by Sam Sisavath
Quinn stepped over a pile of garbage and stopped on the other side for a moment to look through the broken windows of a double door at another familiar sight. She’d walked right past it the first time, anxious to find the room she’d spent so much time in back when the world still made some sense. Large patches of sunlight gave her a good view of the other place she always enjoyed spending a lot of time inside.
It was just as big as she remembered, but maybe that had a little something to do with the missing tables. A few were overturned and a half dozen or so had been used to make some kind of pyramid in the far right corner. The kitchen was at the very end and hidden from most of the natural light. She could still make out the stainless steel railing where she always liked sliding her plastic trays across as the (almost always) grumpy ladies in white aprons and nets cinched tight over their heads doled out breakfast, lunch, and dinner. It wasn’t until much later that she realized the kind of slop they served her—cheap, as nutritious as eating paper, and just as appetizing—but she didn’t know any better then.
“‘Growing up is losing some illusions in order to acquire others,’” she said out loud.
“What was that?” Aaron said through the phone.
Quinn had forgotten she was still holding it in her hand. She turned and continued up the hallway, focusing on the light marking her path to the front door. Suddenly she was in a hurry to get out of the building. It had become stifling, threatening to suffocate her.
“Did you say something?” Aaron asked.
“A quote from Virginia Woolf about growing up. It seemed appropriate in our situation.”
“Virginia Who is more like it.”
“Literature isn’t a bad thing, Aaron.”
“I’ll read when I’m dead.” Then, “When are you coming back?”
“I have a few more places to check in on, but it shouldn’t take me more than another day before I’m done here. Why, you miss me already?”
“Don’t flatter yourself. Besides, I’ll take Trevor over you guys anyway. It’s a dude thing.”
“Dudedar?”
“More like brodar.”
“Charming.”
“Right?”
Quinn smiled because she knew he was lying through his teeth. Aaron may not have missed her yet, but he would never be able to say the same about Xiao. Not out loud, anyway. The two of them had the strangest relationship, and not just because they were from, literally, two different worlds—the Eurasian woman and the African-American teenager—but their personalities were vastly opposite. One of these days she was going to force them to tell her how they met, but that could wait.
“How’s Trevor doing?” she asked instead.
“Bored out of his mind,” Aaron said. “I guess that comes with the territory when you’re a man of action and the only action you’re getting is watching me going through a laptop computer while hunched over a desk.”
“Maybe you can find something more…actiony for him to do.”
“I told him to go with Xiao. To back her up during the meeting.”
“So why didn’t he?”
“She wouldn’t let him. Insisted he stay with me.”
Because she doesn’t want to leave you unprotected, Quinn thought, but Aaron probably already knew that even if he refused to admit it.
She stepped out of the hallway and through the front door, pushing open the metal security gate on the other side. The crisp sun attacked her with a fresh burst of welcomed air. She hadn’t realized it before, but walking through her old childhood home (or as close to a home as she had ever known, which she guessed was a little sad if she really thought about it, so she tried her best not to) had forced her shoulders into a tight bundle of nerves. Now that she was outside, her entire body reflexively relaxed.
Blaring horns and car engines of downtown Los Angeles afternoon traffic drifted over to her from miles away as she made her way through the parking lot. She resisted the urge to turn around and give the building one last look, knowing full well the view wouldn’t have improved since she gave it the once-over when she first arrived.
“Speaking of hunching over a laptop—any luck on that front?” Quinn said into the phone.
“Nothing yet,” Aaron said.
“Are you at least getting close?”
“Well…”
“That sounds like a no.”
“In order to answer that question, I’d have to know what I was looking for in the first place. You know that old saying about a needle in a haystack?”
“Uh huh.”
“This is more like a sand pebble in a haystack, and the haystack is the size of a football field.”
“That good, huh?”
The teenager might have sighed. “This would be so much easier if Porter told me what I’m looking for.”
“You said he didn’t know it himself.”
“Like I said, would be. But at least he’s got history with some of this stuff. He knows more about past Rhim operations than any of us. By a long stretch. If he were here, this would go a lot faster. That football field could shrink into a barn-size haystack.”
If his brain hasn’t already been scrambled.
If he’s even still alive.
Quinn said out loud into the phone, “Let me know what Xiao finds as soon as she comes back. If it’s good news, I’ll cut my trip short and head back early.”
“What’s next for you in the meantime? More trips down memory lane?”
“Something like that.”
“Well, good luck. Meanwhile, I’ll go back to being hunched over this laptop while Trevor tries in vain to occupy his time by cleaning his guns.”
Quinn smiled, said, “Later,” and turned off the phone and put it away.
She climbed into the Ford Mustang, the only vehicle in the entire lot, and reversed into the street. She managed to make the red light fifty yards away before she finally lost the battle of wills and glanced up at her rearview mirror at one of the few places she’d ever called home in the distance.
She regretted it immediately (God, I used to live there…) and quickly stepped on the gas when the light turned green.
The woman who opened the door was in her late thirties, had bangs and the kind of big hair that had gone out of style about ten years earlier. She squinted as if she was afraid Quinn was there to sell vacuum cleaners and kept one hand on the doorknob, ready to slam the door shut at a moment’s notice. Either that, or she was just paranoid.
You and me both, sister.
“Can I help you?” the woman asked.
Quinn forced a smile and tried to look as unthreatening as possible. “Is Doug home?”
“He’s taking a nap.”
Quinn tried to sneak a peek past the woman’s slightly oblong shape at the living room behind her. She glimpsed white furniture and murky picture frames that covered one section of the back wall.
“Are you his daughter?” she asked the woman.
“Nurse.”
“Is Doug okay?”
“Are you a friend?”
Of course I’m a friend. That’s why I called him by his first name. Twice now, in case you weren’t paying attention.
“Yes,” Quinn said. “But it’s been a few years since I saw him. Is he okay?”
The woman relaxed noticeably and removed her hand from the door. “He’s been having health issues lately, but he’s improving.”
“Can I come in?”
The woman nodded and stepped aside. “It’s going to take a while before he wakes up. He usually clocks out for a good hour or two in the afternoons. But feel free to wait. I’m sure he’ll appreciate seeing a face other than mine for once.”
The house, like its exterior, was immaculately clean and a far cry from the last place she had visited today. The furniture even smelled new, and every single picture frame was perfectly hung or set. Images of a smiling Doug Patterson posing with kids greeted her wherever she looked.
She wanted to ask who cleaned this place and how man
y times a day just to keep it in this ideal condition, but said instead, “I didn’t catch your name.”
“Linda,” the nurse said.
“I’m Casey.”
“So where do you know Doug from, Casey? I know he doesn’t have any kids, but he never talked about the rest of his family much.”
Quinn nodded at the array of photos. “I was one of them.”
“No kidding. You’re from one of the children’s homes he ran back in the day?”
“Uh huh.”
“I’m glad you’re here, then. He loves meeting you guys.”
“I’m not the first one to come over?”
“Far from it.” Linda pointed at more framed pictures on top of a big screen TV. These featured a now-white-haired Doug in a wheelchair, posing with adults in their twenties. “Two of them were just here last month to say hi.”
“You said Doug’s been having health issues?”
“He had a heart attack a few years ago. You know how it is, too busy enjoying life, ate too many things he shouldn’t have, didn’t exercise enough. But he’s getting better. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s walking again in a year or so.”
“So you live with him?”
“No, but I might as well be,” Linda said, and smiled wryly. “I spend more time here than at my own house. My family’s starting to think I like Doug better than them.” Linda nodded at a door near the back. “He’s in there; just follow the sound of snoring. Feel free to wait for him to wake up, I’m sure he’ll be happy to see you, too. Meanwhile, I still have the second floor to clean.”
“Thanks.”
“Help yourself. There’s some snacks in the kitchen.”
“Will do.”
Quinn watched Linda walk up the stairs. When the other woman had disappeared around the banister, she headed across the living room and toward the den. The door was unlocked, and just as Linda had joked, Quinn heard snoring well before she opened the door.
Douglas Patterson was sitting in a wheelchair next to an empty fireplace. His head was lolled slightly to one side as he dozed while an open hardcover book balanced precariously in his lap. A pitcher of water rested on a bureau nearby next to a tray with two empty glasses.
Quinn walked over and picked up the book and put it on a nightstand. Patterson stirred slightly but didn’t wake. She sat down in an armchair across from him, and like she had earlier this morning, spent some time familiarizing herself with her past. Patterson continued to snore, almost drowning out the buzz of a trimmer going on somewhere outside the window to Quinn’s left.
He looked different, but not too different. He had always been tall—six-four, with the kind of lanky frame that helped him to tower over the other adult staff. Not that Patterson ever physically intimidated anyone—on purpose or otherwise. There was a gentleness about the man that she always appreciated even when he was forced to come down on them for some misdeed. But Doug was always fair. Always. His rules were always there for their benefit. And in a lot of ways, for their protection against the outside world.
She wasn’t sure how long she sat and stared at him. She didn’t check her watch, and Linda never came inside, though Quinn could hear some kind of machine going back and forth somewhere on the second floor.
Whoever was trimming the yard outside the window had switched over to a blower when Patterson finally stirred, then opened his eyes and looked across the short distance at her.
He didn’t say anything, and neither did she.
Quinn had no illusions that he would recognize her. She had, after all, changed a hell of a lot since the last time he saw her, when she was still an eleven-year-old troublemaker—
“Quinn,” Patterson said.
She wasn’t able to hide her surprise (He knows who I am! How does he know who I am?) and tensed at the sound of her name. Her right hand fell from her lap and moved instinctively toward her hip, where it could easier reach the Glock holstered behind her back.
“Quinn Turner,” Patterson said.
“You…recognize me?”
He sat up straighter in the wheelchair, then reached for a silk handkerchief in his vest pocket to wipe his lips. “Excuse me for a moment. I always drool a little bit when I sleep. It’s kind of embarrassing.”
She shook her head, wanted to shout out, I don’t care about your drool! I care that you recognized me! but managed to say, as calmly as she could muster, “You recognize me.”
“No,” he said.
“You just said my name.”
“Well, yes and no.” Then, off her confused look, he said, “I wouldn’t have recognized you if you haven’t been on the news a lot lately, Quinn.”
Oh, she thought, wondering if Linda had recognized her too and was, at this very moment, calling the FBI. She was, after all, the most wanted person on the Federal Bureau of Investigation’s Most Wanted list. She had replaced, ironically enough, Porter.
“I don’t think she recognizes you,” Patterson said.
“What?”
“Linda. She doesn’t really watch a lot of news. Says it’s too depressing.”
Quinn wasn’t sure if that was supposed to comfort her or make her even more paranoid. Because he was right about one thing—she had been on the news a lot lately. A hell of a lot. That was why she had changed her appearance dramatically—a different haircut, a dye job, colored contacts, and radically different makeup. Even her clothes told a story that had nothing to do with the FBI agent accused of killing a half dozen people.
“I recognized your name as soon as I heard it the first time on the news,” Patterson was saying. “It’s a unique name for a girl, and you were a very unique child, Quinn. I kept track of everything they were saying about you after that.”
Quinn glanced at the door—the only way in and out of the den. No, that wasn’t true. There was also the window to her left…
“I’m not going to call the police,” Patterson said. “Besides, it’s not like you’d let me anyway, even if I tried.” He smiled. It came out…earnest, like it did all those times when she was a child.
And just as she had then, she believed him now. She didn’t know why, but she just did. Doug Patterson had that kind of effect on people. It was what made him so good with kids and why so many adored him then, and from the pictures outside, now.
“Why not?” she asked anyway. “Why won’t you call the police? Do you know what I did?”
“I know what they said you did.”
She cocked her head slightly, unable to hide her surprise. “Are you saying you don’t believe them?”
“The news…doesn’t always tell the truth.”
“What about the FBI?”
“I think for myself, Quinn. I always have. This wheelchair didn’t change that.”
She nodded, not quite sure what she was feeling. She was grateful, but it was tempered by confusion.
And caution.
Most of all, caution.
“And besides,” Patterson said, “I know for damn sure you wouldn’t have killed Ben Foster. I knew him too, Quinn. Very well, in fact.”
Ben.
A day didn’t go by that she didn’t think about him. Her nights were spent listening for sounds of HRT boots and replaying the last time she was with Ben, before the Rhim murdered the most important man in her life in his own apartment and framed her for it. That was the most galling part of it. They had framed her for his death.
“I know you don’t have any reasons to believe me,” Patterson said. “But look at me, Quinn. I’m an old man in a wheelchair.” He glanced up at the ceiling. “And that’s a jolly part-time nurse struggling with a vacuum cleaner. Do you really think we’re any danger to you?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know what to believe. I came here hoping you might have something from my past, but I never knew that you talked to Ben.”
“We did more than that,” Patterson said, when the vacuum cleaner suddenly turned off above them. “How long ago did she start cleaning the second
floor?”
“I don’t…I wasn’t keeping track. Ten minutes? Twenty?”
“Then it’ll be a while before she’s done. An hour, at least. She likes to take her time. I think it’s because she doesn’t want to go home so soon.” He smiled that believable smile again. “Can you get me a glass of water? My mouth gets really dry in the afternoons.”
She got up and walked over and filled up a glass. She did it robotically, her mind turning, trying to get a better grip on the situation. She had come here for information about her childhood, hoping against hope that there would still be some information to be found. But the condition of her childhood home—or at least the only one she could remember—had left her in doubt, and for a while she had even considered abandoning the search and going straight back to Houston.
But she hadn’t expected any of this. Hadn’t expected Patterson to recognize her from all the twenty-four-hour news coverage about her crimes as soon as he opened his eyes, much less expect him to actually believe she was innocent.
So why aren’t I more glad? Why am I still so…paranoid?
But then it’s not paranoia if they’re really after you, right, Xiao?
Patterson took the glass from her and drank, swirling the water around in his mouth for a few seconds before swallowing. She sat back down and watched and waited, anxious for him to continue. He took about ten seconds too long before lowering the tumbler to his lap and returned his attention to her.
“Ben,” she said. “You were saying that you knew him.”
“The first time was when he came to talk to me about you.”
“The first time?”
“We talked a lot about you over the years, Quinn. That’s why I don’t believe you killed him. You couldn’t have. I know for a fact that man loved you like his daughter.” He paused, then, “Didn’t Ben tell you we kept in contact?”
“No.” She shook her head. “When was this? The first time he came to see you?”
“About two—three?—years after you left us.”
After I ran away and got into trouble. Then Ben came and rescued me. If it weren’t for him, I’d be dead, or worse, right now.
“What did he want?” she asked.
“He wanted to know everything there was to know about your history. How you came to us, who your parents were.”