Hickman
Wilderstory 24
Outside the trailer, Quinn marveled at how different the scene looked.
The parking lot was filled with chaotic movement.
Two large vans had just arrived, as workers in orange protective suits pulled goggles and surgical masks over their faces. Some were already hauling equipment from the back of the second vehicle.
Other agents rushed past in groups of two or three. Handling boxes. Tagging evidence.
The agent beside Quinn gripped her by the elbow, guiding her to the front of the diner. Quinn wrenched her arm free as she recognized the figure standing in the doorway.
It was Hickman.
His salt and pepper hair, which was usually pulled neatly in the back, hung loose in bunches. It twisted frantically in the wind, a sharp contrast to his tailored suit.
He looked like an eccentric art dealer after a week-long bender, Quinn thought. Or a russian mob boss.
Hickman’s face was lowered as he spoke with two officers in hushed tones. He excused them when he saw Quinn approaching, flicking a spent cigarette to the ground.
“That’s going to leave a fine scar,” he grinned, motioning toward the bandage on her face. “Mark of a true badass.”
Quinn stifled a frown, trying not to think about how ridiculous she looked. The agent beside her stepped away, leaving her alone with Hickman.
“Looks like I missed the party,” Quinn said, gesturing at the commotion around them.
“Oh no,” Hickman replied. “I’d say you’re the belle of the ball.”
Quinn stepped over the curb to shake Hickman’s outstretched hand.
“I’m sorry for all this,” she said. “We had no idea, when we got here. It was supposed to be a routine …”
“It’s never routine,” Hickman interrupted. “The work we do.”
He stepped closer. Quinn studied the lines in his face. Creases, at the corners of his eyes and around his mouth. Tanned skin. Silvery eyes.
“Listen, I’m going to cut to the chase.” Hickman said. He pushed his hair back against the wind with one large palm. “We’re done here.”
“Done?” Quinn asked.
“This whole thing. It’s blown up,” Hickman continued.
“The CDC has been called in on this unknown contagion, and the FBI is taking over the rest of it. In fact,” he paused.
“Our whole team is being folded.”
Quinn froze, searching for something to say.
“Dissolved.” Hickman said.
He placed his hand on Quinn’s shoulder. She started to recoil, but stopped short of pulling away.
Hickman turned her toward a line of cars parked in the front of the lot.
“I’ve arranged to have you accompanied back to Albuquerque for debriefing. Officers Murray and Connors will take you.” He motioned toward a man and a woman by Quinn’s government car. One sat on the hood, while the other kicked at stones along the pavement.
“In the meantime, you’re off the case. You’ll be on suspended leave until this whole thing blows over.”
“Suspended?” Quinn stammered.
Hickman pulled her back around, leaning in. “He was an Arizona state trooper, Quinn,” he whispered.
“But Bill, he was …”
Hickman squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head.
“I know, Quinn,” he said. “Listen, this whole thing is a shit show right now. City and state police. The Arizona Bureau. Even the governor’s involved. But we’ll get it sorted out.”
Hickman scanned the parking lot. “In the meantime, we just need to follow protocol and keep our heads low.”
“We,” Quinn said, “As in me and Ricky?”
“We as in us,” Hickman replied. “But with Ricky’s current condition — obviously — it might be awhile.”
Quinn peered into Hickman’s eyes.
“So, we as in me,” she said.
Hickman pulled a crumpled pack of cigarettes from inside his jacket. He punched the end of it into his palm, letting a single cigarette slide out.
“You know, they have a cactus out here called Saguaro,” he said, peering out past the highway. “Its flowers blossom once a year, at night. By sundown the next day, they’re gone.”
Quinn narrowed her eyes at the horizon, following Hickman’s gaze.
He slid the cigarette into the corner of his mouth and pulled a lighter from his pocket. With a twist of his wrist, the metal lid flipped open. The flame flickered in the breeze, as Hickman inhaled sharply on the glowing cigarette.
“One lousy day,” he said, popping it closed again.
A plume of white smoke jetted past Quinn’s face. She squinted, waving her hand against it.
“You had to know this wouldn’t last,” he continued. “This little project of ours. These special assignments. Chasing after shadows. Cultists,” he lowered his voice. “Covens.”
Hickman gestured to the bustle surrounding them. “It’s nothing but a novelty to these bastards. A two-bit vanity project. Unimportant. And increasingly unpopular with the brass up top.”
Across the parking lot, the orange-suited personnel were approaching Meredith’s trailer. She was standing in the doorway, blocking their way.
An argument ensued, and Meredith was pulled down from her perch. Quinn gasped as they surrounded her.
“Bill,” she breathed.
Hickman turned toward the commotion, clamping the cigarette between his teeth.
“Hey,” he yelled, “can we have some order here?”
He waved his arms in the air, striding headlong toward the trailer.
The two officers waiting by the car stood facing the unfolding scene, hands on their holsters.
Quinn backed against the front door of the diner, as the tiny metallic bell jingled. She held her breath and eased herself through, letting the voices outside fall away.
She paused to gaze around the vacant interior. Quinn realized this was the first time she’d actually been inside the diner. But it looked exactly as she expected.
Red vinyl seat coverings. Aluminum trim on the tables. Linoleum floors.
In the far corner stood Betse, the waitress.
She stared out the window, crinkling the delicate flesh around her eyes. With a sigh, she pushed a washcloth into her back pocket and walked back behind the bar.
“If you’re lookin’ for a little peace and quiet, you came to the right place,” she said. “Don’t think we’ll be seeing much traffic for awhile. Not after today.
“And if you want a spot of coffee, I got some,” Betse offered. “The suits outside have been in and out all day, but I stopped keeping the tab a long time ago.”
“Thanks, but no,” Quinn replied. “I just need a moment.”
“We got that, too,” Betse grinned.
She stooped beside the register, pulling out a thick bundle of folders. “Your little friend had these when he came in this morning. He and I barely got started before all the ruckus spun up.” She approached Quinn and pushed them across the counter.
“Just didn’t seem right for those feds to get hold of his work. So I hid it away.” She tapped a fingernail against the edge of the bar. “I figured you could get this back to him, somehow. He seemed like such a nice kid.”
Quinn lowered herself onto a barstool and rested her elbows on the counter. She rubbed her eyes with both hands.
Betse continued, “I called the hospital downtown. They couldn’t give me any information. Official business, they said. But I know that’s where they took him.”
Quinn dropped her hands onto the loose stack of folders. She pulled at a thin rubber band that spanned the width of the bundle on top. With a satisfying pop, it snapped back into place.
Betse leaned over. “You two,” she said. “You seem like good people. Not like those whack-a-moles outside.”
Quinn slid the stack of folders off the edge of the counter and under one arm.
“I probably need to go,” she said.
Betse opened the the register and pulled a wad of bills from the front of her apron. She sorted them in thin stacks and laid them into the drawer.
“There’s a door behind the kitchen, if you’d rather avoid the circus,” she said.
Quinn thought for a moment, then nodded. She passed Betse and pushed open the swing door to the kitchen. Before she passed through, Betse stopped her.
“I saw that state trooper’s eyes today,” she said, shutting the register with the heel of her hand, “He wasn’t himself, was he?”
Quinn hesitated, half in and half out of the kitchen doorway.
Betse pulled the washcloth from her pocket and flattened it neatly on top of the counter. She folded her arms and tilted her head. A thin smile crept across her lips.
“It’s fine,” she said. “You don’t have to say.”
Quinn spun through the passage and stepped into the darkened kitchen. The lights were off, but a thin glow illuminated the steel door frame in the back.
From the corner of her eye, she thought she saw a figure. A trace of a silhouette, looming against the lightless wall.
“Hello?” she blinked, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the darkness.
A faint whisper broke the silence. It was muddled. Unintelligible. But it made the hair on her arms bristle.
Quinn blinked again, and the shape was gone.
She stood still for a moment, trying to make sense of it. There was a large soot stain on the wall, just above the blackened grill. In the dim light, Quinn supposed it could be mistaken for a figure.
Great, she thought. Now I’m seeing things.
She turned and pushed open the heavy door in the back, as the light from outside washed over her.
The lot behind the diner was empty, with only the ringing of cicadas to fill the air. The muted clamor of voices from Meredith’s trailer sounded miles away.
She swung below a flopping strand of police tape and made her way around the large dumpsters in the back, where the broken concrete slab mingled with loose gravel and weeds.
A shiver of light glinted from the bumper of the champagne colored patrol car, as Quinn stepped along the length of its side. She pulled the door open and settled in behind the wheel.
She sat for a moment, gazing through the dust-streaked windshield. Beneath her, the leather seat creaked as she reached into the pocket of her jeans.
The oblong wooden bowling pin felt familiar in her grasp. And the keys jangled as she pulled them free.
Quinn pushed one into the ignition and grinned, as the engine cranked to life.
