Quinn's Way

by Rebecca Flanders

  “I retraced your steps that first morning,” Mark explained. “Everything—the apple tree, the fall, the argument with Mom—”

  “I did that,” Quinn interrupted. “That first day, after you and your mother left for school, I went over everything in my mind, I retraced every step—”

  “But you forgot Arthur!” Mark exclaimed.

  Quinn frowned. “Who?”

  “The dog! Arthur, the sheepdog—he lives next door! Remember? He was running around, knocking into things—”

  “He stepped on some of my equipment,” Quinn said slowly, his expression distracted as he remembered. “And then you came and held him…”

  “And then he got away,” finished Mark excitedly. “And none of us were watching him by then. So last night I was thinking, and I remembered how Arthur likes to hide his toys under the toolshed at his house….”

  Houston let the sodden wad of paper towels fall unused into the sink. She could feel her heart actually leap in her chest as her son reached into his back pocket and triumphantly pulled out a small metal case that looked like nothing more than a pocket calculator.

  “So I went there and I found this,” he said. “This is it, isn’t it, Quinn? It’s the resonator!”

  Houston knew by the way the color drained from Quinn’s face, by the way that he slowly rose from his chair, that Mark was right. She sank back against the counter, her knees suddenly weak.

  Quinn went over to Mark and took the instrument from him. Then he dropped to his knees and hugged Mark. Houston’s eyes blurred and she had to close them, offering up a brief, deeply powerful prayer of gratitude.

  When she opened her eyes, Mark was grinning, so puffed up with pride that he looked as though he might take flight at any moment. Quinn was examining the resonator with wonder and barely subdued excitement in his eyes. “It’s been damaged,” he said, his voice low and quick, “but I don’t think it’s beyond repair. Mark…”

  He looked up, and though Houston could not see exactly what passed between the two males with that look, she knew it was something her son would carry with him the rest of his life. “Thank you,” Quinn said simply.

  And then he added, “Now go upstairs and get cleaned up. I can’t say for sure, but I can just about bet a trip to Radio Shack will be called for before this day is over.”

  Mark ran toward the stairs, and Houston just stood there, her hands pressed to her hot cheeks, hardly daring to release the laugh of delight that was bubbling up inside her. Quinn, still on his knees, turned to look at her, and her own amazement and joy was reflected on his face.

  “I don’t believe it,” he said.

  “So simple,” she agreed.

  He looked at the resonator in his hand, and then he looked at her. He got to his feet—and his face went chalk white. He grasped the back of a chair to keep from falling. Houston rushed to him, slipping her arm around his waist. The bubbling excitement that had buoyed her only a moment ago was now a cold weight of fear in her stomach.

  “Are you all right?” she demanded. “Quinn!”

  “No—it’s okay. I’m okay.” He passed a hand through his hair, and Houston noticed it was trembling. He took a few deep breaths, though, and after a moment, when he looked at her, his smile seemed genuine.

  He put his arms around her, wrapping her in his embrace, holding her close. “Oh, Houston,” he said. “It’s possible. Now…it’s possible.”

  For the first time, she believed it was.

  THEY MADE TWO TRIPS to computer stores for parts that Quinn could break down and redesign for his own purpose before stopping at Radio Shack for the tools Quinn would need to begin his work.

  “I won’t be able to determine the full extent of the damage until I open it,” Quinn said. “But as long as the magnetic field is intact, I can improvise everything else.”

  “Sounds dangerous,” Houston said.

  Quinn just grinned. “Isn’t everything?”

  Houston slipped her arm through his and squeezed it briefly, happy because he was, and because the pallor had almost disappeared from his cheeks.

  The salesman who approached them looked nervous. “Hi, Mark,” he said. He glanced at Quinn, then at Houston, then at Mark again. “Anything in particular today?”

  “Nah, Quinn knows what he wants.”

  “Oh, yes.” The clerk smiled at Quinn, but there was something a little strained about it. “You were here before, weren’t you?”

  Quinn nodded. “I need a voltage tester and some wire clips.”

  “Right this way.”

  “That’s okay—I see them.”

  The salesman looked a little disconcerted, then turned quickly back to Mark. “We just got the upgrade for Battlestar. You want to try it out?”

  “We’re in kind of a hurry,” Houston said.

  “It’s got the speech package,” the salesclerk said persuasively.

  Mark looked hopefully at his mother. “It’ll just take a minute.”

  It took more than a minute. While the young clerk was busy demonstrating the intergalactic features of the new game to Mark, the sales manager went over to Quinn, offering all kinds of helpful advice that Houston could tell by the expression on Quinn’s face was not very helpful at all, and engaging him in a long conversation about a project he was working on at home. Quinn kept trying to move away politely, impatience evident on his face, until finally Houston felt compelled to intercede.

  She came over to him and glanced pointedly at her watch. “We really should be going if we don’t want to be late,” she said.

  “You’re right,” agreed Quinn. He glanced at his nemesis. “Excuse me. We have an appointment.”

  The sales manager said cheerfully, “Let me ring you up, then.”

  Houston called to Mark and they went to the counter.

  The total was $12.49. Quinn paid with a ten and a five. The sales manager looked at the bills as though he didn’t know what they were for a moment, then he flashed Quinn a smile. “I hate to ask, but would you happen to have a twenty? We’re running low on bigger bills and need to get rid of some of our change.”

  Quinn reached into his wallet and handed over a twenty. The salesman looked at the bill and swallowed hard. He looked over the cash register, at something behind them, and it was in that split second that Houston realized something was wrong.

  Her insight came too late, however, although it was unlikely that any amount of forewarning could have prevented what happened next. When Houston turned to Quinn, two policemen were there, one on either side of him. One of them said, “Just hold it right there, if you would, please, sir.”

  Two men in suits—presumably detectives—went behind the counter to the salesman, who said, “This is it. Just like the other one we got.” He was holding up the bill Quinn had just paid with.

  Through the glass front of the store Houston could see two police cars parked. A third one was just pulling up, dome light flashing. Instinctively she put her arm around Mark and pulled him close even as she demanded, “What is this? What is going on?”

  One of the detectives addressed Quinn. “I don’t suppose you noticed anything unusual about this twenty-dollar bill, now, did you?”

  He held the bill out to Quinn to examine, but Quinn hardly glanced at it. “Like what?”

  “Like the date, for instance—1998?”

  Houston felt a sinking feeling low in her stomach. Her eyes met Quinn’s, and the look of horror that passed between them must have seemed like one of guilt. The two uniformed officers shifted subtly closer to Quinn and placed their hands on their holsters. The detective, cold-eyed, said, “I’m Raymond Sharp from the United States Treasury Department. Could I see some identification, please?”

  “IN OTHER NEWS, a Carsonville man was arrested today for counterfeiting.”

  Houston watched numbly as the image of the pretty brunette anchor gave way to a photograph of Quinn, side profile and full face. “Identified as David Quinn of Clarion, Minnesota, he is
accused of distributing more than a thousand dollars’ worth of phony twenties from his base in Carsonville over the past month. Authorities say the bills are virtually undetectable as frauds except for one minor detail…the date of printing is 1998. If you are in possession of any of the bills—”

  Houston hit the mute button on the remote control and turned back to her telephone conversation. “Look, there’s got to be something you can do.”

  The lawyer to whom Millie had recommended her—Millie, God bless her, was the kind of friend who would help first and ask questions later—was sympathetic but firm. “I’ve done everything I could, but there’s no way we can move the arraignment up any sooner than tomorrow afternoon. Even so, I’ve got to tell you the chances are bail will be denied. The man has no job, no roots in the community, a strong motive to flee and the means to do so. I’ll make an argument, but I’ve got to tell you, it just doesn’t look good.”

  Houston twisted the telephone cord around her wrist, half turning from the living room, where Mark was watching and listening intently to every word she said. She lowered her voice. “Listen. You’ve got to get him out of there. I don’t care what it takes, he’s got to get out. He’s…he’s not well. He can’t stay there.”

  “Well, we can get a doctor to him tonight if he needs one. But beyond that—”

  “What he needs is to go home!”

  A reproachful silence followed her outburst. Houston drew a calming breath, but it wasn’t calming at all. They were so close. How could this be happening?

  In a quieter tone, she asked, “Can you at least arrange for me to see him tonight?”

  She had spent almost six hours answering police questions herself…and all the time she kept thinking about the collection of bills Quinn had given her for rent that were hidden away in her savings bank, and thanking whatever fates were responsible that she had not spent any of them. If both she and Quinn were in jail, they would be helpless.

  By the time she was allowed to leave the police station, visiting hours at the jail were over, and she had spent the next several hours on the telephone, back and forth with the lawyer. She wanted to let Quinn know she had not deserted him. She wanted to tell him everything was going to be all right.

  But was it?

  The lawyer answered, “Visiting hours start at ten in the morning. No exceptions. I’m sorry. I’ll be by to talk to him before the arraignment, and then you and I should meet tomorrow afternoon. Say about four, at my office?”

  Knowing there was nothing else she could do, Houston agreed and hung up the phone.

  Mark looked at her from across the room, sober and big-eyed. She didn’t know what to say to him.

  He was the one who finally spoke. “Pretty bad, huh, Mom?”

  Houston nodded, once again swallowing back a lump of fear and defeat. How could this have happened?

  But she managed a smile, which, if it wasn’t convincing, was at least brave. “Nothing we can’t handle, though,” she said. She sat down beside Mark and put an arm around his shoulders, hugging him. “It’s going to be fine. You’ll see.”

  She only wished she could believe that.

  “IT WAS STUPID,” Quinn said. “It’s my fault and I have no excuses. I should have checked the bills. I knew the equipment had been damaged and I should have checked.”

  The Carsonville jail was small and provided no formal visitors’ room. Houston was escorted to the cell area, where she and Quinn were forced to conduct their conversation in low voices, separated by bars.

  He looked awful. They had taken his clothes and given him a standard-issue blue cotton jumpsuit. Houston hated that. She knew it was common procedure, but it made his incarceration look so permanent. His hair was rumpled and he was hollow-eyed from lack of sleep; his skin was damp and sallow. Houston put her hand atop his fingers, which were curled around one of the bars.

  “How did it happen?” she asked quietly.

  He gave a small shake of his head, signifying nothing by the gesture except his own impatience with himself. “I have a machine that produces some of the necessities for survival outside our own time—documents, money, things like that. The bills aren’t counterfeit,” he insisted. “Technically, they’re perfectly legitimate—or they will be in 1998. Apparently the equipment was malfunctioning just enough to print the wrong twenties. I should have checked.”

  Houston nodded thoughtfully. “Not much of a defense, though.”

  He brought his forehead to rest against the bars. “I’m sorry, Houston. Once again, I’ve brought you nothing but trouble.”

  Houston caressed his brow and was alarmed by how hot it felt. “Quinn, we’ve got to get you out of here. You look ill, and I think you have a fever.”

  He shook his head and straightened up. “I’m fine. I didn’t sleep, that’s all. Not that I’m disagreeing—I need to get out of here. I just can’t think how, right now. As you pointed out, my defense is a little weak.”

  He passed his hand, palm up, through the bars, and she placed her hand inside it. “How’s Mark?” he inquired with concern.

  “He insisted on coming with me. They wouldn’t let him in, of course. He’s waiting in the car.”

  “This is going to be embarrassing for him,” Quinn said heavily. “And for you. The publicity will be unavoidable, and none of it will reflect kindly on you.”

  Houston gave an impatient shake of her head. “We’ll deal with that when the time comes. For now we’ve got more important problems.”

  He stroked her cheek, smiling tenderly. “What did I do to deserve you?”

  “Is there anything Mark and I can do,” she inquired anxiously, “about the resonator? If we brought it to you, and the tools, could you…?”

  The big metal door that separated the prisoners from the jailors creaked open and slammed shut, cutting off Houston’s words. A rather chubby policewoman came through, followed by a sleek, dark-haired woman in a gray business suit.

  The policewoman said, “David Quinn?”

  She came up to the cell door, key in hand, and Houston stepped away. “The charges against you have been dropped, Mr. Quinn,” the policewoman said. “You’re free to go. Please stop by the desk to claim your personal belongings.”

  Houston stared at her. “Dropped? But how—”

  The other woman stepped forward briskly and extended her hand to Quinn. “I’m Morgan, your attorney. I know we haven’t officially met, but I thought it was best to get this nonsense out of the way first.”

  The woman had a throaty voice and a powerful, businesslike manner that left no doubt in anyone’s mind who was in charge. But the lawyer Houston had hired was a man.

  She said, confused, “Are you an associate of Mr. Carruthers?”

  The woman glanced at her in thinly disguised irritation, then looked back at Quinn. “Why don’t I explain it on the way out?”

  The policewoman had already reached the metal door and was waiting for them to join her. Quinn left the cell, letting Morgan usher him toward the door. When Houston started to say something else, he silenced her with a look, and she had to agree: it would be foolish to look a gift horse in the mouth. Although the last thing Morgan, with her dark exotic beauty, resembled was a horse.

  Quinn changed into his street clothes and signed the form for the return of his possessions. Before he put his wallet away, he opened it and counted the money. What he found was not evident on his face as they left the building.

  “It’s all there,” he said quietly to Morgan as he pushed open the door to the vestibule.

  She replied, “I should certainly hope so.”

  “Even the twenties.”

  Now Houston was beginning to catch on. “They should have been evidence.”

  The three of them stood inside the small glass-enclosed foyer, which was already beginning to heat up from the summer sun. Despite the fact, Houston felt a cold prickle at the base of her neck.

  Morgan met Quinn’s eyes. “I think you’ll find that the da
tes on those twenties are now entirely correct. Charges were dropped, after all, for lack of evidence.”

  Quinn said very deliberately, “You changed history.”

  And Morgan smiled. “No,” she answered, “only the dates on a few twenty-dollar bills.”

  Houston was finding it increasingly difficult to catch her breath in the small, close space. She could see the beads of sweat on Quinn’s face, the disturbing dilation of his pupils. He couldn’t take his eyes off Morgan. Neither could Houston, after that last statement.

  It was Houston who regained her voice first. “You’re…from Quinn’s time period?”

  Morgan glanced at her, obviously startled.

  “No,” Quinn said. “Not from my time.”

  Morgan seemed to make a decision. She turned to Quinn, straightened her shoulders and looked him in the eye. She said, “My year is 2382, approximately seventy-five years after your disappearance. Sir, it is truly an honor to meet you. I have come to take you home.”

  Quinn leaned back against the glass wall in a gesture that almost appeared casual. But Houston saw the perspiration trickle down his cheek, and she saw that he had difficulty swallowing. She moved closer to him, touching his arm.

  “Let’s go outside,” she suggested.

  But Quinn did not appear to hear her. He seemed to be aware of no one except Morgan. “How,” he demanded hoarsely, “did you find me?”

  She smiled. “We can capture broadcast beams with one-hundred-percent accuracy now. No one else need ever risk his life in time travel to bring our past back to us. We saw the news of your arrest on one of our satellite transmissions, and it solved a seventy-five-year-old mystery for us. The plan to rescue you has been ten years in the making, but we finally made it work.”

  Quinn looked as stunned as Houston felt. He pushed an unsteady hand through his hair, as though struggling to clear his thoughts. “And you can do that—take me back to my own time?”

  Morgan smiled and extended her hand to him. “I can do that,” she said. “That’s why I’m here.”