Winter Break Page 6

  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?

  Stop whining, she scolded herself. Don’t be a wimp. You’ve gotten through longer months in far worse conditions.

  Still groggy, reminding herself that she would see Leslie the next morning, she got out of bed, checked the snowfall out the window. It looked like about ten inches had fallen, and, now that it had stopped, the ground glowed bluish white, reflecting the moonlight, emphasizing the shadowy angles and gables of the empty fraternity next door. The street hadn’t yet been plowed, but a dark SUV pushed its way through the snowy street – hadn’t she seen it before? Why would anyone be out in this weather? Where could they possibly need to go?

  ‘Harper?’ Vivian knocked as she opened the door. ‘Good. You’re up.’ She came inside, arranging her hair, hesitating before she spoke. ‘Look. I hope you’re not going to make a fuss about the tree. Lou bought it with the best of intentions, so you could make the place more festive—’

  ‘I told you before. It’s fine.’ She tried to sound sincere.

  ‘Don’t be like that.’

  ‘Like what? I said it’s fine.’

  ‘Your tone. I can tell you resent it. Why can’t you ever be appreciative when people try to show their concern for you?’

  Their concern for her? Harper bit down on the inside of her cheek, stifling her response. ‘I am appreciative, Ma. Thanks.’

  Her mother folded her arms, cocked her head. A lock of bluish auburn hair flopped over her forehead. ‘Tsk.’

  Tsk? Really? ‘Ma. The tree makes you happy. It’s fine.’

  ‘Good. I knew you’d change your mind.’ Vivian stepped over to Harper, pecked her on the cheek. ‘What did that policewoman want?’

  ‘Nothing. She was just getting back to me about last night.’

  Vivian nodded, turned to leave. ‘Dinner’s ready. Lou’s been cooking all afternoon. Pot roast.’

  Pot roast? So that was the seared-flesh smell. Harper looked out the window at the snow. If there was one dish Harper disliked more than cow liver, it was pot roast. How was it possible that Lou had chosen to prepare those two meals on consecutive nights?

  ‘Come and eat.’

  Harper couldn’t eat anything that smelled like that – she almost gagged at the thought. But she didn’t want to start another argument. ‘Damn, Ma. I didn’t realize.’ She grasped for an excuse. Lied. ‘I ordered pizza.’

  ‘You what? When? Why would you—?’

  ‘Just now. When I got up. I didn’t think Lou should cook every night.’

  ‘Well, you might have asked first, before going ahead. You shouldn’t just assume things. How did you know we’d even want pizza?’

  Harper didn’t respond. Didn’t want to start the discussion about asking people what they wanted before deciding on a meal. Or a tree.

  Vivian sputtered out of the room. ‘Lou – wait’ll you hear this . . .’

  Harper waited until she was on the steps, reporting the news of the pizza. Then, staring into the snow, she picked up her cell and called Napoli’s.

  She was thinking about artichokes and shrimp, not paying attention to the view. But she was positive, or almost, that as she repeated her address, in an upstairs window of the empty fraternity next door, a curtain moved.

  Showered and dressed, Evan was practicing his harmony while trying to straighten his tie without reopening the wounds on his knuckles when he heard the thunk from upstairs. He froze. Heard nothing more. Tried to convince himself it was nothing. Maybe the kid had come to, rolled over and fallen out of bed.

  It was nothing.

  Evan began singing again, checking himself in the mirror. Thick wavy hair, strong jaw. Classic, patrician looks. Frankly, he couldn’t blame the gay kid for being attracted to him. Singing, he stepped forward and back, turned to the side, spinning through moves from his a cappella group. Rehearsing. It was a tradition for The Quadtones to do Christmas shows at old people’s homes. The old codgers loved it, sang along, clapped their hands like little kids.

  Evan checked his watch. Time to go. He grabbed his striped blazer and headed for the door.

  Thump.

  It was faint this time. Muted.

  The kid was conscious. Damn. Must be banging on the wall.

  Another thump. Another.

  Christ, what was he doing?

  Evan took his cell phone, called Sty. Got voice mail. Fuckin’ Sty, too busy getting laid to answer his damned phone? So what was he supposed to do? Just leave and hope nothing happened? He had to meet the other guys in front of Balch in fifteen minutes. Had to leave. The kid was locked up tight, had no place to go. No phone. No way out. And he’d be back in a few hours. What could happen in a few hours?

  Evan took his overcoat from his closet and headed out of his room toward the steps. He was in the foyer when, from upstairs, he heard a crash. And then an ear-bending howl.

  Hank called early, right after dinner. He sounded glum, but denied that anything was wrong. ‘Nothing,’ he said when she asked.

  Harper knew, though, that something was. She could tell by his voice. Maybe the work was too much for him. Maybe he was pushing too hard. Getting frustrated or depressed. Or sick? But Hank needed to succeed at this project. Needed to feel competent again – they both needed that. She decided to be positive and encouraging, not to say anything that might upset him. No complaints about Vivian or Lou or the tree. No mention of the missing kid, the key or the blood spatter. Instead, she talked about shopping for baby furniture. About her dissertation. And, as she gazed out the bedroom window, about the weather.

  ‘We got another foot of snow.’

  Hank muttered a disinterested reply.

  In a lilting voice, Harper tried yet again to cheer him up, reporting that she’d devoured almost an entire shrimp and artichoke pizza, and that she was already hungry again. That the baby had a fierce appetite.

  Even then, Hank’s response was flat.

  Finally, Harper gave up pretending. She sat on the bed in silence, stroking h
is pillow, pouting, thinking of his chest.

  ‘So.’ She bolstered her voice, stared at the window. ‘Tell me what’s going on.’

  ‘Long day.’

  Oh – he was tired. Of course, that was it. Hank hadn’t worked full days since before his accident, wasn’t used to hours of continuous exertion.

  ‘Sleeping okay?’

  ‘Not. Without Hoppa.’

  An aching wave rolled through her. Hank missed her. Maybe that was why he sounded so down.

  ‘You? Resting, Hoppa?’

  She thought of her forays into the icy woods, the sharp contraction she’d had earlier. ‘Plenty. I slept all afternoon.’

  ‘Good. Baby needs. Naps.’

  When they finally said goodnight and hung up, Harper stayed on the bed, holding Hank’s pillow, replaying his husky whisper when he’d said goodnight. Feeling the whisper like a caress. An embrace. Oh God. She had to stop. Hank would be home in just a few weeks. She shouldn’t whimper and whine as if he’d been ripped permanently from her arms; she was lucky. They both were. In fact, she should go downstairs and celebrate their luck with some ice cream. Yes. Butter almond? Rocky Road? What did they have? She couldn’t remember.

  And she didn’t want to go look. She missed Hank and refused to cheer herself up. Instead, she curled up on the bed, held onto his pillow and sulked, staring out the window at the night, noticing that the curtains in the fraternity window hung motionless and undisturbed.

  Evan raced back up the stairs. Across the landing, up to the third floor. When he got to Rory’s room, he took the key off the frame, but didn’t unlock the door. He stood outside, listening. But heard nothing.

  Obviously, though, something had happened in there. Maybe the kid’s leg wasn’t as bad as it looked. Maybe he was just inside the door, waiting to jump anyone who opened it.

  Evan pictured the leg, purple and swollen. He’d felt something smash when he’d pounced on it. No way the kid could walk on that thing, let alone fight. Still, he should be careful. Not rush in without protection.

  Again, Evan went downstairs, this time into the kitchen, hoping to find a knife. Drawers, cabinets – everything was locked. Even the refrigerator had a padlock on it. Damn. Okay. He’d have to use his own stuff. He hurried back to his room, grabbed his flashlight and his baseball bat, then reconsidered. Put the bat down, opened a desk drawer and shuffled through pens and jump drives. Found his Swiss army knife and rushed back to the third floor, where he listened again outside Rory’s door.