Quinn's Way

by Rebecca Flanders

  Quinn smiled, too, but it was a little wavery. “Well,” he said. “If that’s the case, then all I can say is, it’s about time.”

  He gestured toward the door, indicating they should precede him. Morgan pushed open the door first, and Houston followed.

  Quinn took two steps toward them, and collapsed.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Houston paced back and forth before the big picture window in the hospital waiting room, hugging her arms tightly, trying to breathe steadily. “Why is it taking so long?” she demanded of no one in particular. “Why won’t they come talk to us?”

  Because they can’t leave him, another voice said inside her head. Because he’s strapped to life-support equipment and they don’t know whether his next breath will be his last…because he’s comatose and they can’t bring him out of it…because he’s already gone…

  She felt a presence beside her, and Mark reached for her hand. “It’s okay, Mom,” he said. His voice was clear with the simple conviction of the very young. “He’s not going to die, not when he’s this close to going home. It doesn’t work that way. He’s not going to die.”

  It took Houston a moment to bring her voice under control, to force back the tears that threatened to flood her throat. Because Quinn had looked so pale when they had taken him away on the stretcher. So pale and still. And because the truth was, sometimes it did work that way.

  She squeezed her son’s hand and managed a smile. “I think you’re probably right, Mark. It doesn’t seem fair, does it?”

  He shook his head soberly. Houston dropped to one knee beside him.

  “I think you should know,” Houston said quietly, “that Quinn didn’t want to leave us, not even to save his life. He had a plan to come back—to solve the problems that they have now with time travel, and to come back, and stay. I don’t know whether his plan would have worked,” she admitted, “but it was what he wanted.”

  Mark nodded. “Sure,” he said. “Makes sense. It’s what I would have done.” Then he added, “You guys are in love, aren’t you, Mom?”

  Her vision blurred with hot tears; to hide it, she hugged her son, squeezing her eyes tightly closed against his T-shirt-clad shoulder. “Yes,” she whispered. “Very much.”

  “Then his plan will work. I’ll bet you.”

  “Excuse me.”

  Houston recognized the deep contralto voice of the woman called Morgan. She had come with Houston to the emergency room in a stilted, detached silence, had followed them through the admitting procedure and into the waiting room without saying a word and had then taken a seat on the opposite side of the room from Houston, folded her hands in her lap and proceeded to wait. Houston hadn’t meant to ignore her, but she hadn’t known what to say. In the last agonizing half hour or so, as her anxiety about Quinn grew more consuming, she had almost forgotten about the other woman entirely.

  Houston stood up slowly, still holding Mark’s hand. She cleared her throat. “Um, Morgan. Is there something I can do for you?”

  “I doubt it,” she answered. “I confess, I wasn’t prepared for this.”

  Her voice, with its firm no-nonsense intonation, as well as her cool unblinking beauty, made her seem cold, Houston realized, almost disinterested. But she wasn’t. There was genuine distress in her eyes, although her strict composure made it difficult to see.

  “It occurred to me,” she went on, “that if you could tell me something about what Quinn’s lifestyle has been since he’s been here, perhaps I would have a better chance of diagnosing his illness. You seem to know him rather well, and—” she slanted Houston a quick sideways glance “—if he confided to you where he was really from, he must have confided other things, as well.”

  She looked at Mark, then at Houston. “Perhaps I haven’t been polite. Some of the nuances of your culture still elude me. I don’t, for example, believe I know your name.”

  “My name is Houston Malloy. This is my son, Mark.”

  Morgan looked again at Mark, and something flickered in her eyes—something that was very close to surprise, or even excitement. “Mark Malloy?”

  Mark said, “Yes, ma’am.”

  A slow, vaguely wondering smile spread over Morgan’s face. “Mark Malloy,” she said softly. “Of course. You would be a child now. We always wondered how—” But then she cut herself off; the smile vanished as abruptly as though a switch had been thrown. “Well, I’m sure that’s not appropriate.”

  She looked back at Houston. “I should explain. The design of this rescue has required some of the most brilliant minds of my time. We thought we had virtually eliminated the possibility of failure. To have this happen—” She stopped and cleared her throat, and seemed for a moment to struggle with an emotion. Then she finished simply, “You see, in my time, Quinn is a legend. A hero.”

  Houston touched her arm in a brief gesture of comfort. “In my time, too,” she said softly.

  A male voice spoke behind them. “Excuse me. I’m looking for the family of David Quinn.”

  Houston turned quickly to face the doctor, her heartbeat seizing with anxiety. “I’m Houston Malloy,” she said.

  “And I’m Dr. Morgan,” Morgan said abruptly, striding toward the doctor with her hand extended. “I’m here as a friend of the family. Please tell me all you can about the patient’s condition.”

  The doctor shook Morgan’s hand, glancing from her to Houston. Then he said, gesturing to a group of chairs by the window. “Why don’t we all sit down?”

  The heavy weight in Houston’s chest did not ease as they were seated, and the doctor began to speak. “Mr. Quinn is a very sick man. And I’m sorry to say we don’t know why. He seems to be suffering from a massive infection—his temperature is a hundred and four, leukocytes and erythrocites are elevated. He’s beginning to develop a pitecheal rash that could be symptomatic of rubella or scarlet fever—or a dozen other more exotic illnesses.” He looked at Houston. “It would help me to know if he’s been out of the country in the last month or so.”

  How about out of the century? Houston thought, but she shook her head. “No.”

  The doctor addressed Morgan. “In addition, his system seems to be demonstrating a noticeable histaminic reaction. We’re scanning for known toxins and doing a drug analysis just in case. Most of the blood cultures will take forty-eight hours, but you might be interested in the gram stains.”

  From the clipboard he carried he pulled out several sheets of paper to which were affixed yellow lab sheets. Morgan looked through them without comment.

  “Right now we’re pushing fluids and a broad-spectrum antibiotic. Until we know more, that’s all we can do.”

  “Can we see him?”

  The doctor looked as though he would refuse Houston’s request out of hand, and then his expression softened. “He’s under sedation now. Give us a few hours. We’ll see.”

  When the doctor was gone, Houston turned to Morgan urgently. “Can you help him? Surely in your time you must know a way to treat these things.”

  But Morgan just shook her head, her expression one of bafflement. “These bacteria that are showing up on the tests, these diseases—they are all from your century. That shouldn’t be. How could he be susceptible to these things?”

  Houston leaned her head back, unable to continue to hold her shoulders straight against the weight of defeat that was pressing down on them. “The serum,” she said. “When he realized he wasn’t going to be able to get back before he ran out, he started cutting the doses in half.”

  For the first time genuine shock was reflected in Morgan’s face, making her look almost animated. “But…that’s impossible! He wouldn’t have done anything so reckless! He’ll die!”

  “He had no choice,” Houston returned. “He took a chance. Don’t people in your time ever do that?”

  Morgan just stared at her. “No,” she said.

  Mark spoke up. “Ms.—uh—Morgan. Maybe if you could go down to the lab,” he suggested, “and—I don’t
know—scope it out or something, you might get an idea of what we have to work with and figure out a way to help Quinn.”

  Morgan looked at him thoughtfully. “That’s a sensible suggestion,” she agreed. “I’ll need the accoutrements of the profession.”

  Houston looked at Mark and he interpreted. “A lab coat. One of those clipboards. Maybe a stethoscope. I saw a supply closet when we came in. I’ll be right back.”

  HOUSTON DIDN’T KNOW whether Morgan would be able to do anything for Quinn, but it was a relief to have her out of the way, to be released from the scrutiny of that cold gaze. If she was representative of women of the future, it was no wonder Quinn preferred to live in the past.

  As the day wore on, she curled up in a corner of the sofa and stared out the window and thought about destiny. The odd twist of fate that had brought Quinn into her grandfather’s life sixty years ago. The “accident” that had landed him in her apple tree so many years and miles later. The absurdity with misprinted twenty-dollar bills when Quinn was so close to safety—yet if he had not been arrested, there would have been no story about him on the evening news, and the people of the future would never have known what had become of him. Morgan would have never come back to help him.

  Fate had gone out of its way to bring Quinn into her life. How could it take him from her now?

  Toward sunset, Mark fell asleep on the sofa beside her. Houston, exhausted from the strain of the past days, was beginning to doze herself when she felt the firm grip of a hand on her shoulder. She started awake.

  For a moment she didn’t recognize Morgan, who was dressed in surgical greens and a paper cap, with a mask dangling around her neck. “Quinn is awake,” she said. “He has asked to see you.” She thrust a packet of green clothes similar to the ones she wore toward Houston. “Put these on over your clothes. They are trying to maintain an isolation barrier.” She lifted one shoulder in a gesture of resignation. “Their efforts are pitiable, of course, but they do the best they can within the limits of their knowledge.”

  Houston got up without disturbing Mark and pulled on the baggy pants and shirt over her jeans. “How is he?” she asked quietly.

  “He has pneumonia,” Morgan said. “I don’t recall—is that a curable disease in your time?”

  Houston stuffed her hair under the paper hat, allowing her to feel some hope. “Sometimes. Most of the time.”

  “Your physicians are puzzled. He seems to be succumbing to and curing himself of a remarkable number of diseases, one after another. In light of the effect of the serum, even at half dose, this is logical. But the science of your time has no explanation for it.”

  Houston tied the mask around her neck. “But that’s good! That means he’s going to be all right, doesn’t it?”

  Morgan’s expression did not change, but Houston thought she saw a slight shake of her head. “He’s very weak” was her only answer.

  Houston caught her arm. “There has to be something you can do for him. You can transport him back to your time and bring medicine, or a specialist. You can—”

  “The medicines of my time would be poison to him. We have no cure for these diseases. The battle to survive in your century is one that must be fought by him alone.”

  HOUSTON PUSHED OPEN the door to Quinn’s room silently, followed closely by Morgan. Quinn’s eyes were closed, his face pale except for the flush of fever, but when he opened his eyes, Houston felt a rush of hope. She hurried to him, taking his hand in both of hers.

  He smiled weakly. “The medical facilities of your time are barbarous,” he murmured.

  His voice was hoarse. She could feel the strain every breath cost him. “You’re doing better, Quinn. Morgan says you’re fighting off the infection.”

  He shook his head tiredly. “It was an insane idea. I never should have decreased the dosage.”

  “You had no choice,” Houston said firmly.

  “Is Morgan here?”

  It was becoming harder for him to speak as his breath grew shorter. Houston tightened her grip on his hand, trying to infuse him with strength.

  Morgan stepped forward. “I’m here.”

  Quinn moved his eyes from Houston to Morgan. He said with an effort, “I never went back. In the original history, I died in the twentieth century.”

  Morgan said nothing. Houston convulsively tightened her hands around Quinn’s.

  The faintest trace of a smile hovered on Quinn’s lips as he told Morgan, “You can’t change history. We both know that. But thanks…for trying.”

  “Stop it!” Houston commanded. “Stop talking like that. You’re getting better. You are!”

  Quinn turned his gaze back to her. Lifting his hand, he touched her cheek, lightly brushing the dampness away. “I’ve let you down,” he said softly. “I’m sorry. I try never to make promises I can’t keep.”

  Houston caught his hand and kissed his fingers. “You haven’t let me down. You’re not going to.”

  “In my room you’ll find quite a bit of money…” And again he tried to smile. “Most of it is negotiable in your time.”

  She began to shake her head furiously but he ignored her. “I made certain there would be enough…in case of something like this. It…will make your life a little easier. Mark…” He had to stop a moment to catch his breath. “Mark will need a superior education. That requires money.”

  Houston said thickly, “I don’t have to listen to this.”

  “Don’t argue with me, Houston. I can’t…fight back right now.”

  Again he had to stop to catch his breath. Houston pressed her forehead against their entwined hands, squeezing her eyes tightly shut. Hot tears slipped through her lashes, anyway.

  In a moment Quinn went on. “The picture…in my wallet. Of Sam and me. I want you to have it. Everything else…must be destroyed. Morgan will take care of that. And then…”

  He tugged at her hand, making her look at him. “You must forget me.”

  She shook her head angrily, her voice thick. “You can’t make me do that.”

  Quinn spread his fingers along the side of her face, caressing. “Then remember this. You were the best part of my life, Houston. I wouldn’t have missed this for the world.”

  Houston stretched her arm across his chest, embracing him, and rested her face on the pillow next to his. She stayed that way, holding him and trying not to cry, until he fell asleep, and still she stayed until the nurses came and took her away.

  THROUGHOUT THE NIGHT and the next day, the reports came in: he had taken a turn for the worse, he was somewhat better, he was delirious, he was holding his own. Morgan, under her guise as a physician—if indeed it was a disguise, for who knew what the woman might be in her own time—was never far from his side, but Houston was not allowed to visit again. Mark slept, and visited the snack bar and leafed through magazines, and had that look on his face that had become so familiar to her since his father had left: the too-old-for-his-age, I’ll-take-care-of-you-Mom look. Houston spent most of her time staring out the window, making bargains with fate and wondering how she would ever be able to say goodbye.

  Late in the afternoon, she sensed a silent presence beside her and she turned sharply, expecting it to be a doctor with news of the worst. But it was Morgan, and her expression was unreadable, as always. There seemed to be, however, an odd measure of curiosity in her eyes as she said, “You are Quinn’s mate.”

  In my time, Quinn had said, a man has only one mate.

  Houston lifted her chin and said simply, “Yes.” It was the proudest word she had ever spoken.

  Morgan dropped her eyes. “I had no way of knowing,” she murmured. “This is…unexpected. I hope I haven’t treated you disrespectfully.”

  Houston was a little taken aback. “Well…no. I mean—no.”

  Morgan looked at her again. “This is an important project to us, for many reasons—the rescue of Quinn. But the custom of my time requires me to ask your permission before I take him away. I should have asked soon
er,” she apologized, “but I had no way of knowing.”

  Houston just stared at her. “To save his life? Of course you should take him! That’s all I’ve ever wanted—for him to be safe. Even if it’s not with me, for him to be safe…alive and healthy somewhere. That’s all.”

  Morgan was silent for a long moment, looking at her. “I think it requires a great deal more courage to be a woman in your time than it does in mine,” she remarked. Then she said, “Houston, there is something you should know.”

  “Miss Malloy.”

  Houston turned around, and this time it was the doctor. Morgan’s last words had caused a knot of dread to form in her chest, and she expected the worst—she expected it, but was by no means prepared for it.

  The relaxed smile on the doctor’s face as he approached the two of them caught her completely off guard.

  “Ah, Dr. Morgan,” he said. “I’ve been looking for you.”

  “I’ve been in the lab,” replied Morgan cautiously. “Has there been a change?”

  “Yes, actually,” he announced, looking pleased with himself. “I must say this has been the most extraordinary case I’ve personally ever been involved with, but I think we may have turned the corner—for good, this time. The man has remarkable recuperative powers. His fever’s down, and his lungs are clearing, I can’t see any further signs of secondary infection. If he continues to improve tonight, I don’t see any reason he can’t go home in a day or two.”

  Houston’s heart was beating so fast that she could hardly catch her breath. “He’s going to be okay?”

  “I’d prefer to remain cautious, but the evidence of the past few hours would indicate—yes. He’s going to be okay.”

  Mark exclaimed, beaming, “See, Mom? I told you so!”

  “Can we see him?” Houston demanded.

  “Well…”

  But she didn’t wait. She grabbed Mark’s hand and ran down the corridor. She pushed open the door to Quinn’s room and found him sitting up in bed, waiting for them.

  Houston stopped at the door, too full of joy to speak. Her hands went to her throat to ease the ache there. He was alive. Except for a few pounds of lost weight and shadows of fatigue under his eyes, he even looked healthy. And he was smiling at her, however ruefully.