“Then we find a safe place somewhere else.”
She settled again with more shushing of blankets.
“Goodnight, Quinn.”
“Goodnight.”
Sleep eluded him like a beggar with a stolen scrap of bread. He would begin to drift off then the steel loading doors would shift in the wind letting out unfamiliar clanks and clicks. Each time he would bring his hand to the butt of the revolver before relaxing again. Much later, when he’d finally found a position that was partially comfortable, another sound roused him. It was reedy and low, as if it were coming from the bottom of some pit. He sat up, images of a thousand stilts surrounding the building filling his head. Instead, he slowly made out words filtering through the darkness.
“I Royal.”
Quinn rolled to his feet and found the rifle. He flicked the light on, and it brightened enough of the space for him to move without the fear of sprawling over a low crate. He walked to the man’s side and saw that his eyes were open, the irises obscured by a thin membrane, like a fog hanging over a valley.
“Here, have some water,” Quinn said, picking up the bottle sitting nearby on the concrete. He tried to bring it to the man’s cracked lips, but he turned his head away, refusing.
“I Royal,” he breathed again, and tried to raise one of his arms.
“Your name is Royal?” Quinn asked leaning closer.
“Royal.”
The man opened his mouth wide and took in a long shuddering breath before letting it wheeze out. He spasmed several times as if trying to cure a case of hiccups, and then fell still, the last of his air leaking from between his teeth.
“Damn it,” Quinn said, checking his pulse. Nothing. He put his hands on the man’s chest in the CPR position but then sat back. He was resting now. How cruel would it be to bring him back?
He stood and found a dusty sheet draped over a stack of whisky cases. He shook it out and gently spread it over the man’s body.
Royal.
Quinn retrieved the rifle and moved past Ty and Alice toward the front offices. Denver’s dark head rose, and after a moment, the Shepherd padded silently after him.
In the office with the supplies, Quinn sat down and began to open the heavy pack leaning against the wall. There were fire-starting materials, extra clothes, emergency blankets, spare magazines for the two pistols and four rifles that sat on the floor, along with a bladder filled with water. All of the pockets contained similar survival items, except for the topmost. When he opened it, he first thought that the man had packed sheaves of paper for more fire-starting fuel, but after a moment of inspecting them, he saw he was wrong.
He studied the pages after settling to the floor, Denver dropping onto his side next to him. Absently, he scratched the dog’s ears as he read, page after page of information, facts, numbers, first-hand accounts, surveys, and data. As he unfolded another page, a plastic ID card slid free and fell to the floor. He picked it up, studying the dead man’s face along with the words beneath it. He frowned, flipping the card over, but there was nothing on the back except an imbedded row of numbers with a bar code below them. He set the ID aside and scanned the folded document, eyes flickering across meaningless tangles of numbers and terms. At the very bottom were two signatures. The first was strangely familiar, as if it were the name of a character from a book he’d read years ago.
The other signature stopped his heart between beats.
He stared at the name, and time seemed to slow. Denver grunted beside him, and the page began to tremble in his hand. It couldn’t be. There was no possible way.
Footsteps came from the warehouse and neared the office as Alice materialized out of the darkness and stopped in the doorway, her eyes still bleary with sleep.
“What are you doing?”
Quinn folded the paper, tucking the ID card inside it once again.
“Going through his things,” he said, his voice hoarse and shaky. “He’s—”