“Once I‘m free, we part ways. You go back to your life. Don’t forget who you are, Quin.”
Who am I? Growing up in Minneapolis, after the deaths of his parents, Quin bounced from one foster home to the next, but he felt more comfortable as a Sioux now. And this life among the Wakan wasn’t perfect, but it fit him pretty well.
Quin nodded, smiling again, allowing the Woman of the Storm’s attitude to pass over him like a dark cloud. He had no interest in returning to his old life.
Man is the wolf’s only predator.
Ben listened to his voicemail. It had taken exactly twenty-four hours for Senator Almquist to get back to him with his answer: No. The Republican Party wasn’t interested in the Rebecca Baron deal. The senator kept his distance and left Ben this disappointing news in a voicemail of generic phrases that couldn’t link him to any criminal activity.
The senator ended with, “I hope the weather back home improves.”
Screwed again, Ben thought, sitting in front of the fireplace in the library. Here he was living in the middle of nowhere, and he’d just lost his biggest source of investors. Plus, Quin and Ben’s former lackey, Christopher, were stealing away his largest client. He hated this crap. Running a legitimate business is hard enough; running an illegal business is impossible if everyone is willing to screw you.
He crushed an empty can of mineral water and threw it at the fireplace. The can bounced off a log and spun across the wood floor. It stopped at Harold’s feet as he entered the library. Ben preferred to be alone to think of a new strategy. He was about to tell Harold to get lost when he noticed a woman behind him.
Her face was red from windburn except around her eyes, where the outline of sunglasses had left a white shadow.
Harold stepped into the room rather proudly. “Ben, meet Dr. Kirsten Hayden. She’s Quin’s psychiatrist.”
“She’s what?”
The woman stomped across the wood floor in boots and shook Ben’s hand. “I apologize for the way I’m dressed. I just returned from a camping trip at Yellowstone.”
Her hand felt rugged, callused, and cold. Who camps in the middle of winter? These Minnesotans are nuts. “I didn’t know Quin was seeing a psychiatrist,” Ben said. “Come in, sit down. Would you like something to drink?”
“Black coffee,” she said, sitting in the wing-back chair next to Ben.
Harold picked up the crushed can and scurried across the room to fetch coffee. He moved quickly and returned with three coffees before Kirsten had made herself comfortable.
“Background me quickly, please, Harold,” Ben said without taking his eyes off the woman.
Harold lowered himself into a chair, careful not to spill coffee. “I was researching Quin’s background. One of his former professors said he had a mental condition. She gave me Dr. Hayden’s phone number.”
“What kind of mental condition?” Ben asked.
Harold sipped his coffee and continued chatting away, as if he were an expert on the human psyche. “He’s manic depressive, which means—“
“Those are your words, not mine,” Kirsten said.
“Harold! I’d like Dr. Hayden to explain it to me.”
“Oh, right. Go ahead, Doctor.”
Kirsten leaned toward Ben in her chair, warming her chapped hands. “I’m a doctor at the psychiatric unit at Saint Francis. Quin is one of my patients. I’m looking for him.”
“He’s not here,” Ben said. “Manic depression? His emotions seem under control to me.”
“His condition is far more complex than depression, and for privacy reasons I cannot be more specific. I’m only telling you this much so I can protect him.”
“I found pills in Quin’s desk,” Harold said.
“I can’t comment on that,” Dr. Hayden said.
“Remember how I told you I saw him talking to ravens in the trees?” Harold asked Ben. “I bet it’s all in his head.”
“What’s wrong with Quin?” Ben asked Dr. Hayden. “Why would you come here?”
She hestitated. “All I can say is what’s publicly available in court documents. Quin is prone to violence. Granted, violence is sometimes necessary when you’re a bounty hunter--
“Bounty hunter? What are you talking about?” Harold asked.
“He picks up odd jobs, bounty hunting,” she said.
Harold looked confused and shook his head. “We didn’t hire him as a bounty hunter. We hired him as an intern.”
Dr. Hayden looked perplexed as she sipped her coffee. The fire reddened her complexion even further. “He sent me an e-mail saying he was on an assignment with the FBI. He said he worked for a man named Lunde. Do you know anything about this?”
Ben figured it out as soon as she said it. The irony slapped him so hard, he thought he might be blushing. Quin was a bounty hunter. He had pursued Ben for the job right after Cassy and Martin disappeared. How had he known so quickly that there was an opening? Spencer Lunde had told him! And Ben realized Spencer Lunde wasn’t FBI at all. He and Quin were probably working for one of his competitors, like Benson & White. Now Cassy and Martin’s suspicious behavior made sense too—they’d also worked for Benson & White.
“Quin’s been hunting us,” he said to Harold. ”He’s a corporate spy.”
Harold reacted as if he were thinking the same thing. “Working for Benson & White, no doubt.”
“Now he and Christopher are screwing them over, too,” Ben said.
He could see Dr. Hayden’s confusion.
“OK, so we confront him, right?” Ben said, his pulse cranking up ten notches. He felt cornered. “We tell him we know he lied on his resume, and we fire him.”
Dr. Hayden shook her head. “Not so fast. Any confrontation with Quin could cause him to become violent.”
For Ben this was all good news: hallucinations, violent tendencies, just the kind of dirt he dreamed of on one of his opponents. There could be an opportunity here.
“Would he murder somebody?” Ben asked.
He could feel Harold shooting him a glance. Ben kept his own focus on the doctor.
“He never has,” she said.
“But is he capable of killing somebody?” Ben asked again, now looking over at Harold. He wondered if his partner could see where his logic was heading. Quin might be a great alibi, a solution to their recent problems.
“Depending on the situation, yes I would say he might be capable of murder,” she said. “Why?”
“I want to make sure my employees at Safe Haven are indeed safe,” Ben said as he began constructing an alibi.
“Do you know where Quin is?” she asked.
“He has an apartment behind Spyhouse Coffee,” Ben replied. “We’re not expecting him back until Monday.”
“If you see him, avoid confrontation,” she said. “I’ll try to connect with him myself. He usually listens to me. Don’t tell him you are aware of his disorder. That, in and of itself, could set him off.”
“We’ll keep all of this to ourselves,” Ben said, thinking about his escape plan.
It might work. The real FBI had called him with more questions about Cassy and Martin. If the FBI pressured him more, Ben could now point the finger at Quin. His new employee was mentally disturbed, hallucinating, and violent. The psycho intern had killed all these people.
Rebecca set the dining room table for two and dimmed the lights to create a soft mood. She placed the flowers that Quin brought on the middle of the table. Outside the window, the icehouses on the bay glowed and reflected off the ice, like votive candles.
Be calm, you’re talking too fast. She always rambled on when she felt nervous. She hadn’t entertained in how long? This was beginning to feel like a date, which was silly.
“Wine?” Quin asked, holding two glasses of merlot. The warm light of the chandelier cast a muted shadow across his brown skin. His shoulder-length black hair draped over the left lapel of his sport coat.
“Thank you,” she said, taking the glass.
“Ho
w about a toast?” he said.
“A toast?”
“We can’t take a sip without honoring something,” he said.
He was funny and playful. She admired this in him. “Go ahead.”
Quin raised his glass. “To Rebecca.” He paused, thinking for a moment, admiring her. He hardly knew her, so what could he possibly say?
Quin smiled and repeated himself. “To Rebecca, may you never forget how to live life.” He tapped his glass against hers and then took a sip.
A brave toast, she thought. He wasn’t like Mike, who always avoided talking about her condition. Quin faced it head on, accepted it, toasted to it. She took a long sip from her own glass and relaxed.
“Have a seat,” she said. “I’ll bring out the chicken.”
Bending over to pull it out of the oven, she felt dizzy and steadied herself by holding the counter.
Oh please, let me have one good night.
She felt like Cinderella at the ball—dressed in her gown, dancing with the prince, knowing that the clock would soon strike midnight.
At the table she set the dish next to the rice and gravy, and for a brief moment, neither one of them said anything. Quin had his eyes closed, as if he were saying a prayer before eating. Rebecca usually said grace, but never in front of someone. He seemed so at ease with himself.
He took his first bite and rolled his eyes. “Excellent chicken, Rebecca. You must’ve slaved your day away in the kitchen.”
She thought about her day. She had spent most of it rewriting her will. “Dining is more fun when you share a meal with a friend.”
“Well, you’re a great cook. I haven’t had a home-cooked meal like this since I was a boy.”
“Tell me about your childhood,” she said.
Quin dropped his fork on the plate, as if the question had caught him off guard. “Oh, you don’t want to hear about that.”
“I do,” she insisted. “You grew up on an Indian reservation, right?”
“No,” he said, sipping more of his wine.
“Oh, I thought—”
“My mother—her name is Helene Woman of the Storm—left the reservation when she was eighteen and became pregnant. As a single parent, she raised me, and only very recently did we return to the reservation,” he said with hesitation. “I’ve lived most my life off the reservation. So I’m not as good an Indian as you might think.”
“Oh, Quin, don’t say it like that. You are who you are.”
He cupped his face in his hands, rolled his hair back over his shoulders. “If you’re drawn to me because I’m Sioux, then you might be disappointed.”
“Quin, your nationality has nothing to do with my interest in you as a person,” she said, reassuring him as much as herself. “You could be Chinese, and I would still have an interest in you.”
“Yeah, I was secretly wondering where you kept the chopsticks.”
“How about if we forget the past and talk about the present?”
He took another bite of his chicken. “Good idea.”
“You said yesterday you might be able to come up with a settlement offer on your own,” she said. “I spent a good part of the day working on my will. I was curious to know if you were able to raise the money.”
He was still chewing, and she waited for him to speak. She felt awkward talking about money, but she needed to know how much she could pass out to charities. She hoped to do it while still alive.
“I’ve raised $8.5 million,” he said.
“So, we have deal then?” she asked.
He nodded. “Christopher Gartner and I will make the final touches to the contract. I’ll drop it by, along with the money, this weekend if you’d like.”
“Yes, the sooner we do this the better.”
Quin stopped eating and reached out his hand. “Why? How are you feeling?”
“I’m having more headaches,” she admitted.
“Can I do anything?” he asked, holding her hand from across the table.
She squeezed it. “You’re doing more than any medicine could possibly do, Quin. Just be my friend.”
She knew that friend was such an ambiguous word. She felt attracted to him, but she wasn’t sure if it was fair to lead him on like this. She thought about how he’d held her yesterday upstairs in the art studio. Why start something that would end so abruptly?
After dinner they relaxed in the great room, and Quin offered to light a fire. Rebecca was daydreaming, her eyes fixed on the picture of her daughter above the mantel.
He wondered about her state of mind. Preparing for death can’t be easy. Throughout dinner she’d talked generously about the charities she wanted to make donations to before she died. How do you decide which charities get your estate when you have so many other details to worry about?
He set birch logs into the fire and struck a wooden match against the brick. The oil from the logs lit instantly, and he sat next to her on the couch.
“Who are you planning to give your settlement money to?” he asked.
“I made a list of my charities,” she said, reaching for a legal pad on a table next to the couch. She handed it to him. “See what you think.”
On the pad, in handwritten calligraphy that only an artist could perfect, was Rebecca’s last will and testament. This was a sacred document. “Rebecca, I shouldn’t read your will.“
“Quin, I want you to.”
He sat back on the couch with the fire in front of him and read. The letter was as much a love letter, offering forgiveness to Mike, as it was a legal document. Mike’s drinking, his cheating, and his unfortunate car accident that killed their daughter were all behind her now. Her parents were already deceased. She had no brothers or sisters to pass her estate on to, so she had picked three charities to receive her viatical settlement: Mothers Against Drunk Driving, Hospice Hospitality Meals, and the American Cancer Society.
“This is a beautiful document,” he said, looking up at her.
“I suppose I should’ve typed it,” she said, rubbing her temples with her face in pain.
He moved closer to her, comforting her. “Are you OK?”
“My head hurts again, and my right leg is numb,” she said.
“What can I do?”
“Let me lie down for a few minutes. Would you go to the kitchen and fetch my medicine next to the sink?”
He laid her out on the couch, with her head on a soft pillow, and walked quickly to the kitchen. He returned with a glass of water and her pills. She swallowed two of them and eased herself back on the pillow with her arm draped over her forehead.
He knew she was fighting pain. “Should I call somebody? A doctor?”
“No! No doctors. This will pass.”
He stood next to her, the fireplace and its blazing glow behind him with his shadow cast against the wall as if two people were watching her. She was so deep in her pain that she had blocked him out. What should he do? He couldn’t leave her here alone.
Quin went upstairs to find a blanket. He remembered her bedroom was at the top of the stairs to the right, down the hall from her art studio. It was large, with a four-post bed so tall that she needed a small step stool to get into it. She had a chaise lounge next to the window and a bookcase overstuffed with art books. More pictures of her daughter, as a toddler, were on her nightstand.
At the foot of the bed he saw a linen chest, where he found two blankets. When he picked them up, he heard a loud thud. Quin looked back inside the chest and saw a pistol at the bottom. He picked it up and checked the chamber. The gun was small and delicate, but loaded.
She must be afraid, sleeping out on this lake all by herself.
He couldn’t imagine Rebecca ever firing a gun. He set the weapon back down and turned off the light. In the hallway he noticed the lights to the art studio were still on. He walked inside, looking for the switch, and noticed a painting in the middle of the room.
He couldn’t believe his eyes. There was a large canvas of him standing in an open fie
ld with a wolf pack watching him from behind.
How did she know?
He stared at himself on the canvas. The likeness was incredible.
He turned off the light as the winter moon beamed into the studio windows on his canvas. He went downstairs, covered Rebecca with one blanket, and then wrapped himself in the other and sat in the chair next to her until he fell asleep.
Quin felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. He opened his eyes, realizing he’d spent the night on Rebecca’s couch. His phone vibrated again, and he removed it from his pocket. It was a text message from Zoe.
Hey Babe, where are you?
This would be hard to explain. Rebecca was a client and nothing had happened last night, but Zoe would have every right to be suspicious.
Early morning meeting with Ben.
He sat up on the couch, the morning sun filtering its way through a wall of clouds into the room.
Ben again? Hmmmm, I’m not a fan.
Me neither. I’ll call you later.
Quin spotted a raven in a tree outside the window, hopping from branch to branch. He wrapped himself in a blanket and walked to the window for a better view of the bird. Quin remembered what old man Hawk had told him: “The raven is a good sign. He is the trickster who steals from the wolf. The wolf respects the raven and will not harm him.”
“Where is your friend?” Quin asked.
The raven squawked at him: “You are my friend.”
Quin felt Rebecca behind him. He turned to see her holding a tray of toast and juice. Did she see the bird, or was he having a vision?
“Who are you talking to?”
He felt embarrassed and looked back at the tree branch. The raven was gone. “Nobody. I was talking to myself.”
She set the tray down on the coffee table.
“Thanks for staying last night. You didn’t have to do that.”
“I wanted to. You looked like you could use some company. How do you feel?”
“Much better,” she said. “The pain comes and goes. The numbness in my leg is new. The doctors said I might die slowly, one bodily function at a time, or I might go like that,” she said, snapping her fingers.
In the Company of Wolves_Thinning The Herd Page 19
