Quinn Security

by Dee Bridgnorth

  “Not much to tell.”

  “No?” she questioned flirtatiously. “I heard a rumor or two.”

  “Did ya now?”

  “Indeed.”

  “All bad, I hope,” he teased, but there was also a glint of worry behind his hard, blue eyes.

  “Depends on how you look at it, I guess,” she allowed. But when he didn’t offer up much of an explanation to clear whatever mental slate he had to assume she had drawn up based on idle town gossip, she launched right in to the meat of the matter. “Heard you just got out of the slammer.”

  “Ha,” he snorted. “No one calls it that anymore.”

  Good, he was still being light about it. “No?” she asked. “The joint then?”

  “Not even,” he told her. “Us convicts just call it prison like everyone else.”

  “So it’s true?”

  “That turn you on?” he challenged.

  “Maybe,” she allowed, trying not to let her seductive smile falter. “Heard you killed a couple of people,” she dared to say and before she could think twice, she asked, “I have only one question: why?”

  “Yeah,” he breathed. “Why indeed.”

  “Why do you say it like that?”

  Peter took a long drag of his beer, set the pint glass on the table, and leaned in. “Cuz I don’t fucking know.”

  She tried to seem intrigued by that and push the possibility to its farthest conclusion, guessing, “Just cold blooded with a drive to kill?”

  But Peter didn’t build on her dark style of flirtation. Instead, he grew a touch solemn and told her, “Lady, I don’t know what kind of thrills you’re seeking, but I ain’t the guy for that. Not by a long shot.”

  “Oh?”

  He sighed and said, “Everyone says it. It’s a cliché of a prison mantra if I’d ever heard one. But the truth is, I didn’t kill no one.”

  Rachel felt her brow furrow as she studied him. He wasn’t lying. Or if he was, he was a more talented actor than Leonardo DiCaprio in The Departed. Somehow, she didn’t think Peter had that level of skill.

  “Then how’d’ya wind up in the clank?”

  “Clank ain’t a term for it either, Rachel,” he said. “I rolled and confessed because I didn’t see no other way out of that room.”

  “The interrogation room?”

  “Yeah, it was stupid of me.” He let that hang in the air for a good long while, so disturbed by memories past that he didn’t even touch his beer. “See,” he started up again, “it ain’t gonna make a lick of sense, but… I had these… memories of it. Of the crime.”

  “You remembered doing it?”

  “No, see that’s the thing. The memories of it that I had in my head… they weren’t mine. It’s like someone put them there. I know that sounds crazy, and when I explained it to the cops back then, well, it sounded like a confession and I couldn’t undo it, couldn’t take back the words I’d used.”

  “Well, I heard your fingerprints where every which way up in that house.”

  “That was the other fuck of a thing,” he said, livening with the mystery of it all. “I did go into that house. I did touch damn near everything. Crazy as hell. The police told me they pulled prints off the goddamned walls, places no one even living there would have reason to touch.”

  Thoroughly confused, Rachel stared at him, which probably translated into sheer disbelief, because Peter went on to explain.

  “See, it was like I zombie-walked right on in through the door. Like I was trapped in my own mind, but like I was a puppet and someone else was pulling the strings. I couldn’t stop myself, not even when I saw that woman dead on the floor.”

  Rachel felt her eyes widen and she asked, “You entered the house after the Coopers had been killed?”

  “I did. Imagine tryin’ to explain that to the police,” he said. “I’m lucky my public defender was a hot-shot trying to prove himself. Wanted to get connected with one of ‘em big firms over in Jackson Hole. He was smart. Damn smart. Argued his ass off to make a deal. That’s why I only got involuntary manslaughter.”

  Lucy Cooper’s puzzling account of the wolf-man came to mind. So did Angel Mercer’s mysterious disappearance into the back woods behind her house. Two women who had lost control over themselves. Lucy had described the wolf-man as having entered her mind, and though Angel still hadn’t remembered the ins and outs of how she came to be all the way out behind her house that night, there was an assumed aspect that she’d been lured there.

  Then the details that Rachel had collected regarding Reece Gladstone’s unlawful imprisonment came to mind.

  Canine DNA.

  A partial fingerprint that could belong to Dante.

  Silver bullets.

  And the man’s last name: Alighieri.

  She dared to ask, “Peter, does the name Dante Alighieri ring a bell?”

  Peter went white as a ghost. Every muscle in his beefed-up body turned to stone. He didn’t move, he didn’t even blink.

  “Peter?”

  “Yeah,” he said finally. “It rings one hell of a bell.”

  ***

  Night had fallen over the Fist, but the dark dome sky wasn’t twinkling with its usual constellation of stars. Clouds had rolled in. Murky, wispy, tendrils that crept across and obscured the light of the waning gibbous moon. Kaleb stared up at it, feeling its pull. It would be full in a matter of days, and he didn’t need the purple amethyst he’d been carting around in his pocket to heat up for him to know, in his bones, that Dante would be back in time. Call it intuition or a gut feeling or just plain old fear, he sensed it. But it wasn’t the most pressing concern on his mind.

  As he stood in the middle of the junkyard at Damned Repair, his brother Troy having summoned the entire pack for a werewolf meeting, his thoughts had turned heavily to the spray paint he’d found on the entrance side of Lucy’s apartment door.

  MURDERER.

  He’d cleaned it five times over. By the time she’d woken up, there hadn’t even been a trace of the telltale chemical scent in the air. Lucy was none the wiser. He’d spared her that much. But like the feeling in his bones that Dante would soon return to the Fist to do his worst in an effort to usurp Troy Quinn of his rightful thrown, Kaleb sensed that whoever had vandalized Lucy’s apartment twice over would also strike again.

  He’d left Lucy in Whitney’s care under the private condition that they’d stay at the sheriff’s house. It irked him, but the disturbing fact of the matter was that he trusted Rick and his ability to keep his own daughter safe within the four towering walls of his mansion home. He’d seen the sheriff’s behemoth SUV out front when he’d dropped her off. So long as she didn’t venture out into the dark wilderness, Lucy would be fine for a few hours. And so long as she didn’t take any more of that garbage medication, she would potentially be able to defend herself in the event that the unexpected occurred. Or at least, that was the risk he’d been willing to take on her in order to attend this meeting.

  As always, the typical group formation had planted Troy, his brothers, and their mother Nikita standing beside their grandmother Sasha on one side of the salvage yard, the whole of the werewolf pack waiting in their human form, in a semi-circle configuration, facing their lords.

  Curt Wilson, the owner-operator of Damned Repair, was present, front and center, but this time he wasn’t standing by himself. This evening, beside him was a muscular man with a shaved head and wicked flame tattoo spanning down the length of his neck. Kaleb recognized him vaguely from the diner and it didn’t take long for him to remember that this was the man who had been convicted of taking Roxanne and Harold Cooper’s lives twelve years ago. The man who had had the audacity to park himself in Lucy’s section. The man who, for reasons Kaleb couldn’t understand, had attempted in his own selfish way to apologize to the girl.

  It had been a bizarre twist of fate how riled up Lucy had become. Had this Peter character not introduced himself, Lucy would never have been launched into emotional turmoil so dis
turbing that she’d have to take those toxic pills. But she had, and because of it Kaleb had been able to explore the pleasure of kissing and feeling her in the privacy of her bedroom. Bizarre twists of fate, indeed.

  It had also been the impetus of him making potentially the biggest mistake of his life—showing her that he was different, too. A werewolf. If word got out, and he’d like to think it wouldn’t—Lucy had assured him over and over again when he’d asked her at least a dozen times not to breathe a word of it to anyone that his secret was safe with her—it could mean the end of his time in Devil’s Fist, or worse, the end of his natural life. If it came to that, it would be his own brother, Troy, who would serve as judge, jury, and executioner. But with the pressure of the entire pack weighing in, Kaleb would have no reason to hope for leniency.

  He couldn’t think about it. All he could do was make a concerted effort not to let the evidence of his betrayal show clearly on his nervous face.

  “You okay, man?” Conor asked in a private tone as Troy waited for a few more faces to show up before calling the meeting to order.

  “Yeah. Of course. Why?” asked Kaleb.

  Conor studied him for a long moment, which only increased Kaleb’s discomfort, then said, “No reason.”

  Shane was angling in to the budding conversation. Dressed in his signature army fatigues and strapped with more weapons than made sense in a place like Devil’s Fist—this wasn’t the Wild West anymore—he asked, “What’s with that Cooper girl you’ve been protecting?”

  “What do you mean, what’s with her?” he responded, trying not to sound paranoid.

  Shane and Conor exchanged a look and Conor supplied, “Heard she glows if you kiss her.”

  Troy. Of course, his eldest brother hadn’t kept his mouth shut about that one.

  “Sasha says she’s some kind of Astral Goddess creature or something,” he admitted, as he narrowed his eyes at Troy, who was now checking in with his wife and one true mate, Reece. She’d ditched those goofy red-framed glasses she’d wore her entire life, the strength of her werewolf sight having corrected the issue. But tonight, she looked weak. Kaleb could guess the reason. The pull of the moon was overpowering her. And it would only get worse as the earth rotated, bringing the full moon into fruition. “Is that what your tattoo is all about?”

  “Hey, yeah,” Conor agreed, remembering the tattoo of the ethereal goddess Kaleb had gotten years back. “You were dreaming about her, right?”

  “If Troy could hurry up and acquire his gift of foresight,” Kaleb complained, steering the topic in his brother’s direction, “then I could just ask him.”

  “You think she’s your one true mate?” asked Shane, intrigued.

  “It crossed my mind,” Kaleb allowed.

  “That would be interesting,” said Conor. “If she really is some other species, that would be very interesting.”

  “Werewolves!” Troy called out to bring the meeting to order. Kaleb’s side conversation came to an abrupt stop and the murmuring voices across the pack died down. “As you know, another full moon is upon us. I’ll start with the general reminders. Keep your Youngers indoors and under your watchful eyes. If they need to hunt, they don’t go out alone. It must be supervised, but try to avoid it altogether, if you can. Hunt early, store the meat, and keep them fed until the moon waxes away.”

  Troy took a slow lap across the semi-circle of attentive faces, making eye contact with each and every member who stood in front.

  “More importantly, concerning the nearing of the full moon, we anticipate that Dante Alighieri will be back. You are all safe. You’re already one of us. He can’t turn those who are already werewolf, and we don’t believe he has the power to use you, either, like he has the mortals. But we expect that he will use the mortals. If you see something, if you observe that one of the residents is acting strangely, get in direct touch with one of us, and we’ll handle it.”

  “Like you’re handling Angel Mercer?” someone in the back asked with a thick edge of sarcasm in his tone.

  Kaleb watched Troy’s jaw clench, but his older brother didn’t lash out. He tempered his emotions, steadied his riled breathing, and asserted, “Angel is managing just fine. She hasn’t put any of us at risk.”

  Luckily for Angel, she wasn’t present. Neither was Jack Quagmire, who was still anxiously awaiting Troy’s plan to untangle Angel from Dante’s dark hold so that he himself could be officially united with her as her one true mate. It was easier promised than done, and that promise had been weighing on Troy like a writhing albatross noosed around his strangled neck.

  “Curt?” Troy said, looking the man in the eye to welcome him to address the pack.

  With a hand on Peter Swanson’s shoulder, Curt stepped forward, taking Troy’s spot with the ex-con in tow.

  “This is Peter Swanson,” said Curt, addressing the crowd. “He’s one of us.”

  Peter gave the pack a curt nod.

  “And contrary to what Troy just told you,” Curt went on, giving his king a sly eye that surprised all five Quinn brothers, “Dante Alighieri has the power to control you.”

  Troy briskly neared Curt and asked in a hissed whisper of a tone, “What are you talking about?”

  But Peter was already answering that question. “Twelve years ago, a polished-looking man in a suit and slicked-back hair befriended me. I sensed nothing nefarious about him,” he began. “This was Dante. The topic of our friendly, around town, conversations were anchored in a development project he was working on, to turn the old Halsey land into apartments and stores. It was to be a second hub in the Fist. It was also, as it turned out, total bullshit. His interest in me was to hire me for construction since Devil’s Fist doesn’t have a business handling that particular service. There was no development project. Looking back, I understand he was working some kind of dark magic over me. Mind control. But I didn’t know it until it was too late.”

  Curt interjected, “Don’t give Dante the time of day if he returns to town. If he tries to approach you, or if you even see him, let Troy or one of the Quinns know immediately.”

  “Dante had the power to enter my mind,” Peter went on. “He controlled me. He planted memories in my head. And the next thing I knew, I was arrested for a crime I didn’t commit. No one is safe.”

  Chapter Twelve

  LUCY

  Lucy had known that Whitney Abernathy was a daddy’s girl, but she’d never fathomed the full extent of it.

  Lucy and Whitney were in the den on the first floor of the sheriff’s mansion-sized cabin, a home that Lucy had never set foot in before. It was jarring. She’d always believed that you never truly knew a person until you saw them in their home, but now she had to revise that belief. She hadn’t really known Whitney until she observed her in the care of her doting father.

  Whitney was curled up on the couch, dressed comfortably in a pair of jeans and a spring sweater, Lucy in the adjacent arm chair. There was a giant, flat screen TV on the wall that was big enough for a movie theater. They’d just finished an old Richard Gere movie—Nights in Rodanthe—and were now on a more recent Nicholas Sparks adaptation, The Notebook.

  “That’s what I want,” Whitney commented as she popped another gummy bear into her mouth, her big eyes glued to the screen.

  “Ryan Gosling embracing your wet body in a lagoon?”

  “You wouldn’t?” she teased. “No, I mean, I want that kind of lifelong romance. Something that’s destined. Meant to be. You don’t want that?”

  At this point, Lucy would settle for not lighting up like an exploding star every time Kaleb pressed his lips to hers, but sure, a lifelong romance would be nice, too.

  The coffee table in front of them was fully stocked with every snack and treat that Rick had been able to think of. There was a bowl of Skinny Pop, the maintain-you-waistline-friendly popcorn option, which Lucy supposed was meant to counteract the bowl of milk chocolate covered pretzels Rick had also supplied. There were cucumber sandwiches and veggi
e sticks with dip, pita chips and hummus and corn chips and salsa. It was starting to look like the buffet table at a summer barbeque in here, and Rick was still going strong.

  He entered the den wearing an apron that said, Good Lookin’ As I Be Cookin’ and a floppy white chef’s hat, and set the platter of homemade cookies he’d just whipped up on the coffee table, crowding it even more.

  “How’re my girls?” he asked with a big, ol’ smile on his face.

  If Lucy had been remarkably thrown seeing the Little Princess side of Whitney, seeing the sheriff dote on his daughter was even more surreal. She’d never seen this side of him. She’d never even imagined it. Lucy could have been given thirty guesses as to how Rick acted at home, and this would’ve never sprang to mind, not in a million years.

  Whitney perked up to eye the platter of cookies and asked, “These are the No Pudge ones, right?”

  “Sure are,” he assured her, “made ‘em with an oil substitute just how you like.”

  “Thank you, Daddy! You’re the best!”

  “Thanks, Sheriff,” Lucy awkwardly chimed in as she selected one of the warm cookies off the plate.

  “Who wants milkshakes?” he asked, eager to please.

  “Mmm,” Whitney debated. “Maybe with almond milk.”

  “Lucy-goose?” he asked Lucy like he was taking orders.

  “Ah, sure,” she said, even more thrown at the endearment that, up until this point, only Whitney had used with her.

  “Comin’ right up!” he said before padding out of the den.

  Lucy stared at her friend. “Is he always like this?”

  “Like he’s hosting a sleepover for a bunch of thirteen-year-old girls?” she asked. “Pretty much.” Before Lucy could ask why, she mentioned, “If he had his way, I’d still live here. He’s a good dad. But ever since Mom died, he’s been trying to turn back time. Plus, he’d rather have me here than out at the bar, so he does what he can to keep me happy.”

  “Huh,” she said, feeling a twinge of loss. How would her own father treat her if he was still alive? Would Harold dote on her just the same? Would her mother always be ready with a mug of hot chocolate and an attentive ear? Or would the nature of their relationship be entirely otherworldly? Would her parents spend their efforts honing Lucy’s Astral abilities so that she could function, undetected, in a town as small as Devil’s Fist? “Must be nice.”