Winter Break Page 5

  By the time she headed home, Harper’s fingers and nose were numb, but she was refreshed. Ready for a mug of hot chai. But as she walked up the driveway, she stopped, looking into the trees behind the house, remembering the naked guy being carried there. Disappearing into the shadows. The police hadn’t seen any sign of him, but they’d been searching in the dark of night; even with their floodlights, they might have missed something.

  And so, instead of going inside, Harper set foot into the patch of woods behind her house and the fraternity. She stepped carefully between bushes, over fallen branches and icy rocks, around frozen puddles. She wandered up the hill to the fence and back down, edging through dense foliage, examining low branches and the ground, looking for a sign of what had happened there. A piece of clothing, maybe. A doused campfire, or evidence of drugs. But, except for an occasional empty beer bottle, she found nothing.

  Snow kept falling, and wind howled through the trees, whipping her face. How bitter would it have felt without a parka? Without even a shirt? Harper couldn’t imagine. The guy, whoever he was, would have had to be crazy to go bare-assed outside in this cold.

  Wait, maybe that was it. Maybe he had been crazy. Maybe he’d eaten some bad mushrooms or some other drug; maybe he’d been hallucinating. Had torn off his clothes and run outside in a frenzy. And maybe the guy chasing him had just been trying to help him, taking him back home quietly, without anybody noticing so they wouldn’t get in trouble for messing with illegal substances. It was college, after all. Kids – even smart Ivy League kids – did stupid things.

  Good. Harper felt better. Her theory was plausible. She headed out of the woods, relieved. Ready to get back to work on her dissertation. Ready even to see her mom. She was focusing on the house up ahead, not studying the ground any more, so she didn’t see the key at first. It was lying beside a tree trunk, attached to a broken string. But if she hadn’t noticed the flecks of red beside it, dark against fresh snow, she would have passed it by.

  The thing was about nine feet tall and smelled of pinesap, and it stood between the sofa and the fireplace in full glory, greeting her from her living room.

  Harper stood in the foyer, motionless, gaping. They’d bought a tree? While she’d been out trying to regain her composure and so she could be more patient with Vivian, she and Lou had run out and gotten it, behind her back? How had they dared? Had she not said, clearly, without ambiguity: No Tree This Year? Was it not her home, her right to decide? Had her mother once again completely dismissed her, openly disregarding and showing complete disdain for her authority?

  Obviously. Harper marched into the living room ready for combat, but Lou stepped forward, his hands raised defensively. ‘I swear, really, you won’t have to do a thing—’ he began, trying to appease her. ‘And your mother is so excited. She picked out all new decorations—’

  ‘I said I didn’t want—’

  ‘Is she back?’ Vivian burst out of the kitchen, holding a pitcher of rum-spiked egg-nog and two glasses. ‘Harper, I knew you didn’t mean it. It isn’t Christmas without a tree. Where would we put the presents? Besides, we’ve always had a tree.’

  A childhood memory, a wobbly aluminum lopsided thing from the five and dime flashed to Harper’s mind. Yes, they’d always had a tree.

  ‘What, Harper? Don’t you like it?’ Vivian whined. ‘I thought it would add some cheerfulness to this big old place.’

  Harper closed her eyes, took a deep breath, opened them. ‘Fine, Ma.’

  ‘You’re angry? Lou, is she angry?’

  ‘Never mind. It’s done.’ Harper’s jaws were tight. All her muscles were.

  ‘Wait until it’s decorated. You’ll see—’

  ‘I said it’s fine.’ Harper unzipped her parka, remembered the key. Damn. She had to call Rivers, couldn’t be distracted by her mother’s damned pine or spruce or whatever kind of tree. Which she had expressly, in plain English, clearly and more than once said she didn’t want, and which had no business being in her living room.

  ‘Lou went all out – he got colored lights, the kind that blink. And spray-on snow. Oh – and wait till you see the angel. She sings “Silent Night” and glows in the dark.’

  Lord. She tossed the parka onto a chair, careful to keep the key wrapped in her glove, not to get fingerprints on it.

  ‘You’re welcome to help us decorate, if you want.’

  Really? She was welcome in her own living room? How fucking unbelievably thoughtful. Harper bit her lip as she went upstairs with the key, deliberately counting her footsteps to prevent herself from letting loose with a reply. Not that Vivian was waiting for a reply; as Lou poured the egg-nog, her gravelly voice rattled on about the magical effect of blinking lights reflecting on tinsel.

  Forty-nine. There were forty-nine steps from the bottom stair to her bedroom door. Which she shut, fuming. Grinding her teeth. Focus, she told herself. Focus on what you found in the woods. The key. The blood spatter. She picked up her phone, found a text: Leslie could see her at ten the next morning.

  Harper placed her call to Rivers, wondering, as the call went through, how odd it was that she had a homicide detective on speed dial.

  ‘Rivers.’

  Harper told her about what she’d found.

  ‘You’re sure it was blood?’ Rivers sounded skeptical. ‘Because the fraternity kids could have spilled wine, or ketchup—’

  No. She’d seen enough of it to be able to tell the difference between blood and wine or condiments. She’d seen it wet, dried, pooled, splattered. It was blood.

  Rivers sighed. ‘Well, the snow’s getting heavy. They’re saying ten to twelve inches. Whatever you found is going to get covered very quickly, if it isn’t already.’

  Harper went to the window, saw the thick heavy flakes; a layer of white was already concealing the undercoat.

  ‘I could go get it.’

  ‘The blood spatter?’

  ‘I have the key. But I could gather the bloody snow in a plastic bag.’

  ‘You took the key?’

  ‘I didn’t touch it. I had gloves on when I picked it up.’

  Another sigh. ‘Mrs Jennings. That key could be anything. Somebody could have dropped it months or even years ago. We don’t even have proof that a crime has taken place—’

  ‘What about that missing kid? The one from Elmira? I saw it on the news.’

  ‘Are you saying that’s the boy you saw?’

  Harper hesitated. No, she wasn’t. Not for sure. ‘Maybe. It could have been. It was dark, but I think it was. Maybe.’ She looked out the window. Tried to remember his face. And to locate the spot where she’d seen the spatter.

  ‘Okay, Mrs Jennings. I’ll stop by. I have to wrap up something here first. Give me half an hour.’

  Harper stood at the window, her hand cradling the key in a tissue, careful not to smudge any fingerprints. Rivers was right: It was just a key, could be for a house, apartment, garage. Maybe a pantry or bedroom. Might have nothing to do with the naked guy, the missing kid or the blood spatter. But the snow was thickening; she had to hurry if she wanted to bag the evidence before it got completely buried.

  Pocketing the key and her phone, Harper went back downstairs, grabbed a sandwich bag from the kitchen and threw on her still-cold parka and snow boots. She avoided the living room, but Vivian heard her.

  ‘Now where are you going?’ Her mother held a half-empty glass of egg-nog. ‘It’s a blizzard—’

  Harper didn’t hear the rest. She’d already slammed the door.

  Snowflakes clung to her eyelashes. Tickled her nose. Stuck to her coat and gloves. Dimmed her view as she walked back toward the edge of the woods. The air was raw and indifferent. And, except for the wind, very silent.

  The silence suddenly seemed dense, almost tangible; Harper moved through it, gazing through a white speckled haze. The house, the fraternity, the street, the trees – everything was soft, edgeless. Colorless. Suddenly, Harper felt isolated, disoriented. Her senses obscured.
She braced herself, heard something in the distance. A motor? Was someone else out there? Maybe on a snow mobile? She looked behind her, saw nothing. Gazed at the street. A single dark SUV drove slowly past the house, the sound of its engine muffled by the snow. Lord. It was just a damned car. She was too jittery. Needed to go find her blood.

  Slick layers of ice lay beneath new snow, and Harper slid a few times, nearly falling, but she righted herself and walked on cautiously, finally getting to the spot where she’d found the key. She stooped and scraped away the fresh layer of snow with her glove, but found no dots of spatter. She cursed, looking around, rechecking her location. This had to be the spot – a straight line from the corner of the garage. She’d memorized the tree, the tangled roots at its base, its position. So where was the spatter? She stooped, scraped the snow again. No blood. Damn.

  Harper stood, squinting into the wind and snow. Was it possible that this wasn’t the right tree? She looked around for a similar trunk and root. Didn’t see one. No, this was the tree. Had to be. She pictured exactly where she’d found the spatter, took a few steps to the left. Scraped the snow again and stooped, looking closely for small drops of red or pink or brown or anything but white. Found nothing, all the way down to the dirt. She tried again, a little further from the tree. And then again, closer to it. And again, to the right. And again, even more to the right. Nothing. How could this happen? Had she lost her bearings due to the snow? Had the spatter marks been so tiny that they’d washed away or been blown away in the storm?

  The wind was fierce, hurling snow into the woods; places she’d already dug were buried again. Harper couldn’t tell where she’d been from where she still had to look.

  When her phone rang, her gloves were caked with icy clumps, so she had to pull them off. She reached into her pocket, pulling out her phone with red stinging fingers.

  ‘Harper, what’s going on? Get in here,’ Vivian whispered. ‘That police woman’s here again.’

  Harper looked around one more time. The snow had camouflaged everything, concealed all the ground cover. No way she would find what she was looking for. Half blinded in white wind, careful of her footing, she started back for the house, holding an empty plastic bag.

  Detective Rivers sat on the living-room sofa, holding a mug of hot tea. Lou must have brewed it, but he wasn’t around. The monster tree was still bare, except for a cluster of six glittering red Styrofoam balls, hung at chest level. Plastic bags, wires, lights, miscellaneous decorations scattered the floor, chairs, coffee table.

  ‘Shame you won’t have any egg-nog,’ Vivian slurred. ‘It’s truly delicious. I wonder why nobody drinks it except at Christmas—’

  ‘I looked, but I couldn’t find the spot,’ Harper interrupted, trying to divert attention from her mother. Feeling old, familiar shame.

  ‘What spot?’ Vivian blinked. ‘Where did you go?’ She turned to Rivers. ‘I told her not to—’

  ‘Where’s Lou?’ Harper cut her off. Why wasn’t he controlling her?

  ‘Dunno.’ Vivian shrugged, looking around. ‘He was here a minute ago. LOU?’ she bellowed, giving Lou three-syllables. ‘LOU-OU-OU! LOU—OU-OU!’

  ‘Never mind, Ma.’ Harper yanked her coat off, stepped out of her boots.

  ‘But if you want him—’

  ‘It’s all right.’ She turned to Rivers. ‘Let’s talk in the kitchen.’

  ‘I don’t mind if you stay . . .’

  ‘’Scuse us, Ma’am.’ Rivers stood.

  ‘Okay. Go ahead. I’ve got work to do, hanging balls.’ She put a hand over her mouth and burst out laughing. ‘Sorry.’ She slapped her thigh. ‘It’s just – hahaha – that – haha – sounded so bad – haha. Hanging balls—’

  Harper’s face got hot. She didn’t look at Rivers or Vivian. She just grabbed her phone and the glove with the key and kept walking until she got to the kitchen, where she found a hot kettle simmering on the stove, poured a cup of water, tossed in a tea bag.

  ‘Sorry to subject you to my mother.’ Her voice was stiff, and she still couldn’t meet Rivers’ eyes. She was almost thirty years old, still embarrassed, still apologizing for her mother.

  ‘No need to apologize. She’s who she is, not who you are. Besides, I’m not here to judge.’

  Harper nodded, poured honey, stirred.

  ‘Nobody gets to pick their relatives,’ Rivers added.

  ‘I guess that’s obvious,’ Harper said as she sat opposite her.

  ‘You should see my family.’ Rivers shook her head, grinning. ‘Asylums are filled with saner people.’

  They snickered. Harper sipped tea, told herself to relax.

  ‘Here’s the key.’ She unfolded the glove, pushed it across the table.

  Rivers glanced at it. ‘Yeah.’ She didn’t reach over or examine it. ‘It’s a key all right.’

  ‘Don’t you want to see what it opens? Or check it for fingerprints? It could be—’

  ‘Tell me about the kid you saw. What makes you think he might be Sebastian Levering?’

  Harper finally looked at Rivers. ‘I saw his picture on the news, and it looked like the guy I saw being dragged into the woods.’

  Rivers took a long sip of tea. ‘How long, all told, would you say that you actually saw him?’

  Harper frowned. She could tell where the conversation was going. ‘Okay. It wasn’t long.’

  ‘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 say
ing.

  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.’