Authors: Merry Jones
Damn. She couldn’t let herself sleep. Had to stay awake and tell Rivers about the men who’d been stealing the relics. About Digger, who’d killed Carla. About her certainty that Angus or Jake was involved. And about Joe, who seemed to be the leader. And she had to talk about the Colonel – who needed to be stopped.
But the steady rhythm of the car relaxed her, and a day and a half without sleep took over. When Harper woke up, she was in her bed, and the sky out the window was black. Night time again.
She bolted up, sank back, dizzy. Sat again, more slowly. ‘Hank?’ Her throat was dry. She got out of bed, started for the stairs.
Hank called from the kitchen. ‘Awake?’
The aroma of roasted chicken wafted upwards. Lord, she was hungry. When had she eaten last? What time was it? How long had she slept?
Harper held the banister, descending slowly. Still off balance.
‘Slept thirteen hours.’ Hank answered her unasked questions. ‘Now. Eight o’clock. Made dinner.’ He reached for her hand, helped her down. ‘First, something. Else.’
What? Hank led her down the hall to the bathroom. A bubble bath was steaming there, ready for her.
A bubble bath?
Since the war, Harper had taken only combat showers. Ninety seconds long, exactly. Divided into precise divisions for soaping and rinsing. But Hank had prepared this. How had he known when she’d wake up?
‘Third one I made. You. Kept sleeping.’
Oh. He hadn’t known. Had refreshed the bath again and again. How dear. Harper’s eyes misted.
‘Need wash, Hoppa.’
She glanced in the mirror, saw a clotted cut on her temple, lumps and bloody smudges, clumps of sooty hair.
Hank was undressing her, helping her into the water. Harper sank back, raw skin stinging, then soothed by the heat. She listened to bubbles popping. Felt warm water sway with her breath. Ninety seconds passed; she knew the duration. But she hadn’t even begun to wash yet. Hank sat on the edge of the tub, reached into the water and retrieved one of her feet. He began to scrub her, tenderly, part by part.
When she stepped out of the tub twenty minutes later, Harper was shiny clean and refreshed. Not tired, but ready to go back to bed.
They didn’t make it upstairs, only to Hank’s office across the hall. Their love-making was spontaneous, wordless. Both desperate and tender. Full of apologies, of promises conveyed through touching.
Afterwards, Hank set out comfort food – roast chicken, mashed potatoes, green beans, apple crisp. He spoke little, made no allusions to their conflicts, the Langston relics or the deaths. Harper was relieved. She was ravenously hungry, didn’t want to do anything but eat. She was almost through her second helping of apple crisp when the doorbell rang.
‘Rivers.’ Hank glanced at the clock, started for the door.
Rivers?
‘Coming now. Tell.’
What? Had she made an appointment? Why hadn’t Hank warned her? Harper wiped her mouth, started to get up. But Hank was already back, leading Detective Rivers into the kitchen.
‘Coffee?’ he offered. ‘Crisp?’
‘Coffee would be great. I seem to be eating here a lot these days.’ Rivers took a seat across from Harper. ‘You look better.’
Harper smirked. She was cleaner, but hadn’t as much as combed her hair. ‘I slept.’
‘That’s the best medicine.’ Rivers thanked Hank as he handed her a steaming mug. ‘I’ve had guys going through that passageway. Mrs Jennings, I got to tell you, that thing snakes all over. Hither and yon and back again.’
Harper nodded. She’d seen that for herself.
‘I’d heard about the secret passages. Everybody’s heard about them. That house has a hundred stories about it. But I never imagined anything this complex. It seems like every single room has a passageway wrapped around it. Separating it from the next room and the hall, sometimes from the room above. I see how you’d have gotten lost. You might have been looping around the same circuit, zigzagging, retracing your steps for hours.’
Harper’s hand stiffened around her coffee mug. She recalled the darkness, the never-ending angles, divides, dead ends and turns.
‘You’re lucky you didn’t get seriously hurt. Sections of the floors are rotted; you could have fallen right through.’
Actually, she had.
‘But other sections are in good repair. In fact, they seem to have been maintained carefully. New floors, even ramps leading to the lower levels. Which indicates that they’ve been in recent use.’
Of course they had. The traffickers had snuck through them to pilfer relics, probably even while the professor was still alive.
Detective Rivers poured two per cent into her coffee. ‘So. If you have a few minutes, I have some more questions for you about—’
‘No, wait. Tell me, did you find Rick?’
Rivers swallowed coffee. ‘No sign of him. Other than the blood.’
Harper nodded. Where had they put Rick? And why had they moved him?
‘Apple. Crisp.’ Hank put a dish in front of Detective Rivers, handed her a fork.
‘Looks delicious.’
‘I’m good. Cook.’
‘What about Chloe Manning?’
Rivers hesitated, chewing. She glanced at Hank, then back at Harper. ‘They followed your X marks and found some remains. Yes. Initially, they seem consistent with Chloe Manning – the fur coat has her initials in the lining.’
Harper played with her spoon. Saw a skull rolling, hair falling free.
Rivers was ready for Harper’s statement, and Harper began, repeating much of what she’d already told them. In one non-stop burst, she repeated Burke’s assertions about the theft in Iraq that had funded the Colonel’s rise to power. She described how the Colonel had tried to buy off everyone who could threaten him. How he’d sent Rick to deal with her and Burke. Harper skipped over her time in the tunnel, didn’t mention her terror or doubts about ever getting out. But she talked about finding the missing actress. And Rick’s body. And hearing the men with the stolen relics, their discussion of the long-ago murder of Carla Prentiss.
Finally, she stopped, certain there was more to tell, not sure what it was. Rivers was making notes. Hank frowned and took her hand. ‘Now?’
Now? What did he mean, ‘now’? Now. Harper fudged. ‘I don’t know. I guess there will be consternation about the collection. And the police will try to find Rick’s body.’
‘No. You. Now. Danger still.’
What?
Rivers looked at Hank. Swallowed the last of her apple crisp.
‘Colonel. Still.’
Oh. The Colonel.
‘The allegations against this man need to be substantiated, Mr Jennings. Remember, he’s a prominent figure, a leading candidate for the Senate, and the election is just a day away.’
Hank took a breath. ‘Rick didn’t. On his own. Come. See Hoppa.’
He was right. And if the Colonel thought she posed a threat, he’d send someone else to deal with her.
‘What are you suggesting, Mr Jennings?’
‘Wife my. Not safe.’ He moved close, took her arm. ‘Famous man. Crap. Stop him. Need to.’
Rivers responded with warnings about making premature conclusions and false accusations. She talked about suspicion versus proof, the importance of procedure and evidence. Harper wasn’t listening. She didn’t know how or exactly when it had happened. But the problems she and Hank had been having seemed unimportant, insignificant. At least for now, they’d disappeared. She and Hank were solid again.
Rivers didn’t seem to think that Harper was in imminent danger. She packed up her notebook, getting ready to leave.
‘A few more things before I go.’ She folded her hands. ‘I took statements from the Langston brothers today.’
Harper pursed her lips, wondered if she should mention her suspicions. But she had no proof that Angus and Jake were stealing the relics. No evidence at all.
‘Those guys are pretty upset about their inheritance. They insist that the collection should be theirs. In fact, Jake’s so opposed to the will that he said he’d rather see the pieces stolen by traffickers than taken by the university.’
Especially if he was one of the traffickers, Harper thought.
‘He also said that, as boys, he and Angus used to play in the passageways. That they know how to get around in them, how to avoid the dead ends like the one where Ms Manning got lost. But he said, as far as he knows, he and Angus are the only ones who know how to get in and out of the passageways. So he doesn’t buy the idea that traffickers have been using them.’
Harper met Rivers’ eyes. Didn’t the detective see what she was saying?
Hank finally said it. ‘So. Maybe traff. Ickers. Are brothers.’
Rivers smirked. ‘Again, Mr Jennings. That’s an interesting theory. But we need evidence. We have none.’
‘Find.’ Hank suggested.
Rivers looked at him directly, then at Harper. ‘And there’s this.’ She reached into her satchel, pulled out a plastic evidence bag containing a cell phone. ‘We found this in the hall near your workroom. Recognize it?’
‘No.’ Was it Rick’s? She reached for it, took a closer look.
‘Seems several calls were made on it to your phone. And several more to a private number in Tennessee. Which happens to be the private line of your old friend, Colonel Baxter.’
Harper sat up straight. This was it: evidence to support her story. ‘See? The calls prove that Rick worked—’
‘All it indicates is that the owner of the phone had contact with both you and Baxter. You said Rick worked for him; it makes sense they’d talk. But working and talking don’t mean—’
‘Not by themselves. But Rick knocked the wall down to come after me.’
‘Possibly to try to save you after you fell through. There are lots of interpretations possible, here, Mrs Jennings. I admit that your story is compelling, but like I’ve said, it needs to be substantiated. Right before an election, I can’t go making wild accusations against a candidate.’
‘What about after the election?’
Rivers started again, repeating her speech about the need for evidence, and Harper nodded as if paying attention while she lowered the phone to her lap, pushed a button through the plastic, turning it on. Pressed the send button. Saw numbers come up, recognized hers, memorized another. Shut the phone off and gave it back, repeating a phone number in her mind.
Vicki still liked newspapers, but Trent did his reading online. Both sat with Hank and Harper at their kitchen table, summarizing what the media were reporting as they munched bagels and breakfast scones. Tales of the Langston house were sweeping not just through Ithaca, but through the country.
‘Says here that Chloe Manning was nude beneath her fur coat.’ Trent seemed amused. ‘Must have been quite a party.’
‘Apparently, one to die for.’ Vicki took a bite of cinnamon walnut.
‘And you, my dear Harper, are the celebrity
du jour
.’
Harper’s phone gonged again. It sat on the counter, had been ringing non-stop; Harper had stopped answering. Mostly the calls were from reporters wanting sound bites.
‘Turn off?’ Hank offered.
Harper shrugged. She didn’t care. Hank stood, heading for the phone. The gong stopped.
Trent went on. ‘Your ordeal in the passageways fascinates the public. Coupled with the discovery of the long lost starlet. Goodness, I’m amazed there was anything left to find. It’s been, what, almost a century since she wandered off?’
‘It must have been cool and dry in there.’ Vicki offered. ‘She’d be, like, mummified. Was she, Harper?’
Harper spread butter on to her scone, thinking again about Rick.
‘Was she?’ Vicki repeated.
‘Hoppa. Tired.’ Hank chided Vicki. ‘Too much.’
‘Oh, of course. Sorry. Trent, we are so insensitive. Are you feeling OK, Harper?’
Everyone looked at her, assessing her wellness. She put down the butter knife. ‘Fine. I’m fine.’ She glanced at the newspaper. ‘What else does it say?’
‘You’re sure you want to hear?’ Vicki looked at Hank.
‘Hoppa. Not. Need. Now.’
‘No, I’m fine. Tell me.’
‘Well,’ Trent drawled, ‘the media seem to delight in the fact that as one corpse is found, another has vanished.’
Rick. Where was Rick?
‘They make it sound like Langston’s house has grabbed fresh meat, relinquishing Chloe Manning only after it swallowed your assailant, whom they say you’ve identified, but they don’t give his name.’
Harper saw his open eyes, open chest. Had she mentioned his chest to Rivers? She couldn’t remember, doubted that she had. Needed to remember.
‘And Dean Van Arsdale is quoted, addressing the university’s dismay at the damage to the collection. They quote him as being appalled and pained at the loss. He says that these traffickers have looted perhaps the most unique and enlightening collection of Pre-Columbian artifacts in the world. And on and on.’
‘What did he say about the broken artifacts?’
‘Broken artifacts?’ Trent scanned his computer screen.
‘It just refers to “damage”.’ Vicki rechecked the article. ‘What got broken?’
Harper shrugged. ‘Don’t know yet.’
‘More coffee?’ Hank changed the subject.
Harper stared at her scone. None of the news items, directly or indirectly, had mentioned Colonel Baxter. Of course they hadn’t. Rivers wouldn’t have revealed anything, had insisted there wasn’t any hard evidence against him. Baxter had led to the destruction of relics, the deaths of Pete, Burke and Rick. But nothing would happen to him? He’d be elected to the Senate. Then what? Amass more power, run for president? Burke had said the Colonel had bigger plans than she could imagine.
Harper tried to figure out how to stop him, but her thoughts disconnected, interrupted by questions. Who were the traffickers? Who was Joe? Or Digger, the ‘priest’ who’d killed Carla Prentiss? Where was Rick’s body?
She tried to shove these thought aside; the election was less than twenty-four hours away. There was limited time to get to the Colonel. She needed to think, to be away from the chatter. Harper pushed her chair away from the table. ‘I’ll be right back.’
Apparently, she’d interrupted Trent in the middle of a sentence; he frowned, offended.
‘OK? Hoppa? You?’
‘Yes. Fine.’ She pecked Hank’s cheek, squeezed his shoulder as she passed.