by Pam Crooks
When she was at the greatest risk of detection.
Yet Pa had thrilled at it, had gone back again and again in his years of thievery to relive the rush of excitement from the possibility of getting caught.
Hannah only tasted raw tension. But everything seemed as it had been that afternoon. She felt better hearing the silence and was convinced the doctor’s room was empty. She took confidence in being safe, in knowing just what to do.
And why they were here.
Once inside the office, she pulled the shades over the two windows while Quinn lighted the oil lamp on Larson’s desk, keeping the flame low. Silence was imperative. She was grateful for their woolen clothing, which didn’t rustle like starched cotton or something firmer would have, and for their soft slippers. She didn’t dare a squeak of shoe leather.
Hannah stepped to a wooden cabinet labeled “Coroner Reports” and found the drawers immovable. Producing a bureau pick, she slipped one end in the lock, worked the wire and pulled it out again. The drawer slid open.
She fixed her concentration on the papers filed inside. They were arranged by year, and within those, by case. Her fingers crawled to the back of the drawer and latched onto a file labeled “Landry, Sarah.”
Triumphant, she pulled it out.
A sound from above raised the hairs on the back of her neck. She stared at the ceiling and listened.
Snoring, Stephen Larson slept directly over them, and she trembled in relief.
A good thing, his snoring.
Acutely aware he could awaken at any moment, she opened the file. Quinn moved closer and read with her:
Victim died from severe trauma to head, consistent with repeated blows from blunt instrument, possibly a man’s fist . . ..
They skimmed the entire report but found nothing different from what Loretta had told them. Fighting disappointment, Hannah returned the file to the drawer.
“Damn,” Quinn muttered.
“Perhaps Doctor Larson was careless in his record keeping,” she said and bit her lip at the thought.
“I’ve never known a man more precise than he was,” Quinn said, shaking his head in disagreement. “He always took copious notes.”
Hannah searched her brain for different angles.
“Maybe he filed you under ‘Quinn Landry’ instead of ‘Landry, Quinn’,” she said, but already her searching fingers failed to find such a heading. Her disappointment deepened. “Is there another name he might have used?”
Quinn’s features furrowed in thought. “Well, it’s a long shot, but check the ‘H’s’ for ‘Hombre’.”
She blinked at him in dubious surprise.
“It’s a nickname from when I was a kid. It means ‘tough man’ in Spanish. He always teased me with it, even when I got older.” Quinn peered over her shoulder as she searched.
Again, she found nothing.
“Okay.” Nonplussed, he moved away toward another cabinet. “Let’s check the patient files. Maybe he hid the evidence there, away from the regular coroner reports.”
Hannah followed and produced her bureau pick again; within moments, the second drawer opened. Her fingers moved quickly to the ‘H’s’, and with a soft cry of delight, she withdrew the file and opened it.
No scratches, cuts or bruises were visible on the accused’s knuckles, hands or elsewhere . . ..
The words leapt up from the paper.
. . .his naked body was clean of blood or other markings.
And more.
Accused plainly smelled of imbibed liquor. However, his condition resembled bromism, a semi-imbecile condition with slurred speech and drooling mouth . . ..
“Bromism?” Quinn whispered, clearly stunned.
“Didn’t you say Manny had been given Triple Bromide Elixir for his epilepsy?” she asked, her tone hushed.
“Yes.”
Quinn continued reading, his attention too absorbed to elaborate.
These findings suggest that the accused was drugged with around 60-125 grains of bromide . . . rather than drunkenness as reported . . ..
“It’s all here,” he breathed. “Christ. Everything.”
He stuffed the entire sheaf of papers into Hannah’s black flannel bag. Like a man possessed, he strode past the bottles of female remedies, stomach bitters and cod liver oil, stopped at the bookcase and strained to read their titles in the dim light.
“Find me Manny’s file,” he ordered.
Larson’s snoring continued above them. Hannah hastened back to the drawer. By the time she found the little boy’s records, Quinn held two leather-bound books in his hand.
In the largest, Epilepsy and Other Chronic Convulsive Diseases by a physician named W. R. Growers. Quinn studied a chart of dosages.
“Five to ten grains per day is recommended,” he said, his low voice grim. “It says sixty to one-hundred twenty-five grains would lead to bromism.”
Appalled, Hannah’s eyes met his.
Quinn had been given twelve times the recommended dosage of bromide the night Sarah had been killed.
Dear God.
He went on to skim the index of the other book, Epilepsy, a Report, by Hughlings Jackson of the National Hospital for the Paralyzed and Epileptic, England, 1870. He began reading about the use of bromides. She peered over his shoulder and read with him.
When bromides are withdrawn, seizures become even more severe . . ..
The author went on to warn:
Bromides must not be withdrawn abruptly, but by a gradual reduction in dosage . . ..
Hannah’s glance met Quinn’s. Had Manny been allowed to die by violent seizures because his medicine had been stopped?
George Larson had been meticulous in his record-keeping. He’d prescribed the recommended five to ten grains of Triple Bromide Elixir for Manny, and Quinn had seen to it the child had been given the medicine daily, and that the prescription had been refilled at regular intervals. After Quinn’s arrest, the entries stopped.
Suddenly, the string on Quinn’s arm went taut, and his arm flew outward. The books almost toppled to the floor.
Hannah’s heart jumped in her throat. The string jerked again and again.
Someone was coming.
Lightning quick, she doused the lamp. Quinn slid Manny’s file and both books into the flannel bag.
Hannah closed the file drawer and heard the low click of the lock. Quinn raised both window shades.
The bell at the front of the store tolled loudly.
“Hey, Doc? Doc! The baby’s comin’! My wife needs you.” The front door shook frantically. “Hey, Doc. Wake up!”
The snoring ceased.
Hannah’s swift glance assured the office was exactly as they’d found it except for a few key pieces of evidence Stephen Larson would never miss.
Until it was too late.
She slipped out the door with Quinn and pulled it firmly shut behind them. She slid the nippers in the hole, turned the key, and locked the door again.
A light in the second-story bedroom went on.
But by then, Hannah and Quinn had safely scaled the fence to freedom.
A light morning breeze fluttered the gossamer feathers on Hannah’s hat. She wore the striped silk dress again, Quinn’s favorite of the two Loretta had chosen for her. A teasing light glinted from her hazel eyes.
“You’re sure you don’t want to come back tonight? I can blow the bank safe, you know. We can take all the Star L money you want.”
Quinn smiled down at her.
“After last night, woman, I’m convinced there’s not a better thief than you in the entire country. James Peter Benning would have been proud.” He peered at the front door of the Bank of Amarillo, and his smile faded. “But we’re going to withdraw the money legitimately. Just like any ordinary citizen.”
She cocked her head. “You’re not an ordinary citizen, Quinn. You’re on the run from the law. You could be arrested before you get a single dime.”
“It’s a chance I’ll have to take.
”
She curled her gloved fingers into the crook of his elbow.
“Yes,” she murmured. “I suppose it is.”
They walked slowly toward the front door.
“If anything goes wrong, run to Jody’s office. He’ll know what to do, just like we discussed. Remember how to get there from here?”
She nodded.
“Word will spread like a match to dry tinder that I’m back. Different than when we were registered at the hotel.” His mouth softened. “And you know what?”
“What?” she asked.
“No matter what happens, I love you. More than anything. Don’t ever forget that.”
“You’re scaring me, Quinn.” Hannah tugged him to a stop, her features intense. “If they try to arrest you, I’ll tell them everything. About Elliott, I mean.”
“Leave that to Jody. He’s got all the evidence locked away in his office. I don’t want you involved.”
“I’m already involved. I have been, from the moment I first set eyes on you.”
Her loyalty stirred the blood in his loins. He crooked a finger beneath her chin and tilted her head back for a languid kiss.
“I love you,” he said again, as if those very words could protect them both. “If we were in bed, I’d show you just how much.”
A disappointed sigh left her. “I wish we were there. Everything is so perfect then.”
“I know, darlin’.”
But to make their lives truly perfect, he had to right the wrongs of the past. Finding evidence with which to prove his innocence, as they’d done the night before, had been the first step. Announcing his presence in Amarillo by visiting the financial institution responsible for the Star L accounts was the second. Gently, he nudged Hannah inside the bank.
Little had changed in the years since he last walked across the floor tiles. The air smelled of old ledgers and new ones, of ink and money and lingering cigarette smoke. The teller windows, three of them, were in the same place. The bank officers were there, too, just as he remembered, tucked away in desks arranged behind a low railing, its spindles and gate richly varnished.
The lobby was filled with patrons intent on their business, and no one seemed to notice their arrival. Hannah and Quinn approached the railing.
“May I help you, sir?” asked one of the officers, a man in his twenties.
“Is John Mahoney in?”
“Mr. Mahoney is preparing year-end reports and is not to be disturbed. Is there something I can help you with?”
As president of the bank, John Mahoney enjoyed the privacy of his own office. Quinn’s gaze shot to the closed door, and annoyance rippled through him. He braced both hands on the officer’s paper-strewn desk.
“Disturb him anyway,” Quinn said. He was of no mind to wait on the man, not after four years.
The bank employee stiffened. “I’m afraid that’s not possible.”
“Damned if it isn’t. Tell him Quinn Landry is here to see him.” A feral smile curved his mouth. “I’ll warrant he’ll see me then.”
“Landry?” The banker frowned, and Quinn knew the moment he recognized the name. His smooth-shaved cheeks paled. “From the Star L outfit?”
“None other.”
The officer scrambled from his chair, as if he feared Quinn would shoot him on the spot.
“I’ll--I’ll tell him, sir. Just a moment, sir.”
Quinn straightened from the desk, and Hannah turned toward him in discreet amusement.
“Your reputation precedes you, Mr. Landry,” she said under her breath. “Of a sudden, he seems quite eager to please you.”
“Reckon there’s advantages to being accused of murder,” he replied drily.
Over her head, he encountered another man’s startled gaze upon them, a gentleman dressed in a derby and a deep-green herringbone suit. He stood in line at the teller’s window, close enough to hear Quinn’s conversation with the bank officer.
“Do you know him?” Hannah asked quietly, unduly intent on brushing imaginary bits of lint from the front of Quinn’s jacket.
“No,” he said and dismissed him. The Star L ranch was known throughout the state of Texas; the Landry name equally so.
Mahoney’s office door burst open.
“Quinn? My God.” John Mahoney stood in the portal and appeared stricken with shock, as if he’d just witnessed a ghost rising from the dead.
In a way, Quinn thought grimly, he had.
“Come in,” Mahoney urged.
Quinn slipped his hand to the small of Hannah’s back and ushered her ahead of him into the office. Mahoney shut the door.
“You’re out of prison.” He indicated two chairs positioned in front of his broad polished desk. “What happened?”
“I escaped. By the skin on my ass.”
The banker showed little surprise at Quinn’s words, as if he knew there could be no other way to account for Quinn’s presence. He eased into his stuffed-leather chair, his expression serious. He’d changed little over the years. Life behind a desk kept his hands smooth and his belly paunchy, but he was as shrewd as ever.
Quinn could see it in his eyes, in the piercing way he studied them both.
“This is Hannah, John. My wife.”
Brows salted with gray shot up. “And you got married, too?”
“Much has changed since they hailed me off in chains.”
“I can see that.” He acknowledged Hannah with a cool nod, his suspicion of her part in Quinn’s criminal past evident. He steepled his fingers. “Does Elliott know you’re back?”
“No.” Quinn regarded him steadily. “I had business to tend to first. I’ll see him soon.”
“He’ll be . . . surprised.”
“So far, everyone else has been, too.”
Those shrewd eyes bored into him. “Have you reconciled yourself to the law yet?”
“That will come in due time,” Quinn said smoothly.
“Until then?”
John Mahoney never minced words. He dealt with facts in black and white, like the numbers he wrote in his ledgers every day. Quinn had always admired him for the trait, had long trusted him with the Star L accounts because of it.
Quinn leaned forward.
“I need to get my ranch back,” he said.
“That may prove difficult.” Mahoney’s gaze was unyielding.
“Why?”
“Elliott has assumed control of the Star L.”
“The ranch is mine. T.J. willed it to me.”
“You were convicted of a heinous crime and punished for it. We received word you had died.”
“From who?”
“It was in all the papers.”
“Damn the papers.” Irritation festered inside Quinn. “I didn’t die, and I was sent to prison for a crime I didn’t commit. That ranch should never have fallen into Elliott’s hands.”
“Unfortunately, it did. We had no other recourse, under the circumstances.”
“Circumstances,” Quinn said with a snarl. “I’ve had four years of my life stolen away. I’ll never get them back again, but I sure as hell will get the Star L.”
Mahoney’s mouth thinned. “Elliott will fight you.”
“He can fight my lawyers and the entire judicial system in this state.”
“It may come to that.”
Quinn seethed. At Mahoney. At the truth in his words.
Hannah placed a calming hand on his arm.
“Certainly you understand my husband’s situation, Mr. Mahoney,” she said in her velvet voice. “He’s merely trying to get his affairs in order. He has a right to resume his life as it was before--before it changed.”
“Yes,” the banker said, frowning. “But first you must have the law behind you.” He glanced at Quinn. “Set up a meeting with Elliott. Perhaps a compromise can be reached until you are officially acquitted.”
Quinn snorted.
“I’ll attend on your behalf,” Mahoney added.
“I don’t want a compromise.” Qu
inn scowled. “I want the Star L. All of it.”
Mahoney hesitated. “The finances are not as strong as they were under your ownership. Of course, we want to see the ranch profitable again, and if you would simply discuss the matter with Elliott--.”
Unease filtered through Quinn. “Let me see the ledgers, John.”
“I don’t believe Elliott would agree.”
Quinn gritted his teeth. “The ledgers, damn it!”
Mahoney remained immovable. “Until I speak with Elliott, I’m afraid--.”
“Mr. Mahoney.” Hannah’s no-nonsense tone snatched their attention. “If you choose to refuse Mr. Landry the information he’s asking to see, there are other avenues we can pursue to get it.” She looked him square in the eye. “Not all of them lawful.”
The gray-streaked brows shot up.
“Are you threatening me, Mrs. Landry?” he demanded.
“Yes, I am.” Softening, she bestowed him with a demure smile. “As you can see, my husband is determined to regain ownership of the Star L. Once that is accomplished, I’ll insist he take his business to one of your competitors if you neglect to cooperate with him now.”
He sputtered at her impudence. Grudging admiration eased the tension in Quinn. She knew how to hit a banker where it hurt most.
“I’ll return with the ranch accounts,” he said finally.
He left the office and entered a short hall, at the end of which stood a mammoth safe of heavy steel, its doors wide open. Hannah strained to see inside.
Quinn’s mouth curved. “Another mark, darlin’?”
“Yes,” she purred. “If it’s necessary. A thief must always be prepared, you know.”
She settled back into her chair, and Mahoney re-entered the room. He displayed the ledgers for Quinn’s scrutiny, beginning with the month of his arrest.
“As you can see, the Star L remained self-sufficient for a period of time before Elliott took over. But it didn’t last long,” Mahoney said.
The numbers trailed down the page--payments for feed, veterinary supplies, lumber. Normal expenses. Quinn frowned at one, a sizable amount wired to a hacienda in Mexico. Another, higher still, for attorney’s fees. The totals wrung a low whistle from between his teeth. He turned the page, read two more entries and went cold.