on her shoulders and, scowling, examined her face.

‘Cut.’ He touched the wound on her cheek, the darkening lump beside her eye. ‘Steak.’

Steak? Really? ‘Does that work?’ She smiled, pleased that she understood him. And amused that Hank would suggest slapping a hunk of meat on her eye to stop it from blackening. She pictured it. What should she use? Chuck? Sirloin? A nice fillet?

Hank didn’t smile. His eyes darkened, angry. ‘Say. Me. You. What.’

Hank wanted to know what had happened. She wasn’t going to lie to him; she never had. But she would spare him the grisly and upsetting details. Harper took a seat beside his chair and took his hand. ‘I’m OK, Hank. Really. But somebody mugged me.’

He scowled. ‘Hurt.’

‘I’m fine.’

He looked her over. ‘No.’ Again, he touched her cheek.

‘It’s nothing.’

‘Killed?’ His eyes sparkled.

Harper started to assure him that no one had been killed before she understood. Hank always teased her about being scary tough. She could lift a lot more than the 130 pounds she weighed – as much as strong, taller men. She could do push-ups and chin-ups all day long. So, his point was: how could someone mug her and live?

‘Not yet.’ She laughed. ‘I’ll get him, though.’

Hank became serious again, eyes burning, his hands tight around hers. His lips puckered, slowly forming a word. ‘Who.’

‘I don’t know. I didn’t see his face. But I’m OK. He just knocked me down and grabbed my bag.’ And threatened to drop her into the gorge.

‘Bag. Take. Your.’

‘No, it wasn’t my bag – it belonged to a student.’ She didn’t tell him which student, didn’t talk about Graham or his suicide. Didn’t want to upset him further.

Hank looked her over, gently touched the Band-Aid on her hand, eyed her arms, her shoulders. Her hair. ‘Hoppa.’

Harper tried to make light of what happened. ‘It was just some kid, Hank. He took me by surprise, but when I catch him, I’ll scramble him. We’ll have him for breakfast.’

Hank wasn’t amused. ‘Hoppa. You.’

‘Yes?’

‘O-K?’

‘I am. Yes. Truly.’

‘Both. Us. OK. Us. Two. Gr–reat.’

Wow. Hank was being sarcastic; the old Hank was resurfacing. His eyes twinkled, teasing, but the twinkle seemed muted, sad. ‘Home. Want. Go. Us.’

Home? Us? He wanted to go home with her. Harper couldn’t bear it. ‘Come on. Let’s take a walk.’

Silently, the pair walked along the corridor, Hank pushing a walker in case his right leg faltered. He had a definite limp, but then so did Harper; her left leg giving in when she was tired or, in this case, recovering from a mugging. The two of them ambled along, wobbling side to side, step by step, arm in arm. Clearly, Hank’s overall strength was returning; his intense regime of physical therapy was working. After several laps around the unit, it was she, not he, who wanted to sit and rest. So they landed on a sofa in the lounge, drinking dreadful coffee from the vending machine. Harper massaged her thigh, hoping to keep the rest of the visit light.

‘How was dinner?’ The question was uncomplicated, requiring an uncomplicated answer. Fine. Awful. Great. OK. He should be able to manage it.

But Hank didn’t respond. He looked at Harper with startling intensity, penetratingly, almost accusingly, and then, abruptly, turned away.

‘Hank? Is something wrong?’ What a stupid question, she scolded herself. Of course, something was wrong. The man couldn’t talk, for one thing. And that was only the start.

Hank blinked soberly, absorbed in thought. Silent.

‘I know this is hard for you.’ Harper moved closer, taking his arm. ‘It’s hard for us both. But we’ve got a lot to be thankful for.’

Hank glanced at her, as if daring her to explain.

‘You could have died in that fall, Hank. We’re lucky. You’re still here. We’re together.’

Setting coffee down, Harper put her arms around her husband and leaned her head on his shoulder. Hank rested his head against hers, wrapped his strong left arm around her. They sat that way, cradling each other without the need for words. Harper ached for him, for the way he had been. Closing her eyes, she remembered Hank, painting the dining room, wearing torn cut-offs and a painter’s hat, shoulders rippling as he lifted his brush. When she’d passed, he’d dabbed her nose with Chinese red enamel. She’d taken him down, and they’d ended up on the drop cloth, paint spattered and naked, Meatloaf playing full blast. ‘
I would do anything for love . . .
’

Absently, holding Hank, she hummed along to the memory.
I would do anything for love . . .
She looked up, met Hank’s eyes, then his lips. Felt him quiver.

Other people came into the lounge, but Harper and Hank didn’t budge, even if people openly stared. When they finally moved apart, visiting hours were over, and Harper’s coffee was cold. They kissed goodnight, as always.

Hank pursed his lips, struggling. ‘H–honny.’ His eyes laughed.

Honey? Was he calling her Honey? How dear. But, also, how unlike Hank. He never used trite terms of endearment. ‘Yes, I’m your honey. And you’re mine.’

He shook his head, no, and repeated. ‘Ho. Nee.’

Harper felt him hold on to her, his reluctance to let her go. And something else.

She was in the elevator, descending to the lobby, thinking about that other something when she realized what Hank had been trying to say. It wasn’t ‘Honey’. Since the accident, he’d had trouble enunciating his Rs.

The only sound was the crickets. And the only light was the moon. The air smelled moist and green, having cooled with the dark. Harper parked the Ninja, but didn’t go into the house. Instead, she wandered out back to the new deck, thinking about Hank’s last remark: Hank was horny. He wanted sex.

The truth was she was probably horny, too, but hadn’t admitted it. Since Hank’s accident, she’d suppressed all thoughts of sex. Even when she fantasized about having a family, she focused on the children, not on making them. But now that Hank mentioned it, she couldn’t stop thinking about sex. And thinking about it made her nervous.

She told herself that her nerves were understandable. Inevitable. She’d been immersed in Hank’s survival, then with his recovery, now with minuscule improvements. Over the last weeks, she’d measured every aspect of his physical being: his heart rate, blood pressure, brain functions, intake and output of liquids and solids, and, at some point, she had become his caretaker instead of his lover. At some point, she’d stopped thinking of him sexually. Now, suddenly, Hank was telling her, in his broken way, that he wanted sex again. And she wasn’t prepared.

Harper stood on the deck, cloaked in darkness. Memories bubbled up, of precisely the things she’d worked to forget. His breath on her skin. His chest against hers. His rough stubbly face brushing her breast. Hank’s lips nipping her neck, his thick fingers stroking . . .

She stepped over to the hot tub and sat on the edge. Imagining what it would be like now. Not like before, couldn’t be. Weak on one side, Hank wouldn’t move as he had. So, would she have to be on top? Or would they lie on their sides? Picturing it, mentally repositioning their bodies, she felt awkward. Reluctant. Hank was different now. His speech – it was so childlike. Did she regard him as a child? No, of course not. Hank was still Hank. Wasn’t he? Oh God. She was so confused. What did she feel? Fear? Sorrow? No. More like grave, imminent danger.

Without warning, the screeching of crickets crescendoed, became ragged, anguished screams. The deck faded away. A bomb exploded so close that it seared the hairs on her arms. Somewhere close, men fired their weapons, darting for cover – no, damn it, she had to fight this. Where the hell was her lemon? In her bag. On the back of the Ninja. Too far away.

Dodging bullets, Harper looked around, saw rippling dark water. Holding her breath, she flung herself into the hot tub and its stagnant, unheated, not very chlorinated contents. Clothes and all, she sunk into cool, shockingly wet water, hiding under the surface, making no sound. Only when she was sure the gunfire had stopped and the flashback aborted did she let herself step on to the wooden deck. Then, sopping and cursing, she sloshed through brambles, bushes and trees back to her Ninja, retrieved her bag and headed into her big old Victorian house, not noticing the bicycle leaning against the shadowed wall.

Inside, Harper dropped her leather sack in the foyer and stripped off her clothes to protect the new hardwood flooring from puddles. In her underwear, she was halfway up the stairs before it registered that, at the end of the downstairs hallway, the door to Hank’s study was ajar.

Carrying her wet clothes, Harper backed down the stairs, careful to avoid the creaky spots, shifting her weight gently so as not to make a sound. She stopped at the bottom, listening to faint rustling noises coming from Hank’s study, and quickly, silently, she searched for a weapon.

Kitchen knives were too far away; Hank’s tools were out in the shed; her pistol up in the attic, and Hank’s shotgun – was it in the broom closet? Harper wasn’t sure, didn’t have time to check. Sidestepping to the living room, she dropped her bundle of wet clothes and grabbed a poker from the stand beside the fireplace. It felt puny and unimpressive. Would it scare a prowler away? What if he grabbed it from her and slammed her with it? She thought of the guy on the bridge pounding her head – was this him again? Hell, it could be; she should call the police. Poker in hand, she started for her bag to search for her phone. But before she got there, something in Hank’s study slammed.

Harper froze. Another slam, louder this time. Barefoot in wet underwear, Harper ran down the hall, poker raised overhead, poised to strike. At the door, she paused to steady herself. And then, with a warrior’s fury, she charged.

‘Jesus, Harper.’ Trent Manning cowered. Staring first at the poker, then at her wet bra.