Authors: Michelle Weidenbenner
She stopped, set it on the ground, unclasped the buckle, and dumped its contents. Thin rubber tubes, plastic gloves, a vial of medicine, large surgical scissors, several needles and long scalpels, and a box of baggies spilled out in front of her. Her hand moved to her open mouth, covering a silent scream. Her fingers trembled.
Oh, no!
She stood, backing away from the contents, stunned. Her mouth gaped.
Dean, oh Dean, what have you done?
That’s when it hit her. If Dean was the guy maiming sex offenders, then he had Quinn too.
No! Why, Dean, why?
Her whole body shook.
She sprinted out the barn the same way she’d entered, then paused in the damp air. The wind whipped her hair across her face. It had started to rain. She glanced up at the house and saw Brett’s silhouette at the desk in the kitchen. He must have awoken.
What should she do? She cried, torn. If she told Brett, would he understand? No, he wouldn’t. He’d be enraged. He’d lose it, and if Quinn was at the cabin he’d probably shoot first and ask questions later. Dealing with Dean took experience, a counselor’s tactics. She had to go alone. She’d talk sense into her brother and bring Quinn back to Brett.
If
Quinn was there. She had to be there. Dean would listen to her.
She headed around the side of the barn and tromped up the hill, through the cornfields, toward the guesthouse, the wind swallowing her breath and the rain spitting on her face. “I’m coming, Quinn.”
But dread filled her. What if he’d taken Quinn someplace else? Why would he do this? Now he’d have to go to jail for life. There was no way out.
Oh, Dean, I can’t protect you this time.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Brett woke to Max’s low growl. “Huh?” His eyes fluttered open. Where was he? Why was he lying in a bed with all his clothes on? He shot up, flinging the blanket off and swinging his legs over the side. He set his feet, still in socks, on the floor and scanned the room.
Frilly hats with long ribbons hung on the wall he faced. A white eyelet bedspread and monogrammed shams with the initials SSS adorned the bed. A lit clock on the nightstand read 11:45 p.m. An antique white desk sat in the corner, opposite a chest of drawers.
Everything came flooding back. Ali, Quinn, Sarah. He was in Sarah’s home. How could he have fallen asleep? His heart raced. He listened. Max stood on the bed, tilting his head and watching the closed door.
Brett reached over and rubbed the dog’s ears. “What is it, boy? You hear something?” Brett unclipped his cell phone and pressed the button on the bottom to light it, but nothing happened. It was dead? No! How long had it been dead? He’d forgotten to charge it. He hit the palm of his hand to his head. How could he have been so stupid?
How many calls had he missed? What if Quinn had tried to reach him?
He leaned over and shoved his feet into his shoes, not bothering to tie them. Max leaped off the bed and shook from head to tail.
In two wide strides Brett opened the door and tiptoed down the hall. Which way was out? He couldn’t remember. His sense of direction sucked. A soft light came from a room across the hall. He peered inside and saw an empty bed in a green-painted room. The bedclothes were thrown back as if someone had slept there but gotten up. Sarah?
He turned toward the other hallway, hoping it led to the kitchen, but stopped when he noticed a painting on the wall: a picture of a woman who strongly resembled Sarah. Was it her mother? She had the same deep-set eyes as Sarah’s, but they weren’t as large. Her smile drew him in like the
Mona Lisa
, watching him, following him, and tempting him to stay with her. No wonder the chief had been so enamored with her
.
Something about this woman’s drooping eyes made her seem lonely, as if she were trapped inside herself. He’d seen the same look on Sarah’s face—the one that made him want to know her better, learn her secret. His eyes dropped to the bottom of the painting where her hand rested, next to the artist’s signature: Sarah S. Samuel. Sarah was also an artist?
Where was she? “Sarah?”
No answer. Max padded by his side.
He went to the kitchen. She wasn’t there either, but her computer whirred from her desk, and he spotted her iPhone charger. Thank God! He plugged his phone in and looked out the window. A light shone from the barn. She must have gone out. He’d give his phone two minutes to charge, listen to his messages, then leave.
Wait, why hadn’t he heard his phone ding with messages? He picked it up and realized it had shut off, so he turned it on again. Within seconds it beeped from messages and a text. He sank into the chair, hurrying to see them. Had Quinn called?
Max sighed and curled up under the desk.
One text was from Clay:
They found another cache treasure. Need to talk to you. Call me
.
Three missed calls! He moved to the voice mail screen. Were they from Quinn? It didn’t look like it. None were blocked numbers. He recognized Clay’s number, his parents’, and his ex-mother-in-law’s. He clicked on his father’s message first. “If you need anything let us know. We’re praying for Quinn and Ali.” Ali? Wow, his father had come a long way.
The next message was from Ali’s mother. “Where should they send Ali’s body? Was she an organ donor?”
What? Ali had died? The room spun. Ali was gone? No! His ears rang and he felt numb. Why did she have to die? He pounded his fist on the desk and dropped his head into his hands, tears spilling.
Max jumped and whined and poked his nose in Brett’s face, licking his master’s tears as if he could take away Brett’s pain.
“Why? Why did this have to happen?” he shouted, choking at the lump in his throat.
Max whined and cocked his head to the side.
As much as Brett had loathed Ali’s issues, she was the only mother Quinn had known. Quinn loved her mother. How was he going to explain this to her?
If
he ever found her. Tears fell. He knew Ali’s condition had been critical, but still—he hadn’t expected this. Everything was spiraling out of control.
He tried to catch his breath, knowing he had to find Quinn. He had to hold on to hope, get a grip and try to keep it together.
Quinn, where are you?
He pressed the button to play Clay’s message, the screen blurry from his tears.
Max returned to his snooze position under the desk.
Clay said, “Man, where are you? We’re trying to pull this case together. Are you okay? We got another tip from a few geocachers. They saw a guy in a blue truck, an older model, maybe a 1995 Toyota, just tonight, carrying a backpack and leaving the geo-site, the one that contained the last prize. They remembered parts of the plate number. We’re looking them up right now. Did you know that Sarah’s father died three weeks ago? Levi Samuel. Officer Hudson had his coffin opened. He’s the dead guy who’s missing his dick.”
What? Brett’s stomach twirled. His heart raced. Nausea burned his throat. He felt like vomiting. His attention shot out through the window to where he thought Sarah had gone. He’d been right to assume Dean was involved. Did that mean Sarah was involved too?
Something moved behind him, and then out of the corner of his eye. Max growled. Brett reached for his gun, his heart racing, but just as he turned to see who approached, someone hit him over the head. Pain shot down to his spine like an electric bolt. He moaned and fell, his face smacking against the tiled floor.
No! Not now. I need to find Quinn
. Blackness enveloped him as he thought about Sarah, how wrong he’d been to trust her, and what a fool he’d been. Now he’d never find Quinn in time.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Sarah sprinted up the hill toward the guesthouse, through the cornfields, the rain matting the hair against her face. Why had Dean snapped? When had he gone off the deep end? Little brother Dean. She should have realized something wasn’t right with him. It was her job to notice behavioral problems. She was trained to see these things, to see people who were emotionally and mentally unstable. But she didn’t understand. Why now? Their father was finally gone. Why would Dean be struggling now?
More questions than answers rushed through her mind. She smelled logs burning in his fireplace—pine and earthy—before she turned the corner and actually saw the smoke billowing from the cabin’s chimney. Why would he want heat in the summer? At least it wasn’t coming from the house. Her heart raced, keeping rhythm with her breathing. She swallowed to moisten her throat.
As she darted into the clearing and approached the house, she noticed the front door wide open. Heat from the fireplace charged her as she entered. She shook the rain off her face and shoulders. Right away she saw the change in the room. Just like him, his house was a wreck too. Typically Dean kept everything in order, but now the living room furniture had been moved around with two chairs upturned, magazines and papers were scattered across the floor, the drapes were drawn closed, and the television blared. Dean never kept the TV on loud. He didn’t like loud noises.
When was the last time she’d visited him? She couldn’t remember. It should have been more often, more recent. She crossed the room and turned the television off.
“Dean? Quinn?”
Nothing.
Frantic, she spun in circles afraid to turn her back, unsure of what to expect, unsure of where Dean had gone. “Dean?” she cried.
She opened the drapes a few feet, enough to check behind them and confirm that Quinn wasn’t hiding there.
The rain hurled against the roof of the house. An ember crackled.
Sarah inched toward the kitchen. Piles of dirty dishes littered the table and the countertop. Dried macaroni and cheese sat in a pan on the stove. She clasped her hand over her mouth, quieting her gasp. Dean never left the kitchen dirty. He was obsessive about cleanliness.
“Quinn, it’s me, Dr. Sarah. You can come out now.” She ran back to the living room, frantic. “Dean?” Where had he gone?
Thunder crackled and Sarah jumped, her hands trembling. Lightning lit up the trees outside the window and Dean appeared in the doorway, anger and mud splashed across his face, a wooden bat in his hand.
Sarah screamed.
Dean leaned over as if trying to catch his breath, like he’d been running.
She froze. Her heart pounded and dread filled her. Had he hurt Quinn? “What’s the bat for, Dean?” Her voice quivered.
He looked at the bat like he hadn’t realized it was in his hand and dropped it on the porch like a burning stick. He twisted the bottom of his shirt and shrugged. He wouldn’t meet her eyes. His eyeballs spiraled in two opposite directions, giving her the feeling that his brain chemistry was seriously out of whack.
She trembled. This was a different Dean.
Please, God, let Quinn be okay.
“You had Quinn here, didn’t you?”
Still on the porch, he nodded and took off his shoes. “She’s in the bathroom. She wouldn’t come out. I gave her a pillow.”
Sarah concentrated on keeping her voice steady, almost aloof-sounding. Meanwhile, her hands quaked. “No, I looked in there. She’s not in the house, Dean.” Hopefully she wasn’t far. She’d find her. She had to.
Panic and disbelief filled Dean’s eyes. He ran back to the bathroom. “Quinn?” Then he charged back into the living room to where Sarah stood in the open doorway. “Did you hide her?”
“No. I haven’t seen her. You didn’t hurt her, did you?”
Dean shook his head. “I took care of her. I’m protecting her.”
“Why did you light a fire?”
He shrugged. “You always liked them. You said Mama did too, that they made her feel safe.”
“How thoughtful of you.” They’d never built one in the summer, and why was he thinking of their mother? “You were trying to keep Quinn safe?”
Dean smiled and nodded, puffing out his chest in a proud manner.
“That’s the Dean I know.” She took a step toward him and reached to gently touch his arm, but he flicked it off with such force that she stumbled. Her heart beat faster. “Dean!”
He hung his head and moved it in circles.
“What was that for?” He’d never been aggressive toward her. Ever.
He shrugged and stared at the ground, his head chin to chest. “Don’t touch me.”
He was loaded like a gun! She lowered her voice. “I’ll help you find Quinn, okay?”
His eyes finally met hers, and he smiled again.
She exhaled. “She’s probably outside. I’ll go look. You wait here in case she returns. Sometimes girls like to talk to girls.” She needed to hurry, find Quinn, and get back to Brett.
He wrinkled his brow and frowned as if he was confused. His eyes darted right, then left—in a crazed way. He shook his head and threw his shoulder into her, knocking her off balance, and toward the wall. “No! I need to come too. I n-n-need to take care of her, protect her.” He held his arms out, blocking the front door.
Sarah stumbled, gripping a nearby chair. She righted herself, the hair on her arms rising, her limbs going weak. She swallowed. Wind blew in from the open door, fraying her nerves.
Stay calm
. “What are you trying to protect her from?”
“Her father.”
She inched her way toward Dean again. “Her father didn’t harm her. He loves her.”
He shook his head. “No, her father hurt her. He’s bad like Father.”
She searched his eyes. If only she could get him to look at her, connect with her. She softened her voice. “Our father is dead. He can’t hurt anyone anymore. Quinn’s dad is a nice man. He’s not like Father. He won’t hurt her. He loves her.”
Dean’s eyes narrowed, and he looked away.
“Do you understand?”
He nodded and slid down to the floor, his shoulders slumping and his head on his chest. “Father told me I was a yellow-bellied chicken, afraid of my shadow. He pouted. “I wanted to take care of you. I wanted to protect you, but I was too small. Too scared. He was right.”
“Protect me from what?” What was he talking about? There wasn’t time to waste, but she needed to calm him, convince him to hurry.
“From him. I saw you in the room, in his bed with him, crying.”