Paying The Piper - 17. Chapter 17

Quent walked into his house, flicking lights on as he went. Drew followed behind. His eyes roamed curiously over the main room. It was a combination living room/dining room. The kitchen was open to the main living area, separated by a half-wall only. Drew didn’t realize he was staring until Quent interrupted him.

"Make sure you get a good look over here too. My desk is fascinating. It gives a terrifying glimpse into my inner child."

Drew blushed and focused on his host. Quent was standing by the kitchen. He held a beer and a glass of water. Drew smiled his thanks and reached for the water. Quent snatched it away. "That’s for me. This is for you." He thrust the beer at Drew. "You need it."

He brushed past and collapsed onto the tattered sofa. Drew thrust his tongue into his cheek and stared at his beer. "Don’t you think you need one as well?"

"I never touch that piss water. It’ll kill you."

Drew arched an eyebrow at the half-empty bottle of scotch nestled in the couch cushions next to Quent. "I’ll keep that in mind," he said mildly. He took a seat in a worn recliner.

Quent crossed his legs. He gave Drew a hard stare. "It’s time for a show of trust between us. Who are you really?"

Drew focused on a point on the opposite wall. "What’s your show of trust?"

"You’re in my house drinking my stale beer." Drew choked and glanced sharply at his bottle. Quent plowed ahead. "If that’s not an indication that I trust you, I don’t know what is.

"Who are you, Mr. Marcus? I’ve talked to your boss in Washington. He practically swore he would trust you with his life. So my question is, if you’re so fantastic at what you do, why aren’t you doing it?"

Drew leaned forward. He ran his free hand over his face and took a long swallow of beer. "I’m supposed to be on …vacation."

"You’ve rented Stahl’s place for six months."

Drew cringed. "Yeah. It’s a semi-permanent vacation."

"Ahhh," Quent said. "How badly did you screw up?"

Drew sniffed and sat back. "None of your business."

"Which means pretty badly," Quent translated.

Drew groaned. "Listen. My job…I can’t give you specifics. It’s criminology and law enforcement, with a side of programming. That’s my specialty: computers."

"And I thought it was air conditioning."

Drew didn’t laugh. "I know what I’m doing, Quent."

Quent finished his water and reached for the scotch. He poured a shot over the remnants of ice. "I’ve noticed that," he said grudgingly.

"I deserve a little of your respect."

Quent snorted. "Don’t go overboard, boy."

"Oh for Christ’s sake…." Drew slammed his beer down on the coffee table and stood up. He pulled Cynthia’s diary out of his jacket pocket and threw it at Quent. "Good luck," he spat as he turned to leave.

"Marcus!" Quent yelled. Drew paused by the front door. He didn’t turn around. The silence stretched. "I’m in a shitty mood," Quent finally said. Drew waited. He heard Quent curse under his breath and it made him smile. "I would appreciate your help," Quent finally ground out. It sounded a bit like a cat coughing up a fur ball, but Drew wasn’t picky. He walked back into the living room.

"Shall we read it, then?" Drew asked. He gestured to the diary. Quent poured himself more scotch.

"An excellent idea. You start." He tossed the book to Drew.

**********

Marci thinks I won’t tell, but I will. I deserve just as much as she does. I’m the one flat on her back most of the time. I’ll give her one last chance to make it 50-50 and then I’m going to Quent.

"Idiot girl," Quent muttered.

Drew snapped the diary shut. "I agree." He got another beer out of the fridge. "Listen," he said as he sat back down. "Do you remember how Elizabeth said Cynthia butted into their conversation about money and investing the night she was killed?"

Quent responded with, "Mmmm."

"She was taunting Marci. Purposefully bringing attention to her new nest egg in front of Elizabeth. Hinting that she could end the game at any time if Marci didn’t start sharing more equitably."

"Elizabeth did say Marci looked put out by her presence," Quent mused.

Drew took a sip of his beer. "Maybe Marci decided she didn’t want to share. So she took Cynthia out of the picture."

Quent closed his eyes. "It doesn’t work for me."

Drew copied Quent’s movements and closed his eyes. He leaned his head back against the chair. "Why not?"

"Cynthia’s murder was brutal."

"A crime of passion?" Drew guessed.

Quent hedged for a few moments. Fuck it, he thought. Marcus was already neck deep in this. "No sexual assault. But she was practically eviscerated."

Drew nodded. "A bit of overkill. Speaks to rage."

Quent nodded. "Yes. And I’m not sure I can picture Marci Patterson going this far over something so…." He trailed off.

Drew opened his eyes and waited expectantly. When it was clear Quent didn’t plan to finish his sentence, Drew said quietly, "These days, everybody wants more. What they have, what they work honestly for, it’s never enough. They look at their neighbor, see him getting something for nothing, and think they deserve the same. What they don’t realize, is that their neighbor is looking at them and thinking the same thing. So in the end – we all pay the price, but nobody gets ahead."

Quent regarded Drew through sleepy eyes. "You’re killing my buzz, Marcus. Go home."

Drew’s shoulders shook as he laughed silently. He stood to go. "Marcus," Quent said. Drew looked back expectantly. "Have you seen Cale?"

The light in Drew’s eyes died. "No."

"You are a sorry son of a bitch."

Drew smiled sadly. He had almost reached the door when Quent’s cell phone rang.

**********

Cale woke to the house phone ringing. He fumbled out of the covers and grabbed the receiver. "This better be good, Quent," he groaned into the receiver.

"I-it’s not Quent, it’s Elizabeth," a high-pitched voice replied.

Cale was wide awake immediately. He flipped on the light, confirming that the other side of the bed was empty. For a moment, confusion ruled. He remembered agreeing to a fragile truce. He remembered a chaste kiss, a tentative goodnight and the deep oblivion of sleep. He did not remember anything that would explain why his wife was not in bed at nearly three in the morning or why she would be calling him in a panic.

"What the fuck," he whispered. "Elizabeth! Where the hell are you?"

"Oh, baby. I’m so sorry. Please, please help me." She started to cry hysterically.

Cale cursed again and stumbled across the room for his jeans. He pulled them on one-handed and grabbed a t-shirt. "Tell me where you are, Elizabeth."

She continued to weep. "At Rob's house."

Cale lost his patience. Lack of sleep and a dose of emotional upheaval did nothing for his temper. "What’s wrong?" he demanded.

"It's Rob," she cried. "He hurt me. He hurt me!" In the background, Cale heard an angry voice. The line went dead.

"Shit!" Cale immediately dialed Quent. To his surprise, his friend answered on the first ring, sounding completely awake. It only took Cale a moment to sum up the situation for him, since he knew precious little.

"We’ll meet you there," Quent said before hanging up.

Cale was a mile down the road before he registered what Quent had said.

"We?" he wondered.