Winter Break (7 page)

‘Mrs Jennings.’ Rivers leaned forward, elbows on the table. ‘We’ve gotten to know each other pretty well over these last few years. I’ve come to trust you, and I respect your powers of observation. But by your own estimation, you saw this man’s face for what? A couple of seconds? In the dark? In a highly emotional situation?’

Okay. She knew what the detective was implying: the recollections of eyewitnesses weren’t reliable. ‘But the blood spatter . . .’

Rivers watched her silently. Didn’t have to point out that there was no way to test the alleged spatter.

‘He asked me to help him.’

Rivers still said nothing. For a few seconds, they watched each other, not moving. Then Rivers leaned forward, letting out a sigh.

‘The thing is, Mrs Jennings. We’re in the same place we were last night. Despite what you say you saw and my desire to believe you, we have no evidence to back up your claim. Your spatter is unobtainable and not necessarily blood. This key – frankly, it has no link to any crime. It could have been dropped in the woods by anyone at any time. Beyond that, we have no idea if the guy you saw is Sebastian Levering. Since that news clip aired, literally dozens of people have called, saying they’ve seen him – he’s in Rochester. Miami. Aruba. Cincinnati. Cancun. And now, according to you, he’s in Ithaca. But we don’t really know what you saw; we still have no proof that it wasn’t a prank or bad behavior between drunk friends.’ She paused, folded her hands. ‘Honestly? Because it’s you, I’m inclined to check it out – but how? Where? The dorms and fraternities are all closed for the holidays. The college kids are mostly gone. Nobody’s reported any break-ins and no young men have been admitted to the hospital. Frankly, I wouldn’t know where to look or who to interview.’

‘You could test the key for prints—’

Rivers shook her head. ‘I know you’re trying to be helpful. But where would there be prints? The manufacturer’s name is embossed on the top, so readable prints wouldn’t have been left there. Plus, the key was out in the snow, and snow dilutes latent print residue. In addition to which, you wrapped it in your glove, which you carried in your pocket. So whatever prints might have been on it would have been rubbed off or smeared.’

Harper’s face got hot. She should have protected it better. ‘You mean I destroyed evidence?’

‘No. Well, not intentionally. Besides, there was probably nothing to destroy. Bottom line: that key is just a key.’

In the living room, Vivian burst into song. ‘’Tis the season to be jolly . . .’

Harper swallowed tea, trying to ignore the raspy caroling and absorb what Rivers was saying.

Rivers leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms.

Harper was about to speak when abruptly, the muscles in her midriff tightened. Harper slammed her cup down, splashing tea all over the table. Damn. She closed her eyes, grabbed her belly.

‘Mrs Jennings?’

Vivian’s voice drifted in. ‘Falalalala lalalala . . .’

‘Mrs Jennings? You all right?’

Harper sat perfectly still, eyes shut tight, holding her middle, waiting for the stranglehold to ease. ‘Fine,’ she managed. ‘I’m fine.’ She even opened her eyes.

Rivers waited, ready to call an ambulance.

‘. . . Deck the halls with boughs of holly . . .’

‘I hate to say it: your mother’s right. You shouldn’t have gone out in this weather. You sure you’re okay?’

Harper nodded. It was subsiding. Slowly. ‘I’m fine. Just a random contraction.’

Rivers watched her for a while longer, then finally stood and took her tea mug to the sink. ‘It’s not my place to tell you this, but, hell, I will anyway. Take it easy, Mrs Jennings. Don’t stress about anything. Especially about that guy you saw; let me worry about him, okay?’

Harper bristled. ‘I can’t just forget about him, Detective.’

‘Mrs Jennings, let me do my job? And you do yours: Be pregnant.’

Harper nodded, even smiled. ‘Fair enough.’

‘Convey my best wishes to your husband, will you? And, assuming I won’t see you in the next few days, have a merry Christmas.’

Harper thanked her, wished her the same. She stood to see her out, but her legs felt weak, and the detective told her to sit and take it easy. Harper didn’t argue. She sat, breathing deeply, hearing her mother’s dreadful singing. Staring at the key.

Evan was getting nervous. ‘I think you killed him, Sty.’

‘You think
I
killed him? You beat the fucking shit out of him.’

‘But you’re the one who drugged him. You must have overdosed him. He hasn’t moved all day. And he shit himself. That happens when you die.’

One of them stepped closer; Sebastian could actually feel the heat radiating from the guy’s body. He held his breath, willed his heart to slow.

‘He’s not dead.’

‘You’re sure?’

Sty put a hand on Sebastian’s chest. ‘There’s a heartbeat. But we have to get Rory a new mattress. This one’s totaled.’

Silence. Sebastian waited, bracing himself for the unexpected, barely breathing. Feigning unconsciousness.

Sty put his face up against Sebastian’s, lifted the eyelid that wasn’t swollen closed. Watched his eye for a sign of awareness. ‘Hello? Anybody home?’ Finally, he gave up. ‘He’s out,’ Sty said, releasing the eyelid.

Sebastian almost wept with relief. Almost let out a breath. But he didn’t dare. Suddenly Sty pressed down on his swollen, probably broken knee, but despite some woozy pain and a dull realization that his leg was exploding, he didn’t move. Didn’t let out a sound. Gave silent thanks for the drugs.

‘You’re right. I probably overdosed him.’

‘So what do you suggest we do?’ That was Evan.

‘I guess we wait for him to wake up.’

‘And then?’

‘And then we proceed as planned.’

More footsteps, moving away this time. Sebastian allowed himself a shallow shudder. Another.

‘But I think we should make revisions.’

‘Why?’

‘Seriously? Why? Look at him, Evan. He’s messed up. You went kind of berserk—’

‘What did you expect? The fucker stuck his tongue in my mouth—’

Sty was laughing. ‘So? He liked you. Who could blame him? I mean, now that I think about it, you’re kind of cute.’

‘Fuck off.’

‘Point is suicide won’t cut it any more. As in, he couldn’t have beaten himself to a pulp. The authorities would investigate to find out who did.’

Silence.

‘Okay. How about this? We conceal the injuries behind bigger ones . . .’

‘Like how? Oh, the gorge? No, too risky. We might be seen.’

‘Not if we do it at night. Late.’

‘And if someone and his sweetie just happen to wander by?’

‘It’s intersession. Nobody will—’

‘I said it’s too risky.’ Sty’s tone was final.

Sebastian let out a breath of relief. He had no desire to be thrown into the gorge.

‘Fine. Then what do you suggest?’ Evan sounded miffed.

‘We could dump him somewhere in town. He’d be just another drug overdose. They happen all the time.’

‘Sty. If it’s drugs, they do an autopsy. People don’t take rufies on their own. They’d find them and look into it.’

More silence.

‘I still think he can hang himself. They won’t do an autopsy if they find him hanging, will they? We can write a suicide note mentioning . . . I’ll copy his signature off his ID.’

‘But where? Not here. They’d wonder how he got in. Not to mention why he’d killed himself someplace he doesn’t even belong.’

‘Right.’

‘So we’d have to move him.’

Involuntarily, Sebastian shivered but they didn’t notice. Which meant they weren’t looking at him. Which meant he could dare to open his openable eye. He did, just a crack, and peered across the room. Evan and Sty sat deep in thought, one on a mattress, the other on a chair.

‘The woods?’ Evan suggested. ‘It’s right here. No one would see us—’

‘But it’s too close to the house. A body found there casts suspicion our way. Nobody else has access to it.’

So he was in a house near some woods. Which didn’t mean much; could be almost anywhere around Ithaca. Unless . . . maybe they were still in Evan’s fraternity. Of course – Sebastian remembered the woods out back, running into them bare-assed.

‘Or we can drive him out to the country. Out near the Falls. It’ll be months before anyone finds him.’

Damn. Sty stood. Sebastian closed his eye, heard Evan’s chair scrape the floor. They were getting up. Oh God, were they going to take him now?

‘Fact is,’ Evan said, ‘he looks pretty banged up.’

‘I doubt his own mama would recognize him.’

‘I told you. He pissed me off.’

‘Okay, okay. So we put it in the note. He writes that he’s been mugged by some violent homophobe, and he can’t take it any more. So he hangs himself. What do you think?’

‘I’m not a homophobe.’

‘Christ, Evan. This isn’t about you—’

‘Even so.’

‘It’s a fucking suicide note.’

‘Okay. Fine. I get it.’

‘And, along that line of thought, we need to untie him. A suicide wouldn’t have restraint marks.’

‘Brilliant, Sty. What if he wakes up?’

‘Seriously? Look at him. His leg – he’s not going anywhere.’

Someone came close; Sebastian lay limp. Hands messed with his ankles, then his wrists. His stomach twisted, lungs ached with fear. Oh God. He didn’t dare exhale.

‘So what time’s your date?’

‘I’m expected to pick up the lovely Ms. Alicia Lawrence at . . . Oh shit, in twenty minutes.’

‘Can’t believe you’re with a fuckin’ townie.’

‘A townie with velvet lips, Evan. Don’t underestimate the skills of the locals. You’re staying here tonight?’

‘After that Christmas gig.’

‘Good. Because, frankly, I don’t want this to get fucked up worse than it is already. The whole idea – our whole reason for doing this was to conduct a study—’

‘No worries.’ Evan sounded downright cheery. ‘I’ll be here. And whatever happens, it’s all good, part of the process. We’re learning as we go, honing our skills. We’ll do better next time.’

‘Bullshit. You almost fucking let him get away . . .’

The conversation faded as footsteps moved away. A door closed. As soon as Sebastian heard the click of the lock, he lifted his arms, wiggled the seven fingers that could move, and tried to sit up. His damaged ribs slowed him down, but when he tried to move his legs, the pain was excruciating. Paralysing. The drugs were wearing off. His right knee was the size of a melon. In fact, the whole leg looked purple, inflated and balloon-like: the ankle, foot, even his toes. Never mind. He was alone and untied. He had to get out somehow. Fast. And without making noise.

The door was locked, but there was a window. Slowly, grimacing with pain, he used his left hand to shove his right leg off the bed he’d been lying on. Slid his other leg over the side and tried to stand on it. Wobbled. Flopped back onto the bed. Caught his breath. Tried again and managed to stand on his left leg, but, reeling from pain ripping through his right one, almost fell, barely catching himself by grabbing the desk at the foot of the bed with his left hand. He stood there for a while, panting, steadying himself, and then, carefully, he hopped a step toward the window. Oh God. Sebastian bit down on his lip, stifling wails of pain as he leaned against the desk, preparing for another agonizing hop. Which brought him within arm’s-length of the wall. One more hop, and he was close enough to use the wall as support while he continued, slowly and painfully, to edge his way to the window, where he clutched the curtains, parted them to look outside, lost his balance. And fell, howling, to the floor.

Vivian was snoring on the sofa as Harper passed the living room to climb the stairs. The tree was untouched, decorated with the same clump of glittery Styrofoam as before, but the pitcher of egg-nog was empty. Harper thought about the collection of decorations she and Hank had up in the attic, collected together, each representing a special memory. A crystal prism from their first Christmas together. A tiny handmade wreath from a trip to the mountains. A small stuffed bear from a camping trip. A toy soldier for her military stint. A delicate glass snowflake – but why was she itemizing her decorations? Hank wasn’t there. She wasn’t going to unpack them without him, certainly not for her mother and Lou.

And speaking of Lou, where was he? Harper hadn’t seen him since she’d gone out looking for the spatter. Vivian had told Rivers that he was somewhere in the house. Maybe, like her mother, he’d had too much egg-nog and passed out. Except that he’d been too hyper to pass out. Too edgy. Maybe her mother was getting to him.

Finally back in her room, Harper lay down, shaken by the strength and suddenness of her contraction. What if her contractions got worse? What if the baby came too early? Oh God. What if something went wrong? She couldn’t bear that thought and held her belly tenderly, trying to sense the person inside, wishing it would flip around again so she could feel it move. Who was in there? Would it be a boy who looked like Hank? Softly, she began to sing to it. ‘Hush little baby, don’t say a word. Papa’s gonna buy you a mocking bird . . .’

Oh God, what had she been doing, running around outside in the ice and snow, risking harm to her child? From now on, she’d focus on the baby and nothing else. Well, except for her dissertation. And her mother. But that was it. Nothing else. Period. Chilled, she climbed under the comforter and, still softly singing, stared out the window at the falling snow. When she opened her eyes again, it was dark.

Something smelled. Incendiary devices? Harper jumped up, reached for her weapon. But wait – there was no weapon. No gear. She looked around, remembered she was home, in her bedroom. Not in Iraq. So the odor wasn’t from explosives or the burning flesh of soldiers. She closed her eyes again, reassuring herself. The smell wasn’t men; it was meat.

Harper turned, looked at the clock. Lord, it was after five. She’d slept all day? How? Suddenly, she was starving. Ravenous. Even so, she didn’t want to move. Her left leg ached, and she felt sluggish and confused, still in the fog of sleep. But this was unacceptable; she’d wasted a whole day.

Harper ran a hand through her hair, missing Hank, feeling utterly alone. No, even worse than alone – alone with her mother and Lou. And the monster tree downstairs. Lord, how would she make it through the month?