“Maybe she’s lying down for a bit,” came another voice.
“Excuse me. Have you seen Quinn up here? Do you know Quinn?”
Quinn didn’t recognize the two women who were speaking. All she knew was they were about to find her. She shook her head at the man, trying to convey that she did not want to be found.
The man shut the door. As he shut it, he said to the two women, “This is not the bathroom. No, I’m afraid I don’t know Quinn. I haven’t seen anyone up here. Maybe you could point me to the right door?”
His voice through the door was low and deep and educated. He sounded British.
The women responded. Their voices were lighter and didn’t pass through the door, while his did. Then the voices faded altogether.
Quinn let out a breath, relief touching her. She folded her arms on the top of her knees and rested her head against her forearm. For the first time in too many days she was tired. She hadn’t been sleeping and not for a moment felt she needed to sleep. Only, now the short nights were catching up with her. Everything ached.
The bedroom door opened once more, this time slowly. The Englishman leaned in enough to see her around the edge of the door. He held out his hand. A heavy whiskey glass was in it, holding three inches of brown liquid.
“You look like a woman who likes wine,” he said, “but given your state, scotch will do you more good. I guarantee it.”
Quinn swallowed, her throat dry. “You’d better come in, then.”
He stepped into the room and shut the door with his elbow. A second glass was in his other hand. It held just as much scotch in it.
He held the glass toward her. She took it. Then he moved back to the desk in the corner, as far away from her as the room would let him get. “Given the circumstances, you have to be Quinn.”
Quinn sipped the scotch. She rarely drank hard liquor. The peaty bite of the scotch seemed appropriate, right now. Wine was too ordinary for this moment. She let the scotch slide down the back of her throat, which eased the ache.
“Thank you.” Her voice was rough. She didn’t care.
Apparently, neither did he. He didn’t comment about her voice or her face. Surely her makeup was smeared everywhere. Her cheeks were wet. He didn’t seem to notice.
“You knew Denis, then?” she asked, injecting the polite tone of inquiry into her voice which she had been using all day. Why else would he be here, if not for Denis? He was a stranger to her.
He sipped his scotch. “I knew Denis,” he said at last. “I am sure the last thing you want to do is have a polite, meaningless conversation. Instead of me explaining to you how I knew Denis, which won’t help you a single jot or tittle, why don’t we say nothing? You look as though you need time to just sit.”
She would have thanked him, except even that required too much energy. He was fine with her silence, so she let the silence grow. It didn’t feel awkward.
Her gaze swung back to the Stradivarius. It was sitting on the chair under the window, which would expose it to sunlight and the heat of the day. Even though it was a chilly day, something as simple as a rain shower against the window could throw off the tuning.
Still, she didn’t have the energy to move. She sipped the scotch and let her thoughts wander.
Her gaze returned to the violin.
“It’s Denis’ Stradivarius, isn’t it?” the man said.
“Yes.” She sipped. The scotch spread warmth through her chest and everything relaxed.
The man drank the last half inch of his scotch and put the glass on the desk beside his hip. “I see in the news they think the bomb was made in Afghanistan. Something to do with the ingredients in the C4.”
“The government hasn’t said it was terrorists.”
“What else could it be?” He shrugged. “Terrorists make sense. If terrorism ever makes sense. If it’s terrorists, then it’s sort of understandable. Unforgivable, of course. But understandable in this whacked-out world we live in.”
She looked at him, startled. It hadn’t occurred to her until this moment that other people might want explanations, just as she did.
“Unforgivable,” she repeated. “It’s a good word.”
The silence built again. It was comfortable, which surprised her. There was no music to fill it and no urgency to fill it with something else. Below, she heard people talking to each other. Glasses clinked. Plates clattered. Her fridge was stuffed with casseroles people brought for her. The food had bewildered her. Now, she wondered if people brought the food because it gave them something positive to do in the face of such uncertainty.
They couldn’t give her answers, but they could give her food.
“Not that I know much about music at all,” the man said, “Only, shouldn’t the violin be stored in a proper case? This one?” He nudged the nickel-plated industrial steel case sitting on the floor with his leather loafers.
Quinn considered the case. The movement of his foot made it rock. The casing flashed in the light from the window. “Denis was a slob,” she said.
The man’s soft blue eyes met hers. He said nothing.
“I have spent years telling him to put the violin away.” She tucked the lock of hair which always escaped her bun back behind her ear. “I nearly said it all over again when I came in here. Then I remembered he wouldn’t be able to hear me.” She pressed her lips together for a minute to stop them trembling. “It should be put away,” she admitted. “Only, once I put it away…”
“Then it will never come out again,” he finished.
She put the glass on the carpet and wrapped her arms around her knees. She stared at the black crepe stretched across her knees. It was the only black dress she owned.
“It was such a simple life,” she said. “All we wanted was to be happy. It didn’t take much to make us happy, either. Music. Kids, later. Neither of us was super ambitious, although we both knew Denis’s talents would push him higher on the career track. We were fine with that.”
The man still said nothing.
“He was thirty-six,” Quinn said. “He was a kind man, who was not asking anything of the world. Why did this happen to him? There are so many nasty people in the world who should have been in his place.”
The man put his hands together, his fingers interspliced. “If I could answer that, I would. I wish I had answers for you. All I can tell you is that you are absolutely right. There are bigger bastards in the world who deserve it far more than Denis did. I’m one of them. If he had asked, I would have traded places with him in a heartbeat.”
Quinn’s heart gave a little jolt. She stared at him. For the first time she wondered who he was. He hadn’t given a name. Until now, it wasn’t needed.
He shifted his posture on the desk, his long legs re-crossing at the ankles. His gaze returned to the violin on the chair. “Do you think…? Would it make it easier, if I helped you packed the violin away?”
If he had asked three minutes ago, she would’ve been appalled. Embarrassed. She would have told him no. Now, though, it seemed to be a perfectly reasonable suggestion.
She nodded. She pushed on the carpet with her hands to lift herself to her feet. He got to his and held out his big hand.
Quinn took it and he hauled her to her feet. Then he bent and picked up the case.
It left the violin to her. She took the two steps to the chair, then picked the violin up by the neck. Warm wood under her fingers. Slick polish.
The bow was propped against the chair. She picked it up. Her fingertips caught on the coarseness of the horsehair. Denis refused to use any of the man-made substitutes, especially with the Stradivarius.
The man had the case open. He stepped out of the way and she moved over to the desk and dropped the violin into the deep, velvet-lined recess which was made for it. The bow fitted into the clips on the lid. She had done this dozens of times. Hundreds of times. Now it felt as though it was the first time. Every movement was deliberate.
Her vision blurred. Her fingers lin
gered on the body of the violin.
“Shall we close the case?” he asked.
Quinn drew in a breath. She nodded. They each put a hand on the lid and lowered it. They closed the lid. She fastened the left clip. He did the right-hand one.
Quinn held her breath, waiting.
The man looked at her. “Nothing happened.”
A hysterical little giggle escaped her. She slapped her fingertips to her mouth to shut it off.
“Nothing has changed,” he added.
She nodded. No, nothing had changed. Denis was still dead. He was still with her, too.
The man straightened, his fingertips brushing the case as he lifted his hand toward her. “My name is Elijah Aslan.”
She took his hand. It was warm and dry. And big. “Quinn Sawyer,” she said.
“Hello, Quinn Sawyer.”
“Yes, hello.”
He picked up the empty glass from the desk, moved over to the wall and picked up her glass, too. He paused at the door. “Okay?”
Quinn nodded. She would be okay. Somehow.
He gave her a ghost of a smile, then left.
When Quinn went downstairs five minutes later, Elijah Aslan was nowhere in sight. This time, when everyone spoke to her in their soft voices, fumbling to express their regrets, Quinn gave them the comfort they needed. It helped her get through the rest of the day.
It didn’t give her any answers, though.
The next day, Quinn cleaned up the apartment. There wasn’t much to do, because everyone had scurried about last night and cleaned up for her. A few glasses and the odd paper plate. Otherwise the apartment was as it normally was.
Enough food was stacked in the fridge to last her for months, which gave her no excuse to go shopping.
Quinn stood at the window, gripping her elbows and staring at the pale blue sky. She didn’t need to go back to work until tomorrow, at least. For an insane moment or two, she considered going to work today. Now. Only, as she had learned yesterday, it wasn’t just her who needed time. To turn up for work the day after Denis’s funeral would unsettle everyone else.
She thought about putting on music. Denis had digitized their entire collection, which was vast. She could raise her voice and request any track, and it would issue from the speakers throughout the house.
Only, what would she play? Music, which was usually a comfort to her, was now a bewildering chaos of choices. Each choice was strewn with pitfalls. So many pieces of music were associated with Denis. They had eaten together while listening to dozens of tracks. They had made love to even more. They had listened in the darkness, only their silhouettes showing, yet had been closer than a couple with their arms entwined around each other.
There was music Denis had played or conducted. There was music the Symphony had played which they had both listened to and got lost within.
So many choices. Denis’ presence overlaid all the music she owned before she met him. She had shared everything with him and now, no music did not carry his fingerprints.
When the front door buzzer sounded, she was relieved. It took away the need to choose. Quinn hurried to the door.
The woman waiting at the door had shoulder-length, fine, soft brown hair, a narrow-pointed chin and clear eyes behind black-rimmed glasses. She wore jeans and Keds and a striped Breton T-shirt. She looked as preppy as any student on the University campus.
Quinn blinked. “Leela! Oh… I missed class, didn’t I?”
Lilly shook her head. “I told the yoga studios you wouldn’t be in for a while, and why. They said they would suspend your membership until you’re back on your feet. That isn’t why I’m here.” Leela’s jaw worked. “I’m sorry, Quinn. Denis was a great guy.”
Quinn nodded. She didn’t bother searching for words of comfort. She was tapped out in that regard. She suspected Leela didn’t need support, anyway.
Leela glanced over her shoulder. The apartment was on the first floor and each apartment had its own small front courtyard. Theirs faced the street, which was a low-traffic road. A green Escalade sat at the curb with the engine running. It wasn’t Leela’s car, which was a beat-up Mini Cooper.
“What’s going on, Leela?” Quinn asked.
“I need you to come with me, Quinn,” Leela said. “We need to talk.”
“What about?” Quinn frowned. “Why don’t you come in? I was about to put the kettle on. I want a cup of tea. I’ll make you some of that disgusting coffee you like.”
Leela shook her head. “I can’t.” She glanced over her shoulder once more. “Please just come with me.”
Suspicion stirred in Quinn’s chest. “Why?”
“I can answer all your questions if you come with me. If you don’t, I can’t answer any of them.” Leela gave her a stiff smile. “It’s all right. You’re not in danger.”
“Should I be worried that I might have been?” Quinn asked, her voice rising.
Leela’s smile was wide. As far as Quinn could tell, it was genuine. Warm. Amused—the dry amusement Leela often showed. “Now you worry about that?”
This was the Leela Quinn knew. She didn’t relax, though.
Leela stepped to one side and lifted her chin to look at the Escalade. “A ten-minute ride, then you get answers. Then I’ll bring you home. Promise.”
Answers. The magic word.
Quinn reached back and hooked her denim jacket off the coat rack and her keys out of the dish on the shelf beneath. “Okay,” she told Leela.
[4]
Sunday, November 10th
At the end of the ten-minute drive, which was silent, the Escalade pulled into a strip mall Quinn knew well. She bent to peer through the window, scanning the fashion store, the coffee shop, the comic store, and the 7-Eleven which drew most of the traffic. At the opposite end to the big 7-Eleven store was an equally large storefront which had once been a real estate office. For over a year, the big glass panes at the front of the store had been covered in white paper. A formal notice on the door announced the closure of the real estate office.
Leela, who was a small woman, bounced out of the Escalade and over to the door of the real estate office. She put her hand on the push bar and looked back at Quinn, as Quinn stepped out of the Escalade. Leela raised her brow above the rim of her glasses. “We even have tea,” she told Quinn.
“Who is ‘we’?” Quinn demanded. She followed Leela into the store, her heart stirring uneasily. Only the promise of answers kept her moving forward. This moment was a replica of every suspense movie she’d ever seen. She didn’t think this happened to normal people.
When she moved inside and the glass door swung shut behind her, Quinn was not surprised to see cheap, battered office desks and people. Only, the people were sitting on the desks, all of them holding paper coffee cups and talking in low voices. A carton of doughnuts sat in the center of the desk in the middle of the group, beside cardboard carry trays with more cups pushed into the holders.
Everyone looked up as Leela and Quinn entered.
Quinn came to a halt three steps inside the door. Leela moved on. She lifted one of the coffee cups out of the cardboard tray and hooked a cruller out of the box of doughnuts with a soft sound of pleasure. She lifted herself up onto a desk beside a man with black hair and brows and a widow’s peak at the top of his high forehead.
Quinn knew the man. His name was Lochan, and he was Leela’s boyfriend—or so Quinn had believed. The two of them had eaten burgers with Quinn and Denis a week before the explosion. It had been a fun evening, with lots of laughter and teasing about music nerds versus computer nerds, which Leela and Lochan were.
The one person not sitting on a desk was a middle-aged woman with black hair which waved and curled down to her shoulder blades. The woman wore a dark purple business suit and a white T-shirt. She had beautiful dark eyes.
She came toward Quinn, with her hand raised. It was automatic for Quinn to take her hand and let the woman shake it.
The woman smiled at Quinn with a smile wh
ich seemed genuine. “My name is Dima. I’m so pleased you came to speak to us.”
“I was promised answers,” Quinn said.
Dima nodded. “And you shall have them. There are some things we cannot tell you, of course. What we can, I will share with you freely. Would you like to sit down? Would you like tea? Leela tells us you like Irish Breakfast tea. I didn’t think it would be difficult to find, although this is Boston, isn’t it?”
As she spoke, the woman drew Quinn toward the center desk where the cups waited. She didn’t lay a hand on Quinn yet by gesture and body movements, Quinn was shepherded farther into the room.
Even though she didn’t remember agreeing to it, Quinn found the last of the cups in her hand. The strong aroma of Irish Breakfast tea rose from the opening in the lid.
The box of doughnuts was thrust toward her. She shook her head.
“I told you we should have got bagels,” Leela’s voice was muffled by a mouthful of doughnut.
Quinn considered the group. “Who are you?”
“Who do you think we are?” Dima asked.
“FBI? Homeland Security? Undercover detectives? How would I know?”
Dima leaned against the center desk, not quite sitting on it, with both hands curled over the edge as if she was popping herself up. Her pleasant expression didn’t shift. “And if I tell you we are CIA officers?”
Quinn’s heart fluttered. “Are you telling me that?” She shifted her gaze to where Leela was sitting on the desk, munching. “Does that mean you are not a student and not interested in yoga, then?” The question emerged with a sarcastic note which Quinn did not intend. It was a measure of her building fear.
“I like yoga just fine,” Leela said. She grimaced. “I was a student, once,” she said. “I kinda exaggerated that.”
Quinn looked at Dima. Dima waited patiently. “You’re really CIA?” Quinn asked.
“We really are CIA,” Dima replied. “I can show you my shield and my ID. For now, though, I’d like to keep this just on a first name basis. Please, sit down, Quinn. This may take a moment or two.”
Hunting The Kobra Page 2
