Summer Session (8 page)

But, today, coffee had been with someone else. Ron had been easy to talk to. Not just about Anna’s narcolepsy or the pills in Graham’s bag, but about anything –careers, sports, education. Good Lord, she’d even talked about her father. The only topic they hadn’t touched on, actually, was the most obvious one, the one that linked them.

Well, of course they hadn’t. They hadn’t mentioned Hank because they had already discussed him a thousand times. It wasn’t as if she’d done anything wrong. She’d had a piece of pie; that was all. OK, not all. She’d had whipped cream on top. But whipped cream wasn’t the issue. The issue was that, for almost an hour, she hadn’t had to struggle to be thankful or positive; she’d simply enjoyed herself. Was that so wrong?

No. Except enjoying herself wasn’t the issue, either. The real issue was neither food nor fun; it was that she’d had both with a man. A man who wasn’t Hank.

Ron wasn’t even close to being Hank, didn’t remotely resemble him. Yet, when he spoke, Ron’s easy words underlined Hank’s inability to speak. The lightness of his eyes brought to mind the darkness of Hank’s, and his elegant, smooth hands emphasized the roughness of Hank’s hairier, calloused ones. Everything about Ron was un-Hank-like, and his presence across the table from Harper screamed of Hank’s absence. Sitting with him, chatting and eating pie, Harper had fought the heart-wrenching sense that she was glimpsing her future: going places Hank couldn’t, doing things he couldn’t. Without him.

Harper drew a breath. She needed to write a eulogy. To think about Graham’s loss, its affect on her students. Anna, apparently, was OK; she’d awakened, been checked out and left the clinic before Harper had finally looked in on her. But what about the others? What should she say to them? Maybe she should consult Dr Michaels, the 101 lecturer. But, to him, Graham had been just one of a hundred students. He hadn’t even known his name.

No, never mind Dr Michaels. She was on her own. She needed an opening sentence: Graham’s life was . . . She searched for a metaphor. A glimmer of light? A breeze? A brief but gentle touch. She thought of Ron’s hand on the small of her back, guiding her through the coffee shop. No, Graham’s life wasn’t like that. It was like something else – a tease, a riddle . . .

‘Loot? You in there?’ Someone knocked at the door. ‘Loot? It’s Larry.’

Larry? Good. Poor kid, seeing his room-mate kill himself. He probably wanted to talk. She hurried to the door. ‘Larry. Come in.’

Larry didn’t. He stood in the doorway, cracking his knuckles. The heat of the day hadn’t improved his scent; sweat stained his T-shirt.

‘Are you OK?’

He shrugged, eyes averted. ‘Yeah. It’s . . . weird.’

Harper agreed. Yes, it was.

He stood silent and awkward, looking past her into her tiny office.

‘Come sit down.’

He stepped inside but didn’t sit. His gaze darted around the room, scanning the shelves, her desk. ‘I saw you before, coming in. I almost didn’t come up, though.’ He fidgeted, had a nervous twitch in his cheek.

‘I’m glad you did. It might help to talk—’

‘Oh. No, I don’t want to talk. What’s the point?’ He paused, eyes darting. ‘Actually, I came up because I saw you carrying Graham’s book bag. Is it here?’

Yes, it was. Under her desk, ready to go to the police. But she didn’t tell Larry that. Instead, she said, ‘Why?’

Larry looked away. ‘He was my room-mate.’ As if that answered it. ‘Do you have it?’ He tried to sound casual. Failed.

‘It’s right here.’ Harper reached under her desk, pulled the bag out.

‘Oh, good – I have some stuff in there.’ He eyed it, one hand a fist at his hip, the other against his flat belly. ‘Can I look inside?’

‘What stuff?’ A gun maybe? Or money?

‘Just stuff.’ Larry stared at the bag. ‘Actually, some money.’

‘Money?’

‘Yeah. Graham owed me for rent.’ He met her eyes. ‘Is it in there?’

‘What’s going on, Larry?’

‘What? Nothing.’ Larry watched her with unblinking, innocent eyes. ‘He said he’d stop at the bank and bring it to class.’

‘How much did he owe you?’

Larry rolled his eyes. ‘Like, six hundred thirty.’

Bingo. The amount matched. Graham must have been carrying his rent money. Otherwise, how would Larry have known how much was there?

‘What am I supposed to do, Loot? The rent’s due, and I need his share.’ He blinked at her with large, pleading eyes.

Harper studied Larry. Neither handsome nor homely, he was average in height, light in weight. A wiry, dark-haired, Brooklyn-raised kid with mild acne and eyes so sad they tore your heart. She glanced at the clock. Almost time to meet Detective Rivers.

‘Problem is, Larry, I can’t help you. I don’t have the right to disperse Graham’s possessions—’

‘But Loot. The money was mine—’

‘If you want something from the bag, you’ll need to talk to the police. Meantime, talk to your landlords. With Graham’s death, I’m sure they’ll give you a break.’

Larry crossed his arms and gazed resolutely at the bag.

‘Is there something else?’

‘Not really.’ Still, he lingered, didn’t leave.

Poor kid, Harper thought. She should encourage him to talk about what happened. Maybe he had an idea about why Graham killed himself. Or why he was taking those pills.

‘Larry, was Graham healthy?’

‘Yeah, I guess. Why?’

‘Was he taking any medication?’

‘Medication?’ Larry chewed his lip. Stalling? ‘Well, just for work.’

‘Work?’

‘He worked on a drug trial at Cayuga. The Neuro Bureau. You get paid to test drugs. You take some pills, give some blood. Fill out some questionnaires. Graham and I are – were – subjects there. That’s how I met him.’

‘So you take the drugs, too?’

‘For the trials. Sure. Lots of us do. It’s easy money.’ He scratched his head, dark eyes wavering. ‘Loot. Here’s the deal. Graham was our section leader. He kept all the pills and gave us our weekly doses. So it’s not just the rent – I’m looking for the pills, too.’

Larry cracked his knuckles again. Loudly. Shifted his weight. Couldn’t stay still. Harper wondered if the experimental drugs were addictive. If Larry needed a fix. But that was ridiculous; the Center wouldn’t run drug trials that created addicts.

‘So, did you find any pills in his bag? Or a record of where he kept them?’ Larry’s sorrowful eyes tugged at her. ‘Because I’ve looked everywhere. You know, for the subjects in our group. So, we can continue to work. Did you—’

‘Sorry. No.’

He glanced at the bag. ‘Can you look again?’

‘I need to leave everything as it is, Larry. For the police.’

‘But you’ve already looked inside. What harm would it do?’

‘Sorry.’ Why was he so insistent?

‘Man, Loot—’ Larry ran a hand through his hair, stifling a curse.

‘Look, I’m sure the Center will replace the pills. What study were you involved in?’

Larry’s face went blank. ‘Oh. They don’t tell you. You’re just divided into groups.’

‘But you must have some identifying code numbers or something.’

‘I don’t know. I was in Graham’s group. That’s all I know. Graham was in charge of it.’ Larry’s weight moved from leg to leg, an edgy dance.

‘Researchers keep records, Larry. They’ll know what study Graham was working on and they’ll decide how to proceed.’

Larry stiffened. ‘Right. So . . . I’ll just talk to them.’

‘I think that’s best.’ Then she added, ‘And also to the police.’

‘The police?’ His head cocked. ‘Why the police?’

Harper paused. ‘About your rent money?’

‘Right.’

‘And about the drugs Graham was taking when he died.’

‘The drugs?’ Larry popped his knuckles. ‘Why? Wait. You think they had something to do—’

‘No, of course not.’ Damn. Why had she mentioned it? Rumors could get started – exactly what Ron was trying to avoid. ‘But the Center will want to make sure—’

‘No way. Loot, if those pills caused suicide, Graham wouldn’t be the only one. Everyone in the our group would be jumping out windows.’

Larry had a point. ‘Who else was in your group?’

‘Like forty of us. Esoso. His room-mate. Monique and me. Graham. I don’t know all the other names. But nobody’s dead except Graham. We went to pick up our paychecks today, and everyone was still breathing.’

That was reassuring.

‘So, you’re sure you won’t give me my rent money?’

Harper narrowed her eyes. ‘Larry—’

‘OK. I’ll ask the police.’ He turned to leave. ‘Oh, wait –’ he ran his hand through his hair – ‘Did you find a list of numbers?’

A list of numbers? Yes, Harper had seen a piece of paper with numbers written on it. It had fallen off Graham’s desk.

‘I mean, it’s no big deal. But Graham – he borrowed my study sheet. For Economics. It’s just a list of pages to study. Was it in his bag?’ Larry waited, working his knuckles.

‘No. There was nothing like that in the book bag.’ It wasn’t a lie. The paper was in her leather sack. Harper wasn’t sure why, but she wasn’t going to tell him that.

Larry blinked rapidly, looking around as if something was still on his mind. But all he said was, ‘OK. Later, Loot.’

Harper stood in the hall, watching Larry disappear into the stairwell, wondering why he was so charged up. Wondering about the pills. Unsettled, she checked the clock again. She was still early for her meeting with Detective Rivers, but she was too bothered to sit and write a eulogy. So, grabbing her leather sack, she hoisted Graham’s hefty book bag on to her shoulder and headed out the door.

With time to spare, Harper took the scenic route, allowing herself a short detour to her favorite spot along the Suspension Bridge. Halfway across, resting her leg, she slowed to look down at the rocky walls and gurgling water, vaguely noticing a guy on a mountain bike coming up behind her. A couple of girls approached from the opposite side, chatting. T-shirts with tiger-striped letters that read ‘Delta Gamma’. Sorority sisters.

‘It doesn’t matter why—’

‘No. I agree.’

Harper had never pledged a sorority; she’d pledged ROTC. What would college have been like, going to frat parties and playing drinking games instead of repelling off rooftops and spit-shining shoes? Having sisters-in-play instead of brothers-in-arms? Who would she be now if she hadn’t gone off to war? She wiped sweat from her forehead, nodded at the girls as they walked by and momentarily imagined spinning around and joining them. Going back in time. Starting over. The thought made her head hurt; Harper strolled on.

Looking down at the stream, she was again aware of the bike, sensed that something about it wasn’t right. Glancing back, she saw what it was: in ninety-degree heat, the rider was wearing a hooded sweatshirt. With the hood up.

Instinctively, Harper picked up her pace. No one else was around, and she was suddenly aware that only a thin layer of swaying walkway separated her from an abyss of empty air.

Calm down, she told herself. There’s no reason to think that guy intends any harm. She stopped walking to let him pass. But he didn’t pass. He pedaled right behind her, moving at her pace. Maybe she knew him? Harper turned, looked directly at his face and saw a ski mask. A ski mask? In this heat?

Harper smelled smoke, heard warning shots, spun around and hurried ahead, her left leg unsteady. No mistake: the guy was following her. Who was he? What did he want? Was he a robber, a rapist? Damn. Breaking into a run, Harper thought of the gun in Graham’s book bag. Could she unzip the bag and pull it out in time? Maybe she’d be better off sticking her strong leg out, knocking the bike over as it neared. Or rushing him, shoving him off balance. Before she could decide, the bike caught up to her; the rider’s arm jutted out and grabbed the strap of Graham’s book bag, knocking Harper off her feet, dragging her.

Reflexively, Harper bent her arm, locking the bag against her body, not letting go. The rider had underestimated her strength; his bike jammed, bucking, and he half fell, half jumped off, his face hidden under his woolen mask. He was taller than Harper, more muscular, and he wrestled for the bag, shoving her against the railing, pummeling her head. Harper fought back, ducking his punches, kneeing him in the groin, pounding his gut even as he landed several neat jabs to the sides of her skull. She kept fighting as pain and light flashed in her head, and the tunnel vision of war took over, focusing her completely on the battle, blocking out all else. Except, oddly, for the smell of peppermint. Peppermint? Her attacker was sucking a breath mint? She dodged a fist and grabbed his arm, scratching deep under the sleeve, tearing skin off, drawing blood. Harper hung on to the bag with a death grip, trained never to separate from her gear.

But the guy would not stop. His arms closed around her waist and, while she punched and kicked, he lifted her, hefting her until her waist was level with the spikes of the bridge railing, the gorge gaping hungrily below. She grabbed for the spikes as a handhold, felt them dig into her belly, and her mind grappled with the news that her feet were no longer in contact with the bridge, that she was dangling in air. That her life was in the hands of a masked, peppermint-scented mountain biker who was wordlessly about to heave her off the bridge.

Harper opened her mouth to yell for help but swallowed air, making no sound. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t do anything but swim frantically through air and grab hold of the railing, letting go of Graham’s book bag and her big leather sack. Of everything but her life.

As soon as she released the book bag, the rider dropped her and snatched it up, speeding away on the bike, leaving Harper on her knees in the middle of the bridge, dazed, bruised and indignant.

Slowly, cautiously, Harper got to her feet and took inventory, assessing the damage. Skin had been scraped off her knuckles, her head had been throttled, and her cheek bled where she’d been punched. She’d landed on knees and elbows when the guy had released her, and the jolt of impact reverberated through her bad leg. She felt off balance, dizzy with vertigo. Wiping a trickle of blood off her face, she decided her injuries were minor and stumbled back toward the campus side of the now-deserted bridge.