The Third Victim Part 32

Tequila's was a happening place. Plank floor covered in peanut sh.e.l.ls.

Tiny booths covered in scarred brown vinyl. Pitchers of beer that went for a buck fifty on Wednesday nights and all-you-could-eat mozzarella sticks during happy hour. The jukebox belted out country favorites.

On the dance floor, half the couples moved easily to the rhythmic steps of line dancing. Deeper in the shadows, other couples moved to other rhythms in perfect time.

Rainie yelled her order for a bottle of Bud Light over the din. Quincy surprised her by ordering the same. He struck her as a Heineken man, but live and learn.

For a while they simply sat, watching the dance floor, absorbing the noise and loosening up until the lessons of Bakersville's K-8, and Danny O'grady, seemed far away.

"Nice place," Quincy said shortly.

"Fun," Rainie said.

"Come here often?"

"Careful, SupSpAg. Next thing you know, you'll be asking my sign."

Quincy grinned. It was a good look on his face, especially with his shirtsleeves rolled up and his silk tie loosened. He took a long pull from the beer bottle.

"Nice and cold," he said.

"How's yours?"

"Don't know. I'm an alcoholic, Quince. Came from an alcoholic mother.

Probably had an alcoholic father. I'd know if my mother had sobered up long enough to remember his name."

He gave her a curious look.

"We didn't have to come to a bar."

"Not a problem. I've been sober ten years. I know what I'm doing."

"But you still order a beer?"

"Yep. I like holding the bottle in my hand and knowing I can set it down again. It's the sense of power, I'm sure. Plus' she slipped him a wink 'beer bottles are a G.o.dd.a.m.n phallic delight." Quincy burst out laughing. She grinned back at him. She bet he didn't laugh often, which was too bad. He sounded good laughing. He looked good too.

"And you?" she asked, setting down the bottle.

"Tell me the truth, SupSpAg, what really brings you to Bakersville?"

"The job, of course. So much crime, so little time."

Travel a lot?"

"Three or four cities a week. I'm either a federal agent or a rock star."

"h.e.l.l on relationships," she said casually.

His lips curved at one corner. She hadn't fooled him.

"I was married," he said.

"Lasted fifteen years, which was probably seven more than I deserved. I used to carry a photo of her in a silver frame in my briefcase. Every hotel room I stayed in, the first thing I would do was place her picture on the table. Unfortunately, that didn't match her idea of quality time. We divorced. I learned to work without her photo on my desk. And you?"

"I don't do relationships. Have a strict policy against them. I figure if half of the American people are getting divorced, that's good enough for me."

Quincy gave her a skeptical look. She could tell he was trying to evaluate her statement for truth versus bravado.

"You're young, intelligent, beautiful. What about starting a family?"

"Oh no. I don't do children. They're small, needy, easily destroyed.

Let's be honest. I've come a long way from my family history, but I'm still the child of an abusive alcoholic and we don't make great parent material. For the Conners, the cycle ends here."

"You shouldn't underestimate yourself, Rainie."

"I don't underestimate myself. I'm simply honest."

She watched him take another swig from his beer. He was definitely interested. She could see the light in his eyes. He was reluctant, bemused, but interested. Call her a fool, but it made her smile.

She leaned forward, sweeping her long hair to one side as she prepared to get serious.

"So tell me more, Quincy. We're here in a bar, a long way from crime scenes, and you're almost through your first beer. Tell me all the baggage. I like starting with the junk out in the open. It saves time later."

"I don't have interesting baggage."

"Everybody does."

"No, I just have typical law-enforcement stuff. The ex-wife. The two grown children who barely know I exist. Too much dedication to the job, not enough attention at home. The usual mistakes."

"Yeah? So why are you avoiding phones?" He jerked, caught off guard.

Then he gave her a more measured stare. It pleased her to surprise him. She was beginning to realize that with an academic like him, it was a form of flirtation.

"I didn't realize it was that obvious." Tierce?"

"Don't call me that. Only my ex-wife uses my first name. Everyone else calls me Quincy, like the medical examiner from the old TV show.

Serial killers and their sense of humor," he murmured.

She kept looking at him. He finally set down his beer.

"One of my daughters," he said abruptly, 'is in the hospital."

"Is it serious?"

"She's dying. No, that's not true," he corrected himself.

"She's dead. She's been dead for four weeks. Twenty-three years old and involved in such a bad automobile accident that the front windshield carries an imprint of her face. I know. I made the police show it to me." He looked off in the distance a moment. Rainie was struck by how haggard he appeared. Then how exhausted.

"Now she lies in a hospital room," he said quietly, 'where machines breathe for her and pump her heart and feed her food, while the rest of us sit by her side day after day, desperate for some miracle to save her. Except that her brain is dead and the machines can't fix that.

The miracles of science take us so far, and yet not nearly far enough."