Winter Break Page 7

  Hearing nothing, slowly, cautiously, he unlocked the door. Held the flashlight in one hand, the open knife in his other. Pushed the door open with his foot.

  The room stunk like a damned latrine. Evan flashed the light onto the bed. Saw no kid, just his stinking mess. Panned the light across the floor, finally found the kid lying in a heap, all the way across the room. How the fuck had he gotten all the way over there?

  Evan was breathing fast. Damn. He had to go, couldn’t be late. They needed his tenor, couldn’t do the show without him. He flashed the light onto his watch. Shit. Ten minutes. Okay. He needed to calm down, think. He could just leave the kid where he was. Could re-lock the door, pretend he hadn’t heard anything and deal with it later, when he got back. Or better yet, let Sty deal with it in the morning.

  Good plan. But he didn’t leave. He stood there, doing a best-case/worst-case assessment. Best case, nothing would happen and he could wait for Sty. Worst case . . . Jesus. What would the worst case be? The kid could move. Could get to the window and, maybe, yell for help.

  And then Evan had a disturbing thought: What if the kid had already gotten to the window? What if he’d managed to open the curtains and contact someone outside – waving and banging? Had that been what he’d heard?

  Damn. Evan flashed the light on the curtains, walked across the room, peered through the gap between the drapes. Flashing his light outside, he relaxed; the window wasn’t visible to anyone on the street, just to the house next door and its garage. There was a glow from an upstairs window next door, but not much chance that anyone there would have been watching Rory’s window.

  Cool. Turning to leave, Evan stepped over to the kid, flashed the light on his face to see if he was awake. And let out a yelp of surprise as his knees buckled beneath him and he hit the floor, sending his knife and the flashlight flying.

  Leaning on Hank’s pillow, Harper got tired of feeling sorry for herself. She turned on the television, found a marathon of Psych reruns and, preparing to settle in, finally went downstairs for ice cream. She took out a giant soup bowl and scooped in a mixture of mint chocolate chip, strawberry and butter almond, which she covered with maple syrup, black olives, whipped cream and wads of super crunchy peanut butter. Decided to wash it down with a tall glass of tomato juice. Took it all upstairs and climbed back into bed to watch the next episode.

  An hour later, she turned off the television and lay in the dark, reassuring herself that Hank, the naked kid and her baby were all fine, reciting her list of worries as a rhythmic mantra. She was dozing, her eyes drifting closed when a beam of light flashed into her room.

  Harper opened her eyes, watched the light move across her wall and disappear. She got up, looked out the window, couldn’t find the source. Nobody was in the driveway or the yard. The street was empty. She looked across at the fraternity, saw it hulking dark and still. Nothing moved. Nobody was there. But the light had come from somewhere. Weird.

  Puzzled, Harper stood at the window until she got cold. Then she got back in bed and lay facing the window, watching for lights, listening for movement. Letting her eyelids drop.

  He landed on his back, head slamming the floor, showing him pulsing red light. Before he could even wonder what happened, a heavy weight landed on him, grunting and stinking – something on his throat – an elbow? Evan tried to roll, but he was pinned, couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. What . . . the kid? Yes, the kid. Poking at his face with a filthy hand. Evan slapped and shoved at it, but it kept coming back. Scratching him. Pressing on his cheek. Aiming for his eyes. What the fuck? Evan kicked, tried to hit the kid’s wounded leg. But his leg hit nothing, swung through empty air. Meantime, his arms were useless, one pushing the elbow off his throat, the other fending spidery fingers off his face.

  No way this could be happening. Evan was strong and in good shape; the kid was damaged from head to toe and had been repeatedly drugged. Still, incredibly, he wouldn’t give up. Evan moved quickly, using both arms to dislodge the elbow and knock it off his neck. And using the momentum to knock the kid off him.

  The kid’s scream actually hurt Evan’s ears, but he kept moving. His eyes had become accustomed to the darkness, and he could see the kid’s swollen eye, his mangled hand, his grotesquely broken leg. A growl rose from his belly as he readied himself to strike, raising a fist to pound the kid’s wounds, preparing to kill. Remembering the knife only when he saw it coming toward his stomach, the blade glinting dimly in the kid’s hand.

  Twisting, Evan grabbed the kid’s wrist. The kid howled but hung onto the knife, his body trembling and sweating. Evan squeezed and twisted harder and, finally, the knife fell, clattering on the floor.

  The kid wailed, his wrist hung limp, but amazingly, he still wouldn’t give up. He reached with his other hand, even though its fingers were broken. Evan watched, catching his breath, simultaneously amused and fascinated at the persistent pathetic effort. The kid kept trying to pick the knife up with a thumb and pinkie. As though he’d be able to wield it, even if he somehow managed to lift it. He glanced at Evan repeatedly with his one open eye, as if he still thought he had a chance.

  But Evan had had enough. Annoyed, he punched the kid in his good eye. When he fell backwards, Evan picked up the knife and, without further ado, thrust it deep into the kid’s throat. Then, remembering the time, he cursed, ran out of the room and down the stairs. In a minute, he’d changed his shirt, washed his face, smoothed his hair, donned a different blazer, grabbed his overcoat and hurried out the door, manufacturing a story that would explain his lateness and the bruises and scratches on his face.

  Harper’s eyes popped open. Something had awakened her again. Not a light this time – the room was completely dark. Then what? Faintly, the floor creaked. Footsteps padded softly down the stairs. Harper sat up, listening. Moments later, the motion detectors turned on the driveway lights, beaming white light through her window. Harper climbed out of bed, hearing her mother’s car start up. When she got to the window, she saw Lou at the wheel, backing out of the driveway.

  Again? Where the hell was he going? She glanced at the clock. It was almost one. What could he have to do at this hour?

  She remembered what he’d said when she’d asked him: he had trouble sleeping. Maybe he needed a break from Vivian; she could certainly understand that. Or maybe he just wanted to move, get out of the house, go for a drive. That, too, would be understandable. The snow had closed them in; Lord knew, Harper felt claustrophobic. Maybe Lou had just headed to a bar before closing time to see new faces and connect with life outside her house.

  Harper stood at the window, watching the stillness of the empty street. Wishing she could go somewhere, too. Missing her Ninja, the highway. Hank. Mostly Hank. As if to console her, the baby did a shimmy; it felt like a feather dancing in her body. Harper put her hand on her belly, wondering again who was in there. Who it would look like.

  ‘You’re awake, too?’ She smiled. ‘Missing your daddy like me?’ She pictured the baby doing flip-turns until the movement settled. Then, wide awake and restless, disturbed by something she couldn’t name, Harper walked the floors.

  When Evan got back from the old codgers’ home, he let himself into the house through the back door, like always, careful to cover his footprints with snow. He’d called Sty again and again, but of course, hadn’t been able to reach him. He’d left a text, telling him to call. With exclamation marks. But he knew Sty. Sty wouldn’t even look at his phone while he was with that girl. Townie or not, she had him completely whipped. So here he was, alone with the dead kid until morning. But he was not going to think about him.

  He moved through the dark kitchen to the foyer, taking off his coat, loosening his tie. Thinking about how fucking cold it was outside, and how fucking cold it was inside because the heat was turned down to like fifty degrees while everyone was gone.

  He moved through the foyer, seeing by the night light on the staircase, thinking how absurd it was that the place was closed. His f
ather paid his fees; he ought to be able to stay there year-round without having to sneak in and out.

  He moved up the stairs, reviewing his evening. The festive tree and lame egg-nog and sugar cookies. The old folks singing along, even getting up and dancing. That one old guy – he’d been spry, dancing with that old girl even though she had a walker. They’d seemed delighted with the performance, the old familiar songs. And no one had been mad about him being late – they figured it had been the snow. Before they could even ask about his face, he’d said he’d gone tray sliding down the hill behind the Straight, had fallen and landed on his face. Avery had laughed and that had been the end of it. Fucking Avery had a falsetto like nobody. Could hit those high notes like fucking Beverly Sills.

  Evan walked down the hall to his room, unlocked the door. He hung his coat and blazer up in his closet, thinking he could just about see his breath it was so cold. Maybe he’d just get undressed and go to bed. Pretend nothing had happened.

  He stripped down, pulled on a sweat suit. He hated sleeping in clothes, but it was cold. He went to the john, brushed his teeth, got in bed. And lay there.

  Thinking about the kid.

  How it had felt to sink the knife into his neck – the rush. Kind of like an orgasm, but on a different scale. Nothing he’d ever felt before. He closed his eyes, reliving the moment.

  But what was that? A footstep? No. Just a creak. A noise. The fraternity house was old, made noises. Something howled loudly, rattling the window. It was just the wind, Evan told himself, nothing from upstairs. Stop being so jumpy, he told himself. You stuck your fucking knife in his neck. He was dead when you left, was still dead now.

  But what if he weren’t?

  What if he’d crawled back to the window? What if he’d written ‘help me’ or ‘save me’ in blood?

  Christ. Evan rubbed his eyes. Cut it out. This wasn’t summer camp, wasn’t a ghost story. He’d killed the kid. It hadn’t gone the way they’d planned, hadn’t been done methodically as Sty had wanted. But he’d done it. Dead was dead.

  Evan lay staring at the ceiling. Picturing the body above it. The bloody mess up in Rory’s room.

  Okay, shit. He wasn’t going to sleep anyhow; he might as well get a start on cleaning up. He got out of bed, pulled on some sweat socks, stopped at the maid’s closet to get a bucket, a mop, some rags, some cleaner, and climbed up to the third floor.

  ‘Knock knock,’ he announced as he opened the door. In case the corpse might hear him. But, no, even in the dark, he could tell that the kid was right where he’d left him.

  ‘You know, it was nothing personal. It was an experiment of a sort.’ He kept talking as he went to the window. If he pulled down the shade behind the curtains, he could turn on a light without it being seen from outside. That way, he could actually see what he was cleaning.

  ‘We were searching for a specimen, and you happened to be available. Unfortunately, you mucked up our research.’ He separated the curtains to reach up for the shade. ‘You put up an amazing fight, but in the end, your death was basically a waste. It didn’t add anything to our intellectual—’

  Evan stopped mid-sentence, looking outside. Directly across from him, in full view, he saw the neighbor woman, the little blonde motorcycle lady, standing at her bedroom window, looking out at the night. Had she seen him? He froze, finally realized that, no, she couldn’t have; his room was dark. And she was staring past him, toward the street. Wasn’t she? He ducked away. Watched her through the slit of the curtain until she moved away.

  He quickly pulled the shade down, closed the drapes, turned the light on. As he scrubbed bloodstains, though, he remembered how the kid had crawled to the window before. How he’d found him there. That neighbor – could she have seen him at the window?

  Of course not. She couldn’t have. Out of the question. Because, if she’d seen him, she’d have done something. Would have called the police again.

  He remembered the police showing up after the kid had tried to get away. The searchlights pouring into the woods. Damn, he’d been scared.

  But then again, whatever she’d seen or hadn’t seen made no difference. He wasn’t on the premises – neither was Sty. Nobody was; the fraternity was closed for winter break. So even if the neighbor lady had seen the kid’s bare ass, it didn’t reflect on them.

  Still, as he mopped and washed, he pictured the easy view from her window. Just to be safe, he’d discuss the possibilities with Sty.

  Harper checked on Vivian, hoping she was awake, ready to ask her about Lou. But Vivian, her face masked with cream, was snoring blissfully.

  So Harper went downstairs and, hungry yet again, fixed herself a glass of two percent and a banana and mayonnaise sandwich. As she brought them back to her room, she decided that Lou hadn’t gone out for a nightcap. No, something about him just wasn’t right. Harper had recognized that sharp cold glint in his eye – she knew that he had a dangerous side. If Lou was sneaking out while Vivian slept, it was because he was trying to hide something. And because he was involved with her mother – not to mention staying in her home – Harper had a right to know what that something was, didn’t she?

  Yes, she did.

  And even if she didn’t, she was going to find out. She was going to wait for him to come home and confront him outright. Not take ‘I couldn’t sleep’ for an answer.

  Meantime, she’d have her snack and watch more TV. She set the snack on the nightstand, climbed into bed, clicked on the remote, and surfed channels. Found some late-night talk show. An old Seinfeld episode. Cartoons – Sponge Bob? In the middle of the night? The nation’s weather. Lord. Harper kept flipping. She had satellite, hundreds of stations. There must be something to watch.

  Finally, she settled on a Law and Order rerun. Which broke almost immediately for a commercial. Harper bit into soft bread with sweet and creamy filling, gulped some milk. Took another bite, chewing while she waited for insurance, weight loss and car ads to end, but when they finally did, the show didn’t come back. Instead, a news anchor appeared with a recap of the latest news. More snow was predicted. The stock market was up over a hundred points. Harper downed another bite of sandwich and reached for the remote, about to change the channel, but the anchor’s next story stopped her. She sat still, holding the remote in mid-air, recognizing the face that popped onto the screen. Sebastian Levering, the missing kid from Elmira. The anchor reported that Levering, an Ithaca College student, still had not been found despite dozens of reported sightings that placed him all over the country. His family feared the worst. ‘I know if he could, he’d call us,’ his father declared. ‘But whatever happened to him, somebody knows something. Somebody must have seen something.’ His wife stood beside him, weeping.

  Harper stopped chewing, didn’t hear the rest of the clip. She sat with her mouth full, no longer hungry, staring at the television but seeing a desperate face, pleading for her help. She blinked the image away and saw snow spattered with blood. But then the snow became sand, and Harper smelled burning rubber, heard gunfire and the buzz of flies around her head. She watched a car pull up to the checkpoint, saw a woman crossing the road, smiling at her with a sharp glint in her eyes, and then – a blast of heat carried Harper into the air – she flew, landing on a burned-out car, unable to move. Somewhere far away, she heard voices. Law and Order was back on, but Harper didn’t see it. She was caught in her own rerun, revisiting a time when she’d sensed danger but hadn’t acted. A time when her inaction had caused people to die.

  Harper woke with bright sun shining in her window, a plate with half a sandwich on her lap, the TV remote in her hand, and bits of ripened mashed banana, bread and mayonnaise in her mouth.

  She got out of bed, sorting her thoughts. Remembering her flashback, and then the news that had set it off. She was in the shower before she thought of Lou and the reason she’d even been watching TV. She was downstairs, pouring a bowl of cereal before she realized that, for the first time since his arrival, he hadn’t fix
ed breakfast.

  She looked out the kitchen window into the driveway. Her mother’s car wasn’t there.

  ‘Ma?’ Harper called. Maybe Vivian and Lou had gotten up early and gone somewhere. ‘Ma? You here?’ she called again.

  ‘In here.’

  Her mother’s voice came from the living room. The tree was still untouched, the room a mess.

  ‘I don’t know what I was thinking, getting all this stuff.’ Vivian sat on the floor, lost amid bags of decorations. She was wearing tights and a sweatshirt, her hair tied up in a topknot. From behind, she looked like a teenager.

  ‘Where’s Lou?’ Harper asked.

  ‘Good morning to you, too.’

  ‘Sorry, Ma. Good morning. How are you? Fine? Great. Me, too. So where’s Lou?’

  ‘Why? You need him for something?’

  Oh Lord. ‘I want to talk to him.’

  Vivian eyed her suspiciously. ‘About what?’

  ‘Ma. What difference does it make about what? Just tell me where he is.’

  ‘Out somewhere. I didn’t ask for his itinerary. He’ll be back any time—’

  ‘Was he out all night?’

  ‘Of course not. Why would you ask that?’ Vivian looked away, began emptying a bag: tinsel, spray-on snow. More glittery Styrofoam balls.

  Harper came into the room, sat on the sofa close to Vivian. She softened her voice. ‘Ma. I heard him go out late last night while you were asleep. He took your car.’

  Vivian stiffened. ‘So? Maybe I said he could take it.’

  ‘Ma. He hasn’t come back. What’s going on? Where’s he go at night?’

  ‘There you go again—’

  ‘I’m not trying to make trouble. I just want to know. If he’s in some kind of trouble—’