Quin was under the table before he even knew what he was doing. The explosion reverberated through the building, followed by a series of small popping noises. Everyone in the room ran towards the main entrance, screaming, trying to get out. A few people who had been near the kitchen lay unmoving on the floor or draped across chairs.
Quin waited a moment to see if any more explosions would come and then crawled out from under the table, slowly and cautiously picking his way towards an exit. He didn’t want to be here when the cops arrived. Though he probably wouldn’t be arrested, he would definitely be questioned since he worked for the government, and his supervisor would be alerted—and it might possibly ruin his career.
He noticed that Mavis had fallen out of her chair, but was now crawling slowly towards the exit. He moved to go help her but before he got very close, another person leaned down, grabbed the old woman’s arm, and led her towards the main exit. The main entrance was clogged by people climbing over each other, pulling hair, and scratching, so Quin decided to try to find an alternate exit. As he moved across the room, he noticed that the White Rabbit was lying unconscious on the ground, black braids spreading in all directions from her head. He knelt to check her pulse—still alive.
She groaned and moved her head.
Quin glanced back at the door where so many people were trying to escape. He could leave her here, and probably should, but she would most definitely get arrested since she was running the White Rabbit game. He could also get her out and give her a chance to escape. She wasn’t very old—going to jail would be a rough way to start life. He shrugged and bent down, lifting her into his arms while trying to support her neck. She was small-boned, but muscled.
He headed towards a side door. It was locked. He set her down, and then slammed his shoulder against it. It broke open. He leaned down, picked up the White Rabbit again, and stepped into a hallway. The door on the one end was unlocked; the lobby on the other side boasted tall columns and a winding staircase. Quin rushed forward to the exit and peered out into the street. No emergency vehicles had arrived yet, so he slipped out and headed down the street, quickly ducking into the first alley he came across. He would look quite suspicious wandering down the street carrying an unconscious girl.
What should he do? He hadn’t brought any form of communication or identification with him because he didn’t want to risk being caught, or his wallet getting lifted, or anyone being able to track him to the location. But he couldn’t leave a woman lying on the street, unconscious. He had to get her somewhere safe, but without being seen. He thought for a moment. There was a convenience store at the end of the street. It might have a phone. He could call John or Pete, who could come get them both, and take them somewhere safe. After another second of thought, he decided to leave John out of it. He was too erratic—plus he was under obligation to report any illegal doings of his colleagues to the directors at the Globe.
Quin arranged the woman so she was lying semi-comfortably and out of sight from any casual passersby, and then strode calmly and confidently down the street. He didn’t want it to appear that he had anything to do with the commotion.
The bell dinged as he strode into the convenience shop. The fluorescent lights flickered annoyingly, and the shelves were filled with a colorful array of largely inedible snacks. The guy behind the counter was sitting back, reading a magazine, and chewing on a piece of jerky. He glanced out the window every time he heard a siren or the lights of another emergency vehicle flashed through the window.
“Hey,” Quin said.
“Evening,” the cashier replied. “You know what’s going on out there?”
“Some kind of explosion,” Quin replied casually, shrugging as if that was all he knew. “Could I borrow a phone?”
The guy pointed at a public use phone hanging on the wall. “No problem, man. Costs ten cents per minute.”
“Thanks.” He picked up the phone and looked at it for a moment, imagining all the filthy ears that had probably touched it. It didn’t matter, though—he dialed Pete collect.
“Who is this?” Pete asked as he picked up. He didn’t like getting calls from unknown numbers.
“Me. I need a ride.” Quin gave the address and hung up.
“Must’ve been a big explosion,” the cashier said as another ambulance went by.
“Don’t know much about it,” Quin said, shrugging again. He gave a wave, “Thanks,” and headed out the door.
The White Rabbit was still unconscious when he got back to the alley. He waited in the shadows until Pete’s car pulled up. Instead of a typical hover vehicle, Pete drove an old Earthan Ford that he had picked up from some unusual items dealer. It ran on petroleum and smelled awful, but he liked it for some reason.
Quin carefully lifted the woman and slid her into Pete’s backseat, climbing into the front himself.
“What have you gotten yourself into?” Pete asked, scowling. Quin had known Pete for a long time, ever since they were kids. They had done all kinds of crazy (and sometimes illegal) things together, but Pete had a solid moral line, and kidnapping people definitely crossed it.
“Take me to Dad’s house,” Quin said. He didn’t want to tell Pete too much—didn’t want him to know that he had gotten back into gambling if he could avoid it.
“You have something to do with all this commotion?” Pete asked.
Quin remained silent.
“I’m not taking you anywhere until you tell me what’s going on,” Pete said. “I’ll even go so far as to call one of these cops over and tell him you loaded an unconscious woman into my back seat.”
“Okay, okay,” Quin growled. This was taking too long and Pete’s car was nothing if not noticeable. “I’ll tell you. Just get out of here, please.”
Pete pulled away from the curb and turned on the first street that led in the opposite direction of the firetrucks and police cars.
“Talk,” Pete ordered.
The one thing Quin knew about Pete was that he could keep his silence, though he would still probably lecture Quin about choices.
“I was gambling,” Quin said. “And there was an explosion.”
“Who’s the girl?”
“She was the White Rabbit. Got flung off the table in the explosion and hit her head.”
“You were playing White Rabbit?” Pete exclaimed, shaking his head. “You’re an idiot, you know that?”
Quin shrugged. “I can usually win if I get a good set of cards.”
“Yeah,” Pete said, “I can see—you obviously haven’t died yet. Not for lack of trying. You shouldn’t take her back to your house though.”
“What do you suggest?” Quin asked.
A few minutes later they pulled up in front of Pete’s Clocks, a business Pete had inherited from his father, also named Pete.
“Here?” Quin asked, frowning. “Won’t people notice you dragging in an unconscious girl in the middle of the night?”
“Nah,” he replied, pulling down the alley between his building and the store next door. “We’ll take her through the back door. And Les is here, so she can make sure White Rabbit is okay.”
Pete led him in the back door. Quin had been in this room many times, and when Pete flicked the lights on, it looked no different than he remembered. Three old couches with hideously colored patterns sat against the walls. A mini-kitchen with a small fridge and sink took up one corner. Some filing cabinets stuffed to overflowing with papers had been pushed up against the wall, and a staircase led up to the second floor from one corner.
“Les!” Pete yelled up the stairs as Quin laid the White Rabbit on the couch. “Got an unconscious woman down here!”
“Coming!” Leslie bounded down the stairs in her pajamas and knelt by the unconscious girl, poking and prodding and checking for vitals. She and Pete had been married for two years or so, and were the happiest couple Quin thought he had ever met. Leslie was a multi-species neurosurgeon, and Pete sold clocks while also running an interplanetary network of political informants.
“Seems fine,” Leslie proclaimed after a minute. “Just unconscious. Give her some time to wake up.”
“Good,” Pete said, turning to Quin. “Now, do you want to tell me what the bumbleswats you think you were doing? Gambling? At Nasty Nash’s?”
“Oooh was it busy?” Leslie asked, grinning. She pulled back her dark hair into a ponytail, and raised her eyebrows at Quin. “Did you see anybody you knew?”
“Les,” Pete scolded. “We shouldn’t be encouraging him.”
Leslie laughed and elbowed Pete. “But I’ve always wanted to go! I’m so curious!”
“He was playing White Rabbit,” Pete added.
“Dangerous game.” Leslie’s voice suddenly switched to stern. “And also very illegal! Quin, what were you thinking?”
Quin rolled his eyes. These two worried, but there was nothing to worry about. He always won White Rabbit—all you had to do was stick with it until the end, and not get stupid cards. It wasn’t that hard.
Then the door burst open. Quin leaped to his feet, ready for an attack.
“What on earth were you thinking, Quin Black?” John demanded, his hands on his hips. “You are quite stupid for someone who is reasonably intelligent!”
Quin relaxed and sat back down. It was only John. Of course, him being here was nearly as bothersome as if the police had showed up. Now that he knew Quin had gotten back into his gambling habit, he would nag and poke and prod without end. But Quin knew he had already been suspicious—it had only been a matter of time until he found out.
“What are you doing here?” Quin asked.
“Finding out what trouble you’ve been causing, that’s what,” John replied. “I thought you gave up gambling! I thought you were clean! What do you think you’re doing, getting back into it again? I’m not going to bail you out this time, you know. I’m not. You’re on your own.” He paused suddenly, noting the woman on the couch. “And you’ve got Nasty Nash’s daughter unconscious on the couch?” He dramatically grabbed his face with his hands and looked woefully at the ceiling. “What have you gotten yourself into?”
“Nasty Nash’s daughter?” Pete repeated, looking at her sleeping from. “Well. That could be a problem.”
Quin shrugged. “Could be. Or not.”
“How could it not be a problem?” John demanded. “She’s unconscious. On your couch!”
“It’s Pete’s couch, to be fair,” Quin replied.
“Yeah, maybe we should take her to your place after all,” Pete said. “Nasty Nash isn’t the type I like to get involved with.”
“Oh hush, all of you,” Leslie interrupted. “Quin did a nice thing, rescuing her from an explosion like that. When she wakes up, we’ll explain what happened and send her on her way.”
“Explain what?” asked a soft voice.
Quin shifted his attention abruptly towards the couch. Nasty Nash’s daughter sat there frowning, looking up at the others in the room.
“Where am I?” Her frown deepened as she reached up to touch her head.
“Safe,” Leslie said, kneeling next to the couch. “You hit your head and have been unconscious. We were trying to make sure you woke up safely.”
The look of suspicion on her face wasn’t going away. “Who are you people?” Then her eyes lit on Quin. “I know you! You were…” She paused as if she were trying very hard to remember. “…at my table! That’s it—you were at Dad’s thing there, the gambling night. How did I get here?”
“There was an explosion,” Quin replied. “Cops were coming, and you were unconscious so I dragged you out.”
“Why didn’t you let me get arrested?” she asked, her voice still highly suspicious. She reached up hesitantly to touch a scratch on her dark cheekbone.
Quin shrugged. “It didn’t seem fair. Everyone else could run, you couldn’t. Plus you were in the way. It was easier to drag you out than jump over you.”
She sat up slowly. “So, I’m free to go?”
“Of course,” Quin replied, gesturing towards the door. “The explosion was only a few hours ago, so there will likely be emergency vehicles still around the building.” He waved. “Have a nice evening.”
She stood slowly and took a few stumbling steps towards the door, where she grabbed onto the doorframe for balance.
“Is your head okay?” Leslie asked. “I’m a doctor—if you need anything, give me a call.”
Nasty Nash’s daughter nodded. “Okay, whoever you are. Thanks for rescuing me, I think.” She took a few steps forward, as if she were testing her sense of balance, and then strode towards the door. “Bye.”
The door swung shut behind her.
“Time for some shut-eye,” Quin said, yawning and stretching.
“Harumph,” John said.
“That’s not actually a word,” Quin remarked.
“I am not through with you,” John said, crossing his arms. “We are going to have some serious chats, and you are going back to counseling.”
“Probably a good idea,” Pete agreed.
“I know a great therapist, if you’d like a new one,” Leslie offered.
“Yeah, sure, thanks guys,” Quin said. He wasn’t going to counseling, he knew that. The last three counselors he saw had been disasters in people suits. One had him writing down his feelings daily—what feelings? The air feels warm today?—and another wanted him to elaborate on his mother’s death every single week. That got old fast. The last one wasn’t too bad, but her sense of logic didn’t match up to Quin’s and he found himself a little confused every time he went to see her. She had also kept pushing him to try hypnotism, and that was something Quin was definitely not interested in.
He stood, and yawned again. “I’ll catch a cab back to my place. See you later.”
Then he stepped out into the warm Pomegranate City night.