Becoming Quinn

23

Durrie hadn’t slept well.

There were times when he could be a good little soldier, blindly doing whatever he was told. And there were times when he could perform his duties while well aware of the ludicrous nature of the assignment. But never in his nearly two decades in the business had he contemplated what he was contemplating now.

It wasn’t an altruistic move born out of a sense of decency or kindness. Those were not qualities Durrie would use to describe himself. It was opportunity and waste — losing the former by committing the latter — that was making him think this way.

He knew better than to share his thoughts on the matter with anyone, so he had spent a rough night tangling with them himself. When he gave up and pulled himself out of bed at 5 a.m., he had two plans in his mind. One, the plan he was expected to carry out, and the other, the plan he thought he should.

The only question he had was, which one would it be?

Jake’s flight was scheduled to leave at 11 a.m. It would take only a couple of hours to get to Houston, but with the time zone change he wouldn’t arrive until just after 2 p.m. His meeting with Mr. Usher was scheduled for 3 p.m., which seemed tight, but since they were the ones who’d made the arrangements and were picking him up, Jake wasn’t going to worry about it.

He was up early enough to go for a run. It was nice to feel the road beneath his feet. He hadn’t done any real exercise since he’d been let go from the force. He’d been too wrapped up in first trying to find Berit, and then trying to figure out what he was going to do with his life. But now the warm air and the sweat were revitalizing.

Back home, he showered, made himself some instant oatmeal, then spent thirty minutes trying to decide which tie to wear with his only suit. Finally ready, he headed out to his car.

Durrie spent the time between 5:30 and 8:00 a.m. preparing. Whichever plan he would ultimately go with, there were things that needed to be done first for each. It was a busy two and a half hours, but he needed to be in front of Oliver’s apartment building before the kid left for the airport, so he had to make the most of his time.

Once he was in position a block from where Oliver lived, he placed the portable receiver on the dash, and turned it on. It was quiet in Oliver’s car — no engine noise, no sound of breathing.

Durrie settled in his seat.

At 8:25, the dead air on the receiver was replaced by the sound of a car door opening. Less than thirty seconds later, the engine started.

The airport was only a fifteen-minute drive away. Jake would easily be there before the recommended one hour prior to departure for domestic flights. He glanced at his overnight bag sitting in the front passenger seat, and went through a quick mental checklist of everything inside to be sure he didn’t forget anything. Satisfied, he pulled out of his space in the parking garage, and headed for the exit.

Outside, the day had grown considerably warmer than it had been when he’d gone on his run. He cranked up the A/C a few notches, and switched on the radio.

It’s going to be a good day, he told himself. A new beginning.

The idea of that was really starting to appeal to him.

The former cop didn’t seem to be in any kind of hurry, then again, the airport wasn’t that far away. Durrie followed just a couple of cars behind, his mind still going back and forth. He knew if he waited too long, the decision would be made for him, and Jake Oliver would be flying toward his death in Houston.

Durrie wasn’t going to let it come to that. Whatever was going to happen, it would be what he decided was best. To do otherwise would be to take the easy way out, and he hated people who took the easy way. If more people would just take responsibility and make a damn decision, the world might not be as screwed up.

By the time Oliver pulled into the airport parking lot just off Van Buren Street, Durrie knew which plan he was going to carry out.

He turned in after Oliver, the tension of having to make a decision finally gone.

All the spaces closest to Van Buren were taken, so Jake kept driving until he found a spot about two-thirds of the way into the giant lot, up against the fence and far from the entrance. He turned off his engine, and retrieved the cardboard sunscreen he kept folded on the back seat, then propped it up against the front windshield. If there was one thing he’d learned since living in Phoenix, it was how quickly the sun could damage the interior of a vehicle. Case in point, the crack in his dash just above the glove compartment.

Protection in place, he grabbed his bag and climbed out of the car.

Durrie slowed as Oliver turned his Civic into an empty spot.

Yes or no? he thought, giving himself a last chance to change his mind. But the answer was still the same. He rolled forward until his car was blocking the Civic. From the movements inside he was sure Oliver hadn’t noticed.

Durrie grabbed the weapon out of his kit bag, and quickly exited his sedan. By the time Oliver opened his door, Durrie was standing just ten feet away.

Jake didn’t notice the man until after he’d shut his door and turned toward the parking lot. He thought the guy wanted to get into the car next to his, and was just waiting for Jake to get out of the way.

“Hi,” he said. “If you move back, I can get out, then you can leave.”

When the man didn’t respond, Jake took a hard look at him, and was about to ask what his problem was, but the words caught in his mouth.

It was the third man from the Lawrence Hotel, the one who’d entered the elevator and been briefly acknowledged by the light-haired guy. There was no mistaking him.

Jake took a step forward. “I’ve got a plane to catch. So if you’ll excuse me…”

He kept moving as if he were going to push past the man, but halted in his tracks when the guy raised his hand. In it was a weapon, not a traditional pistol, but something that looked like a cross between that and a Taser device Jake had seen a demonstration of at the station.

“You’re not going anywhere,” the man said. “Trust me, it’s better this way.”

Jake let his breathing grow even. At best he had one chance, so he couldn’t afford to blow it.

“What do you want?” he asked, casually positioning himself in the middle of the space between the two cars that fenced him in.

“At the moment that doesn’t matter.”

“I kind of think it does,” Jake said.

“Yeah, well…sorry.”

The man pulled the trigger.

Jake had anticipated the move, and brought his bag up a half-second before four tiny darts, each attached to a wire, shot out of the end of the weapon.

As soon as they pierced the side of the bag, Jake threw it at the man, then whirled around and rushed toward the fence. Slowing prior to reaching it, he turned again and hopped onto the hood of his Civic, then started to run from car to car, jumping the gaps.

His gaze searched the parking lot, looking for anyone within earshot. He knew if he could get someone’s attention, it might be enough to deter the man from pursuing him. But the lot was huge, and the closest person was standing next to the building where the shuttle bus stopped, looking in the other direction.

Jake chanced a brief look back. While the man’s car was still parked behind his, there was no sign of the man himself.

As Jake jumped from the hood of a Volvo onto that of an SUV, he could see trouble three cars ahead — a minivan with basically no hood at all. He altered his path as he neared, then jumped higher than usual when he came to the gap, his hands reaching for the van’s roof. But his foot slipped as he took off, and his stomach hit the edge where the roof and side met, bending him at the waist like an L.

Momentarily stunned, he hung there for a second.

Keep moving!

His legs heard the message first. They began scrambling around the side of the van and over to the windshield. One foot reached the glass, but something grabbed his other.

He looked back and saw the man holding fast to his ankle with one hand. In his other hand—

A needle!

Jake tried to kick back with his foot, but the man was strong and had been ready for this. To counter, Jake pushed up from the roof, and started to turn onto his back, intending to lash out at the man with his other leg. But just as he pivoted onto his hip, he felt a prick in his calf. The man immediately let go of his ankle and stepped back.

Jake lost his grip and slipped to the ground. He staggered a moment, but was able to remain on his feet. “What did you do to me?” he yelled.

“You’ve seen me before, haven’t you?” the man asked.

“Hell, yes, I’ve seen you before,” Jake said. “You were at the Lawrence Hotel. You had something to do with the murder out on Goodman Ranch Road. Don’t think I’m not going to turn you in.”

The man eyed him curiously for a moment. “How did you know?”

Jake felt a sudden disconnect from his skin, as if a thick layer of foam had been injected between it and the tissue beneath. “What did you do…to me?”

“Looks like we both have questions.” The man paused. “I’d sit down if I were you. Less chance of bruising when you fall.”

Jake was having a hard time understanding what he meant. Less chance of…what?

Suddenly he bumped into the van.

“Sit down,” the man told him.

Jake did.

“What…what…” Jake desperately searched for other words, but none came.

The man was at his side now. “Don’t fight it.”

Jake felt his body turn and realized the man was moving him. Soon his back was leaning against the van.

“Don’t fight it,” the man repeated, his voice becoming a distant whisper. “Don’t…”

Jake heard no more.