Summer Session (15 page)

Shaundra’s piece described a classroom haunted by the spirit of a troubled, hovering soul. Jeremy’s detailed the moment in which Graham’s body made impact with the concrete below, describing in graphic detail what occurred to each of Graham’s individual body parts. Pam wrote about the incident from a grasshopper’s point of view; it was, he’d thought, the end of days.

Kevin was the last to hand in his paper. It was a pencil drawing of an agonized face.

Back in her office, Harper found Anna just as she’d left her. Harper sat at her desk, staring out the window at the heavy clouds blanketing the sky. Even in the middle of the day, the light was dim and bleak. Like her mood. Get up, she told herself. Go out. But she wanted company. No, not just company; she wanted Hank, the pre-accident Hank.

Her office phone startled her.

‘You called?’ Ron sounded warm and untroubled. Not like a man about to feed her to the fish. ‘Everything OK? You’re not canceling tonight, are you?’

Tonight? Oh right. Dinner. ‘No, nothing that serious.’

‘What’s up?’

‘Not much. Just that I’ve learned I’m in grave danger because of some stolen drugs.’

‘No, really. Why did you call?’ Ron sounded impatient.

‘I’m serious. Did you by any chance tell Dr Wyatt I’d help you get the drugs back?’

A sigh. ‘Harper, you’re not making sense. Look, we said we’d talk over dinner. Why don’t we wait till then and I’ll explain everything.’

‘But Graham’s pills – they’d definitely been stolen, right?’

‘Yes. An entire bin was taken. They were from that bin.’

‘And the drug is supposed to help people learn, right?’

Another sigh. ‘Yes. It enhances learning and memory, stimulates the frontal lobe.’

‘So the pills couldn’t cause someone to kill himself, right?’

‘What?’ Ron stopped to cough. ‘Where did you get that—’

‘Could they?’

‘Of course not. In proper doses, the drug is completely benign. With minimal side effects.’

Harper released a breath. ‘And Graham Reynolds – was he a suspect in the theft?’

‘Harper, I really don’t want to go into this now—’

‘I need to know.’

‘Yes. He was a suspect. He had knowledge of and access to the bins. But he wasn’t the only—’

‘He had access because he dispensed the drugs?’

‘I’m sorry. What?’

‘Graham was the guy who gave his test group their pills—’

‘No, no. Our staff gives out the doses, individually. No student dispenses drugs under any circumstances. Where did you get that idea?’

Where? Well, from Larry. Who’d obviously lied. Which probably meant that the drugs in Graham’s bag – and the drugs Larry had been looking for – weren’t being tested in some study; they were, in fact, the drugs that had been stolen. Which meant that both Graham and Larry had some part in the theft.

‘Look, Harper, you understand how sensitive this is, don’t you?’

Harper didn’t answer. Ron continued talking, but she wasn’t listening. She was thinking, staring at the papers stacked on her desk. Larry’s illegible scrawl was near the top. She pulled it out, looked at it. Was Larry a drug thief? Just like Graham, he’d had opportunity – he was involved with the trials, had access to the bin. Maybe Larry, not Graham, was the thief. Maybe he’d been selling the pills. And Graham had been a customer, and the money in his book bag hadn’t been for rent but for drugs. Or maybe they’d been stealing and dealing together, room-mates and business partners? Harper recalled the brash way Larry had leaned across her desk, breathing into her face, asking for those numbers, even though she’d already told him she didn’t have them.

The numbers. Why were they so important?

‘Hey, Ron.’ She interrupted, had no idea what he’d been talking about. ‘Do you know anything about a list of numbers?’

‘Numbers?’

‘I found a page of numbers with Graham’s things. I’ve still got it – I was going to toss it. I mean, it’s just scrap paper, but a student has been looking for it. Thing is, that student is also involved in your drug trials. And he was Graham’s room-mate. Do you think the numbers could be related to the theft?’

‘Numbers? Related how?’ Obviously, he didn’t.

‘I guess I’m over-thinking.’

‘Harper, look. I’m late for a meeting. Try to put all this aside until we talk later, OK? Eight thirty.’

Harper hung up, confused. She leaned on her arms, trying to piece together murders, rapes, arson, suicide and stolen pills. When she stood to go, she noticed Anna, lying on her sofa, unmoving. Damn – even if she couldn’t move, Anna had heard everything Harper had just said. She tried to replay her part of the conversation, couldn’t remember it exactly. But she knew she’d asked Ron about the stolen drugs. And about Graham being a suspect in the theft. And about the possible connection between the drug and the deaths. Oh Lord. This wasn’t good. Anna would draw inferences and worry even more. Harper had forgotten the girl was even in the room. Like Anna had said, when cataplectic, she blended into the background, like furniture.

Harper’s cell phone rang as she was watching Anna, wondering how much longer she’d lie there.

‘Where have you been?’ It was Vicki. ‘You never return my calls.’

Harper didn’t offer excuses. ‘Sorry.’

‘Don’t apologize. It won’t work. But I just had a double cancellation.’ Vicki was a dentist. ‘So drop what you’re doing and come to lunch.’

Harper hesitated. She had nothing to do and, truth was, despite Trent’s assertions, she missed Vicki.

‘Good. Lost Dog. Fifteen minutes?’

Harper couldn’t just leave Anna there. She turned, checking on her. Anna’s eyes were open. When she saw Harper looking at her, she sat up, smoothed her hair and grabbed her book bag.

‘Give me twenty.’ Harper motioned Anna to wait; she was getting off the phone.

But Anna didn’t wait. She mouthed, ‘Thanks, Loot,’ and dashed out the door.

‘Anna? Just a second—’ Phone in hand, Harper hurried after her. But Anna was already gone.

Ron knew she couldn’t be home, but he knocked the knocker and rapped on the door repeatedly, loudly, just in case. Then he looked over his shoulder, making sure no one was around.

No one was.

Cautiously, he tried the door. Locked. So, as if looking for Harper, he strolled around to the back of the house. Casually, in case somebody passed, he stepped over knee-high weeds and unmowed grass. The place was neglected, almost dilapidated. He liked Victorian homes, appreciated the classic lines in this one. But, Christ, it was a heap. It needed a monumental amount of work. What had Harper been thinking when she’d bought it? It had to have been her husband’s idea; he looked the burly construction-worker type. After all, wasn’t that how he’d gotten hurt? Repairing the roof? Ron glanced up at the steep-sloped shingles from which Hank must have fallen, saw the height of the drop. Whew. It was a miracle he’d survived.

Ron kept walking, passed a gazebo, made his way to the back of the place where, surprisingly, there was a modern, newly constructed deck, complete with a hot tub. The thing was sturdy and probably useful, but bizarrely out of place on this elegant old house. Like Air Jordans on a dowager. At least it was in the back where nobody would see it. And, even better, it led to a back entrance.

Ron crossed the yard to the deck, eager to get this visit over with. He wasn’t comfortable breaking into Harper’s home, especially because he was certain he wouldn’t find anything there. But Wyatt held the purse strings, and Wyatt had insisted. In fact, he’d threatened to search the house himself, and, given Wyatt’s jitters, Ron couldn’t allow that. In fact, Wyatt was too nervous. A liability to their work. When this was over, Ron would have to make some changes. But one crisis at a time. First, he’d look through Harper’s house for the pills, although he couldn’t imagine that she’d have them. Obviously, she wasn’t a dealer or a user. But what had Wyatt said? ‘Statistically, she’s got to be part of it. Too many roads lead to her for it to be mere coincidence.’

Wyatt. He knew zip about women. Harper was the kind whose neck got blotchy. She blushed. Women like her couldn’t hide their emotions, couldn’t lie. No, the only way Harper had the drugs was if she didn’t know she had them. Maybe holding boxes for a student. But deliberately stashing them? Not possible. When he’d told her about the stolen drugs, she’d had no idea. She wasn’t involved. He knew women. He could tell.

He skipped up the steps to the deck, thinking about the kind of woman Harper was, her direct gaze, her lack of deception. No question, she had an allure. He hadn’t expected to be attracted to her; she wasn’t like other women in his life – definitely not his ex-wives. Harper was unconcerned with appearances, couldn’t be bothered to fuss with her hair, wore it short. No make-up, no nail polish. She wasn’t girlie. Didn’t play games. Harper was – what was the word? Wholesome? No, edgier than that. Stubborn? Feisty? And her limp? Well, on her, with that taut body and defined muscles, the limp was incredibly sexy. No question, Ron was in this for more than business. He pictured her limping toward him, naked, swaying as she moved, and he was so absorbed that he didn’t notice the broken glass on the wood of the deck until he was standing on it.

‘Damn.’ Ron looked around, saw a broken pane on the half-opened kitchen door.

Had someone broken in? Stiffening, he looked over his shoulder at the yard, saw no one.

‘Harper?’

He didn’t expect or get an answer. Cautiously, he swung the door open, peered inside, saw no one in the kitchen.

‘Hello? Anybody here?’

He stood, listening. Cautiously, he moved through the house, forgetting, for a moment, that he was there to look for the drugs. And then it occurred to him. Maybe someone had already come looking for them. Maybe that was what the broken glass was about.

But the glass might have nothing to do with the drugs. Harper had just been mugged; her attacker might have come after her again. Damn, when he’d talked to her not half an hour ago, she’d been in her office on campus. But what if she’d come home afterwards? And someone had followed her?

Harper was a combat vet. She could protect herself, might even be armed. Ron froze at that idea, but decided that if she discovered him in the house, he’d simply explain that he’d come inside because he’d seen the broken window and been concerned about her. Which wasn’t entirely false.

Then again, she might not discover him, might not be able to. Ron stood still, struck by the realization that Harper might be hurt. Might even be dead.

Above him, the ceiling creaked. Again. Then again. Footsteps? Was it Harper?

Ron dashed out of the kitchen, looking for the stairway. If Harper was up there, why hadn’t she answered the door or called back when he’d yelled her name?

Probably because the person upstairs wasn’t Harper. Ron stopped at the bottom of the steps. Damn. Forget Wyatt, and forget searching the house; the shadows and creaks were getting to him. But now there were more noises, this time from outside. Someone was fiddling with the front door. Christ. Someone was upstairs and someone else was downstairs. Where was Harper? Why was the world converging on her house? He looked into the foyer, saw a silhouette on a shade of a dining-room window. Someone was messing with the windows, looking for a way in.

Ron flew, took the stairs two at a time, seeking a place to hide. At the top of the steps, he saw a sunlit, unpainted room with a crib and a rocking chair. Nothing big enough to hide behind. Wait – whoa. A crib? Was Harper expecting? He blinked, considering that possibility as harsh whispers rose from downstairs. Jesus. People were in the house, walking around. Ron rushed down the hall, opened a door, found not a room but a tiny overstuffed closet bursting with khakis and grays. Harper’s clothes, the colors of shadows. Not enough space for him. Looking over his shoulder, he ran on and found the bedroom, considered scooting under the bed, but stepped instead into what turned out to be a gutted bathroom. Fine. It would do. Locking the door behind him, Ron crouched where the bathtub used to be, grabbed his cell phone and called Wyatt, got his voicemail, left a whispered but spirited message. Damn, what if the intruders saw his bike outside? Would they come looking for him? No, they’d assume it belonged to Harper. Even so, he couldn’t afford to be found. His back to the wall, Ron grabbed a rusted piece of a water pipe for defense and waited, listening to angry voices and unexplained thumps. And thinking of creative ways to strangle Wyatt.

Monique didn’t like the idea, but Larry insisted. To tell the truth, even though he was two inches shorter than she was, he scared her a little. Ever since he’d started taking those pills, his moods had been unpredictable, all over the place. Playful one minute; brutal the next. And bossy. Lately, they argued about everything. And now, on the way to the house, he was driving too fast. Monique had to say something. He could kill them both.

‘Slow down.’

Larry sped up. He ran a stop light, going sixty miles an hour up Buffalo. A twenty-five zone.

‘Larry. Slow the fuck down.’

He accelerated again. Larry was scaring her. Something was definitely wrong with him. She clung to the armrests and kept her mouth shut. When had Larry gone from a Cuddly Monkey to Controlling Ape? Was it when Graham jumped? No, before that. But when didn’t matter. Monique sat pinned to her seat, held her breath and braced for the impact of sudden death.

But they didn’t die. They made it around town and across campus to the Loot’s house and parked in some bushes. Hanshaw Street was too quiet, too creepy, closed in by overgrown shady trees.

‘Sit there.’ Larry pointed to a swinging bench on the front porch. ‘Keep watch. If anybody comes, warn me.’

Oh, really? She was supposed to stay outside with all the spiderwebs and bugs? ‘No way.’

Larry stopped and looked at her. ‘What the hell, Monique?’