Paying The Piper - 33. Chapter 33

Three days later, the hospital released Quent from its clutches – to the extreme delight of its staff. He called Cale to come fetch him, even though he knew it would mean another dose of Marcus. He restrained himself and played nice for the entire ten minute trip home. Watching Marcus bumble around with his keys however, snapped his resolve to be civil.

Drew had been struggling with the front door lock for five minutes. The key to the deadbolt was easy enough to spot – it was marked. However, the one that unlocked the door itself could have been any one of the thirty other keys on the chain. "For God’s sake," he muttered as he fumbled with the fourth key he’d tried.

Quent gave his temper free rein. "What’s the hold-up, Marcus? I’m supposed to stay off this leg, you know."

Drew glanced over his shoulder at Quent and Cale. Cale had Quent’s bag in one hand and was holding fast to his arm with the other.

"I’m trying to figure out this lock. What the hell are all these keys for?"

"None of your business. Been picking locks so long, you forgot how to use a key?"

"Asshole," Drew muttered under his breath.

"I heard that."

Drew blew out an exasperated sigh and turned around. Cale was trying not to smile, but Quent just looked annoyed. He leaned heavily on Cale, undoubtedly due to his lack of crutches, which he had thrown out the window of the car as they drove out of the hospital parking lot.

"Would you like to show me which one it is?" Drew asked through clenched teeth.

"Normally, no. But since the longer you screw around, the more my health suffers, I suppose I will." He grabbed the huge set of keys from Drew and located the one he wanted in under two seconds. "There. Do try to hurry."

Drew bit back his reply and unlocked the door. He walked through the living area into the kitchen and began arranging Quent’s mini-pharmacy on the counter. He chuckled as he worked.

"What’s so funny?" Quent called from the living room. Drew laughed again as he watched Quent directing Cale where to place pillows under his leg.

"Oh, nothing," Drew said innocently. "It’s only, I’ve known ninety-five year old men who didn’t take so many drugs." He bent down to inspect the bottles.

Quent groaned dramatically. "Cale, have I told you that your little boyfriend annoys the shit out of me?"

Cale faltered in his pillow fluffing. "He’s not my boyfriend."

Quent arched an eyebrow. "He’s not?"

Drew dropped the bottle he was holding. "I’m not?"

"Well," Cale hesitated. "I—I don’t know. Are you?"

Drew smiled across the room at Cale. Quent watched as his friend melted with happiness. He groaned again. "Get out," he demanded. "Even on a bland diet, that kind of behavior will give me indigestion. No, I mean it. Leave," he insisted when Cale protested. "I’m perfectly fine."

"If you’re sure," Drew said.

"I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life. And don’t come back until you can manage not to moon over each other every second. It’s nauseating."

"Actually, that’s the antibiotic," Cale said.

Quent shot him a pointed look. "I highly doubt it."

He dismissed the boys with a wave, tipped his head back and closed his eyes.

*********

Cale and Drew had been gone less than ten minutes when the doorbell rang. Quent ignored it. The only person he wanted to see was Cale, and Quent knew his friend was much too busy making cow eyes at Marcus to be back so soon. Besides, Cale usually let himself in.

The front door opened and closed. Ah, so it was Cale after all. Footsteps approached across the carpet. Quent frowned but kept his eyes closed. "What’s wrong with you, Cale?" he asked. "Did you think I was kidding? I don’t want to see you until your brain has left your pants and assumed its proper position in your head."

"What are you talking about?"

Quent had his gun in his hand, grabbed from where he had stashed it under the couch cushion, before the speaker had even finished his sentence. His heart pumped with a sudden rush of adrenaline. Nostrils flaring, he cocked the gun and pointed it at Steve.

"Just what do you think you’re doing, Mullen?" he hissed. "Get the fuck out of my house."

Steve held his hands out in front of him. "Calm down! Jesus! I just want to talk to you."

Quent gestured toward the door with his gun. "Get out."

Steve took a step forward. His face colored and a vein began to throb in his temple. "No. I want to talk to you and I’ve waited long enough, damn it."

"Don’t test me, Mullen. I’m taking a whole kaleidoscope of drugs right now. I’m not in my right mind. In fact, my brain is demanding that I shoot you. Run."

The fight went out of Steve. "I need you to listen."

Quent shook his head. "No."

Steve made a choked sound of frustration and sank into a chair. Quent ground his teeth. "Mullen," he warned.

"Please. You have to listen. Cynthia—"

"Stop!" Quent demanded. "It’s over. She’s dead. Move on."

Steve jumped to his feet. Quent tracked him with his gun, but Steve didn’t seem to notice. "You son of a bitch. You bastard! You’re not even going to listen to me, are you?"

"I’m warning you." Quent couldn’t deny the uneasiness that was creeping over him. Steve was unimpressed by Quent’s weapon. In fact, he was so tied up in his hysterics, Quent doubted he recognized the danger.

Steve continued to rant. Quent, to his horror, found his hand had begun to shake. A wave of dizziness crashed over him, followed by a surge of nausea. Despite his bravado, he knew his body was not up to a confrontation.

"Mullen!" he barked. He managed to cut Steve off mid-sentence. "Sit down." He gestured to a chair with his gun. Surreptitiously, he lowered his hand until it was resting on his thigh. The shaking lessened.

"What?" Steve asked. His demeanor reminded Quent of a petulant child.

Quent took a deep breath. "I’m listening," he said calmly.

Strangely, his calm statement enraged Steve even further. He jumped from his chair again. Quent’s finger twitched on the trigger.

"A lot of good it will do now!" Steve yelled. "I tried coming to you weeks ago about this."

"What on earth are you talking about?"

"Cynthia! She was being stalked!"

Quent shifted in his seat and a bolt of pain shot through his leg. He couldn’t stop a sharp hiss of pain. "You did no such thing."

"I did. I left message after message on that damn machine of yours at the station. No, it wasn’t an emergency, but damn it, it was important," Steve yelled. He was breathing heavily, hands clenched.

Quent weighed his options. He hadn’t received any messages from Mullen. "Who was stalking her?" he asked.

Steve howled in frustration. He took a step toward Quent.

"Watch it," Quent warned.

Steve stopped and his eyes turned calculating. "Or what?" he said calmly. His voice dropped even more. "You’ll shoot me?"

"Yes," Quent said.

"I bet you’d miss," Steve taunted. "You can barely hold that thing."

Quent cursed his bad luck. Mullen was unstable, true, but he had noticed Quent’s weakened state. "Don’t test your theory," Quent told him quietly. "Or you’ll be seeing your sister sooner than you think."

It probably hadn’t been the smartest thing to say, Quent thought later to himself. His tongue truly did run away with him sometimes. He cocked his gun as Steve’s eyes grew wide and his hands clenched into shaking fists. It figures, Quent thought, that on his first day home from the hospital he'd have to shoot someone.

With a howl of rage, Steve charged. But before Quent could fire, Drew was there, flying across the room and tackling Steve to the ground at Quent’s feet.

He had a knee pressed into Steve’s back and his hands secured behind him in a matter of seconds. Quent indulged himself in a swift kick to Steve’s shoulder before rounding on Drew.

"You idiot! I could have shot you. Didn’t they teach you anything in Special Agent School, for Christ’s sake!"

Steve bucked under him, and Drew pressed his knee down even harder. "You ungrateful bastard!" he growled at Quent. "I just saved your life."

"Oh, please," Quent shot back, "You just saved his life. He was about to get a bullet in the brain."

Drew stared back with an incredulous look. "Not even a thank you?"

"Get off of me, you bastard!" Steve howled.

Quent sniffed and nudged Steve with his foot. "Settle down, Mullen. I can still shoot you!" Steve ceased struggling, but Quent could hear him mumbling under his breath.

"Cuffs?" Drew inquired mildly.

Quent reached behind the seat cushion and retrieved a set. He tossed them to Drew, who caught them deftly with a raised eyebrow. "Anything else in there I should know about?"

Quent ignored the question. "Why are you back here? And where’s Cale?"

Drew snapped the cuffs on Steve and pushed the sweat slick hair from his brow. After a warning for Steve to stay put, he got up and walked to the small table by the front door. "Cale’s in the car. We forgot to give this to you when we left earlier. I was just running it in." He plucked a tall brown bag from the top of it and tossed it at Quent.

Quent slid the bottle from the bag and actually grinned. What wasn’t there to smile about when 18-year-old Glenfiddich was staring back at you? "Marcus," he said.

"Yes?" Drew asked cautiously.

"Thank you."