Unraveled

by Allie Hawkins

  “Sit still,” she hissed at Michael. “This is hard enough.”

  “Quinn...”

  Her stomach flip-flopped. Her fingers shook so hard she stopped pulling at the ropes. “That’s Pierce. I need—”

  “You need to get me untied.” Michael jerked his head around. His face was stone. His eyes looked right through Quinn.

  “Need me to help the poor baby?” Rex asked.

  The skin at the back of Quinn’s neck crawled. The image of Rex touching Pierce revolted her. She said, “You need to stay exactly where you are.”

  “Quin-n-n-n?”

  Her heart fired too fast, making her lightheaded. “I’m coming, Pierce.”

  “Sounds like a dying man if I ever heard one,” Rex said.

  She whipped around and nearly lost her balance. The gun banged against the back of Michael’s chair. “Shut up.”

  “Don’t drop the damn gun.” The sharp menace in Michael’s command dropped like a rock in her belly.

  “Oh, no. Don’t drop the damn gun.” Rex sounded so much like Michael that another shiver shook Quinn.

  “You can’t take care of Pierce and police Rex.” The easy rhythm of Michael’s voice modulated his tone, capturing the essence of his old self. Confident. Logical. Familiar.

  “Oh, Mike, you sly, sly, sly dog.”

  “Go to hell, Rex.”

  “Been there, Mikey, done that.”

  The last knot refused to give under Quinn’s stiff fingers. Something in Rex’s taunting Michael triggered a barrage of questions in her brain. What if Pierce hadn’t called her name when she arrived because he’d been unconscious? What if she had her priorities all wrong? What if untying Michael put Pierce’s life in jeopardy?

  The acrid smell of her own fear engulfed her, numbing her fingers, her muscles, her brain. Panic clawed at her stomach. Pierce. He needed her. Now. She couldn’t rescue him and Michael at the same time. For a moment, Quinn felt as if she’d stepped off the roof of a twenty-story building.

  Michael said, “You’re doing great, Quinn.”

  Uh-huh. She twisted the ropes. Monkeys used their opposable thumbs more efficiently than she ever would. Despite the faux encouragement in Michael’s voice—intended to dupe Rex into thinking she was adept at untying knots?—she was too clumsy. Too worried about Pierce.

  Let Michael get free on his own. She tapped his shoulder, ignored his scowl and mimed the rope sliding over his right hand.

  Lying through her teeth, she announced heartily, “There! You’re free.”

  Her kid brother knew her well enough to follow her lead. “Check on Pierce. Give me the gun.”

  “Might wanna rethink who holds the gun.” Rex inched further under the bed.

  At a loss where to put the thing, Quinn laid it in Michael’s lap. “Better flex your fingers a couple of times first. We don’t want any accidents.”

  Under the circumstances, she was surprised she could utter words.

  She mouthed, “Be careful,” and crabbed away from Michael’s chair.

  Tears blinded her as she passed by Floyd. Focus on Pierce. Nothing else. Just Pierce. Hold on. I love you. I love you. Please let me tell you.

  Terrified, she rounded the corner of the bed and checked over her shoulder.

  Michael flexed his fingers and shot his free hand in the air.

  “Yessss!” For a heartbeat, Quinn sagged with relief.

  Chapter 22

  “Pierce? Pierce, I love you.” Quinn’s voice sounded so much like an angel, Pierce thought he’d died and gone to heaven.

  The drum corps in his head stopped practicing. He drifted into blessed silence on a cloud of Quinn’s rose scent. He held out his hand, but could raise only one finger. One eye was completely swelled shut. The other let him see shadows and movement, but not her face. He wanted to tell her he was okay, but his throat hurt too much. Something haywire between his brain and fingertips. He couldn’t even squeeze her fingers to signal...

  “You need a doctor.” Her tears slithered down his cheek, pooled in his right ear and gave him hope. He was conscious.

  “Don’t even think about moving, Rex.”

  Michael’s terse command came from another planet, but Pierce groaned.

  “Shhhh.” Quinn touched the side of his head that didn’t feel like raw meat. “Michael has a gun.”

  Rex whimpered. “I need a doctor too.”

  “Go to the back of the line,” Michael said.

  Pierce clenched his jaw and thought an invisible floor sander had scraped the back of his throat. The need to tell Quinn something kept him from passing out.

  “Don’t move,” she ordered in a breathy rush. “You may have a concussion.”

  The drum corps started practice again, and Pierce felt his head separate from his body. God, tell her...something...important. A small dot of white light slammed into his head.

  Pierce heard the sharp intake of Quinn’s breath as she examined the marks on his throat. “Everything under control, Michael?”

  “Nothing to control,” Rex said. “I’m hardly breathing.”

  “What do you need, Sis?”

  “Call 9-1-1.”

  Pierce still couldn’t squeeze her little finger.

  “Got it. You stay with Pierce.”

  “You’re sure you can manage?” Pierce heard her reluctance to leave him.

  “He can manage the whole damn world with the gun,” Rex hollered.

  Air in Pierce’s lungs ran out. Quinn faded in and out of his line of vision. The pinpoint of light flashed again. Careful, careful, he gurgled.

  ****

  The explosion boomed like a freight train derailing.

  Stunned, Quinn fell across Pierce. The mewing sound he made terrified her, but there wasn’t time to examine him for additional injuries. She remained with her arms and legs splayed in four directions, shielding most of his vital body parts. Her heart drummed high in her chest. Any second, she expected a chunk of ceiling to brain her.

  “Don’t move,” she whispered to Pierce.

  “Quinn?” Michael’s wail turned her stomach upside down.

  Pierce emitted low, guttural noises. She scrambled off him, but realized she couldn’t stand. Salt flooded the back of her throat. A hot, metallic stench suffocated her. Slowly, she raised her head up over the edge of the king-sized bed.

  Opposite her, Michael turned the gun over and over. He spoke to it instead of to Quinn. “He grabbed my ankle. When I started for the phone...”

  “Is he...” Quinn’s throat jammed.

  “Why’d he grab my ankle? I told him we’d work everything out...”

  “Call 9-1-1.” Quinn thought she’d never sounded so calm.

  She didn’t trust Michael.

  She didn’t trust herself either.

  One or both of them was going to throw up if they had to wade through the sea of Rex’s blood to reach the phone. Or, if they didn’t stop staring at the gaping hole in his chest.

  Sweat beaded her brother’s forehead. A green cast tinged his five o’clock shadow and made him paler than Pierce. She swiped at the droplets rolling off her own eyebrows. Michael’s blue eyes glittered feverishly. She blinked rapidly.

  The body at their feet didn’t disappear.

  “Lay the gun down, Michael.” She gave the order a sing-song tenderness.

  His gaze swiveled to hers, then back to his hand movements. Her tongue felt gargantuan in her hot, dry mouth. If he kept turning the gun over and over, he might shoot himself in the foot. Or accidentally shoot her.

  She took a baby step. “I have to call an ambulance.”

  He flinched. The tempo of the gun-twirling sped up.

  Heart drumming, mind racing, Quinn froze. “Pierce needs a doctor.”

  No mention of Rex. They’d played the let’s-pretend game for years. Pretend Daddy hadn’t left them. Pretend he’d taken a trip. Pretend he’d come home someday. Pretend everything would be the way it was before he left.

  C
loud Nine dipped, and Quinn gave herself a hard mental shake. She held out her hand, pitching her voice to the big-sister tone she’d used with him forever. “I’ll take care of everything, Michael.”

  The old magic worked, but it took a little longer. After what felt like a century, Michael handed her the gun and said, “Luce...”

  “After I call 9-1-1, okay?”

  ****

  “Your brother needs a lawyer.” Detective Ryder touched Quinn’s shoulder, drawing her away from the paramedics loading Pierce onto a gurney.

  Her brain buzzed. “For self-defense?”

  “Without a lawyer, it could come down to voluntary manslaughter.”

  “But-but...” Quinn sputtered, her stomach on fire. She was going with Pierce.

  Pierce’s critical condition justified forgetting about Michael. The paramedics suspected a deep contusion to Pierce’s brain and laceration of his jugular vein. The chaos of dozens of police and crime-scene worker bees drowned out every thought except one. So far, she was doing a crappy job of taking care of Pierce and a lousy job looking after Michael.

  “Hey,” someone yelled, “this cat’s breathing.”

  “We’re outta here,” the tallest paramedic yelled.

  “I’ll take care of the cat.” Ryder pressed a cell phone at Quinn. “Call a lawyer from the ambulance.”

  ****

  “To pace or not to pace, that is the question.” As the only occupant in St. Luke’s surgical waiting room at 11:40 A.M., Quinn hugged her ribs and tried to take a breath deep enough to blast her brain with oxygen.

  The shallowest intake made her rethink that strategy. Fire spurted into her ribs hurt. Especially when she sat. Or stood. Or moved. Or thought about moving.

  Sympathy pains for Pierce. Had he heard her repeatedly declare her love?

  A glance at the clock told her he’d been in surgery less than twenty minutes.

  “Ten hours minimum,” the neurosurgeon had told her. “Probably twelve.”

  He’d also suggested she call someone to keep her company. “About three, three-thirty, you’ll be climbing the walls,” Dr. Delgado said over his shoulder.

  Michael was the logical person to hold her hand. But her brother had his own troubles. Images of him stamping out license plates looped in slow motion through her mind. A deep breath zapped the reruns. Despite the searing pain, she felt calmer. During the eleven-minute ambulance ride, she’d called Nikki Dawson, legal counsel for Alexander and Associates.

  Nikki, like hordes of other shopaholics, was Christmas shopping on The Plaza. But she answered her cell and became all business once Quinn stated why she needed a criminal attorney. She immediately recommended her husband—at home with the kids.

  Hope had fluttered in Quinn’s chest. “They took Michael to the Brookside station.”

  ****

  Detective Ryder danced into the waiting room with canary feathers dropping from his mouth. He brought with him the scent of cinnamon, triggering for Quinn memories of Thanksgivings past—apple crisp, pumpkin pie and mulled cider—superimposed by flashes of their oh-so-recent-garage-encounter.

  “Good news. Your old cat’s gonna live. I’d say he’s a whole lot better ’n you.”

  “I’m fine.” Her knees shook, and her pulse wobbled. Remembering her ribs, she hugged her waist. Pierce will be fine too. He has to be fine. He’s as tough as Floyd. “That’s not good news,” she shouted. “It’s wonderful news.”

  Ryder jumped back, clapping his hands over his ears. The feather flurries slowed to a dribble.

  Quinn’s heart thumped. Cold all over, she eyed him. “Is this a good-news, bad-news scenario? Is there a problem about Michael?”

  God, she’d forgotten him. “Did his lawyer show up? Where is he?”

  Ryder held his hands up like a traffic cop, performed one of his dry-land double-axles, and moved closer. “Slow down. I know it’s been a tough day. That’s why I thought you could use the news about the cat.”

  The hollow in her chest contracted, painfully squeezing her heart and lungs. But the tiny invisible antennae behind her ears shot up like periscopes. They caught his real message before her mind nailed what he was doing.

  Her breath hitched and certainty built. He was playing cat and mouse. Exactly the way he’d dropped hints in the garage. Teasing. Taunting. Daring her to take his bait.

  Except she didn’t know what he was dangling in front of her.

  “You haven’t answered me.” Terse, low and pissy.

  “Because you won’t like what I have to tell you.”

  ****

  Dr. Roberto Delgado slipped into the waiting room at 3:28. His mask swung like a little green basket around his neck. Quinn still felt overwhelmed by Ryder’s pessimism about the possible charges against Michael. She stood numb and mindless, trying to get the surgeon to come into sharper focus. He flexed thin, square fingers. Dread crawled along her arms.

  “Pierce?” Images exploded of him in the ambulance—too white, barely breathing, but probably able to hear her descriptions of their wedding according to the EMT.

  “Eight, maybe ten more hours.” Dr. Delgado tilted his head to one side and massaged his neck. “His condition’s more critical than we thought.”

  “Will I be able to see him tonight?” The cold, antiseptic smell of alcohol, kindled a spark of hope. “Just for a minute. I need to tell him something. Something important.”

  “We’ll chat after surgery.” The doctor straightened, sidled past Quinn, then sprinted through the door without looking back.

  “Ask me if he excelled in Bedside Manners 101.” She turned to Ryder for confirmation.

  The scent of cinnamon hung heavy as incense, but her angel of mixed tidings had left without a good-bye. Surprisingly, he’d left her laptop on an easy chair. She stared at the chair as if it held a bomb. In the chaos of rushing Pierce to the hospital, she’d forgotten leaving the computer in his kitchen. How had Ryder noticed?

  Undercover narcotic cops probably notice everything,. She frowned and tapped the cover on the laptop a couple of times. Why had an undercover narcotics cop shown up at a murder investigation anyway? Narcotics cops played no part in the choreography of protecting the crime scene. Homicide interviewed Michael. She’d climbed into the ambulance without mentioning her cybersleuthing.

  So, why had Ryder responded to the 9-1-1 call? She dug her cell phone out of her coat pocket. Cop or not, she didn’t trust him. Not after his stunt in the parking garage. As the BOTN main screen came up, she balanced the phone between her ear and shoulder and dialed Michael. She keyed in Phantom and opera with the concentration of a bomb-maker.

  “You’ve reached voice mail...”

  “Damn.” What if Luce went into labor before the police finished their questions?

  Thoughts of Luce re-fired a question that had nagged Quinn the moment she’d entered Pierce’s bedroom. What was Michael doing in Kansas City?

  Something to do with Rex no doubt, but what?

  If Michael hadn’t pulled that trigger—

  Without warning, a slow-motion video of the dead man unwound. Quinn blinked, but a close-up frame filled with blood, drew her again and again to the crimson pool like a shark. She shook away the memory, dialed Pierce’s house, keyed in m-a-s-k, the password for “Unnumbered Accounts in Latin America.”

  The screen flashed. She leaned closer, and an invisible knife slipped between her ribs. She didn’t recognize the clipped voice on the phone. She identified herself, asked for Detective Smith and bit back a childish scream when she was put on hold.

  Calm down. Use the time...She scanned the computer screen. Whatever happened to user-friendly interfaces? Were all the BOTN users geeks? The design of BOTN flaunted accepted programming conventions and ignored common user practices. Her first search sent her down a cyberhole. A second attempt wound through so many levels she lost track of her location. She finally ended up back at the main menu rehearsing her first words to Pierce.

  “Give
it up, Sherlock.” Pain from her ribs radiated up her back, into her skull.

  Whatever Tony had found that allowed him to frame Rex eluded her. So did hard facts proving Tony had embezzled the money. Both men were dead. Pierce faced months of recovery—maybe even memory loss. What if the truth never came out?

  Her heart hammered. Michael would have a new baby and a new job. He wouldn’t have a free minute—certainly no time to clear Rex’s name, though she felt sure he’d try.

  Pain ratcheted up behind Quinn’s eyes. She blinked and stared at the ceiling. She’d talk to Michael. Make sure he didn’t go into a funk. Damn, what a mess.

  Worse than a mess for Pierce—hurt so bad he might not know she loved him.

  Detective Smith came on the phone. “Your brother left about two minutes ago.”

  Quinn closed her eyes and covered her mouth. Her heart yo-yoed, but caution uncoiled in her queasy stomach. “Does that mean—is he a free man?”

  “We don’t usually send guilty men home.”

  “Of course not.” Tears thickened her voice.

  Of course not, because the police should give Michael a medal. Two medals, she amended. One for her life, one for Pierce’s. An adrenaline jolt brought the tears. Tears of joy and hope and pride. Her brother, the hero.

  She repeated the phrase in her head once more, but couldn’t drown out two louder questions. Why had Ryder been so negative? What did he know?

  Enough to warn her Michael needed a lawyer.

  Quinn tasted copper. Laughing and crying at the same time, she swiped at her eyes and dialed. When Michael didn’t pick up, her heart dropped. She said, “Call me, Baby Bro. I’m at St. Luke’s. Pierce is in surgery.” Her voice cracked. She recovered, adding, “Love to Luce. I hope this time tomorrow you and she are holding the newest Alexander.”

  Unstoppable tears streaked down her cheeks. She bit down hard on her bottom lip. She clicked the phone’s OFF button. She would not ruin her brother’s happiness by spilling her worst fears. Pierce might never recover his full memory. She squeezed her eyes shut, reveling in scenes of Michael and Luce—first with a pink bundle, then a blue one. The ache in her ribs blurred more details.

  Determined to hold onto the fantasy, she set the laptop aside and lurched toward the hall. Two steps and she became seven years old pushing an imaginary baby carriage. How many times had she and Michael pushed her favorite doll around their cul-de-sac? Mommy, Daddy and Baby. Her stomach plummeted and she stumbled. Daddy. How many times had she dreamed of putting her very own wiggly, black Cocker Spaniel puppy in the same carriage?