Perfect Timing

by Catherine Anderson

“Checked that. Found nothing.”

  Nona frowned, then shrugged. “Well, we’ll figure it out by watching the camera footage. A housefly can’t come onto this property without the cameras picking it up.”

  Without waiting for Quincy to escort her, Nona strode from the kitchen, took a right in the hall, and went straight to Quincy’s in-home office, where banks of security monitors flanked one wall. She sat in a caster chair and rolled over to the open laptop, which ran the program for the entire system. Using the mouse, she slumped back to view the five wall-mounted monitors, which housed viewing frames of the immense acreage, the exteriors and interiors of the buildings, and also showed every angle, inside and out, of Quincy’s residence.

  “What time did you leave the stable last night?” Nona asked.

  Quincy thought back. “It was a little after twelve. I’ve been keeping long hours lately.”

  Standing behind Nona to watch over her shoulder, Quincy saw that she was backing up the cameras to the stroke of midnight. As she adjusted the speed to a midscale fast forward, she asked, “So what’s this gal’s story?”

  Quincy felt silly even repeating it, but he told Nona the whole story. Nona huffed under her breath. “You check with the cops to see if any females fitting her description have slipped away from a psychiatric ward?”

  Quincy angled Nona a questioning glance. “Do they still lock people up in wards? I thought most places like that were shut down, and patients are allowed to lead normal lives, taking prescribed medications at home for treatment.”

  “We no longer have horrific asylums where people are imprisoned and treated worse than animals,” the security officer replied. “But nice facilities do still exist, sometimes special wards in regular hospitals for temporary treatment, other times private or publicly funded retreats where people receive individual counseling, medical treatment, and rehab until they’re ready to reenter society. Most of those facilities have high-security wings for patients who are so ill, either temporarily or permanently, that they present a danger to themselves or others.” Nona glanced up, meeting his gaze. “Did I just touch on a sore spot?”

  A picture of Ceara’s face flashed through Quincy’s mind. Those blue eyes, that hint of a sweet smile, the dimple in her cheek. He guessed meeting her had made him take a mental step back. “Not a sore spot, exactly. I’m just thinking I’m probably a little nuts myself, and that all of us have our quirks.” He waved a hand. “My family is convinced I’m over the edge about my diet and workout regimens. The thought of being locked up because I’m a little weird just gave me pause.”

  Nona chuckled. “Point taken, and I agree that we’re all a little crazy. It’s just that some of us need more medical intervention than others, and those who aren’t yet ready to follow a regimen of medication at home need to be in a supervised environment for a while. So let me rephrase my question. Have you checked to see if any woman in one of those places who fits your burglar’s description has taken an unauthorized outing?”

  “No.”

  “Get on it.” Nona adjusted the fast-forward speed of the security tapes. “But first I’d really appreciate a cup of coffee if you’ve got any.”

  Quincy got the coffee for Nona while he assigned his father the task of calling Quincy’s paternal uncle Hugh, a state trooper fast approaching retirement, to check on patient escapees with red hair who’d flown the coop over the last few days. Frank took only seconds longer to complete his task than Quincy did to brew a fresh pot of coffee. He didn’t want to serve Nona the thick black sludge he’d made at four that morning.

  “Hugh ran a search,” Frank informed them. “No fruitcakes have escaped psychiatric wards in Oregon in the last week.”

  Quincy winced. “No name-calling, Dad. Let’s just refer to these people as confused—or something.”

  Frank paused while Quincy set a mug of coffee on the built-in desk near Nona’s elbow. “Excuse me for breathin’. What put a burr under your saddle?”

  Quincy had no idea why he was taking umbrage. “Sorry, Dad. It’s just— Oh, never mind. Continue with your report.”

  “The most recent escape of a confused person was eight days ago, a man with tattoos all over his face. No redheaded women, period, Irish or otherwise, in over six months, and all of ’em that escaped earlier than that got picked up and taken back where they belonged. Of course, this Ceara gal could have dyed her hair.”

  Quincy mentally shook his head. Ceara’s hair was a natural red. He would have bet the bank on it. “So where does that leave us?” he mused aloud.

  Nona chuckled. “Well, it doesn’t leave us with a druid who’s nearly five hundred years old. We’ll get to the bottom of it. Just relax. Watching camera footage takes patience.” She took a sip of coffee, her gaze never leaving the screens. All Quincy saw were frames of the ranch during the dead of night, when nothing stirred except for an occasional horse in its stall. “We’ll see where she came onto the property, how she got into the building, and everything she did after she got inside. Trust me on it. And we’ll have the weak spots in the system fixed before a lamb can shake its tail.”

  Quincy had complete faith in Nona Redcliff and in the security system she’d installed. “I’m not worried. It just baffles me how she got in. You come out to check the equipment every six months, and you know immediately at the observation center when a camera goes haywire. It’s hard for me to swallow that this happened because of component failure.”

  Two hours later, Quincy still wasn’t worried, even though the camera footage had shown nothing out of the ordinary. He’d given his dad the comfortable leather desk chair while he sat on the less cushioned caster seat reserved for the occasional office visitor. He and Frank sat behind Nona, watching the screens just as closely as she did. The remainder of Nona’s team had left the house to test fence perimeter cameras and examine every square inch of the arena. Quincy hoped they’d report back soon that they had found a point of entry.

  As for the camera footage, nothing popped up. Absolutely nothing. Glancing at the time of the footage being viewed, which was three hundred hours, Quincy was about to lose patience and ask Nona to increase the fast-forward speed. But no, wait. Quincy saw a flash of bright light and knew his dad and Nona had also seen it, because they stiffened.

  “What the hell was that?” Quincy asked.

  Nona clicked on the upper right frame of monitor four to enlarge the view, reversed the footage, and then they all watched that section of film again, this time in the slowest mode possible. Again, there was a blinding flare of light, and the next instant, Ceara stood in Beethoven’s stall. Her delicately sculpted face was just as Quincy remembered, too pretty for words, and even on camera, that red hair was extraordinary. She had a dazed look, suggesting that she felt disoriented and confused. She stood on the center of a star-shaped piece of cloth. At each point of the star was affixed a stone that appeared to glow eerily blue. As Ceara stepped off the cloth, the light in the stones vanished. She wobbled on her feet. Then she leaned against the black stallion that normally allowed no one but Quincy to touch him. To Quincy’s consternation, Beethoven never even twitched his tail. Instead, he turned his head to nuzzle Ceara’s shoulder as if he were reuniting with an old and trusted friend.

  After seeming to regain some of her strength, Ceara carefully folded the star, keeping the stones at the center as if to protect them. She then placed the bundle inside the tapestry satchel, which already bulged with other items. Quincy had searched the bag earlier, but he hadn’t noticed the star. He guessed that he had mistaken the bundle of cloth for clothing, and wondered what else he might have missed.

  There was no time to return to the arena right then to collect the satchel. “Back up,” he told Nona. “I want to watch that again. It’s a trick of some kind. She used an explosion of light so the cameras couldn’t record how she got into the stall.”

  “That’s the only explanation,” Nona agreed.

  But after several replays, they still could
see nothing, because the flare of brightness caused a whiteout. Again and again, it looked as if Ceara had simply appeared in the stall from out of nowhere.

  Nona used her cell phone to call one of her subordinates. “I want you to go over the black stallion’s stall again,” she ordered. “Keep a lookout for anything that could have created a bright flash of light.” She listened for a moment. “I know you’ve examined every square inch of the stall, Matt. But you’ll be searching for something else this time.” Pause. “Yes, I know, but that’s how the cookie crumbles.”

  She ended the call. “Lunchtime,” she said over her shoulder. “It’s only eleven, but Matt’s already watching the clock for noon break.” She backed up the footage again. “Okay, one more time, and then I think we should move on to see what she does and where she goes inside the arena after gaining entry. Agreed?”

  “Agreed. If she went near the feed room or hay storage, I swear to God, she’ll be an old woman before she gets out of jail.”

  They resumed watching the footage. After resting against the horse, Ceara wobbled to the stall gate to peer out at the exercise arena. Then, apparently exhausted, she collected her satchel and made herself a bed in the straw in one corner of the stall and lay down to sleep.

  “That’s exactly where I found her just before dawn,” Quincy said. “How the hell does that make sense? Keep watching her. I can’t believe she went to the trouble of trespassing onto my land and breaking into my arena, only to take a nap.”

  “I’m with you on that.” Nona let the camera footage continue forward, increasing the speed to save time. After a few minutes, she said, “Good morning, Quincy. There you are, coming in through the personnel door. Our druid is still fast asleep. Maybe she just got tired and planned to do some mischief later, unaware that you always start your day so early.”

  “This makes no sense.” Anger burned at the back of Quincy’s throat. “During that bright flash, she somehow got into that stall, and she damned well had a reason.”

  “Unless she’s tellin’ the truth, and she just got dropped there,” Frank inserted.

  Quincy sent his father a querulous glance. “Come on, Dad. Have you lost your mind?”

  Frank sat forward on his chair, his gaze fixed on the frame where Ceara was stirring awake. When she struggled to her feet, he rubbed his jaw and frowned. “That outfit she’s got on—looks like the real thing to me.”

  Chill bumps rose on Quincy’s arms. “Dad, people create costumes like that all the time. They may look authentic, but they aren’t.”

  Frank sighed and stood up. “I reckon you’re right.” He stepped over to shake hands with Nona. “Good seein’ you again.” Turning to Quincy, he added, “I’m goin’ into town for a bit. Got some errands to run. I’ll stop somewhere and grab us some lunch. We’ll talk about this some more after my brain has had a break.”

  Quincy’s own brain felt weary, so he couldn’t begrudge his father a little time to recharge. “There’s a great health food deli on Third.”

  “Health food?” Frank groaned. “I had my mouth all set for a big, juicy hamburger loaded with cheese, and an extra-large order of fries.”

  “You know I don’t eat crap like that.”

  Frank shrugged. “Okay, fine, health food. But I’ll order sandwiches, none of the damned green stuff.”

  “I’ll have a kale wrap. The gal knows me. Tell her the usual for me, but to add some bean sprouts this time.”

  Frank pretended to shudder as he left the room. Nona laughed and shook her head as she resumed watching the camera footage, once again backing up to midnight.

  “Isn’t that pointless at this stage?” Quincy asked. “With that bright flash, we can’t see how she got in.”

  Nona sighed. “I’ve learned from experience that I can miss one little detail on a film, and when I finally find it, all the pieces fall together. Sticking tight is my job. There’s no need for you to stay.”

  Quincy had all the ranches covered for the day, and he preferred to keep Nona company until Clint got home with his sick wife. Then, and only then, would his concern for his beloved horses take second seat to his worry for Loni. “Two sets of eyes are better than one. I want this nailed down before the day is over.”

  Chapter Three

  Frank returned an hour and a half later, his arms laden with a cardboard box crowned with two sack lunches from Quincy’s favorite deli. As he strode through the kitchen to the formal dining room, he hollered at Quincy to join him. Quincy abandoned Nona to do her job and followed his dad up the hallway.

  “I didn’t order soft drinks,” Frank informed him. “I figured you’d rather have water. And I favor coffee. Nothin’ that dissolves a penny overnight is goin’ into my stomach unless it’s laced with Jack Daniel’s.”

  Quincy was too tired to inform his father that pennies didn’t really dissolve in carbonated drinks. “You guessed right on the water. Normally I’m well on my way to downing my daily eighty ounces by now.” Quincy grabbed the sack with a Q scribbled on its fold. “What’s in the box?”

  “Stuff from a safety-deposit box at the bank. Been years since I opened it. Last time was shortly before your mama died, I think.” Frank grabbed his own lunch. “The box will keep. After flyin’ in from Portland, we didn’t get home until four this mornin’, and I’d barely grabbed a wink before the sirens woke me up. Didn’t eat dinner last night or any breakfast. My belly button is gnawing a hole through my backbone.”

  Quincy went to the kitchen to grab a glass of water for himself and a cup of black coffee for his father. The two men settled at one end of the long oak table to eat. Before beginning, they crossed themselves and said a blessing. Nona appeared in the archway just as Quincy took a bite of his kale wrap.

  “We’re breaking for lunch,” she said. With a glance at her watch, she added, “Thirty minutes each way and thirty to eat. We’ll be back at about two forty-five, give or take.”

  Quincy managed to swallow. “Enjoy the break. See you in a bit.”

  Nona left. Quincy turned back to his lunch. Mary, from the deli, had sent him a side of sugar peas and hummus dip. Frank had a bag of greasy potato chips and a fruit tart, one of those assembly-line things full of fat, white flour, and sugar, and with little nutrient value. “How can you eat shit like that?” Quincy asked.

  “Just like this.” Frank took a huge bite of a double-decker sandwich and grinned with a bulging cheek. After chewing a moment, he swallowed and added, “I’m surprised your eyes ain’t green, son. You eat the strangest things. That kale, for instance. Why do you think it’s so great?”

  “It’s a super vegetable.” Quincy knew that fell on deaf ears. “Full of iron and calcium. You should read about it, Dad.”

  “Readin’ about it is all I’ll ever do. Dee Dee gets some spinach into me every now and then, and I’ll even force down asparagus and broccoli on occasion, but that’s about as healthy as I’m willin’ to eat. I’m a meat-and-potatoes man. I do have a salad every night, but only because she won’t serve my main courses until my bowl’s clean.”

  “Meat and potatoes with lots of butter, gravy, and grease tossed in, not to mention heart-attack breakfasts.”

  Frank chuckled. “I’ll die happy. You’ll die hungry for some real food.”

  The argument was one of long standing, so both of them tucked back into their lunches without speaking again. When the sacks and napkins had been dispensed with, Quincy returned to the dining room. “Okay, what’s in the carton? I know you didn’t open the safety-deposit box at the bank and bring that stuff home just for the exercise.”

  Frank moved to the end of the table and opened the cardboard flaps. “Old family heirlooms, son. I doubt you’ve ever clapped eyes on ’em. After your mama passed away, I pretty much couldn’t bring myself to look at any of these things. Not because my family history no longer mattered to me, but because your mama got so excited about every little thing. Every couple of months, she’d insist on a trip to the bank, just so she
could read this or that. She used to swear that someday, after you boys was grown, she’d track my family clear back to Ireland. I just couldn’t face all them sweet memories, you know?”

  Quincy’s memories of his mother were dim. He’d been young when she died, and when he tried to picture her face, all he saw was the photograph of her that his father had kept on his nightstand until he finally remarried. “I wish I’d known her better.”

  Frank’s eyes grew misty. “Yep, me, too. But it wasn’t meant to be, I don’t guess, and life goes on. There was a time when I didn’t think it would, but now . . .” His voice trailed off as he lowered a hand inside the box. “Well, now I have Dee Dee and a lot of wonderful memories of your mama. In many ways, I’m luckier than most men ever thought of bein’.”

  Quincy inched closer to the box. “So what have you got there?”

  “Harrigan history,” Frank said softly. “Some of it to be proud of, and some of it skeletons in our closet.”

  “Skeletons?”

  Frank trailed his fingertips over the leather binding of what looked like an ancient journal about to fall apart with age. “Not all my ancestors was what I’d call normal, let’s just say.” He motioned Quincy closer. “Come on. Have a look.”

  Quincy moved to stand beside his dad, acutely conscious as he did that he was only a couple of inches taller than Frank and in almost every other way his duplicate—same build, same square and work-hardened hands, and the same coloring. Family. In that moment, as Quincy stared into the carton, the meaning of that word took on a whole new significance. The old Bible and journals were a physical record of Harrigan history.

  “Damn, Dad. I’m afraid to touch anything for fear it’ll disintegrate.”

  Frank chuckled. “I kept all this stuff for you kids. Not much point in that if you’re afraid to look at it. If one of the bindings falls apart, we can always get it restored.”

  With cautious reverence, Quincy lifted the Bible from the container. The cover was dark brown leather and fragile with dryness. He could imagine the hands of countless Harrigan ancestors touching the book just as he was now. He turned to the first page, which sported a yellowed and faded family tree. The name O’Hourigan leaped out at him. “Shit, it’s true, then. We changed our name from O’Hourigan to Harrigan.”