A Small-Town Homecoming

by Terry McLaughlin

  “Time to go back,” he said as he led her away. “It’s safer here in the daylight.”

  THE DAWN FOG floated across dark bay ripples Monday morning to shroud the construction site in a ghostly haze. Quinn lugged a bundle of rebar toward the masonry wall rising above the second-floor level as Ned climbed the scaffolding to begin placing another stack of blocks. In the two weeks since the foundation had been poured, they’d forged ahead of schedule. Good thing, too, because a storm was forecast for the end of the week. In spite of the delay the rainy May weather would bring, he figured they’d still manage to have the south wall finished by this time next week, and the west wall framed and ready for—

  An ominous crack echoed like gunfire across the bay, followed an instant later by a man’s high-pitched yowl of panic and pain.

  “Watch out!” Tom scrambled past the mortar mixer and dived beneath the planking as concrete blocks and a bright yellow hard hat tumbled to the muddy ground behind him.

  Quinn dropped his load and raced toward the scaffolding. No. Not again. Not another man down. Not another nightmare ready to suck him down, too.

  Rusty and Phil beat him to the ladder, clambering up to the spot where Ned lay, sprawled across two thick planks spanning the iron supports, cursing and panting and gripping a rail. Ned’s legs dangled through the space where a third plank should have been. Rusty locked an arm over the scaffolding, bracing himself before he grabbed hold of Ned’s belt to keep him from slipping over the edge.

  “Hold still,” Quinn ordered. He’d already flipped open his cell phone and punched a direct-dial number for emergency dispatch. Come on, answer, damn it.

  “Don’t worry.” Ned cut off a groan with a grimace, his chest heaving. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “What happened?” Tom swung up on the opposite edge.

  “Board snapped.” Ned muttered a curse, his face white with strain. “I grabbed for the rail and hit the edge on the way down. Think my leg’s broke.” He gasped. “Maybe a couple of ribs.”

  Quinn gave the emergency dispatcher their location and told her to send an ambulance. “Did you see what happened?” he asked as he flipped the phone shut.

  Phil shook his head. “I was strapping on my tool belt. Next thing I knew, Tom was yelling, and I took off running.”

  “I heard the snap and saw the boards come down.” Rusty glanced at the rest of them. “I thought for sure Ned was going to come down with ’em.”

  Quinn knelt beside Ned. Near the far side of the marina, a siren’s keening horn cut through the smothering mist, momentarily blotting out Ned’s short, heavy pants. “Think you can roll over a bit? We can try sliding in another plank to support you until help arrives.”

  “Sounds like a plan.” With Rusty’s help, Ned eased onto his back with a low grunt.

  A fire truck lumbered through the gate and jerked to a stop beside the scaffolding. Emergency supplies in hand, a paramedic swung down and jogged toward the ladder.

  “Let’s give this guy some room,” Quinn said. “Tom, wash out the mixer. Phil, go ahead and start in on the rebar on the west side. Rusty, call Gus at Keene’s and see if you can get him to postpone the plaster sand delivery.”

  Quinn had a tougher call to make—one to Ned’s wife, Sylvie—as soon as he got the chance.

  His crew moved off as an ambulance pulled into the site. Behind the white cab, a dark green compact darted into view.

  “Damn,” Quinn muttered when the compact stopped at the curb beyond the fencing. Justin Gregorio, reporter for Channel Six news. No fan of development in general or Tidewaters in particular.

  Or Quinn, for that matter. None of the men who’d dated Quinn’s ex-wife before she’d left town had a very high opinion of him.

  Which evened things out, since the lack of esteem was mutual.

  Gregorio pulled a video camera from his car and panned the site, pausing when the lens swung in Quinn’s direction. He slowly lowered the camera, a coldly false smile pasted on his face, and then he turned to wave at Rusty, who was stepping out of the office trailer.

  With Quinn’s help, the firemen lowered Ned’s stretcher to the waiting gurney. The paramedic asked a few routine questions before loading Ned into the back of the ambulance, and then the van rolled across the site.

  Quinn pulled out his phone, figuring he couldn’t put off that call to Sylvie any longer. When she didn’t answer, he left a message and tucked his phone in his pocket as Rusty approached. “What did Gus say?”

  “Told him what happened. He said to give him a call around eleven, and he’d see what he could do. Probably won’t be able to send a truck until after lunch.”

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  A police cruiser passed through the gate and headed toward the firemen chatting with Gregorio.

  “Shit,” Rusty said as he folded a fresh piece of gum into his mouth. “It’s like Grand Central Station around here.”

  Quinn stared across the yard. “I saw you talking to the guy from Channel Six.

  “Yeah.” Rusty tugged on his work gloves. “He sure was looking to dig up some trouble. I don’t think he found enough to suit him.”

  “Thanks. Again.”

  Quinn sent him to join Phil and then strolled toward the cruiser. “Morning, Reed.”

  “Morning.” Reed Oberman tilted his chin toward the walkie-talkie on his shoulder and mumbled a cop’s code of numbers and acronyms into it. “Heard you had some trouble down here.”

  “All taken care of.”

  “So it seems.”

  “Hey, Reed.” Gregorio edged his way into the conversation and extended a hand. “Good to see you.”

  “Is that off the record?”

  Gregorio flashed a bland smile at the officer and then faced Quinn. “Morning, Quinn. Shame to hear you’re having trouble on your job sites again. Looks like another innocent member of your crew’s hurt, and no one knows why.”

  “No comment,” Quinn said.

  “No comment on a friendly expression of sympathy?” Gregorio’s smile widened. “That seems a bit extreme. Damn near defensive, considering the circumstances.”

  “No comment.”

  “How about you, Reed? Are you here in an official capacity?”

  “You know city policy on emergency dispatch.” Behind them, Reed’s car radio crackled and squawked. “And my business here is private. Unless Quinn doesn’t mind?”

  Quinn flicked a glance in Gregorio’s direction. “No comment.”

  “In that case,” Reed said with a tight smile of his own for Gregorio, “I’m going to have to ask you to stand back.”

  “No problem,” Gregorio said. “Catch you later, Quinn.”

  “No comment,” Quinn said.

  Gregorio hefted his camera to his shoulder and moved off toward the scaffold.

  “You want me to remove him from the site?” Reed asked.

  “No. Thanks.” Quinn gestured toward his trailer. “Coffee? I don’t have anything but black, but it’s hot.”

  “No, thanks. I’m cutting back.” Reed pulled a notepad from his pocket. “What happened here this morning, Quinn?”

  In terse, precise phrases, Quinn went over everything he’d seen and everything he’d learned. “I don’t know why that board snapped the way it did,” he finished. “But I’m going to find out.”

  “Sounds like an accident to me.”

  “Looks like it. But it’s not.” Quinn watched Gregorio duck into his little green car. “I checked every one of those boards and put them in place myself.”

  Reed glanced up from his notetaking, his expression cool, professional and shuttered.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  BECAUSE they were beginning to shake, Quinn buried his hands in his pockets and swallowed the acrid taste of panic. He knew what Reed was thinking—what everyone in town would be thinking, once Gregorio reminded them of what had happened on one of Quinn’s job sites six years ago. A member of his crew had fallen and broken his back.

  �
��Sounds like Ned was lucky.” Reed folded the flap on his notebook and slipped it into his pocket.

  “Or unlucky enough to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.” Quinn turned and started toward the blocks scattered around the mixer. “Let’s have a look.”

  Reed followed him beneath the scaffold. Quinn tugged one of the broken boards from its awkward angle on the cross-bracing and studied the twisted, ragged edge. Then he flipped it over and found a fresh, neat slice below the jagged slivers. His fingers tightened on the wood, his knuckles whitening as he squeezed, remembering the gut-icing snap and Ned’s scream.

  Reed leaned in closer for a better look. “That looks too clean to be an accidental break.”

  “That’s because this was no accident.” Quinn shifted his grip and traced the smooth cut. “This board’s been sawed more than three-quarters through. From the top side, no one would have noticed anything was wrong until—”

  “Until he stepped on that spot and broke it the rest of the way.” Reed pulled out his pad and scribbled more notes. “Mind if I take that into evidence? Just in case you get a chance to press charges.”

  “Be my guest.” Quinn yanked the other half of the board from under the pile of blocks and layered it over the first. The two sections weren’t going to fit into Reed’s patrol car. “Want me to put these in my truck and follow you to the station?”

  “That won’t be necessary.” Reed’s radio squawked to life, and he spoke into his shoulder set. “I’ll send for some assistance,” he said when he was finished. “I’d like to talk to the rest of your crew before I go.”

  Quinn waved him off and headed for his trailer. He wanted some time to simmer down, to cool off before he called Sylvie. In fact, he wanted to shut down for the day, to swing by the hospital to check on Ned, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t run. He had to stick it out, to stay focused. To battle back the urge to detour to the nearest liquor store and wrap his fingers around the comforting, promising weight of a thick, cool bottle. To raise it to his lips, to let the liquid heat slide down his throat and smooth out the shakes, to lose himself in the—

  He jogged up the steps, slammed the door and tossed his hat onto the short counter with a curse, and then he pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. No. There was Rosie, and Ned, and the crew, and this job. The building, rising from the ground.

  He lowered his arms and stared through the filmy, flyspecked window at the stark beauty of the I-beams rising from the foundation and the clean sweep of the yard. The power, the potential in this new start. He had to stick around, stay on track, keep moving. Moving forward.

  He paced a tight circle, sucking in one shallow, wavering breath after another and blowing it out. Another set of slower, deeper breaths, and yet another, until each silent sigh carved away a part of the gnawing, crippling need, and Quinn knew he’d be fine…for another five minutes or so.

  Five minutes would buy him enough time to make a start on the next hour. And that hour would be the down payment on the next one after that.

  God. He’d hoped that because he’d been able to pull himself out of the last panic attack—the one following the damage to the backhoe—he’d be better able to handle the stress on the job. But the vandalized equipment hadn’t hit him this hard. Because of Ned, because of…what had happened six years ago.

  Because this morning’s act of vandalism seemed personal.

  Would this ever get easier? Would he ever be able to make a break with his past? The despair nearly sucked him under again, and he lifted his gaze to the picture of Rosie pinned to the bulletin board above the counter.

  Rosie. Counting on him.

  He leaned a shoulder against the wall, as fragile and worn as a thousand-year-old parchment, fumbling in his pocket for the cell phone with fingers that no longer seemed to hold the strength to shake. There were two more calls he needed to make this morning. One to Geneva and one to Tess.

  He’d phone Tess first. His mouth quirked up in one corner, and a thin layer of misery evaporated as he thought about how hot she’d get if he didn’t report in on time. And about how appealing she looked when she was throwing one of her subtly steamy tantrums.

  Through the window, he watched Gregorio lift his camera to get a shot of the scaffolding, and a fresh wave of anger bubbled through him. Clean, healthy, energizing anger. No, he wouldn’t leave his site. Not yet. Not with the newsman prowling around, poking through the remains of this day’s disaster and looking for an angle on the wreckage of the past.

  TESS STRODE through the entry of Cove Community Medical Center shortly after her lunch meeting on Monday afternoon. This was the first chance she’d had to break away and check on things—on Ned—for herself. Anger and worry were doing unpleasant things to the Greek salad with extra feta cheese she’d ordered at Café Capri, where a potential client had begun the business discussion by asking about the latest trouble at Tidewaters.

  Which had been about five minutes before Geneva had reached her on her cell phone, wanting the same information. Obviously, the news about Ned’s accident had already spread through town. And just as obviously, Quinn hadn’t been able to reach Geneva before she’d heard the rumors. Tess rubbed a hand over her stomach and wondered if she’d ever order extra feta again.

  She rounded a corner and nearly collided with Quinn, who was standing near the elevator, a large bouquet of yellow daisy mums in one hand. Their slightly sweet scent mingled with the odor of disinfectant in a typical hospital smell, making her slightly queasy.

  “Flowers again?” she asked as she nervously punched a button that was already lit. “For Ned?”

  “For Sylvie.” The plastic wrap crackled as he tightened his grip on the bouquet. “For having to put up with Ned at home for a while.”

  Quinn’s lips were pressed flat, his grim face deeply lined. He looked as though he’d aged ten years since she’d last seen him.

  “How did he fall through the scaffolding?” she asked.

  “He didn’t fall clear through.” The elevator doors slid open, and they stepped aside as an attendant exited, wheeling a supply cart past them.

  “So,” she said, “he only fell far enough to end up here.”

  Quinn slapped a hand against the side of the opening and waited for her to step into the elevator ahead of him. “You can ask him exactly how far he fell and exactly how bad he’s hurt when you see him.”

  She opened her mouth to respond, but a snappy, snotty comeback didn’t materialize as quickly as she’d hoped. Just as well—this wasn’t the time or the place for that kind of remark. She adjusted the purse strap on her shoulder, fixed her gaze on the control panel and focused on resenting the way the stiff and silent man beside her could scramble her normal reactions and put her on the defensive.

  They stepped off the elevator and headed toward the nurses’ station in the outpatient wing. A petite, doe-eyed blonde in a blue waitress uniform and rubbery white shoes rose from a nearby chair and walked into the arms Quinn had spread wide. He wrapped her tight, resting his chin on her wavy hair. “Sorry about all this,” he murmured.

  “Couldn’t be helped.” She eased back, her smile wavering. “He’s always been a clumsy oaf.”

  “Clumsy had nothing to do with it.” Quinn shot Tess a dark look over the woman’s head.

  “Bad luck, then.” She stepped out of his arms and looked questioningly at Tess.

  “Sylvie Landreau, this is Tess Roussel. The architect who designed the Tidewaters project.”

  Tess extended her hand. “Sorry to be meeting you under these circumstances, Sylvie. I hope your husband will recover quickly and be back to work soon.”

  “Me, too. Especially the back-to-work part.” Sylvie accepted the flowers Quinn handed her and wiped a finger beneath one of her eyes. “He’s already grouchy as a bear. I came out here for some peace.”

  “Is there anything I can do?” Quinn asked. “Pick up something at the drugstore? Get a takeout dinner for you and the kids?”

>   Sylvie shook her head. “Thanks, but Mom is coming to help out tonight. I’m thinking of asking her to move in for a while. That ought to cut Ned’s recovery time in half.”

  She shifted to the side as an orderly wheeled a chair past them and into a nearby room. “That must be for Ned. I’d better go.”

  “Geneva called,” Tess said when Sylvie had disappeared into a room down the hall. “She wants us to meet with her at Chandler House. This afternoon, if possible.”

  “No.”

  “Tonight, then.”

  “I’ll give her a call when I have something new to report.”

  “You’ve got plenty to report right now,” Tess said. “You can start by filling me in on all those details you didn’t have time to discuss with me when you called this morning.”

  He glanced down the hall toward Ned’s room. “Later. I’ve got to get back to work.”

  “Fine. I’ll follow you to the site, and we can have our meeting in your trailer. In about…” She made a show of checking her watch. “Fifteen minutes. Is that ‘later’ enough for you?”

  He leveled a stony gaze at her while a little muscle in his jaw popped. Then he took her by the arm and led her down the hall, away from the small crowd of hospital employees hovering near the nurses’ station.

  “Someone cut through that plank,” he said in a tight, low voice. “The one that gave way when Ned stepped on it.”

  “On the scaffolding?” Her fingers trembled as she fussed with her purse strap. “How can you be sure?”

  He shifted aside as a nurse passed, and then he waited until she disappeared into one of the rooms. “I saw the cut. Fresh, and made with a saw. Nearly clean through, on one side, and underneath, where you wouldn’t see it.”

  “Wasn’t the planking checked when the scaffolding was erected?”

  Quinn’s eyes iced over, and she could nearly see the anger pumping off him to vibrate in the air around them. “I checked it.”