by Kylar Wilde
“It does suck sometimes,” Ali said, “and there’s no way around that. All of us will get old and die. People we love will be stricken with diseases or be killed in accidents. It makes no sense, and it certainly isn’t fair, but it’s all we have, Quinn. We don’t make the rules. We just live and do the best we can.”
“I visited his wife when I came home,” Quinn said with a sad look. “Her son was a healthy-looking little boy and his daughter was an infant in her mother’s arms. They were friendly, and I was friendly, but I kept thinking about the hole in their family. In a way, me being there was kind of a reminder of the reason why he was never coming home. She wanted nothing to do with war and conflict any more. She just wanted to live her life and raise her family.” He took a deep breath. “My friend had sent all his money home to her but I lied and said he had asked me to keep money safe for him so that he could surprise her when he got home. I only had ten thousand dollars, but I gave it to her and told her how he had asked me to hold it. She was sad, of course, but she looked at her children, both of them now her sole responsibility, and took the money. She thanked me and I thanked her for allowing me to fulfill my pledge to her husband.”
“That was a noble thing to do, Quinn. You’re a noble man.”
He shook his head. “Not at all,” he said, “and that haunts me. After my friend was shot dead, I saw the sniper running. We gave chase and came around a corner. We saw him throw the rifle down and jump into a car and start driving away. One of our men had a grenade launcher and all of us were furious because we all loved my friend. He was that kind of man. I told my fellow soldier to shoot but just as he was aiming, I saw a little boy in the back seat looking out the back window. Then a man, just a regular guy out on an errand, emerged from a shop with a distraught look. Instantly I realized that that the sniper had merely stolen the car with the little boy in it. But the soldier with the grenade launcher didn’t know that. I could have called out but there was a split-second delay. I hate to think it was because I was angry, and I hope it was because I was just surprised, but by the time I did say something, the trigger had already been pulled. The sniper died but so did the little boy, a boy just about the age of my friend’s son.”
“Oh, Quinn,” Ali said, holding his head to her bosom. “It wasn’t your fault. Blame it on the fog of war.”
“That fog haunts me,” he said, his tears wetting her nightgown.
“It haunts me too.” She kissed him on the forehead. “Will you be all right?”
“Only time will heal this,” he said, pulling away from her and turning to the wall.
“I’m here for you,” she assured him, touching his shoulder then returning to her bedroom.
Chapter 7
The next morning, they looked deeply at each other but did not discuss the night’s happening. Quinn made breakfast while Ali squeezed orange juice. After they finished and he showered, he drove her to the lake, where Elle was waiting with a happy smile. Quinn waved to her and Derek, told them he would be back later that afternoon then drove to the police station.
He met the half dozen people there, including a middle-aged secretary name Barbara, four officers and the chief, a man in his sixties with a crew cut and exceptionally large hands. His nose was a little red and Quinn could tell he enjoyed a drink, though he was professional and accommodating at work. The introductions concluded and Quinn went into his office. A few minutes after getting there, the chief from home called and said they had discovered that Matt Culler had not purchased an AK-47, he actually killed the two men who were selling it and simply took the gun and ammunition. Besides all the other things he was wanted for, now there was a warrant for his arrest on double homicide charges. Quinn thanked him and hung up, sighing deeply and deciding not to tell Ali for fear of upsetting her further.
“We never have homicides here,” Chief Barnes said. “We do deal with domestics on occasion, and there have been some threats here and there over the years, but dead bodies, no, it just doesn’t happen here very often. Believe it or not, the last homicide was fifteen years ago when a guy at the golf club was pissed off because he thought his playing partner was cheating. They were best friends and played together almost every day, just the two of them. Apparently, there were some words exchanged and one of them smashed the other one over the head with a three iron. Died right on the spot. When we arrested him, he was trying to explain an illegal drop of the golf ball as if that would somehow convince us to let him go.”
“Remind me never to play a round with him,” Quinn said.
“You won’t have to worry about it. He served twelve years and then moved to Florida.”
“Good riddance.”
“That’s exactly what I said,” noted Chief Barnes. “Since then not one murder, not even one really serious assault. It’s the truth. We live in a very quiet community.”
“When did the murders start?” Quinn asked.
The chief explained everything in detail and gave Quinn all the files and showed him what little evidence they had acquired, which was limited to say the least.
“Do you mind if I do some snooping around on my own, Chief Barnes?”
“Not at all.”
“Thanks, Chief.”
Quinn spent the day studying everything he could and reflecting on every conceivable possibility. In a way this exacerbated his PTSD, but he forced himself to function. Later that afternoon he picked up Ali and drove them home. He lingered at the car while she went in then followed with a bouquet of roses, handing them to her.
“These are for you, Ali,” he said with the softness of a shy teenage boy speaking to his crush.
“Thank you, Quinn. Did you pluck these roses and put them together yourself?” she joked as she searched for a suitable vase to place them into.
He smiled back and told her he was going to make them dinner, a stir fry he had bought at the Hidden Grove Supermarket after taking a look out back.
“Wait,” Ali said, suddenly rising on her tiptoes and lightly kissing him on the cheek.
“What was that for?” he asked, looking highly pleased.
“I think you know.”
“I don’t know, Ali,” Quinn said. “I haven’t been in a relationship with a woman for a long time. You’ll have to spell it out.”
“I feel something with you,” she said. “I feel accepted.”
“Right back at you,” he replied, looking deeply into her eyes. “But where would we stand when it comes to contact? Will you always shut me out?”
Without a word, but also without taking her eyes off him, Ali Miller walked across the floor and hugged him. It was only a brief hug, the kind of hug men give to each other after a hard-fought baseball game. But he did feel her body, her warm, soft body, her body that smelled nice, with an aroma of spring or rare flowers. And she looked pleasant. Her black hair was all tied up in a pony tail with tendrils of soft hair framing her face. Her brown eyes sparkled, glinting like shards of glass on the road catching the sun. Her eyes were not dying embers, but a dancing fire. She was a gypsy, a woman who danced next to the river, enticing him, pulling him forward.
“Can I kiss you?” he asked, stumbling forward.
Again, she pulled away seemingly because he had not gone gently enough. “You don’t grab an orchid, you coax it.”
“I’m sorry,” he said turning away with a sheepish look. “I really am. It won’t happen again.”
“Yes, it will,” she returned, moving to him and embracing him.
It was not a quick hug, a lightning strike, it was a full-scale frontal approach. Ali Miller hugged a man. She did it of her own volition, and she held him tightly, not letting go, pressing her soft body into his strong, sturdy form. Quinn was more measured than slow in returning her hug, but she held him so long, and so deeply, that eventually he put his arms around her. Ali pressed the side of her face to his chest, holding him. They pulled apart and went to their separate caves without a word.
Chapter 8
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nbsp; Twenty minutes later Ali emerged and popped by Quinn’s door. “I’ll make supper tonight.”
“As you wish, honey,” he answered, reading through some files.
“Okay, honey,” she called back and then waited for him to laugh as she walked to the kitchen.
Quinn did not laugh or respond in any way, making her wonder if he was tuning her out or if they had reached the honey stage. She was not sure and she did not want to pester him. Biggest mistake some people make on 90 Day Fiancé, she knew. They grill each other on their relationship, what it is, and they make life into a boot camp for the other person. No, she was not going to bother Quinn.
As she went into the kitchen, another flashback of Matt Culler seized her with the power of a disease. She remembered in frightening clarity the day he shot her. His eyes were insane and looking at them she knew he was not in his right mind. It was as if the devil had taken up residence in his brain. This sent a chill up her spine as though someone injected ice into her body. At that precise moment, just as the flashback took hold of her with the power of a nightmare, she heard something outside the kitchen window and knew immediately that it was Matt Culler. He had somehow found them.
“Quinn!” she screamed.
He came flying out of his man cave. “What is it?”
“Matt is outside!” she exclaimed. “I heard him.”
They both looked out the window where she heard the sound and saw an old racoon looking in at them, standing on its hind legs from the elevated perch of a wooden bench. Instantly Ali realized her mistake and felt a rush of relief, though she couldn’t stop shaking.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m paranoid. Matt’s really got me on edge, Quinn.”
“That’s understandable,” he said, hugging her until she calmed down. “Everything will be fine, Ali.”
“Yes,” she agreed, though she did not sound convinced.
“I thought about you a lot today,” Quinn let out suddenly, returning to his man cave and again looking over the files.
Ali took a deep breath and looked back over her shoulder right at him in the room. “Oh, really?”
“Really,” he answered in the affirmative, nodding with exaggeration.
“What were you thinking about me?”
“Everything, in general, you know.” He walked out to her and stood on the other side of the island. “I think we have to address the elephant in the room. Ali, you don’t need a college degree to know that if a man and woman are living together, there might be tension. You know, of a sexual nature. I’m sorry I tried to kiss you so suddenly, but I am a man and you are a pretty woman. Add to that, the connection and everything else that is going on between us. I’m sorry, but at times I’m going to have desires for you. I promise to control them, you won’t have to worry that way, but I cannot become a eunuch. You’ll feel my energy no matter how much I chain that dog up. I promise to be respectful, though.”
Ali could not believe how brutally honest and open Quinn was. She appreciated his candidness and was glad that he addressed this. “That’s reassuring,” she said enigmatically, going back to her food preparation. “Derek said hello, by the way.”
“Oh, good,” Quinn replied, washing the berries then scooping out two bowls full for himself and Ali. “That smells good, honey,” he said, coming around the island and hugging her gently from behind, softly kissing her on the cheek.
She threw her head back slightly and kissed the air about three inches from his face. Making progress. Quinn walked to the fridge, taking out a can of cold Coke.
“Pepsi, hon?” he asked, still holding the door open.
“No, thank you,” she said, looking back with a smile.
“How are Derek and Elle doing?”
“To me they look happy. It’s so quiet up there, Quinn. Elle and I played five games of Scrabble. She’s ahead four to one but that’s all right because she’s really good. She knows all those little words, those connectors. I challenged her three times and lost my turn every time. Ever play anyone like that?”
“Yes,” Quinn said, sitting at the table. “There was this kid on the block, Timmie Twill, and he was the luckiest kid in the world. I had a ton of marbles because I won them off all the girls in the neighborhood. Some of the parents called my parents and said their daughters came home crying because I won all their marbles. I had a sack full of them.” He was distracted by something but ate a couple grapes and casually returned to his story. “Then along comes Timmie Twill. He’s got red hair, freckles and he’s so thin he wasn’t allowed out on windy days. But, damn, Timmie Twill relieved me of every last one of my marbles, and he did it fair and square, on the field of battle.”
Ali looked at him as if he had partially lost it. “Field of battle?”
“There was a hole in the backyard,” Quinn continued. “You stood twenty feet away and tried to toss a marble into the hole. The closest to the hole got both marbles and if it went in, you won twenty of the other’s guys marbles. Timmie Twill was an old western gunslinger when it came to marbles.” He laughed. “Now I know how the girls felt, especially when he took my very favorite two marbles. It actually hurt.”
“I don’t like losing to some crazy word no one has ever heard of either,” Ali said, “but sometimes people are just better and you have to acknowledge it.”
She served the food and Quinn complimented her on the fine cooking, licking his lips. Once they finished, they ate strawberries on the back step, sitting side by side on the swing. They rocked back and forth for a long time, talking about their childhood, where they went to school, all their relations. They compared the places they had lived, rating them. Though some were similar, they disagreed on others, but accepted the other’s opinion with reflection. Just then they heard a car pull into the yard and doors open and shut.
They walked round the corner and found a young couple there, a tall, awkward man with short, blond hair, big black glasses and suspenders on his trousers. Accompanying him was a woman his age, probably thirty or so, and two children identically dressed, even though one was a boy and one a girl. He had buck teeth but flashed a sincere smile.
“Hello,” he said, sauntering up to Quinn with his hand extended. “I’m Jed Toms and this is my wife, Arlene, and our two kids, Bobbie and Billie. We just wanted to welcome you to the neighborhood and tell you we’re here if you need any help.” He started to walk away. “Oh, right,” he continued, turning and simultaneously taking a card out of his pocket, “here’s our contact information if you need any help.”
“We sell all kinds of stuff,” Arlene said with a warm smile. “I make homemade jams and bakery items of all sorts. If you order it, I’ll make it. That’s my motto. Jed runs the meat shop and he produces the best sausage in the county, ask anyone. All free range with us, even for chickens and beef. We used to sell an awful lot to the youth camp before it closed down.” She winked at Ali. “Any time you need help,” she said, urging her kids back into the car.
Jed lingered while his wife waved and climbed into the passenger seat. “I heard you’re helping out with the investigation,” he said to Quinn.
“Yes,” Quinn answered succinctly.
“Sorry for your loss, ma’am,” Jed said to Ali. “It’s nice to have the support system of family when things like that happen.”
“It is,” Ali agreed, putting her hands around Quinn’s forearm. “He’s always been a good brother to me. Remember that time I was roller skating, Quinn, and those boys started teasing me because I was so bad. But Quinn put the run to them, didn’t you, Quinn? How old was I then?”
“Nine,” he said, looking at her as though he was pretty sure about the age, though the story was completely fabricated.
“That sounds about right. A good brother is a valuable asset, Mr. Toms.”
“Good day,” he said, turning to leave.
“You don’t have any bread and jam, do you?” Quinn asked.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Toms, opening the door before her hus
band could answer.
She quickly invited them over and opened the trunk, exposing fine wares in nice, clean wicker baskets. There were beautifully bottled jams, from blueberry to raspberry and strawberry, plus some exotic blends, and dozens of baked items, including sweets. Quinn bought two loaves of white bread, three jars of raspberry jam, and some dark fudge. Ali could not resist a jar of jam called Finnish Huckleberry and some big round, soft buns that had been baked to perfection. Mrs. Toms bagged their purchases and took payment with her phone, all fine and dandy, then they were gone.
Quinn and Ali hurried into the house, preparing themselves slices of bread and smothering them with jam. Quinn took the first bite and rolled his eyes, indicating it was fabulous. Ali used some of her own jam and did the same, swearing it was the best bread and jam she had ever tasted.
Suddenly Quinn snapped to attention. “He said there used to be a youth camp here. Did you hear that?”
“Yes, I did. You think that might be the missing link in these homicide cases?”
“Of course anything in the absence of evidence is speculation,” he said, “but I have a gut feeling, if that’s worth anything. I noticed in the files a lot of the victims liked sports and were active. There’s a chance they may have been at that youth camp.”
“Worth a try,” Ali encouraged. “Have a look.” She paused. “Want to watch a movie?”
“Sure.”
Ali made some popcorn and they sat side by side and watched a comedy, both of them having a great laugh. After that they sat in the quiet until quite late. Conversation was starting to flow more smoothly all the time and they were laughing and joking. Ali went to her bedroom and returned a few minutes later wearing a light blue nightie that exposed her pretty, smooth legs from the knees down. Her shoulders were also exposed. She sat beside him, snuggling. Her put his arm around her, resting his fingers on the smooth skin near her elbow. Ali purred with pleasure, moving her face until she found the perfect resting place on his chest. He spontaneously kissed the top of her head, marveling at the lovely smell of her hair.
