Paying The Piper - 41. Chapter 41

Cale opened his eyes to the sight of Stuart crumpled on the floor next to him. His ears rang from the gunshots. Across the room, Drew lowered Quent’s gun and tilted his head back with a groan. Cale was on his feet and by his side in an instant.

He removed the gun from Drew’s grip and laid it on the floor next to the chair. "Are you all right?"

Drew’s answer, a mumbled affirmative, did little to ease Cale’s mind. He reached up to cup Drew’s cheek in his hand. "Drew, look at me," he pleaded.

Drew swung his head forward and fixed one blurry eye on Cale. "Okay," he whispered.

Cale shook his head in frustration. He glanced over his shoulder, searching for Quent, only to find him bent over Stuart’s prone body. "Quent," Cale called.

Quent’s head shot up. He left Stuart to Rob and hurried to Cale’s side. He gave Cale’s arm a quick squeeze as he knelt next to Drew. "He’ll be fine," he assured him. At the same time, he reached into his pocket for a cuff key and freed Drew’s hand from the chair. Drew fell forward with a groan and Cale caught him in his arms. For a long moment, neither moved. Instead, they enjoyed the embrace, happy to have survived the confrontation.

Quent watched, the tight coil of fear in his chest loosening. Cale was alive. Drew was alive. He was alive. The psycho was dead. In his opinion, a perfect resolution to a seriously fucked up situation. He took a deep breath and ran a hand down his face. Perhaps it was time to consider a career change.

Someone cleared their throat behind him. Quent looked over his shoulder at Mullen, noting how the man’s eyes flitted back and forth between Drew, Cale, and Quent. Drew and Cale ignored him, too wrapped up in each other to acknowledge his presence.

He scowled. "What, Mullen?"

Steve jumped and focused on Quent. "Rob called the county police before we…found you. I just called back and had them send an ambulance too."

Quent blinked. "Why, thank you, Mullen. I appreciate your thoughtfulness and clear head. I don’t know quite what to say."

"Don’t say anything," Steve said. "I think that would be the best thing." With a small smile, he wandered over to where Rob was standing, his arms tight around Elizabeth.

Quent snorted and turned back to the boys. "Hang in there, Marcus. There’s an ambulance coming."

Drew didn’t answer, but Cale nodded. He shifted and pulled Drew into his lap. Drew moaned and Cale shushed him with a kiss to his forehead. With extreme care, he laced his arms around Drew and rubbed soothing circles on his back.

Quent rose to his feet and turned to find the other three staring. "Problem?" he barked, miffed when only Elizabeth jumped at his harsh tone. She gave one hysterical giggle before turning her face into Rob’s chest. Quent arched an eyebrow at Rob.

Rob shrugged and turned away, pulling Elizabeth with him. Together, they walked through the arch and toward the front door. In the distance, Quent heard the wail of approaching sirens. Steve remained a moment longer, staring unabashedly at the other two men. Quent felt his temper snap. "See something you like, Mullen?"

Steve turned red and jerked his eyes away. "I’ll just go…help…."

"You do that," Quent said, cutting him off. Steve bobbed his head, spun around, and retreated.

As the sirens grew closer and the first strobes of emergency lights became visible, Quent returned to stand over Stuart’s dead body. The witty words he'd been ready to utter died in his mouth. Shaking his head, he gave the body one last pitiful look and walked away.

************

The staff at the hospital was lost without Cobb, but a few words from Quent to the head nurse did wonders in getting both Drew and Braden admitted as well as Stuart’s body transferred to the morgue.

He ignored the dirty looks and whispered grumblings sent his way. In fact, he relished them. They wouldn’t be acting high and mighty for long. He couldn’t wait for Joel Birch to show up. The boy was a fool, but he knew his business – he’d have the story in the paper by tomorrow morning. Quent could just picture all those candy stripers turning pale and sick when Cobb’s picture appeared beside a headline that screamed, "Good-natured local Doc slays high school girlfriend in psychopathic killing rampage." He’d like to see them paste a smile on their faces after that.

He directed the staff’s activities with a few words here and there and personally accompanied the body of Stuart Cobb to the morgue. When Cale was told he couldn't see Drew, since he wasn’t family, Quent made his displeasure known. Soon after that, Cale was ensconced comfortably at Drew’s bedside.

Quent thought he just might be getting the hang of the hospital management thing when the chief attending arrived from the county hospital. The doctor took one look around, taking specific note of how the staff scurried around Quent, before addressing the Police Chief. "Impressive. I always thought Cobb was too easy on them. Maybe I should hire you on permanently."

Several nurses standing near enough to hear the conversation blanched. Quent grinned evilly. This doctor, he thought, had potential. "I was just thinking a career change might be in order," he said.

************

Drew’s condition was listed as critical, but stable, and Cale stayed by his bed the rest of the night. The critical label, Cale had been assured, was due to the extensive blood loss. By some miracle, there was little else wrong with him and the doctor had assured Cale that Drew would be weak for quite a while, but would fully recover.

By morning, Cale was nodding off despite several cups of coffee. When Quent came in at breakfast and found him slumped in the small plastic chair, he pursed his lips and shook Cale awake.

Cale’s eyes snapped open. "Drew?"

"Get your eyes checked. No, it’s me. Get out of here. Go home, get some sleep and a shower."

Cale sank back into the chair. He shook his head.

Quent rolled his eyes. "You look like shit. I certainly wouldn’t want to open my eyes to the sight of you. Now, please," Quent ground out through clenched teeth, "go home, bathe, and rest."

"Don’t want to go home," Cale answered sleepily.

"I insist. If you like, go to Marcus’s apartment. But for God’s sake, leave. You’re exhausted and you smell. I'll stay."

Cale shifted in his chair and looked at Quent. "You’ll stay?"

"Your ears are going, too."

"You’ll stay?" Cale repeated. Then he grinned.

"Please, do not read more into it than there is. I simply wish to ease your mind. I assure you, this is the last place I want to be."

"Sorry, Quent. But that line grows more tired by the day. And besides, Drew already let me in on your little secret."

Quent arched an eyebrow. "And what would that be?"

"You care about him."

"Ridiculous. You’ve lost your mind along with your eyesight and hearing."

"You like him."

Quent sighed in disgust. For once, Cale wasn’t backing down. "Fine. I like him. But that's as far as I'll go. I do not, and never will, care about him."

Quent scowled as his own heart contradicted him. Damn the boys, both of them, for getting under his skin. It was difficult enough keeping Cale out of trouble. He didn't want another bumbling child to look after. Now he'd be forced to watch out for Drew's well-being as well as Cale’s. He’d never have a moment’s peace.

Despite Quent’s scathing reply, Cale’s grin had broadened. Quent groaned and hauled him out of the chair. Cale chuckled under his breath. "They said it would comfort him, even if he’s sleeping, if you’d hold his hand."

Quent sat down with a grimace. "Please. I just ate."

Cale chuckled again before stretching his arms above his head. "They had a record from his previous visit, when he hurt his shoulder. Based on that information, they’ve called his emergency contact."

Quent threw Cale a curious glance. "And who would that be?"

Cale shrugged. "Your guess is as good as mine. They wouldn’t tell me." He grabbed his jacket off the chair and slipped into it. "I know he doesn’t have any family to speak of, so…I don’t know." He moved to the door, before hesitating and turning back.

"Go, Cale," Quent insisted. "I won’t leave him."

"Thanks." Cale gave one last weak smile and left.

Quent sat back in the revolting plastic chair and crossed one leg over the other. He regarded Marcus’s sleeping figure with narrowed eyes. "I am not holding your hand," he said firmly. When no response seemed forthcoming, Quent nodded and plucked an old magazine from the table.

************

Quent was deep into an article about, of all things, the dangers of investing with an unscrupulous party, when the door to Marcus’s room opened. Quent sighed and marked his page, disgusted that he was being interrupted again. The nursing staff was merciless with their poking, prodding and bloodletting. It was amazing anyone got better under such circumstances.

To his surprise, however, the newest visitor was not a nurse, but an elderly man with a long white beard and three-piece suit. Quent stared at the ensemble – especially the fuchsia shirt – and wondered where exactly one purchased a midnight blue tie splattered with the letters F, B, and I.

"Hello, my boy," the old man said. "I am–"

"Father Time?" Quent guessed.

"Er, no."

"Kriss Kringle?"

The old man laughed. "Oh my, aren’t you delightful."

Quent’s eyes grew wide. Delightful? Not even Cale would get away with a comment like that.

The old man stuck out his hand. "My name is Christopher Masters, and I’m here to see Drew."

"I’ll put out a press release," Quent shot back. He stood when Masters approached the bed – his first instinct being to step in front of the old man – then chastised himself and stepped aside. He couldn't care less who came to see Drew. As long as, of course, said visitors didn’t upset the boy. A sidelong glance confirmed Drew was sleeping, so there was little chance of that, he supposed.

"Who are you?" Quent asked as the old man leaned down and peered at Drew’s bruised face.

Masters straightened. "Christopher M-"

"Yes, yes, you said that," Quent sniped.

Masters regarded Quent over the tops of his glasses. "I did, didn’t I." He smiled at Quent, but didn’t speak further.

Quent bit the inside of his cheek and held his tongue. The old man laughed under his breath. "I don’t believe you’ve said who you are," he said in a kind voice.

Quent drew himself up. "I'm Quent, Chief of Police for Farther's Run."

Masters made a sound of delighted surprise and extended his hand over Drew’s still body. Reluctantly, Quent took it. "Ah, yes," Masters said. "Of course! You are the diligent individual who solved these gruesome murders I’ve been hearing about." Masters shivered.

Quent yanked his hand back, neither confirming nor denying the statement. Masters watched him step back. He still smiled, but a purposeful intensity had replaced the humor. "I'm Drew’s – friend. He works under me at the Bureau."

Quent had to bite his tongue to keep his sarcastic retort from escaping his lips. "How nice for you," he managed after swallowing his insult.

Masters shook his head and turned his attention to Drew. "Ah, my boy. How do you always manage to get yourself into these predicaments?"

Quent felt his hackles rise on Drew’s behalf. "Perhaps," he hissed, "if he were afforded proper back-up when he needed it, he wouldn’t constantly find himself so indisposed."

Masters laughed again. "I was right. You are delightful. I can see why Drew is so taken with you."

"I’m afraid you’re mixing me up with Cale."

Masters cocked his head. "No, I don’t think so. I've not heard of a Cale, but Drew’s emails have been full of information about an irreverent Police Chief who enjoys breaking the rules. I daresay, you and Drew must have got along famously."

Quent’s eyes narrowed. "His boss at the Bureau, you say?"

Masters nodded.

"Well, then let me take the opportunity to offer a piece of advice."

"Advise away," Masters said with a grin.

Quent gave the old man a hateful look. "The next time you leave one of your agents alone and unprotected in the field, make sure it’s one you can afford to lose."

"We cherish all of our people."

"Really?" Quent forced through clenched teeth. "Is that why this particular agent was left to fend for himself against a suspected sociopath?"

Masters’s expression lost its sparkle. "That was a grave error. But please remember, Mr. Quent, that Drew’s strength is not field work. He really does best with his computers and the such."

"You don’t say?" Quent retorted. "And I suppose you truly believe that? You're an idiot. You’ve managed, through your own incompetence, to alienate one of the most talented, intuitive, well-trained law enforcement agents I've ever come across. And don’t assume I’ve spent my life snatching kittens from trees in this dead-end little town. I’ve seen more of the world than I ever care to. You should be so lucky to ever find another like him," Quent said as he pointed at Drew. "I’m not ashamed to say I'd still be running in circles if not for his involvement in this investigation. Hands-on involvement in several dangerous situations, not one of which, I might add, had a chance in hell of occurring in the office in front of a God damned computer. If only a fraction of what he told me is true," Quent pointed at Drew again, "then it is you who's had a lapse in judgment."

Masters blinked like an owl at Quent. "Oh, my. Forgive me, son. I had no idea you cared for him so much."

"I do not – care for him," Quent said with a frustrated growl.

"I believe it’s quite obvious that you do."

Quent ached to hit the old codger. He snatched his coat and, as an afterthought, his magazine, and stalked to the door.

"Don’t upset him," he shot over his shoulder as he stomped out.