With Child

That same heaviness in his voice, Sergeant Dickerson said, “I asked Bernie if he was sure. He said he was.”

“No.”

“I’m going out there.” Dickerson extended the comment like an invitation.

“Where?” Quinn flipped open his notebook.

The address was in the industrial area at the foot of West Seattle.

“I’m on my way.”

The microwave beeped as he let himself out the front door.

EVEN BEFORE HE EXITED from the West Seattle bridge, he saw the flashing lights. Heading under the bridge, he drove the two blocks to the scene. Chain-link gates stood open to a storage business, the kind with four long windowless buildings containing locked units where people could stow their crap when they down-sized or moved. This place also had an area where customers could park RVs or boats. It was back there that the activity centered.

Numb, his exhaustion forgotten, Quinn parked and walked past squad cars with flashing lights. Ahead was a white pickup with the Fenton Security logo painted on the doors. The driver-side one stood open.

Dickerson, a bulky, graying man, separated himself from a cluster of uniforms and came to Quinn.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly.

Fear and rage shifted inside Quinn, like Dobermans just waking.

“No,” he said. “No.” He kept walking, circled the back of the pickup.

The body was sprawled on the pavement. Lamps had already been set up, bathing the scene in pitiless white light.

“No,” Quinn whispered, but his eyes burned and the fear swelled in his chest. His best friend, his brother in all but blood, lay with his cheek against the ground, blood drying in his mouth, his eyes sightless. Dead. A few feet from the body, Quinn dropped to his knees. A freight train of grief roared over him, the wheels clattering, metallic and deafening.

He hadn’t known he could cry, but his face was wet.

Strong hands lifted him, steered him out of the harsh light into the darkness, where he slammed his fists against the brick wall of a storage building and let the sobs rack him.

THE DOORBELL BROUGHT Mindy Fenton awake with a start and an automatic flush of heart-racing apprehension. Half sitting up in bed, she turned to Dean’s side before remembering that he’d worked tonight. Her wild gaze swung to the digital clock—3:09 a.m.

Had she dreamed the bell? Nobody would come calling in the middle of the night! Unless Dean had locked himself out. But he had the garage-door opener.

Sitting upright by this time, she strained to hear anything at all. Breaking glass. If an intruder had decided she wasn’t home because she hadn’t come to the door…

The bell rang again.

Really scared now, she turned on her bedside lamp, slipped on her bathrobe, and went downstairs, flipping on lights as she went to make it look as if several people were home.

Dean had left the porch light on. Through the stained-glass sidelight, she could make out a dark shape.

“Who’s there?” she called.

The muffled reply was “Quinn.”

Her heart somersaulted. Fumbling with the dead bolt, she thought, Why? Why Quinn? Why now?

Two men, not just one, stood on the porch. With Dean’s best friend was Sergeant Rycroft Dickerson. She remembered him from her wedding. Six foot four or so and brawny, his graying hair buzz-cut, he wasn’t the kind of man you forgot.

Not that you could forget Quinn, either, she thought irrelevantly. With his straight dark hair, vivid blue eyes, stark cheekbones and contained air, he would never go unnoticed.

“Is…is something wrong?” she squeaked.

Neither face softened.

Quinn asked, “Can we come in, Mindy?”

“I…of course.” She swung the door open.

Quinn first, the sergeant second, they stepped in to the foyer, filling it with a threat of…something. Something she didn’t want to hear.

“I could put on coffee…”

Quinn shook his head. “Mindy…”

“It’s the middle of the night.”

“Mindy.” His voice, she realized, was scratchy, rough. “There’s no easy way to say this.”

She backed away, talking fast. “Uh…Dean isn’t home. He will be by seven. I can tell him you need to see him. Or I can leave a note.” She said the last as if it were a super idea, a solution to some dilemma that her inner self knew didn’t exist. “He worked tonight.”

The sergeant reached out. “We know.”

She wouldn’t let him touch her. Clutching the lapel of her gown, she said in a high, breathless voice, “I don’t understand why you’re here.”

Quinn’s blue eyes were almost black. “He’s dead, Mindy.”

“Don’t be silly! He’s not a cop anymore. And he drives so carefully.” She laughed, convincing no one. “What could have happened to him?”

“He interrupted a burglary.” A muscle jumped in Quinn’s cheek. “Somebody shot him.”

Dean? Shot Dean? Her Dean? The idea was ludicrous, impossible, unthinkable.

“Have you tried his cell phone? What makes you think…”

Dark and melancholy at the best of times, Quinn waited her out, his eyes bleak. When her voice hitched and died—no, not died, what an awful choice of words!—trailed off, yes, trailed off, he said in that thick voice, “I saw him. I didn’t want to believe it either. But he’s dead.”

A keening sound seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. Not until Quinn’s face contorted and he stepped forward to draw her into his arms did she realize she was making the sound. She squeezed her eyes shut and pressed her face against Quinn’s chest despite the smell of sweat that wasn’t Dean’s. She wrapped her arms around his waist and held on, because otherwise she wouldn’t have remained upright.

She was still crying out, still muffling that dreadful, shrill, unending scream in his dark shirt. She stayed stiff, her fists filled with his shirt, and tried to smother herself against him.

Quinn muttered brokenly, “God, Mindy. God. I’m so sorry.”

Perhaps shock was wrapping her in thick batting, because abruptly all strength left her, stealing the cry from her throat. She sagged, clinging. Still, Quinn held her. Strong arms, a body more solid than her lanky husband’s. She hadn’t known what he would feel like. He’d never hugged her, never kissed her cheek, never touched her at all. She’d always known he didn’t like her. But for Dean’s sake, they were polite.