In the Company of Wolves_Thinning The Herd

by James Michael Larranaga

  He felt betrayed. “What exactly did you tell them?”

  “I warned them about your violent outbursts,” Kirsten said. “Nothing more.”

  “I have a four o’clock meeting,” he said. “There’s no time for a therapy session with you, Kirsten.”

  “What kind of meeting?”

  “A meeting with a friend.”

  “Which friend? Zoe?”

  “No, this has nothing to do with her,” Quin said.

  “Your employer is upset with you,” she said. “Harold did a background check. What’s going on?”

  “It’s complicated,” he said, debating whether he had the time to get into it with her.

  “I’m your doctor. I’m good at complicated. Tell me.”

  He hadn’t thought all of this through yet. He would’ve liked more time to pull the pieces together before he showed them to her. She was analytical and always hungry for details. He removed his coat and slung it over a chair.

  “While you were on vacation, I accepted a bounty assignment.”

  “Which you know I don’t approve of. Stalking people only brings out the worst in—”

  “Yeah, yeah, I’m short on time,” he repeated. “I was hired to work undercover at Safe Haven. I’m really not an employee.”

  “Who hired you?”

  “A man named Lunde, who I thought worked for the FBI,” he said, watching her become confused.

  “Spencer Lunde?”

  “Yeah, Spencer. He hired me to find out what was going on at Safe Haven.”

  “What did he suspect was happening?” she asked, leaning against the wall, as if she didn’t believe any of this.

  “Two other agents of his were working undercover and were missing. He hired me to find them, but they were already dead,” Quin said. “I know where the bodies are hidden.”

  “People were murdered and you haven’t gone to the police?”

  This was where it got awkward. He knew he should’ve gone to the authorities right away, but he and Stray Dog had concocted this plan to make some money first.

  “I planned to,” he said. “And I will, but I have to help a friend first.”

  “What friend?” she asked, folding her arms tighter.

  Quin felt this was more like an interrogation than a therapy session.

  “I’d rather not say at this point.”

  “Are you taking your medications, Quin?”

  “I take them when I need to.”

  “You must to take the medications regularly on a set schedule,” she said, like a doting mother. “Have you had any more hallucinations?”

  “No!”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Maybe ravens. It’s a stress response, that’s all.”

  “Let me rephrase this,” she said. “Is it possible that your judgment is impaired?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Maybe you thought these people were murdered. That would make it easier for you to justify taking on another bounty assignment.”

  He pulled his phone out of his pocket and scanned through. “I’ll show you the photos.”

  He flipped through images that had been in his phone for months—college parties, wolves up north—but where were the photos of Cassy and Martin? Had Harold deleted them? Harold must have remote access to this phone, just as Quin had suspected.

  “Let me see the photos,” Kirsten said.

  “No, never mind,” Quin said. “They’ve been deleted by Harold, the head of security at Safe Haven.”

  “Really?”

  Now he felt trapped by his own doctor. Of all people, he thought she’d believe him. Was he crazy? Had he only dreamed that he took photos of the bodies? Were the ravens spirit guides or nothing but hallucinations? “You think I’m inventing this?”

  “It’s possible you’re reinventing the details to meet your own needs,” she said.

  He knew this didn’t look good. “Forget it,” he said, heading for the door.

  “Where are you going?” she asked in a more demanding tone.

  “To stay with a dying friend,” he said.

  “Dying friend? Where?”

  “Who knows? At her house, in a hospital, wherever.”

  Kirsten leaned over the chair and pulled airline tickets out of Quin’s coat pocket.

  “You and your dying friend planning to spend time on the beach?” she asked, reading the ticket. “You shouldn’t be leaving the country.”

  “That’s not my ticket.”

  “It has your name on it.”

  “Another friend of mine bought that for me, but I’m not leaving,” he said. He knew everything he said to her at this point sounded like a lie. “I’m not your prisoner. You can’t drag me back to the hospital.”

  “Quin, I’m concerned about you, that’s all.”

  “You think I’m delusional,” he said. “Leave! I’ll be in touch.”

  She grabbed her vest, walked to the door, and paused. ”Have you seen Zoe lately?”

  “Yes, I see her once in a while.”

  “What does she think of all of this?”

  “She hates Ben,” Quin admitted. “She’s nervous for me.”

  “If you won’t listen to me, maybe you’ll listen to Zoe,” she said as she walked out the door.

  “Leave Zoe out of this!” Quin shouted, his voice echoing through the hallway.

  Of course, Kirsten was right. All of this sounded like insanity on the surface, but what right did she have to tell Ben and Harold about his condition? He had to keep her at a distance for now. Once Rebecca signed the papers and Stray Dog was safely on a plane, the truth would come out. Quin could go to the authorities with more tangible proof. He’d have database, and Kirsten would believe him again. She’d see that he wasn’t crazy and that Safe Haven really was a company of wolves.

  When it came to the actual transfer of the life insurance policy, Quin sat back on Rebecca’s couch and watched Stray Dog work the deal. He was running the show now and spitting out legal jargon as if it were his second tongue.

  Stray Dog handed both Rebecca and Mike copies of the documents. “Mike, you’ve signed your waiver as the beneficiary of the policy?”

  “Yes, I’m in complete agreement with what Rebecca wants to do.”

  “Quin, you have a copy of the attending physician’s statement?” Stray Dog asked.

  Quin held the document up for his friend to see, as if the entire deal hinged on what the doctor had said about her health, though everyone knew she was dying. She looked weaker, more tired than the night before. “I have the physician’s statement here.”

  ”Where do I sign?” she asked.

  Stray Dog handed her a Visconti Rembrandt pen, one he’d probably stolen from Safe Haven. “Sign both copies and keep one for your records.”

  She looked at Mike for a moment. Quin wondered what they thought. Did she have second thoughts? Did she fear she’d hurt Mike by removing him as beneficiary?

  She leaned over the coffee table and signed her name in her calligraphic handwriting.

  “Excellent,” Stray Dog said. “Quin, the money please.”

  He opened the wolf bundle on the table so Rebecca could inspect the certified check. Mike, however, looked startled at the sight of the fur satchel.

  “What’s this?” Mike asked, lifting the satchel. “And you’re paying her with a check instead of a wire transfer?”

  Stray Dog removed both the wolf bundle and the check, as if he were insulted and rescinding his own offer. He changed his negotiating strategy. “Is there a problem here, Mike?”

  “No. I just assumed there would be a wire transfer or ACH or an escrow account.”

  “You do understand Quin and I are nonfunded viators?” Stray Dog asked. “We’re acting as brokers on behalf of other investors.”

  “Who are the investors?” Mike asked.

  “That’s confidential,” Stray Dog said.

  Quin thought the wolf bundle was a dead giveaway. “I k
now a wealthy man from my Indian reservation who is willing to invest in this policy.”

  Rebecca was growing annoyed with her ex-husband’s questions. “Mike, what’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. I thought it might be helpful to know more about the investor, that’s all.”

  “From this day forward, Quin and I will act as the beneficiary, making the premium payments,” Stray Dog said. “You’ll have no contact with the investor, and the investor will have no contact with you.”

  “Are you OK with that, Mike?” Quin asked. He could see the man still cared for his ex-wife.

  “What would happen if this investor wanted his money back?” Mike said. “Would Rebecca be in any danger?”

  If Mike only knew how real his concern was. Quin had found this money and set this deal up because he too felt Rebecca was in a vulnerable position.

  “She’s safe, Mike. Arrangements like this are made every day,” Stray Dog said.

  Mike reached across the table and opened the wolf bundle again, his eyes scanning the check. He looked saddened that Rebecca’s life had been whittled down to a sum of money written a small piece of paper.

  “I guess everything looks in order,” he said to her.

  “Quin has agreed to help me donate some of the money to charity,” she said.

  Mike’s eyes reddened, and he rubbed at them before he hugged Rebecca and shook Stray Dog’s and Quin’s hands. She was out of his hands now.

  He shook his index finger at Quin and Stray Dog, holding them ultimately responsible for whatever happened next. “You be good to her.”

  Working the weekends was nothing new for Ben and his staff. Saturdays were good for calling potential policy holders at home, and Sundays were for finishing the endless forms required for viatical settlements. Today he and his sales team were finishing a different kind of paperwork. They were inside the library, shredding documents.

  “Everything must go, gentlemen,” Ben said, walking up and down the office with bits of paper floating in front of his face. The office was as white as the snow-covered lawn outside their window.

  James had never been through an exit event like this and questioned him again. “Even medical records?”

  “Shred medical records, too,” Ben said.

  Richard shoved so many sheets into the paper shredder that it was in danger of jamming. “God! Why can’t we invest in heavy-duty equipment? We go through this process every six or seven months.”

  Ben was tired of Richard’s constant whining. “Harold has a computer backup that we will take with us, but I want no hard copies left behind.”

  “This is a common occurrence?” James asked.

  “That’s right,” Richard said, blowing his nose with a document before shredding the folded page. “We set up an office, close some deals, and if the heat is too great, we pack up and move on.”

  Bob Mullen emptied his files onto the floor and shredded them efficiently in small stacks. “Next stop is Dallas. There’s more money down there and no snow.”

  “Quin and Christopher have stolen files from this office that could land each of you in prison,” Ben reminded them. “Don’t forget that this is about survival, gentlemen.”

  He walked across the room, stepping over empty boxes and piles of shredded paper, to where Harold stood with a checklist. The men were moving much faster than he’d expected.

  “What’s left?” Ben asked.

  “Records from Accounting,” Harold said. “Should take us about three or four hours.”

  “And you’ve run payroll checks for tomorrow?”

  Harold nodded, checking that off his list as well. “All support staff will be let go Monday morning with two weeks’ severance pay.”

  Ben looked around the room at the armoires, the Italian rugs, and the cherrywood desks. “The furniture?”

  “The rental company arrives tomorrow afternoon to collect it all.”

  Ben knew his partner had everything under control.

  “And the mansion?”

  “I contacted the owner and told him we were vacating early,” Harold said. He then laughed and sarcastically stated, “You’ll lose your security deposit.”

  “Add two more things to your list,” Ben said, watching the men shredding documents.

  Harold clicked his pen. “Go ahead.”

  “I want to meet with Christopher and Quin. Call Christopher and invite him back tomorrow. Tell him we accept his resignation, but he left without filling out the necessary forms.”

  “He’ll never come back for that,” Harold said.

  “He will if he thinks he’s got severance pay. We owe him $15,000 in commissions,” Ben said.

  “That might work,” he said. “What about Quin?”

  “Tell him we know what he’s been up to. We’ve got proof that in one of his violent episodes he murdered Cassy and Martin. If he doesn’t show up with the policy in hand, we’ll go to the authorities.”

  Dr. Kirsten Hayden was shuffling through a stack of mail that had piled up during her vacation when a young man entered her office without knocking. He had wide shoulders and a large belly that stuck out from his leather jacket. He was out of breath, as if he hand run up to her third-floor office.

  “Where’s the money?” he asked, panting between breaths.

  “What money? Who are you?” she said, masking her fear and reaching for her sharp letter opener.

  “The name’s Jimmy. You know Quin, right?” He looked around her office, at her desk, her pictures, her files. “I saw your name and address in his backpack. You’re like his woman, huh?”

  “No, of course not,” she said.

  He stepped forward and leaned both fists on her stack of mail. He was breathing heavily from his run. His breath smelled of beer.

  “Quin took my granddad’s money and gave it to you. Where is it?”

  He crowded her personal space. She was speechless. Had Quin given her money? Maybe it was in this stack of mail. Why would he send her money?

  She fired off any words she could muster. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I just returned from vaca—“

  He lifted her by the shoulders and carried her to the front of the desk as if she were as light as a glass vase.

  “How dare you!” she said, trembling.

  “Tell me, where’s the $8.5 million?”

  She searched her memory. Quin had never mentioned such a large sum of money.

  “Quin told my granddad he needed money to help a woman out of trouble,” Jimmy said. “What kind of trouble are you in?”

  Now Kirsten remembered. Quin had mentioned to her that he had a dying friend. He wouldn’t tell her who the woman was, but she had gotten the name from Harold Reiker.

  “I think you’re looking for Rebecca Baron.”

  He moved back with a sigh. “Who’s she?”

  “She’s a client who worked with Quin’s company. The two of them hit it off,” Kirsten said, piecing together the big puzzle herself. “I was told she has a terminal illness. Quin’s helping her.”

  Jimmy kicked her desk with his snakeskin boot. “Do you know where she lives?”

  Harold had told her the address, but she wouldn’t give the information to this angry young man.

  “I don’t,” she said. “But let me get this straight: Quin took money from your grandfather?”

  “$8.5 million, to be exact. He swindled the old man. Said he was our relative and took Papa’s savings,” Jimmy said, with anger building up in his bullish face.

  She had never imagined Quin was a thief. She decided she had to meet with this Rebecca Baron and warn her about Jimmy. He’d find her soon enough.

  “I’ll keep an eye out for Quin,” she said. “If he stops by my office, I’ll call you.”

  Jimmy wiped his sweaty brow and ran his fingers through his black hair. “So, you’re Quin’s doctor?”

  “I am.”

  “The sign outside your door says you’re a psychiatrist.”

  At l
east he can read. “Yes, I’m a psychiatrist.”

  Jimmy winced. “So why would he be crazy enough to take that much money from an old man and give it to a dying woman?”

  “You’ve been living with him on the reservation,” she said. “You tell me.”

  Rebecca poured her guest a cup of ice water and sat down at the kitchen table. The business card stated clearly that Kirsten was a psychiatrist. The perky woman talked excitedly about Quin, explaining his past behaviors, but Rebecca felt as if she were describing a completely different person.

  Rebecca read the business card again. Psychiatrist. “He has psychological problems?”

  “I cannot get into specifics,” Kirsten said. “I am concerned about his recent behavior.”

  Quin seemed so normal, Rebecca thought. Could this really be true? Was she attracted to a delusional man? Rebecca had planned to go out with Quin tomorrow to donate money to her charities.

  “Well, I appreciate the information, Dr. Hayden,” she said. “But I’m comfortable around Quin, and if I’m not in any danger—”

  “You are in danger.”

  Rebecca set down the cup of water she had raised to her lips. “I am?”

  “Did Quin give you a large amount of money recently?”

  “Yes, how did you know?”

  “He stole that money from an elderly man on the reservation where he lives.”

  Rebecca’s heart sank into an empty pit in her stomach.

  “He told me he had found an investor to purchase my life insurance policy.”

  “I ran into the man’s grandson. He’s angry and looking for you,” Kirsten said.

  All of this new information flooded Rebecca’s mind with confusing images. She had thought Quin was an artist, an Indian, a business student who was helping her out. Was he really just a thief with a mental condition?

  She realized she had deposited stolen money. She’d already called the local charities and told them she was stopping by tomorrow to make large donations.

  “What should I do?”

  “He seems to care about you,” Kirsten said. “I suggest you speak with him about this. Encourage him to come back to the hospital before somebody gets hurt.”