Summer Session (18 page)

‘But I have to go—’

‘No, ma’am.’ He interrupted, pressing on her. ‘You don’t need to go anywhere.’

The guy was pissing her off.

‘Yes, I do.’ Harper pushed him away.

He took a stance as if he might actually try to overpower her. Wobbly, she faced him, preparing to take him down. Somewhere, her phone was ringing again.

‘Mrs Jennings?’

Harper turned too quickly, sent her brain spinning, She nearly fell over.

‘What are you doing on your feet?’ For a moment, Detective Rivers appeared to have two heads, both of which glared. ‘You need to lie down. At least sit.’ Detective Rivers – both of her – took Harper by the elbow.

‘I told her to lie down. Her skull might be cracked.’ The paramedic tried to redeem himself. There were two of him, as well. ‘I advised her not to move—’

‘I got this. Give us a sec.’ The Detectives Rivers led Harper to the steps, sat her down.

Harper looked out at the overgrown yard, covered with police cars and ambulances. Cops, medical workers and crime scene investigators scurried around; a gaggle of gapers stood at the curb; a television crew or two had set up near the street. It was just like the commotion after Graham’s suicide, except that this time it was her front yard. And everything was blurry. Harper shivered, cold. In shock.

Detective Rivers handed Harper her phone. ‘You were holding this.’

Harper remembered a lemon. ‘I was calling the police—’

‘You called nine–one–one. It seems you got knocked out in the middle of the call.’

A man whose Yankees T-shirt was tucked into his jeans walked over, and Rivers introduced Detective Boschi. He was chewing gum.

‘I’m cold.’ Harper’s teeth chattered. ‘Can I go inside for a sweater?’

Rivers asked the paramedic for a blanket. Detective Boschi led her to the gazebo beside the house, away from the commotion. The gazebo hadn’t been used all year, though, and spiders had taken over. The detectives swung sticks around, clearing away webs, and, finally, they led Harper in, sitting with her on the benches inside.

Shivering despite the blanket and the heat, Harper told them how she’d come home to find Monique dead on the porch, how she had no idea why the young woman was there. She omitted the parts about the suicide bombers and the lemon. As she talked, the detectives made occasional side comments, drawing comparisons, making references to other cases. Harper tried to follow but couldn’t. Maybe the spider webs had penetrated her head. Why was it so hard to think?

The detectives huddled together, conferring, and the paramedic came back and checked her pulse, speaking in a soft slow voice as if she were a child. ‘Try to relax, ma’am.’

Harper obeyed. Trying to relax, she watched television crews filming reports from the curb and police investigating on her porch. And while the paramedic studied her scalp, she listened in on the detectives.

‘. . . wounds are similar,’ Rivers said. ‘She was slashed like the waitress.’

‘Yeah,’ Boschi agreed. ‘But this doesn’t look like a rape. And there’s no mutilation or signs of struggle.’

Harper’s arm tickled; she looked down, saw a brown spider. Brushed it off. Looked down to see where it landed. And saw spiders everywhere. Red, black, brown, yellow. All shapes, all sizes. She looked up, found dozens, hundreds more, crawling. Spinning webs. Harper was on her feet, slapping her clothes, shaking the blanket, jumping into the grass.

‘Harper?’ Rivers called.

‘Spiders!’

Knee high in weeds, with double vision, Harper watched four detectives leap out of the gazebo, joining her.

Boschi brushed off his arms. ‘Porch is free now.’

Blood still pooled near the swinging bench, but Monique’s body had been removed. The detectives sat Harper on a wicker love seat at the other end of the porch, away from the blood.

Boschi leaned against a window frame. Harper noticed that the screen was loose; another thing she’d have to fix.

‘You already know,’ Detective Rivers began, ‘this isn’t the first murder of its kind around here.’

Harper tried to ignore the tickling along her back and between her breasts. No spiders, she assured herself, had crept under her clothes.

‘But, more to the point, it’s not the first connected to you.’

Or inside her thighs. Harper pressed her legs together, trying to smash anything walking there.

‘First there was the waitress,’ Rivers prompted. ‘Chelsea, remember?’

Did she think Harper could forget?

‘Now there’s this young woman. Monique.’ Detective Rivers frowned. ‘And again, the victim knew you.’

Harper shivered.

‘So. Three deaths in two days. And, as a bonus, you got mugged twice in the same time period. So, it’s not rocket science to conclude that you and/or people you know are being targeted.’ She paused for emphasis.

Harper repeated the last sentence in her mind. And couldn’t quite grasp it.

‘Frankly –’ Rivers crossed her arms – ‘we’re not sure yet what we’re dealing with. But you should be aware that many serial killers follow patterns in choosing their victims.’

Whoa – serial killers? Harper looked up; the trees, the sky, everything – even her thoughts – were floating clockwise. Was someone she knew a serial killer? Who? Larry popped to mind. After all, Monique had been his girlfriend, Graham his room-mate. Maybe he’d known Chelsea, too. He volunteered at the Neurology Center, probably went to the coffee shop there. Larry might be connected to all three of the dead.

Harper pictured him – a wiry kid with shaggy hair, bad skin, big eyes. He’d been looking for Graham’s book bag, his money and pills. But could he kill? She didn’t want to think so. And Monique had been inches taller, had bigger bones; in a fight with Larry, she’d probably win. Besides, Larry couldn’t be the only one with connections to the victims – lots of students must have known all three.

But Detective Rivers wasn’t finished. ‘. . . whoever the killer is, he knows you. You are clearly on his radar.’

Without warning, something came up Harper’s throat, acidy sweet. And she smelled something metallic and overpowering. Monique’s clotting blood? Harper needed to get to the bathroom, fast. She stood and took a step, but tottered unsteadily. No way she’d make it inside. Instead, she turned and thrust herself against the railing, letting half-digested chili fly into the grass. Sweating profusely, she felt less shivery as the paramedic reminded her that nausea was a symptom typical of concussions.

Harper sank back on to the wicker seat, asking again if she could go into the house, wash her face, lie down. Rivers looked at Boschi.

Boschi shrugged. ‘The house has been checked out; it’s safe. But before you go in, you need to know. Somebody’s been in there.’

What did that mean? Had she been robbed? Vandalized?

Boschi chomped on his gum. ‘I’ll go in with you. You’ll need to make sure nothing’s missing. Make a list of things that are gone—’

‘Harper! Harper!’ Vicki stood at the curb, yelling. She’d seen live coverage of the murder on the television in her office waiting room and sped over; now she was annoying police, shouting across their barricade. At Harper’s insistence, Detective Rivers let her through. She ran over, hugging Harper, asking questions.

‘What happened? Are you all right? Christ. Look at all the blood—’

‘Mrs Jennings? Are you ready?’ Impatient, Boschi held the door open.

Harper brushed away another invisible spider and took hold of Vicki’s arm. ‘Come with me? They said someone’s been inside.’ She stepped to the door.

‘Who did this?’ Vicki whispered. ‘Do you have any idea?’

Harper shook her head, but again thought of Larry. How he’d pressed her for Graham’s money and pills. And for that list of numbers, whatever it was. She ought to look at it more closely, still had it in her bag.

Harper was distracted, thinking about Larry. So she was startled when Vicki gasped, ‘What the hell happened?’

Then, looking around her living room, Harper had a pretty clear idea.

The house was a shambles. Drop cloths had been removed and thrown about, cushions tossed off the sofa and chairs upended. Harper moved slowly from room to room, still off balance, holding Vicki’s arm and the walls for support.

The hutch in the dining room had been emptied out; china dinner plates and long-stemmed wine glasses, some broken, littered the floor. The kitchen was a mess. The freezer had been emptied. Her stash of rum-raisin ice cream, Dove and Snickers bars dotted the floor, defrosting alongside frozen lima beans and packages of Lean Cuisine. The shelves of the cupboard held only a few cans of soup or beans; everything else – pasta, cake mixes, jars of spaghetti sauce – lay helter-skelter on countertops. Canisters of flour and sugar had been dumped on to the floor.

Harper felt as if she’d been sucker-punched. Who had done this? And why? Her den was topsy-turvy like the living room. Completely ransacked. Down the hall, she opened the door to Hank’s office and stopped, gawking.

Every drawer had been pulled from the desk and emptied on to the floor. Every book had been removed from the shelves. Papers were strewn everywhere – files, journals. The desk chair was upside down, the couch overturned. Artwork, paintings and photographs had been ripped from the wall. The room – the only finished room in the house – had literally been torn apart.

Harper cursed, livid, holding on to the wall. Her head throbbed, leg ached, stomach churned; even so, the feeling she was most aware of was rage. Police were still in the house; she heard them upstairs in her bedroom. Oh God. Had the intruders gone through her clothes? Her lingerie? Her old uniforms? Hank’s things? Had they opened her jewelry box, stolen his grandmother’s pearl-and-emerald engagement ring? Outraged, she headed for the stairs, but stopped, dizzy. About to be sick again.

‘Mrs Jennings?’

‘Harper?’

Vicki and the police were calling her. Harper didn’t answer – didn’t dare open her mouth. As fast as she could, she ran to the bathroom across from Hank’s office, trying to make it to the toilet. Realizing that, if she didn’t, it didn’t much matter; the house was already a catastrophe.

Hand over her mouth, Harper lunged over the bowl just in time. It wasn’t until she stood up, wiping her face with a washcloth, seeing cough medicine, toothpaste, the entire contents of the medicine cabinet, strewn everywhere, that she looked in the mirror and realized, without making a sound or even a flinch, that she wasn’t alone.

In the mirror, she saw someone huddled in corner by the laundry basket, hiding behind the bathroom door.

Harper held the washcloth at her face, not even breathing, watching the dark sneakers in the mirror. For a few measured heartbeats, she stood that way, waiting, watching. If he moved, she’d tackle him, flatten him. Put him in a headlock. Yell for the police; they were right across the hall. But what good were the police? They’d obviously failed to notice this rather significant detail in the bathroom. Never mind. For now, she had to be cool; she had the advantage of surprise, didn’t want to blow it. The guy was behind the door, unaware that she’d seen him. Even so, she shouldn’t be too confident; if he’d killed Monique, who was large and formidable, he must be strong. And he might still have the knife. Probably, she shouldn’t attack. Probably, she should pretend she hadn’t seen him, leave and tell the police he was in there.

Yes, that was the best idea. Walk away. Quickly. And send in the cops.

OK. On the count of three, she’d leave. She counted, making no sudden movements. One. She put the washcloth down, leaving Hank’s shaving cream, razor and deodorant in the sink. Slowly, checking the mirror one last time, she turned toward the door. Two. Her bad leg felt like cement, but she stepped forward, keeping the sneakers in her peripheral vision. When they didn’t move, she dared another glance at them, saw blue jeans above them. And something else on the tile floor beside the jeans. Something wet. And red.

Harper didn’t get to three. She swung the door back, and there was Larry, propped up against the wall, Harper’s nail file protruding from his neck.

Harper and Vicki sat at the kitchen table opposite the two detectives, who, in Harper’s vision, occasionally split into four. The boy with no face appeared and disappeared as pieces of Marvin sporadically decorated the walls. Harper pressed an ice bag against her lump, focusing on the cold, not only to ease her pain but also to push away flashbacks. Other people – police, people from the coroner’s office, investigators, insurgents, suicide bombers and God knew who else – wandered in and out of the house.

Detective Rivers had blasted two uniformed officers for not finding the body, had apologized profusely to Harper for the inexcusable oversight, had offered again to have her taken to the hospital. When Harper again refused, Boschi asked if any of her possessions had been stolen. Harper blinked mutely. How the hell was she supposed to know if anything had been stolen? She’d only been in the house for a couple of minutes, and every single one of her possessions had been turned upside down or tossed on to the floor.

But the detective asked again.

‘I don’t know.’ Harper knew she was in shock. She’d stopped shivering, but all of her, even her blood, was cold. Her thoughts were muddled and slow.

Detective Rivers asked another question: Did Harper have any idea what Monique or Larry had been doing at her house?

Harper imagined the two of them, Monique waiting on the porch as Larry snuck around, searching. But, suddenly, it wasn’t Larry prowling around in the house; it was Trent Manning. After all, just a couple of days ago, she’d caught Trent rifling thought Hank’s office. Maybe Trent had come back, desperate to find Hank’s papers. Maybe Trent had found the students at the house and confronted them . . .

No. Trent couldn’t have killed anyone. Certainly, not over Hank’s notes. And if he were going to, it wouldn’t be by stabbing; he’d probably pass out if he saw blood. But if not Trent, who could have been there?