Sipping, he thought about Minnesota, the Land of 10,000 Lakes, and how the summer sun could burn a person’s skin and the winter winds could freezer-burn it as well. The North Country was a land of four seasons, where a wolf’s summer coat thickened as the autumn’s daylight hours thinned. And a north woods pine felt more like home to him than a desert cactus.
Out of the corner of his eye, Quin caught a movement below his deck. Something in the ash tree had hopped from one branch to another. It was too late in the evening for a squirrel to be out of its nest and there were no owls in this part of the city. He watched the tree through the bars in the deck railing and noticed a raven stretching its wings in the breeze. He sipped again, watching it preen itself, picking at its oily feathers in the moonlight. Another raven leapt from a building across the street and soared overhead. Quin tracked it with his eyes, admiring its ability to rise into the night sky on gusts of warm air.
Dr. Hayden would label this a hallucination; the product of schizophrenia brought on by a change in his medication and intensified by his tea. Quin called it something very different: a good omen. His raven spirit guides had returned from their travels to protect him from danger. He watched them as they called to each other and to him. They were agitated, warning of danger below.
He stood up and looked over the railing as the raven in flight landed on a street lamp above a row of cars parked along the curb. Somebody was down there in one of them, waiting, watching Quin’s building. His calm evaporated and he felt a heightened awareness, all of his senses firing at once. He saw movement in the car, heard the ravens calling, smelled cigarette smoke, and swallowed the sweet aftertaste of tea, his palms sweaty. Time to see what all the fuss was about.
He left the deck and walked through his apartment out into the hallway, entered the stairwell, and ran down three flights, his bare feet padding with barely an echo. At the exit he looked out the window but didn’t have a clear view of the car in question, so he stepped out and jogged completely around the building. He waited for a truck to pass before he crossed the street, keeping his eye on the suspicious vehicle. It was always safer to approach prey from behind. He crouched low, three cars back, and studied the vehicle in question: two people in the front seat of a BMW, nobody visible in the back. They were talking or debating, and occasionally looking back at Quin’s apartment building. They must’ve seen him on the deck, watched him step inside the apartment, but they hadn’t realized he was now only thirty feet behind them.
The ravens flew to a small tree branch above an old Schwinn bike chained to it and they perched there, watching the BMW, their heads cocked with a mellow curiosity. Quin knew he wasn’t in any serious danger but he wanted to know if the people in the car were predators or prey. He picked up and tossed a pebble, listening to it bounce off the hood with a click! click!
Inside the BMW, Candace Johnson stared out the passenger window as Christopher Gartner drummed the steering wheel with his thumbs. “You hear that, Candace?”
“Something hit the car.”
“Just an acorn,” he said.
“That’s not an oak tree,” she said, pointing to the branch above the car. “I don’t like spying on Quin.”
She looked up through the sunroof of Christopher’s car and saw that Quin hadn’t returned to the deck. She knew he was home, she’d just watched him; but now she was nervous about approaching him. “I should’ve e-mailed him a photo of the knife. What if he doesn’t want to talk?”
“He’ll answer the door when he hears my voice,” Christopher said. “And we’ll go in together.”
“What if he has a peephole and sees me standing next to you? Call him first. Tell him you’re in the neighborhood and we want to stop by.”
“You realize how you’re overthinking this?” Christopher said.
“Let’s not spook him.”
“Believe me, you can’t spook this guy,” Christopher said. “We’ll go to his apartment and I’ll reintroduce you two. We’ll give him the knife and you’ll probably get a chance to interview him.”
This should be easy. Quin was one of the good guys, but she felt uneasy about what they were doing. “Somebody’s watching.”
“I don’t see anybody,” he said.
“Can’t you feel it?”
“No, I don’t. It’s probably a Peeping Tom staring down on you from one of the buildings. Button up your shirt.”
She buttoned it, even though she knew Christopher was wrong. There wasn’t a Peeping Tom looking down on her; she felt a powerful force stalking them from street level.
“I’ll go up there first,” Christopher repeated, stepping out of the vehicle.
“Christopher, wait. Call him again.”
“I’ll be right back,” he said, shaking his head.
He locked the door and ran across the street to the apartment building. She sat listening, looking out the rearview mirror at the dim streetlights and the sporadic passing traffic. Whatever was out there, it didn’t follow Christopher, but kept its eyes on her. The presence felt closer. Her heart pulsated faster as she reached into her handbag at her feet and lifted Quin’s knife up into her lap for protection.
And then the presence stepped closer. Was the knife drawing a spirit toward her? The spirit wanted the knife. Was it Quin himself? She moved up in her seat, reached for the open sunroof with the knife, and stood on the console, her upper body positioned now through the roof. She stood facing the back of the car, toward the street, and stared at a low hedge along a parking lot.
“Quin?” she said, holding the knife flat in her palms, like a gift.
“Where did you get that?” a voice called out.
She spun around and he was standing directly in front of the car.
“Jesus, where did you come from?” she exclaimed, embarrassed.
He was a tall silhouette backlit by the streetlight. She couldn’t see the expression on his face, only his wide shoulders and muscular arms at his side.
“It’s, um, it’s yours,” she said, extending the knife.
“How did you get it?”
“From Christopher Gartner. Here, take it.”
He didn’t move. “Is that why you’ve been calling me?”
“Yes and no,” she admitted. “I wanted to talk with you.”
“About what?”
“Ben Moretti, among other things,” she said. “I feel kind of awkward standing through the roof of this car, holding your knife.”
In one fluid motion, Quin leaped onto the hood of Christopher’s BMW, his bare feet landing softly. He towered over her and his eyes scanned her face. She felt both awe and fear in his presence, and he portrayed an animalistic beauty and grace. She handed his knife up to him and he lowered it to just below her jaw, the tip of the blade cool against her skin. If he harbored any grudges against Christopher or her, she would be dead in an instant.
“You have a scar on your chin,” Quin said.
“Huh?”
He lowered his blade and touched her chin. “How did you get your scar?”
“When I was a young girl learning to ride a bike, I wiped out once and had to get stitches.”
“I have scars, too.” He showed his bare forearms, with large crisscross marks in the skin.
“How did you get those?”
“From this knife.”
She wondered if he had been in a fight or if those wounds had been self-inflicted?
“C’mon, let’s see what Christopher is up to,” he said, slipping the knife behind his back into his belt. He jumped down to the street as she climbed back into the car and unlocked it. He opened the passenger door like a gentleman and she walked with him to his apartment building, up flights of stairs, neither of them saying a word to each other.
When they reached his door it was ajar, and Quin motioned to her to wait in the hallway. He pushed it open wider and stood watching and listening. Candace wondered why he was so cautious about Christopher; or was he like this with everyone? He slipped inside to the kitchene
tte, observing Christopher reading his mail, only a few feet away, yet oblivious to Quin’s presence. He looked up, as if he had felt the same spirit she had felt out on the street.
He dropped Quin’s mail on the table and his voice cracked. “Hey, buddy, how’s it going?”
“What are you doing?” Quin motioned to the envelopes and bills on the table.
“Oh, I was just wondering if you got that insurance check yet,” he said. “We agreed on my portion.”
“I’ll see to it that you get the money,” Quin said.
“Great, wire it to this account,” Christopher replied, handing him a piece of paper from his pocket.
Candace wasn’t privy to their business, but she knew they’d made a deal with each other months ago. She realized now why Christopher insisted they go to Quin’s apartment together; he was as uneasy around him as she was.
She stepped inside the apartment. “Everything all right?”
“Oh yeah, we’re cool,” Christopher said. “Did you give him the knife?”
“She did,” Quin said. “Where did you find it?”
“I picked it up after you caught Ben,” Christopher said. “Candace is here because she wanted to ask you some questions.”
Quin glanced back at her and then walked into the apartment, past Christopher, and she followed him into the living room. There was a futon couch, a laptop on a coffee table, and stacks of books on the floor. And there was an overstuffed duffel bag along the wall. He was either returning from somewhere or he was just about to leave.
“Have a seat,” he said, tossing pillows to one end of the couch. “Want something to drink?”
“Water for me,” Christopher said.
“I’ll have whatever you’re having, Quin,” she said in an attempt to bond with him.
“I’m finishing the last of this pot of tea,” he said, walking back to the refrigerator. “I’ve got spring water or Diet Coke.”
“Diet Coke, thanks.”
He returned with drinks and his own mug of tea, sitting in a leather chair alongside the couch where they sat. “Well?” he said to Christopher.
“Candace thinks Ben won’t go to trial, that he’ll cut a deal,” Christopher said.
“How do you know that?” he asked her.
“Ben told me.”
“Hmmm,” Quin said.
“What? That’s good news, right?” Christopher said to Quin. “No long, drawn-out trial, no need for me to take the stand and testify against him. And Ben goes to prison.”
Quin nodded, but Candace could see he was skeptical. “Why would he tell you that?” he asked her.
“He originally hired me six months ago to do public relations stories about him. But as you know, he was arrested. Still, he seems to trust me. He wants me to explain his side of the story.”
“Have you?” Quin asked.
“No, I’m waiting.”
“For what?”
“Ben wants me to wait, and he’ll give the go-ahead for me to publish his story,” she explained.
Quin sipped. “Hmmm.”
“What are you thinking?” she asked Quin.
“A wolf doesn’t howl now to be heard later,” Quin said. “What’s he waiting for?”
“He told me detailed information about death brokers, how they operate, but he wanted me to sit on the information until he was ready. I recorded him on video.”
“Let’s see it,” Quin said.
“Well, he’s holding onto the video,” she said. “Until he’s ready for me to release it.”
“Sounds like he’s using you,” Quin said. “If he’s confessing, he should hand the video over to the FBI.”
“But you’re the FBI,” she replied, frustrated.
“I’m a bounty hunter working for a division of the FBI. Search and retrieve, not investigations.”
His detached reaction surprised her. She had come all this way, waited months for a meeting with Quin, and he didn’t even care about the case. “What should I do with this information?”
“Contact the FBI,” he said.
She looked at Christopher and he shrugged, and the three sat quietly for an awkward moment, the curtains from the open deck door blowing in the breeze. “You doing a lot of laundry?” she joked, pointing at the duffel bag.
“Traveling to Arizona.”
“Arizona?”
“You on a bounty assignment?” Christopher asked.
Quin turned his gaze from the deck back to his old colleague. “Sort of.”
“Who are you after?”
“A family member,” Quin said.
“Wait a minute,” said Candace, confused. “You have a relative out on bail?”
“My sister isn’t a fugitive, she’s a missing person.”
“Since when?” she asked.
“A long time ago, a cold case.”
“Now that would be an amazing story,” she said. “A bounty hunter in search of his sister.”
She knew he had no interest in her stories. He was slipping out of her grasp again, so she took a shot and asked him, “Mind if I tag along?”
He smiled at the absurdity of it.
“I won’t get in the way. I’ll carry my own weight. You’ll hardly notice I’m there.”
“It’s not safe,” he said. “Things happen in the field that most people wouldn’t understand.”
“What kind of things?” Christopher asked, beating her to it.
“Most people don’t like the idea of hunting wolves. A wolf’s life is sacred, like a human life. But sometimes you need to hunt humans, just like the wolf,” Quin said.
“I’d like to see that. I won’t judge you,” she promised. “I can do background research for you and help find her.”
“I have my raven spirit guides for that.”
For a second she thought he was joking, so she played along. “Raven guides, huh?”
“For thousands of years ravens have followed humans, kept close. And after the great flood, the first bird sent out to find dry land wasn’t a dove, but a raven. My totem name is Raven,” Quin said, standing up from his chair and walking out onto the deck.
She and Christopher exchanged confused glances, wondering what to do next. Quin’s body language relayed the message; he was done talking, his thoughts suddenly a million miles away. He hummed a low groaning tone before his voice rose higher into a chant as he stretched out his arms like wings, his hair blowing off his neck as if he were in flight.
Of course she knew of several great flood myths that were passed along from different ancient cultures. The Noah story, how he sent out a dove, but only after the raven that was sent first had not returned. Was that what Quin meant? That he was leaving and had no intention of returning? She felt disappointed and cheated out of an opportunity to spend time with him because all she wanted to do at that moment was follow the raven.
Since Hawk and Slim Jim were driving to Arizona instead of flying, Quin had offered them his truck for the journey. The vehicle could haul gear and handle the rugged terrain of the desert better than Hawk’s Cadillac. Quin’s plan was to meet up with them at the reservation and have them drop him off at the airport before they began their road trip.
He was outside his apartment, all packed and ready to go when a woman called out, “Good morning!” It was Candace, who stood in front of the truck with a backpack strapped to her shoulders, her blond hair tucked under a cowboy hat.
“Sure is,” he said. “Where you headed?”
“With you,” she said, setting the overstuffed pack on the ground. “Last night you said I could tag along.”
The previous night was like a thick fog that wouldn’t burn off. He remembered the ravens and receiving the knife from her, but that was all. “I said that?”
She dragged the pack across the pavement to the back of the truck. “You were high or buzzed on something. You said you’re searching for your sister.”
“I did?”
“Yes, and I said that would make an in
teresting article…a bounty hunter searching for his sister. Frankly, that’s a better story than Ben’s.”
“I don’t need you writing a story about me, Candace.”
“Really? Because I was up late last night doing research on you and you’ve got a PR problem. You’re a bad-ass dude. You’ve hurt people while bounty hunting.”
“Goes with the job,” he said. “Some people are just—”
“What? Wild animals? Look, I’m not judging you, but I want to know what it is that makes Quin Lighthorn unique.”
“Don’t you have a real job?”
“This is my job. I’ll even let you approve of anything I write before it’s published, and I never do that with other people I write about. And if you can’t stand me, I’ll catch the first flight home.”
She was persistent, even had some bravado. And he figured she was probably a better driver than Hawk. She and Slim Jim could share the driving duties.
“I’m dropping this truck off with two friends who are planning to meet me in Arizona,” he explained. “I’m flying, courtesy of the bureau.”
“Oh,” she said with disappointment.
“If my friends are cool with you playing paparazzi, then you can ride along with them,” he said. “Still interested?”
“Yes!”
“Follow me in your car to the reservation. If they don’t want you along for the ride, your trip ends there. Agreed?”
“Okay, cool,” she said, trying to lift the backpack.
Quin took it from her arms. “Here, let me.” He tossed it into the truck’s bed.
“Thanks,” she said with a smile as she adjusted her hat. “I’ll follow you then?”
Inside the truck, he adjusted his jeans over his boots, felt the knife strapped to his right leg, and thought about his meeting with Candace last night. She could’ve kept the knife or used it to barter for a story, but instead she’d simply given it back to him. He pulled out of the parking lot onto the street and adjusted his side mirror to watch her following in her car. This could be a short trip for her. He wasn’t sure if Hawk would let a complete stranger hitch a ride with them across the country.
When he arrived at Hawk’s house, Quin slowed the truck as it bounced up the curb onto the driveway. Hawk was seated in a pine rocking chair on the front porch of his log home. Next to him was a backpack, too large for him to carry, and two hunting rifles in canvas bags leaning against the log wall behind him.
In The Company of Wolves_Follow The Raven Page 7