Breath of Dawn, The (11 page)

The skin around his eyes creased deeply. “You mean electroshock.”

“Right. That.”

“And the term is now electroconvulsive therapy.”

“Now?” She stared, distressed. “It’s still happening?”

“Oh yes, abuses coupled with the development of antipsychotic and mood-stabilizing drugs curtailed its use, but recently it’s had a resurgence. A hundred to a hundred fifty thousand patients a year in the US alone—under rigidly controlled hospital administration.”

“Why?”

“Quite simply, it works. Electrically causing the brain to seize can be efficacious when drugs fail. Along the lines of defibrillation for the heart. A sort of kick start to reestablish normal rhythm.”

“But I thought, I mean . . .” She shook her head. “If you saw the thing . . .”

“I have.” He drew on his pipe, realized the bowl was finished, and tapped the ash out into the fireplace.

“The one at Vera’s?”

“Whenever possible I go to the source to collect my tales.”

She imagined him down in the cellar, his thin frame poised and observant, curiosity in his keen, intelligent eyes. “Did you feel it? The despair?”

“Ah, my dear.” He tapped her hand. “It’s all part of the human condition.”

“Big chunks of that condition stink like dirty socks.”

He laughed. “Unfortunately.”

“So you know about the drugs?”

He raised his brows.

“In the old cabinet.”

He turned to Morgan. “That’s the discovery?”

Morgan nodded. “I thought we’d have a look. But we’re not getting over there tonight.”

She said, “It’s LSD. And I don’t know what else. Why would they give confused and suffering people hallucinations?”

“It was once something of a psychiatric cure-all, hailed as a remedy for everything from schizophrenia to criminal behavior, sexual perversions, and alcoholism. It was administered to enhance the psychotherapeutic discourse by lowering inhibition. Some practitioners used it in conjunction with metaphysical and guided supernatural journeys.”

“That doesn’t sound like medicine.”

“Until recently, treating the mind had little concrete science. Anything that seemed an avenue was given a try. Therapists took the drug themselves to gain understanding of the schizophrenic experience.”

“They dosed themselves to know what crazy looked like?”

The professor smiled. “Precisely.”

“So why is it illegal?”

“After years of research and experimentation, its use in psychotherapy was largely debunked. It didn’t increase creativity or libido, and had no lasting positive effect in treating alcoholics or criminals or deviants. It did, however, cause adverse reactions. Acute panic, psychotic crises, and flashbacks, especially in users ill-equipped to deal with such trauma.”

“Like people in mental hospitals.”

“Precisely.”

Listening across the room, Morgan rubbed his daughter’s tummy with feather-light strokes as she lay beside him on the floor. “Any thoughts on disposal?”

“Given the legalities, I suppose the sheriff and hazmat. But I’d like a look first.”

Morgan’s eyes moved to her. “We’ll go over in the daylight.”

Awash with their shared adventure, she nodded.

“In the meantime,” Dr. Jenkins said, “I hope the anecdotes I’ve brought won’t prove too troubling.”

Quinn shrugged. “I’m not even sure why I want to know. It’s not my house, not my people.”

“And none of that matters, does it?” He smiled.

She really liked his face—Gandalf in his gentler moments. “I guess not. But why?”

“Another part of the human condition. Compassion.”

She felt Morgan’s gaze wrap around her but didn’t look. The emotions were getting difficult to manage.

Rick came downstairs and handed her a bag of things. “From Noelle. For staying over.”

She peeked in at warm pajamas and towel, new toothbrush, hairbrush, and small toiletries that reminded her the ranch provided commercial hospitality. No wonder they were so congenial. She slipped the asylum envelope into the bag, then, hugging the stack, she looked at Morgan.

He’d risen from the floor and was dressing Livie in her coat. Must be the little one’s bedtime. Maybe everyone’s, especially with Noelle and Liam sick. She put on her own coat, wishing she’d worn something warmer than the soft, thigh-high skirt and sweater, black tights, and over-the-knee leg warmers. They covered the top of her ankle boots, and the coat was warm. That was the best she could do.

Morgan said, “I’ll walk you to your cabin.”

“You have your hands full.”

“There’s room for one more.” He pulled a quilted blanket from the closet, draped one side over himself and Livie, and held the other end open for her.

Much closer than she’d intended to get, but when Rick opened the door to the swirling storm, she ducked in and pulled the other side of the blanket tight. Blinking and gasping, they kicked through more than a foot of new powder and wind-driven flakes to the smallest, closest cabin. Letting go of the blanket, she hurried inside, surprised Morgan and Livie came too.

“Rick doesn’t rent these in winter, so let me make sure your water’s on.”

And heat, though it didn’t feel like it. Shivering, she set down her load.

“Here, hold Livie.”

The child was so slight, it was like holding a kitten. Livie studied her, unconcerned since their animal play but curious, while Morgan opened the utility closet and confirmed that the pilot on the water heater was lit. He reached around and turned the valve to allow the hot water from the heater to the pipes.

“That would have been frustrating.”

He closed the closet door. “There’s no furnace, but I’ll get a fire going in the wood-burning stove. You could hang with me until it actually warms up.”

“I’ll be okay. I just wish I had my computer so I could check e-mail.”

“So many friends wanting you?”

“Business, actually. There’s always something.”

He straightened from the freshly lit stove. “Can you check it from your phone?”

“I don’t have Internet on my plan.”

“Come use my laptop. I’ll be putting Livie down. You’re welcome to it.”

She looked from him to the door. Was it worth braving the elements? Even though it was Thanksgiving, she had auctions ending and people might need answers. Plus her teeth were starting to chatter. “Okay. If you don’t mind.”

He wrapped the blanket around her and Livie until she felt like an Eskimo mama. “Watch your step, okay? I’ll run ahead.”

If he was trusting her with his precious cargo, she’d more than watch her step. Inside the blanket, Livie clung like a marsupial in a pouch. Quinn yanked the door shut, the storm ripping at her as she pressed into the wind. If Morgan hadn’t lit his cabin’s porch, they might have wandered in circles until she dropped like a frozen pioneer on the prairie.

She stomped her feet before entering, though it was pointless with the porch as snowy as everything else.

He pulled her inside. “Don’t sweat it.”

When he closed the door and unwrapped the two of them, Livie
dove into his arms. She didn’t blame her a bit. “I hope Rudy made it home.”

“I was thinking that too.”

“Will the professor—”

“He’ll stay in the house.”

“That was an option?” After the second dash through the snow, her teeth chattered purposefully.

“Rick assumed you’d want privacy.”

She didn’t say she was sick to death of privacy.

“Stick a log in that stove, will you?” He turned away, telling Livie, “Come on, sweetie. Time to tuck you in.” He started toward the bedrooms, then looked back. “My laptop’s on the table.”

“Thanks.” A blast of heat hit her face when she opened the iron stove door, even though there were only coals in the bottom. The previous fire must have been substantial. She took a smallish log from the stack and propped it over the coals, took a larger one and wedged it over the first. She left the door open for air to feed the fire. The wood must have been seasoned, because it didn’t take long before pine-scented flames shot up.

Before using his computer, she went to the window and watched the storm. The wind had teeth, and she’d have to face it again. Cold just thinking about it, she turned away and activated his laptop. It came right up, but she couldn’t get in, so she went to the door of Livie’s room. The little girl wore footed jammies that made her too cuddly to bear. Nestled in with her daddy, rocking and reading, the two of them entranced her.

Morgan glanced up.

“Password?”

“Oh. Sorry. It’s easier for me to do it.”

She stepped back. “I can wait.”

“No, I’ll get it. You finish the story.” He held Livie up, and she took his place in the rocking chair, warm from his sitting there. Snuggling Livie into her lap, she picked up where Morgan had left off, reading a sweet little story called
Sam’s Bath.

Morgan came back and leaned in the doorframe. The laptop must have been ready, but he didn’t interrupt her reading. Sam’s ball went into the bath. Sam’s bear went into the bath. Sam’s cookie
went into the bath. Uh-oh, here comes Doggy. Doggy goes into the bath!

“Just goes to show what greed’ll get you,” she told Morgan. “If Doggy had only resisted the cookie.”

A smile tugged his mouth as he reached down and lifted Livie from the chair. Kissing her cheek, her neck, her mouth, he tucked her in. Quinn moved out into the hall, where the tenderness didn’t fill her throat with the ache of tears. She had to stop this. Her situation was precarious enough without involving a man with a child and issues of his own.

Q
uinn sat on Morgan’s couch and delved into business matters that were no more emotional than brushing her teeth. He came out, pulling Livie’s door behind him. He closed the stove doors, as well, and sat on the chair to her right, crossing his ankles on the table. She looked over, concentration dissolving. Seriously, who could think next to him?

“She doesn’t cry or anything?”

He cocked his head.

“Livie doesn’t cry about going to bed?”

“If she’s overexcited, she might.”

“Blizzards and strange women aren’t overexciting?”

“You’re not
that
strange.” His mouth twitched.

From their first foray into the cellar, his sense of humor always caught her by surprise. “You’ve only seen my good side.”

“Do the fangs come out at midnight?”

“You’re mere hours from finding out.”

She completed the last few communications, then sat back and sighed. “Thanks for that. I like to address things as they come up.”

“You’re conscientious.”

Detrimentally. She indicated the laptop. “Do you need this?”

He shrugged. “Whatever’s there can wait.”

How could a man so laid back have accomplished so much? She crossed one knee over the other. “How was your trip? The . . . consulting or whatever?”

“Mostly whatever. The consult comes next.”

She threaded her fingers under her chin. “How does that work? Do you advertise?”

“Typically clients come to me.”

Of course they did. “And you fix their problems.” That thought sank in. A professional problem solver.

“If the situation has promise, I tackle it.”

“For a fee?”

“Or stock in the company.”

She leaned toward him. “If it doesn’t work, you lose too.”

He pulled a slow smile. Only once had she seen that level of confidence in a man, but this time it was real.

“Then on to the next crisis?”

“If there’s one handy.”

He had the sharp-edged features cameras loved, the beard darkening his cheeks and jaw in a way two days would make scruffily sexy. She had only dated soft men deemed appropriate by her father and the elders, since the minister’s family must be above reproach. She didn’t desire reckless, dangerous men, but not one of them had moved her as Morgan did.

She straightened. “I better get back.”

“Uh.” He frowned. “I didn’t think this through very well. I can’t leave Livie—”

“Of course not.” She stood. “Don’t worry, I’ll make a run for it.”

He walked to the window. “Can you see where you’re going?”

“I’ll follow our tracks.”

“I’d let you—”

“No, Morgan, I’m fine.”

He hesitated, then gave a small nod. “Call me when you get there.”

“I don’t have your number.” She took out her phone to add him
and paled. Missed text message from a number not in her contacts. She pressed End, nostrils distending.

“What’s wrong?”

She had to move the lump in her throat to talk. “Nothing.”

“It’s not nothing.”

“Just . . . harassment.” She turned to go.

With a deft motion, he took the phone from her.

“Don’t.”

He tipped up his glance. “I’m putting my number in your contacts.”

“Oh. Okay.”

After doing so, he handed it back. “Call.”

Nodding, she pulled open the door and dove into the storm. It pummeled her as she staggered back along their tracks, step by lurching step, and all but fell through the door. If she’d gone home right after dinner, she might have made it. There was not a snowball’s chance now. But why did she need to be home? She could panic just as easily in this warmed-up cozy cabin.

Shivering, she got out of her cold, wet things, spreading them around the tiny room to dry. Furiously she tossed her phone onto the forest green couch, wishing she hadn’t seen the text waiting to be read. Anyone she wanted to hear from was in her contacts. An unknown number—

Maybe it was a mistake. A wrong number. She didn’t believe that. He must have gotten her number from Hannah, who got it from someone it would hurt too much to suspect. Her parents? Pops?

Quaking, she slipped into the bedroom. She put on Noelle’s pajamas, then ducked into the bathroom and brushed her teeth, looking at herself in the small rustic mirror. Not
that
strange, huh? If Morgan only knew.

Morgan!
She rushed out, grabbed her phone, and called the number he’d entered. “Morgan. I’m sorry I forgot to call.”

His pause could have been amusement or annoyance. The first, she thought, when he said, “Keeping me humble.”

“It wasn’t you. It was—” She almost blurted his name. “The storm, I guess. I hurried in to get warm and dry.”

“Uh-huh.”

“So . . . I’m warm and dry.”

“Good.”

“And I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Okay. Good night.”

“Good night, Morgan.” Her hand shook as she ended the call, hating herself for being a coward. She had a message to read. Chewing her lip, she opened and read.

You’re dead.

Yeah? She scowled. Find me first.

Tough words, but her chest heaved. Her hands shook. She climbed into bed and lay wondering if Markham could flush her out like a quail in a thicket. How? He wasn’t mafia, wasn’t law enforcement. He had no vast resources—anymore. He was a grifter, a con, a low-down cheating liar. A sociopath.

She’d seen through him, but of course, no one believed her. That had puffed his ego like a glutted sow. Her own family, and it was still Markham they believed.

She drew a slow, calming breath. He wanted her to panic, to make a mistake. But she wouldn’t. People had been misused, their trust violated—not that they hadn’t participated. Still, they’d been duped, and so, even though he was everything she despised, she’d played his game and won. Now she only had to stay alive.

Sitting on the porch bench in the dark, Markham scowled, even though he hadn’t expected Quinn to respond. Texting threats felt silly, and threats of any sort meant nothing when he had no way to carry them out. He would. He had to. But how?

“Tell me everything you know.” He spoke in low tones, so as not to alarm the woman beside him or alert others to his presence.

“I’ve told you.” Hannah looked hurt. “Quinn only talks to Mother. I had to sneak to get the phone number.”

“If she talks to Gwen, she must say something about her life.”

“They hardly ever talk.”

“But there has to be something in some conversation that can help.”

She rubbed her head as though thinking hurt. “No one knows where she is.”

“Or they’re not telling you.”

“Mother would tell me. We don’t have secrets.”

He’d seen the overweening relationship with both her parents but didn’t believe for a minute they told her everything. He clenched his jaw, frustrated and more than a little angry. “Think. Has she gone to college, had medical care?” He wasn’t sure if it was possible to hack education or health care records. He’d have to hire someone, and his funds might not cover that kind of work. “Does she have a pet? A relationship?” Any detail could lead to something useful. There were plenty of searches he could do.

“She has a house.”

“What?”

Hannah gulped. He’d spoken too boldly.

“Is she renting it?”

“No. It’s really hers.” She looked sullen. “Quinn had to call and brag.”

The tightness in his chest eased. He looked into her teary eyes, masking his sudden excitement with simulated compassion. “That must be very trying.”

“‘Let the one who boasts boast in the Lord.’”

“Exactly so.” If his smile was dry, she didn’t notice.

“Quinn should learn humility,” Hannah said primly.

Oh, she would. Indeed she would.

Morgan had waited for Quinn’s call, worried when it took so long. He’d stepped out the door and seen nothing but snow and the lights of her cabin, but they’d left those on when she came to his. Her call came shortly before he was about to bundle Livie back out in the storm to search. He’d been out of the game long enough to believe she’d forgotten him, but something told him it was more.

Harassment had degrees. He doubted her claim that it was nothing but had nothing to go on beyond that. He keyed the number he’d memorized at a glance. When a man answered, Morgan said, “Hey, . . .” He garbled a name. “How’s it going?”

“What?”

“Oh man, I can barely hear you.”

The man growled, “Who is this?”

“Who’s this?”

The call ended.

He hadn’t really expected the guy to give his name, but it was worth a try before going to the next level. He pictured Quinn’s face, the fear quickly hidden behind bravado. It only punctuated what he already knew. She had guts. But why did she need to?

He’d almost sat beside her on the couch, close enough to touch. Instead he kept his distance, and had to wonder why. He thought of the eggshell in its box in Noelle’s drawer. Nice move, turning his gift from so long ago around on him.

Yeah, Quinn intrigued him, amused him, attracted him. But he knew better, no matter what Noelle said. It hurt to care. So forget personal. Deal with what he saw.

He speed dialed the investigator he used to check backgrounds and search for anything untoward in potential projects. Richard Anselm had sniffed out crimes and vices by white-collar kings that instantly disqualified them from consideration. He’d find something if it was there.

As it was earlier on the West Coast, he caught Anselm awake and gave him the phone number to search.

“This connected to a corporate client?” Anselm asked without remarking on the substantial passage of time since they’d talked.

“It’s personal. I’ll tell Denise to keep it separate.” And in the next call, he instructed her to pay Anselm’s bill from his private account.

“Anything else?” she said.

“How’s everything there?”

“Fine, except for Consuela. She’s going to have a stroke if you keep insisting she move.”

“Oh, come on. It’s just a little while.”

“She wants you here, not her there. Do you know there are about twenty-seven different kinds of devils? She’s called you all of them.”

“It’s beautiful here.”

“It snows.”

“Hardly at all.” He refrained from inspecting the window.

In the night, Noelle rose and tiptoed to Liam’s room. His temperature was elevated, but it matched her own. While not exactly robust, she’d never considered herself infirm, until the pneumonia compromised her respiratory system. Pride before a fall.

Caressing Liam’s cheek, she prayed he had Rick’s constitution, and then, satisfied that he was sleeping as comfortably as possible, she crept back to her room.

“Is Liam okay?” Rick’s voice was soft and alert.

She had tried to slip into bed without disturbing him. “I think so. He’s sleeping.” Her own throat felt like a war zone. Pain made a headband from one ear to the other and spread like a veil down her neck and over her forehead like a blusher.

He took her hand when she lay back down. “You’re hot.”

“You’re not so bad yourself.”

Smiling indulgently, he felt her face. “I’ll get you more Tylenol.”

She didn’t argue. It wouldn’t kick the headache, but it might reduce the fever. As long as she could breathe without a swamp in her chest, she’d deal with the rest.