Janice Johnson - With Child

“Dickerson called this morning. They’ve already made an arrest.”

From a great distance, she stared at him. “What?”

“Two punks. Nineteen and twenty-one.” He talked about a meth lab and two strung-out young men who had in an instant snuffed out Dean’s life.

“How…”

“You mean, how did they make the arrest so fast? Dean. The minute he saw a burglary in progress, he called it in. We had the license-plate number.”

She did remember them talking about that last night. It just hadn’t sunk in.

“Do you think he knew…”

A nerve jumped beside Quinn’s eye. “Things like that happen fast. He probably saw that they were young, got out of his pickup to confront them, and one of them pulled a gun.”

She nodded, wanting to believe he was right, that it had happened so quickly Dean hadn’t had time for fear. She hoped he’d died instantly.

“His body…” Again, Mindy hardly knew what she was asking. Where his body was, she supposed, and what she was supposed to do to plan a funeral.

Quinn understood. “They’re doing an autopsy today, and then I imagine his body will be released.” He suggested a funeral home and they talked about when and where to hold the funeral. It was as if they were planning a bake sale, concentrating on details so they didn’t have to think about what the occasion was really for: lowering Dean’s body into a grave.

“Do you have people you need to call?” he finally asked.

“Yes, I suppose… His friends…”

He raised his brows. “I’ll let them know.”

Mindy felt a twinge of resentment at his sense of entitlement but then felt guilty. Quinn was surely grieving as much as she was.

She nodded and stood, picking up her plate. “I think I might lie down again.”

Was she imagining the disdain in his eyes?

“It’s ten-thirty.”

She stopped in the middle of the kitchen. “So?”

“There are arrangements to be made.”

“Dean…” She swallowed. “Dean hasn’t been dead twelve hours. Arrangements can wait.” She continued to the sink, set her plate down hard enough it clunked and kept walking. Out of the kitchen, to the bathroom—barely pregnant, and already she had to pee incessantly—and then back to the guest bedroom, where she climbed in and curled into a fetal position on her side.

The pillow was almost flat where her head had been when she’d awakened this morning. The sheets felt cold again and smelled faintly of fabric softener. She’d washed them just a couple of weeks ago, after Quinn had stayed over. As she’d always done when Quinn was around, that evening Mindy had tried hard to be friendly but finally made excuses and went upstairs to watch a video and then read in bed, leaving the men to their beer and basketball. She would hear shouts of laughter once she left them, and an easiness to their voices they didn’t have when she was present. Had Dean been aware how strained the relationship was between his best friend and his wife? He had to have noticed something, but he’d never said a word to her beyond, a few times, trying to explain Quinn.

“He had a rough childhood.”

“Any rougher than yours?” she remembered asking, a hint of tartness in her tone. “You grew up in a foster home, too.”

“Yes, but before that I knew my mother loved me.” Dean had frowned, his usually laughing face serious. “I trusted her. Quinn never had anyone he could trust.”

He hadn’t wanted to tell her too much, and Mindy did understand. Quinn was a very private man, and would probably hate to find out Dean had said even as much as he had.

“Get Quinn to tell you someday,” Dean suggested.

He couldn’t have realized the disdain Quinn felt for her, or he wouldn’t say something so ludicrous. But he had felt the tension; she’d sensed he was working extra hard to keep conversation light and flowing when Quinn was over.

She really should make some calls, Mindy thought drearily. Quinn must hate feeling obligated to stay even this long. If she had a friend coming over, he could leave in good conscience.

But it wasn’t as if she’d asked him to stay. He could go home any time he wanted. She wished he would go.

Mindy felt a pang of guilt, because the truth was she’d been grateful last night that he was staying. She’d even been grateful that he had come with Sergeant Dickerson to give her the news. It had been possible to cry on him because she knew that, in his own way, he loved Dean, too.

Perhaps he would just leave, now that he’d realized she was done weeping on his shoulder. If she closed her eyes, and shut out the world, perhaps when she awakened the next time, he’d be gone. And she could cry again, and drift through the empty house, and try to imagine life in it without Dean.

WHY WAS HE SURPRISED that she left the dirty work to him?

Quinn drove home that afternoon to collect some clean clothes and toiletries, phoned in to clear a couple of days from work, then went back to Dean’s house to do jobs that should have belonged to Dean’s widow.

Sitting at the breakfast bar in the kitchen, he called the funeral home, then flipped open Dean’s address book. Starting with the As, he methodically worked his way through, leaving messages some of the time, speaking to a few people.

Yes, it was a terrible tragedy. Dean’s wife was prostrate. The funeral would probably be Saturday; they would notify everybody once they knew for sure.

Quinn hesitated when he flipped the page to the names that began with G and H. He’d have to call the Howies. Dean had stayed in closer touch with them than he had. They’d been at Dean’s wedding, of course, but otherwise it had been…oh, hell, two or three years since Quinn had called them. They always sounded so damn grateful, his guilt would rev up another gear.

He almost skipped them now, put off contacting them until later, but wouldn’t let himself. He had plenty of flaws, but cowardice wasn’t one of them.

“Nancy?” he said, when a woman answered the phone.

“Yes?” His foster mother’s voice had acquired a fine tremor. She must be—he had to calculate—in her seventies.

“It’s Quinn. Brendan Quinn.”

“Oh, my goodness! Brendan?” Her voice became muffled. “George, it’s Brendan on the phone!” She came back. “How nice to hear from you. My goodness, it’s been a while.”

“I know it has. I’m sorry. Time seems to race by.” He despised himself for the weak excuse.

She’d always let him off the hook too easily. “Oh, it’s just nice to hear your voice now.”

“Nancy, I’m afraid the reason for my call isn’t good.” He drew a deep breath. “Dean’s dead.”

The silence was achingly long.

“Dead?”

“He was shot last night. On the job.” As if to quiet her moan of grief, he kept talking, told her about the circumstances, the arrest, that he was at Dean’s house right now.

“Oh, his poor wife!”

Even as he said the right things—Mindy was resting, in shock—Quinn felt anger again. She and Dean hadn’t known each other that long. Dean had had girlfriends who’d lasted longer than he’d known Mindy. In fact, Quinn was going to have to call one of them, who had stayed friends with Dean. But Mindy was the wife, and therefore assumed to be the person who would be most devastated by his death.

Knowing damn well he was being petty, Quinn still couldn’t stamp down that spark of something that was a hell of a lot closer to jealousy than he liked to admit.

Nancy handed off the phone to George, who asked for the details again. Quinn told him when the funeral was tentatively set for and promised to call again when plans were firm.

“Now, you take care of Mindy,” George ordered.

After hanging up, Quinn stood to pour himself another cup of coffee. The Howies had sounded as if they’d lost a son. Had they really cared that much? Dean, of course, had been easier to love; despite his often expressed faith that his mother would be coming for him any day, he had craved closeness in a way Quinn hadn’t. Quinn had never known whether he was just a paycheck from the state, an obligation they punctiliously fulfilled, or something more. They’d respected his reserve, his pride, and saved the hugs for Dean.