Summer Session (34 page)

‘This doesn’t have to go bad.’ Rivers’ voice had become ragged, discouraged.

Anna wasn’t convinced. She nodded toward the still-belligerent orderlies. ‘Look around, lady. It’s already gone bad.’

Hugging the wall, Harper stepped forward enough to catch Rivers’ eye. Rivers cocked her head subtly, no, but Harper insisted, yes, motioning that she was about to create a commotion. A diversionary tactic. Again, Rivers twitched her head, no. But Harper, in command, indicated that Rivers should draw Anna’s attention away, distracting her. Then, she rushed back behind the gurney, measured the distance to her target and waited for Rivers to comply.

And Rivers did. She moved across the lobby talking, taking Anna’s attention with her. When Anna’s back was turned, Harper shoved the gurney with all her body weight, propelling it forward, sending it suddenly careening, clattering into a cluster of chairs near the reception desk.

Anna spun toward it, instinctively aiming the gun away from the hostage and toward the noise.

Harper pounced from behind, shoving the hostage away, taking Anna to the ground, grabbing for the gun.

Anna fell, slamming the tiles, but she held on to the weapon. In fact, she rebounded, hurling herself forward, using the momentum of her fall to roll on top of Harper and flatten her against the unconscious cop lying on the floor. Harper’s damaged leg twisted under Anna’s weight and, as she shuddered in pain, Anna firmed her grip on the gun, struggling to aim it at Harper’s temple.

Harper could hardly breathe, and her leg was on fire, but she pushed back, turning the muzzle away from her head, toward the wall. Then, thrusting her torso forward, she threw Anna off balance, closed her arm around Anna’s neck. Twisting the arm that held the gun, she faced Anna, eye to eye.

‘This is over,’ Harper panted.

Anna grunted, rolling her eyes. Harper reached for the gun, wrapped her fingers around the barrel. Pushing against each other, they fought for control until, suddenly, Anna stopped struggling. Her eyes faded, her gaze turning inward. Was she giving up? Feigning narcolepsy? For a nanosecond, Harper shifted her weight, reacting, and in that briefest of moments, Anna lurched, flicked her wrist, aimed at Sameh’s head. And fired.

Warm bits of brain, blood and bone sprayed all over Harper’s face. For an eternity, she sat on the floor, cradling the body that had been Anna’s – or Sameh’s – oblivious to the commotion around her, only vaguely aware of the bustle, until someone approached her with a warm, wet towel and started gently cleaning her face.

‘Hoppa.’

Harper turned. Hank took her hand and lifted her into his arms. Where had he come from?

‘Men’s. Room. In. Not. Hear.’ Or not here.

Limping, even with one weak arm, he carried her past the gawking police to a cushioned chair, where he washed the reopened cut on her cheek. Gradually, Hank’s touch and kisses grounded her. Her flashback faded, and she was staring not at Sameh but at yet another dead student.

‘Ma’am?’

Harper looked up to see the hostage. The boy with a face.

‘Thank you.’ He held out a hand. He was sweating, shaking. His name was Myles. He was an orderly, a pre-med student at Cornell. ‘You saved my life—’

‘But only because she was lucky,’ Detective Rivers interrupted. ‘What were you thinking? You almost got yourself and the rest of us killed.’

Stenson wanted to arrest her. ‘If not for you, Mrs Jennings, we’d have followed procedure, retrieved the weapon and freed the hostage without anybody, including the suspect, getting shot—’

‘With all due respect,’ Myles interrupted, arguing that Harper had been the only one to do anything to help him. That she’d risked her life for him and actually saved him. ‘If not for this lady, that lunatic would have killed me.’

Stenson and Rivers ignored him, indignant that Harper had overstepped, insisting that she’d had no business interfering. Stenson listed charges. ‘Reckless endangerment, interfering with police procedures . . . and, oh yeah, that girl is dead, possibly because of your actions. How about manslaughter or negligent homicide—’

‘Stop.’ A new voice rumbled into the discussion, a thunderous voice that caused Stenson and Rivers to shut up. ‘Hero.’ Hank glowered. ‘Hoppa. Saved him. You. Shame on.’

The detectives stared at the large man holding a bloody towel. And, suddenly, both detectives found other issues to attend to.

Myles shook her hand and headed off. Somebody taped up Harper’s cut. Somebody else took a brief statement and told her she and her husband could go.

But they didn’t go, not yet. First, Harper watched the police take eleven more pills from Anna’s pocket, along with another sedative-filled syringe. And she watched them zip Anna into a body bag and carry her out. Then she sat, looking out the window into the darkness, an air-conditioned chill creeping beneath her clothing. She shivered even when Hank wrapped her in his arms.

When she finally got up to leave, her body dragged, her weak leg stiff and sore, her muscles out of sync. Her burst of adrenalin had faded, leaving her depleted.

‘Hoppa. Go. Ride. Bike.’ The cycle was right outside the door. Hank cradled her hand, teetering beside her under the moonlight.

Somehow, despite their various limitations, they managed to climb on, Harper fitting easily between Hank’s thighs as she started the motor. In moments, they were blasting down the highway, hair flying without helmets, engine roaring through thick, moist air that smelled of summer and night.

Hank held on to her, his arms tight around her breasts, his robe billowing in the wind. ‘YEEEHAAAAA!’ His howl was primal. Joyful. Free.

Harper didn’t respond to the scream. She sped into the night, watching for random impulsive violence, without the vaguest idea where they were headed.

The Ramada Inn on Route 13 smelled of cleaning products and stale air, and the windows didn’t open. The worst part wasn’t staying there, though; it was explaining to Hank why they couldn’t go home. Telling him about the various crimes and violence that had converted their house into a multiple crime scene. Omitting the part about the escapade in their bedroom. Feeling like slime.

Hank listened attentively. He touched Harper’s face, took her hand. Sometimes, his jaw tightened, frustrated or angry at what she said. When she told him about Anna killing Larry and Monique, he glowered.

‘Not,’ he remarked. ‘No.’ Or know? He shook his head. ‘Killed. She. Why.’ They were talking.

It was after four o’clock when they got to bed. Harper had to help him out of the chair, but, after that, he was able to walk and take care of himself. He moved slowly, favoring his strong side, but he got undressed and into bed, watching Harper with laughing eyes, waiting.

Suddenly, Harper was shy. She felt embarrassed to get undressed in front of Hank. He’s your husband, she told herself. But she felt self-conscious, and more than a little unclean, as if Ron’s touch might show on her flesh. Beyond that, she was nervous. What would happen when she got into bed? It had been so long since they’d slept together. Hank had told her that he was horny. What if it was a disaster?

‘Give me a minute.’ She stalled, slipping into the bathroom for a shower, trying to scrub away both her deceit and her hesitancy. Reminding herself that she was with Hank again, that there was nothing to worry about. That she should be jubilant.

Finally, still hesitant, wrapped in a towel, she came out. The only light came from the flickering television; Hank had turned down the audio. The only sounds were the hum of the air conditioner and the steady drone of soft snoring. Hank was asleep.

Surprisingly disappointed, Harper climbed in beside him and lay back on the pillow, suddenly tired. Beyond tired. Paralyzed. Too exhausted to move. Without opening his eyes, Hank turned over, enfolding her in his arms as she rested her head against his chest. They were still in that position six hours later when Harper woke up.

Making love was effortless. It happened spontaneously, without any of the awkwardness or self-consciousness Harper had feared. Hank’s speech might still have been strained, but his kisses, his touch spoke eloquently. For a while, Harper believed she was dreaming. She smelled Hank’s scent, licked his shoulder to taste him. Rubbed her face along his stubble to feel the scrape. Details like these were too specific for dreams, weren’t they? Finally, she decided, it didn’t matter; if it was a dream, she refused to wake up. In fact, she wanted to stay asleep all morning. Or forever.

Soon, they were lying together, comfortable, familiar, as if it were a normal morning. As if they hadn’t been apart at all.

Hank’s eyes danced as he looked at her. ‘Missed. You.’

‘I missed you, too.’

‘Want. Coffee. Go. Eat.’

Oh. Hank was hungry. Amazingly, Harper hadn’t even thought of food. She sat up and looked at the clock. Almost eleven. Checkout time. Their tired clothes watched them from the chair where Harper had let them fall. Hank’s robe. Her T-shirt and shorts. First stop, after eating, would be to get some new stuff.

As Hank limped to the shower, Harper thought about how long she could manage to stay away from the house. Not long. But before she took Hank there, she’d have to get the place in shape. Sterilize it. Fine. She would call a cleaning crew to scrub their entire house. Get rid of every trace of Larry and Monique and Anna and Ron; wash away the blood, replace every uprooted possession.

‘Some. Pants. Need. And. Food.’

Hank put on his robe, and Harper took out her phone, got the number of a cleaning service and made an appointment for that very day. Relieved that the house was taken care of, she leaned back, resting.

‘Hoppa.’ Hank pointed out the window. ‘Rain. Soon.’

Dark clouds promised a thunderstorm. Great. Finally, the heat was going to break, but the downpour would catch them on a motorcycle.

‘Go. Now.’

Hank didn’t need a wheelchair. In his robe, he walked upright to the coffee shop, where he ordered by pointing to the menu items. A stack of pancakes, a side of bacon, fried eggs, juice and coffee. The waitress didn’t even blink at Hank’s attire; she simply poured their coffee.

Maybe it was going to be all right, Harper thought. Maybe they would have a new kind of normal. She reached across the table for Hank’s hand.

‘I love you.’ She smiled, happier, more hopeful than she’d been since his fall.

Hank didn’t smile back. His face was somber; his eyes aimed above her head. Harper turned; Detective Rivers was coming their way. She wasn’t smiling, either.

‘You two weren’t easy to find.’ Detective Rivers glowered, taking a seat in the booth beside Hank.

‘We couldn’t go home. The place is—’

‘Mrs Jennings, I’ve been up all night. I didn’t appreciate having to search for you. I made it clear that you should be where I could reach you. We called your house and your cell and five hotels before we located you.’

Harper’s cell battery must have run out. Why were they looking for her? Was she going to be arrested? ‘Well, it isn’t like we were trying to hide—’

‘Nevertheless. Before I go off duty, I thought I ought to advise you of some news.’

‘News?’ Hank sounded normal, like any guy asking a one-syllable question.

Detective Rivers eyed him. ‘Yes. Ron Kendall’s made a formal statement.’

Oh God. Harper held her breath.

‘His statement was fascinating. At first, we thought he was saying you had killed your students. But he wasn’t. Actually, he was trying to name someone. It sounded like he kept repeating, “And uh, and uh . . .”’

‘Anna.’

Rivers nodded. ‘Dr Kendall admits going to your house to look for the drugs. While there, he heard someone walking around and hid. Next thing he knows, he hears Larry arguing with a woman, but not you. Not your voice. She’s accusing Larry of cheating her. Finally, the house gets quiet again. Dr Kendall comes out of hiding, sees Monique’s body and splits.’

Harper blinked, allowing herself to exhale. Ron had told the truth. ‘That agrees with what I told you. That Anna killed them.’

‘People tell me all kinds of things. In this case, though, despite what we thought earlier, Dr Kendall’s account supports yours.’ She gazed at Hank, then at Harper, who silently prayed that the detective would say nothing more about Ron or how he’d come to be injured in the house. She didn’t want to think of what she’d done, even if it had been under the influence of the drug. ‘For now, it looks like you’re off the hook. I thought you’d want to know.’

For now?

‘Thank you, Detective. That was thoughtful.’

Hank tapped Harper’s arm, imitating a needle. ‘Stuck Doc. Drug. How?’

‘Oh. Hank’s asking about Dr Wyatt.’

Detective Rivers shifted in her seat. ‘Dr Wyatt will live, but he has some questions to answer. At the very least, he injected your husband and restrained Anna. But there are undoubtedly other issues – obstruction, conspiracy, reckless endangerment, negligence. Fraud. He’s got problems.’ She stood. ‘OK, then. Enjoy your pancakes—’

‘What about Anna? And the policeman she injected?’

The detective frowned, sat down again. ‘We’ve notified Anna’s family. And, except for his ego, Officer Manning is OK. We’re still picking up complaints, though. A bunch of alumni looted the donut shop, and there was apparently an orgy of sorts down in the gorge. So far, no one else has died.’

So far.

‘OK. Will be,’ Hank reassured her.

‘Between you and me,’ Rivers confided, ‘I never bought Anna’s wide-eyed I-didn’t-mean-for-any-of-this-to-happen act. She planned the drug heist; she killed two of her partners; she delivered the goods to the contact. She managed to do all that just fine. Don’t you think it was a little too convenient that she just fell asleep every time things got hairy or she wanted to listen in? Not to speak ill of the dead, but there was something just plain scary about that girl.’