The Breath of Dawn

by Kristen Heitzmann

  He looked at the locket lying on the table, recalled the fun of finding it. What Quinn researched was public domain. She’d done nothing anyone else couldn’t. So why did it feel personal, as if she’d made an assault and occupied him? Heat rushed through his skin as nerves or blood vessels pulsed.

  “Daddy.” Livie gripped his chin and turned his face.

  “What, honey?”

  “That a mad face, Daddy.”

  “Is it? What should we do about that?”

  “Make it happy.” She pressed her finger into the side of his mouth, stretching his lips.

  He held the smile in place. “Is that better?”

  She flashed her chipmunk smile.

  He kissed her soft dark hair, a downy cloud of curls around her head, not unlike Quinn’s in toddler form. “Eat your blueberries.”

  Instead she plucked one cracker-dusted berry through the spill-proof lid of the snack dish and fed it to him.

  “Mmm. Yummy.”

  Livie popped one into her mouth and chewed vigorously. He couldn’t bear to think of leaving her for any amount of time, but maybe he owed her just that. He reached for the laptop and responded to Denise. You’re not going anywhere. Choose ONE project and set it up.

  He didn’t imagine her doing a Snoopy dance. More like rolling her eyes and thinking, About time, loser. He shut down the laptop and snuggled his little girl, hoping he’d taken one healthy step in the right direction.

  Quinn left Morgan’s, feeling chastised by the high-powered professional. Good intentions she had, but good judgment? Not lately—as Hannah’s phone call reminded her. “He’s getting out and you’ll pay.”

  She had pushed that call out of her mind, but this scuffle with Morgan brought home how things could turn on a dime. She thought she’d found a good place to be, an innocuous occupation, some potential friends. A man . . .

  She sighed. Not even dreams put her and Morgan in any real-life involvement, but having no illusions didn’t mean he hadn’t impacted her. He and his precious child. Why couldn’t she get them out of her head?

  After pulling up the garage door in the steel barn, she parked inside, got out, and looked around, disheartened at the thought of losing her merchandise. She couldn’t take much if she had to leave, nothing if she had to run. She didn’t think Markham could find her. She used a store name for her business, so even if someone told him what she did, he wouldn’t recognize it as hers. Her mother knew she’d bought a house, but Quinn hadn’t told her where. She had sent no cards or letters, had no landline phone with a number in any directory. It should be okay.

  She chose a DVD that had no chance of having a romantic thread and stepped outside. Her breath made a thicker fog now, as twilight gave in to dusk. She entered her little house, darkness covering every inch of the A-frame. It crawled over her like smoke. What if he was waiting for her? Would anyone notice if she went missing? RaeAnne might call to thank her when she got the locket. Morgan would want the stuff out of the cellar, but he could take care of it himself.

  Would anyone check her house? Would anyone know where to look—or care? When they found her remains, Noelle might say, “My goodness, if only I’d known.” But she didn’t know. No one did. Except the ones who’d been there.

  Swallowing hard, she switched on the light. Nothing jumped except her own skin. The place was so small, she could see everything, including the loft, from the door. Someone could be in the closet or bathroom, but they’d have to make it down the steep stairs to jump her. She checked them anyway.

  Back in the kitchen, she tried to think of something for supper. At this rate her lip might be the only thing she chewed. God said it wasn’t good for man to be alone. It was worse for woman. She should get a dog.

  A dog could sense trouble. A dog could go in first and growl and raise its hackles. A dog would bark at night if someone tried to get in. And most of all, she wouldn’t be alone.

  Trembling, she took cheddar, tomato, and whole wheat bread from the fridge and assembled it for toasted cheese. The money from Morgan would buy a dog. Not a puppy—she needed help now—but not too old either. She was depending on it. Just an unfortunate soul who’d lost a family and had no companionship. She’d check the nearest shelter and let the animal choose her. She’d know when it was right.

  Noelle straightened from the toilet and wiped her mouth. Swishing mouthwash almost started the reflex again, but she resisted and crept back to bed. Rick held the cover up, concern etching his face. As she settled in, he worked his thumbs and fingers up and down her back in slow, deep circles.

  She murmured, “If we ever split up, I get your hands in the settlement.”

  “We’re never splitting up.”

  “Lucky you. You get to keep your hands.”

  “I wish I could do more.”

  She rolled to face him. “It’s only nine months of misery.” She pulled a grim smile. “I’m four down.”

  “That’s the spirit.”

  Settling her head in the hollow between his chest and shoulder, she said, “What do you think of Quinn?”

  “Who?”

  “You know who.” She squeezed his arm.

  “What am I supposed to think? I’ve seen her twice.”

  Morgan, she was sure, had an opinion—or the old Morgan would have. Rick had an opinion, too, somewhere deep inside, where he kept thoughts in appropriate order. At first she’d found that so strange, his faith-guided life. Now it was a pillar she clung to when dreams and memories seeped in.

  “I like her. I’d like to know her better.”

  “You think she needs a friend.”

  “You feel it too?”

  “No.” His eyes crinkled with sun-weathered skin, even in winter. “I just know you.”

  “Well.” She ran her hand over his lean muscled arm. “What about inviting her to Thanksgiving dinner?”

  “Who’s cooking?”

  She started to scold him, then realized he was referring to the morning sickness. The thought of preparing a turkey almost sent her back to the bathroom. “Not that, then. I wonder if she rides.”

  “You can’t ride pregnant.”

  She sighed. “Right.”

  “Why don’t you go visit while she finishes at Vera’s?”

  “I could. She did ask for Morgan’s help with something.”

  “Sorry she had to ask. I suggested he offer.”

  She sighed. “Do you think he’ll ever . . . you know . . .”

  Rick fingered a strand of her hair. “I don’t know. It was always Jill.”

  “Because she was out there, somewhere. Now that she’s gone, he could start fresh.”

  Rick shrugged. “Maybe.” He kissed her shoulder. “Get some sleep now.”

  But before she dropped off, Quinn came to her heart again. “Okay,” she breathed, though not to Rick. This was more than a hunch. It was a nudge.

  CHAPTER

  6

  He felt like a reptile coming out from under a rock, blinking in overbright sunshine, cold wind standing his short blond hair. He felt like a predator waking to thoughts of prey, to hunger and awareness. He felt shame. He felt fury. He felt vengeful and powerful.

  Thinking of Quinn, he felt prophetic. She couldn’t know what she’d unleashed, couldn’t see the storm rising, couldn’t grasp the judgment coming where she would be sorted and discarded. He was Markham Wilder, and he’d promised she would pay.

  With the locket found, Quinn had hauled all the paper out of the house with rejoicing. That left—she sighed—the cellar. Armed with a small, high-powered Maglite and a battery-operated lantern, she opened the old door.

  Maybe it was false bravado going into a dark, haunted vault. She certainly had no desire to join the ghosts in perpetual lament if she got murdered down there. But the job needed to be done, and she refused to let Hannah’s threat keep her from it. While Markham might be out, might be looking, nothing would lead him to Vera’s. She was probably safer in this cellar than her own bed.<
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  Morgan had cleared the worst of the webs on the stairs, so creaky step after creaky step, she made it down and hung the camp lantern on a high rail. Drawing her shoulders back, she took a look around. The cellar probably hadn’t been used for patient care, and any screams she imagined were the stuff of movies.

  This was storage, maybe a furnace and generators and boilers. There—she saw something that could be just that, a monster of a machine. She moved past the stacked beds to check out the cracked dial of a monstrosity right out of The Shining. That puppy could blow the roof off.

  It was not functioning, thank goodness. It was also not going up the stairs. Something cold passed over her shoulders. She spun, light and shadows jerking around her as the lantern handle squeaked in the metal hasps. Wherever the draft came from, she didn’t want to feel it again. She moved back in the other direction.

  For the next hours, she filled plastic bins with bedpans and other junk. She carried each load to the rented trash container and went back down. The rubber tubing left a powdered residue on her latex gloves as she stuffed another bin for the trash. She shuddered at the large metal box filled with hypodermic syringes, but that was nothing to the frisson that shot up her spine when she discovered the stiff gray straitjacket. She shrieked when someone spoke behind her.

  “I’m so sorry!” Noelle called from the top of the stairs.

  “No. It’s okay.” Pushing the medical mask down under her chin, Quinn pressed a hand to her chest as her heart stopped pinging like a pinball against her ribs. “Just jumpy.”

  “I can see why.” Noelle descended warily. “This place is creepy.”

  “Yeah. I was pretending otherwise, but the creep factor’s pretty high down here.” She turned the straitjacket for Noelle to see.

  “Is that . . .”

  “Unless someone had really long arms.” Quinn bent the stiff fabric and laid it in one of the plastic tubs for possibilities.

  “What will you do with it?”

  “Morgan told me I should contact a museum.”

  “Morgan?”

  “When we found all this.”

  “You and Morgan.”

  “I guess he didn’t tell you.”

  Noelle shook her head. “The house is a touchy subject.”

  “Why?”

  “When he learned I’m pregnant, he decided Livie’s too much for me. I don’t want to be the reason he thinks he has to leave.”

  “Is that a big deal?” Quinn sat back on her heels.

  “No. But he’s been with us almost since she was born, and . . .” She cast a glance around the cellar. “This just isn’t like him.”

  “Oh, the rest of the house is nicer.”

  They laughed.

  “So.” Noelle rested a hand on her chest. “I was going to invite you to Thanksgiving dinner before you made other plans—”

  “You were?”

  “Yes, but Rick asked who’s cooking, and you know my condition.”

  “I’ll cook. I have a turkey fryer the previous owners left in my house.” Cook their Thanksgiving dinner? When Morgan had all but dropkicked her?

  Noelle stared. “I absolutely wasn’t asking you to cook.”

  “Maybe by then you’ll be past the worst of it.”

  She looked dubious. “I’m not sure I could even be in the kitchen.”

  Quinn shrugged. “The fryer goes outside. It’s a big vat of peanut oil—”

  Noelle clamped a hand to her mouth.

  “Oh, sorry. Forget that. Don’t think about any of it. I’ll make it all.”

  “I’d feel dreadful.”

  “For including me?”

  “And making you do the work. How can that be right?”

  “Gives me somewhere to be on Thanksgiving.” She threaded her hair back. “And here I was thinking of getting a dog.”

  Noelle tipped her head. “Are you really up for all that work?”

  “I like work. Being still makes me . . .” She’d almost said anxious. “I get bored without something to do.”

  “No wonder you get so much done.”

  “Wouldn’t know it down here.”

  “Do you want some help?”

  Quinn rose. “I have no idea what’s down here. Given the bio-waste I’ve already discovered, it could be toxic.”

  Noelle placed a hand on her stomach. “Thanks for considering that.”

  “Thanks for the offer. But you probably should get out.”

  “Well, if you’re sure.”

  “I’ll look forward to Thanksgiving.” She pulled the mask back over her mouth and nose. The invitation had taken her by surprise, but now a flood of memories almost brought tears. Cooking and baking, preparing the feast with her family. It was weeks away and she could hardly wait.

  When she had nearly filled the rented Dumpster with rusted, mangled, crusty refuse, broken carts and wheelchairs, hardened red-rubber water bottles, and stained vinyl mattresses, some that looked melted, there was hardly a discernible difference in the cellar. Every piece of furniture and equipment in the place must have landed down there, regardless of condition.

  No matter. She’d done all she could stand for the time being. As she drove to the crossroad in the shafting light of the golden autumn afternoon, her eye caught on kids and adults in costume. There must be a Halloween festival in the town center. On a whim she pulled over, got out, and watched the little ones cavort.

  The smell of kettle corn and freshly cut pumpkins reached her as she moseyed in, keeping to the fringes for observation since she wasn’t properly costumed. A pumpkin-carving station, beanbag toss, and apple-dunking trough reminded her of her own childhood. At the higher elevation the apples rested on shredded paper instead of floating in water that would have chapped little cheeks raw.

  Booths held jams, jewelry, and handcrafts, mostly geared to the children. Grown-ups carried pails of candy or crackers or raisins for the little ones who approached them with “Trick or treat!” Good idea bringing the treats to one place instead of the kids trooping all over the mountainsides in search of handouts.

  Across the way, she saw Rick in fancy wrangler chaps, vest, and Stetson, Noelle beside him in a flowing velvet gown, with crown and wand. Liam was a crocodile, Livie a pumpkin with adorable tam, black tights, and boots that lit up when she danced around. Trailing behind them, Morgan rivaled Jack Sparrow for best pirate ever. She wouldn’t have recognized him except for the others, but children seemed to. He made them stand for inspection, circling with a hard eye, before drawing gold foil chocolate coins from the deep pockets of his embroidered coat to drop in their containers.

  Caught up in the little drama, Quinn jumped when a child screamed and laughed in turns as a full-grown mummy teetered his way. Her heart warmed and tugged at once. Oh, to be young and innocent enough that scary was fun. She closed herself in her arms and went home.

  Morgan came out on his porch the next day as Noelle approached his cabin. Liam ran to her, blabbing the things Uncle Morgan let him do on his Halloween sleepover, like shaving with cream and a razor—blade guarded, of course. She whiffed Morgan’s aftershave on Liam’s rosy cheeks when she chucked her son’s chin. “I didn’t know you had a beard, little man.”

  “All shaved off!”

  “Well, we wouldn’t want you shaggy.”

  In haste, Livie double-stepped the stairs behind him. “Mine all shave off too.”

  Noelle laughed. “We certainly wouldn’t want you shaggy.”

  “She’s a bearded lady,” Liam declared. “Bearded lady, bearded lady.”

  “Enough, Liam.” Noelle hugged him, then rose. “Thanks, Morgan.” He’d relieved her of the Halloween candy after-party.

  He nodded. “Sure.”

  “So.” She tipped her head. “Why didn’t you tell me your house has a haunted cellar?”

  “Haunted cellar!” Liam hollered. “Can I see it?”

  Morgan canted his head. “What were you doing there?”

  “Inviting Quinn f
or Thanksgiving. A backhanded invitation if there ever was one, since she’ll be cooking dinner.”

  “You’re not serious.”

  “Why not?”

  He shook his head. “That’s . . . weeks away.”

  “People make plans. I wanted to catch her before anyone else.” Or make it seem that way. Asking last minute would imply she obviously had nowhere else to go—which Quinn’s eager acceptance seemed to indicate. “She’s deep-frying the turkey. Should be . . . interesting.”

  His mouth pulled. “To say the least.”

  “You don’t have a problem with that, do you?”

  “Deep-fried turkey?”

  “With Quinn coming.”

  “It’s your house. Have whoever you want.”

  “Morgan.”

  He picked Livie up. “Denise is setting up a consult. Will you keep Livie if I go play guru?”

  “Of course.” Her spirit soared. “Morgan, it’s great you’re going back.”

  He shrugged. “It’s time.”

  “Speaking of time, I’ll take Liam and nap now.”

  “No!” Liam stomped a foot, looking like one of the stallions his daddy bred. “Four-year-olds don’t nap.”

  “Four-year-olds on high octane do.” Otherwise he’d collapse right before dinner and not want to go to bed.

  “What’s high octane?”

  Morgan said, “Race car fuel.”

  Liam’s eyes lit. He started his engine and ran for the house.

  “Thanks,” she told him. “He doesn’t realize napping is one of God’s great gifts.” Even if he only had quiet time it would help, though Liam burned enough energy he almost always succumbed. “Shall I put Livie down too?”

  He thought a moment, then said, “Yeah, there’s something I need to do.”

  At Vera’s, he noticed Quinn had the door propped open in spite of the cold, probably to facilitate hauling things to the commercial Dumpster in the yard. Inside, the furniture had been removed, and he walked into the empty house, trying to place himself and Livie there.