The Quinn Henaghan Chronicles Box Set Read online

  Mia pushed her sister down forcefully enough that Quinn’s bowels roiled anew. “What’re you, fucking nuts?” she said. “Reading Rainbow can wait. Why don’t you at least tell me what happened.” The younger girl resumed her position on the floor, spreading her skirt out around her.

  Quinn held up her hand to show Mia her band-aid. “First I got stabbed with a creepy old dagger. Then I went to sleep.”

  Mia crossed then uncrossed her eyes, unable to process the non-sequitur. “Go on,” she said.

  “While I was asleep, I had these… dreams. Like I was other women. Very… solid. Very… literal. When I woke up, I felt like a wrung-out rag. And that was before I threw up for ten minutes.”

  “Have you seen your eyes?”

  Quinn shook her head.

  Mia reached over to grab a compact from her purse. (Mia was always more disciplined about her appearance—even though her recent activities caused her to mix with people who didn’t make glamor a high priority.) She handed the little pink oval to Quinn. The older Henaghan opened to compact and looked into the mirror. She was shocked. Vomiting so violently had ruptured the blood vessels in both eyes. Her sclera were deep red instead of white. The nicks from the porcelain shrapnel, on the other hand, weren’t too bad. “Christ,” Quinn said.

  “I know. You look like a vampire. Like that British guy who did Dracula for a while.”

  “Christopher Lee.”

  “How much did you have to drink?”

  “Huh?”

  “You’ve been drinking. A lot. I mean, I don’t smell it on you, but…”

  “I wasn’t drinking. I’m not a social drinker.”

  “You’re not a social anything. So, you were drinking alone. That’s a problem. I’ll have to tell mom and dad, but you’ll thank me later.” A small joke. Mia still talked to their parents. Quinn never did. As in never.

  “There was no booze involved,” Quinn insisted.

  “Right. Well, the only way I ever look the way you look now is after I’ve been on a bender. We can skirt that for now. Your story is—and correct me if I’m wrong—you got stabbed with a spooky dagger, and you became other women, then you puked.”

  Quinn nodded.

  “Where’s this spooky dagger?”

  “I don’t have it. He took it with him.”

  “Who took it with him?”

  “This… guy I know.”

  “Who were these other women? Did they have names?”

  “One of them was called ‘Bettie’?” Quinn said, as if that helped her cause.

  “What’d you do while you were these other women?”

  Quinn sighed. “Nothing specific. They were in bad situations. Very bad.”

  “Are you on any kind of medication?” Mia asked.

  Quinn sat up and, this time, Mia didn’t stop her. For a moment, her head swirled. “Just the happy pills,” she said.

  “No birth control?”

  “What the hell does that have to do with anything?”

  “Nothing. I wanted to see if you were getting any action. Might do you some good after the whole Noah debacle. Lemme see your hand.”

  Quinn laid her wounded hand, palm up, on the corresponding knee.

  “I’m gonna take this off, okay?” The younger girl said. Meaning the bandage.

  Quinn nodded and Mia pulled back the band-aid. There’d been a development during the night. The two wounds were still there but so was a spiderweb pattern of dark lines emanating from the holes—emanating to create a beautiful but still indistinct pattern.

  “Weird,” Mia said, pushing her face closer. “I’m not an expert, but that doesn’t look good to me.”

  Quinn held her palm closer to her own eyes and stared at the patterns with morbid fascination.

  Mia stood and collected her purse from the floor. From the purse, she withdrew keys on a Mickey Mouse keychain. “Where’s your doctor?” she said.

  “Close,” Quinn said. She wasn’t psyched to go and see Dr. Boatman but it was necessary.

  Mia walked to the door and her sister followed shakily.

  Boatman, Quinn’s GP, was less than two miles away. Since they didn’t have an appointment, the two women waited twenty minutes in the doctor’s musty lobby. Quinn, never a fan of doctors or of things medical, waited with butterflies in her stomach. Finally, Boatman, a heavy man in his middle sixties came out. “Miss Henaghan. Follow me back this way. You know the drill.”

  Quinn stood and followed the doctor. Both of them turned when Mia said, “I want to come too.”

  Boatman looked at Quinn, who hesitated. Finally, the older girl nodded and said, “She’s my sister.”

  The doctor shrugged as if to say, “Have it your own way.” When Mia was standing, Boatman remarked. “Good God, you girls are tiny.”

  “Midgets,” Quinn said.

  The trio entered a small examination room and the doctor shut the door behind them. The older Henaghan sat on an extending bed with a paper cover. The doctor put his glasses on. “Alright,” he said. “Let’s have a look at this funky hand wound.” He looked up at Mia. “‘Funky’ is the word, right? That is what you told my receptionist?”

  Mia nodded. “Looks pretty funky to me.”

  Quinn, her hand already on her bare knee, rolled it so the palm faced up. Boatman sat in a rolling chair and lifted his patient’s hand for a better look. He took off his glasses, took another look, put his glasses back on, and had a third look. “What do you think?” Quinn said.

  “I think it looks funky,” the doctor replied. “Were you bitten by a spider?”

  “I was not.”

  “What are the puncture wounds from?”

  The elder Henaghan hesitated. “A knife. With two points.”

  “A flat knife? That doesn’t sound right.”

  “Think of it more like a double-headed ice pick.”

  Boatman looked at her for a moment. “Are you shitting me?”

  “I’m not much of a shitter.”

  Mia chimed in, “You didn’t tell us you were constipated.”

  Both Quinn and the doctor glared at Mia until the younger girl sank in her chair and looked away.

  “Where’d you get this double-headed ice pick?”

  “It wasn’t mine. It belongs to a friend.”

  “Is he the one that jabbed you?”

  Quinn nodded.

  “Not much of a friend. Did this dark pattern appear immediately?”

  “No. The jabbing happened yesterday. I noticed the pattern this morning.”

  Boatman removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. He spoke around his two fists. “You should’ve gone to urgent care. Offhand, I’d say you’ve been poisoned. That’s why I asked about the spider.” His hands came down and he replaced his glasses. He picked up the supplies he needed to clean her hand and set about the task. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I don’t think the poison is particularly strong or it’ve spread more in the twelve or so hours it’s been in your system. Does it itch?”

  Quinn shook her head.

  “If it starts to itch, take an over the counter antihistamine. I expect these dark lines will fade in a day or two.” He put a new band-aid on and returned Quinn’s hand. “I’m going to have Angie draw some blood. We’ll see if there’re any weird creepy-crawlies shooting through your veins.”

  Quinn winced. “Do we have to?”

  “Have to what?” Boatman said.

  “Draw blood. I don’t like it.”

  “No one likes it. Besides, you’ve already been poked twice. One more time won’t kill you.”

  “So… That’s it?” Quinn said, making sure there’d be no other surprises.

  “That’s it,” Boatman said. “Unless you want to tell me what happened to your eyes…”

  Quinn had forgotten about her red eyes. “Oh, yeah. That’s from the profuse vomiting.”

  The doctor looked back and forth between the two girls. “There was vomiting?”

  Both Henaghans nodded.
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br />   “Boy, you guys are terrible at this. You say it was profuse?”

  “Yeah. It was really, really bad.”

  “And it happened when?”

  “This morning.”

  “After the jabbing?”

  Quinn nodded.

  “It didn’t occur to you there might be a causal connection between the jabbing and the vomiting? Look, I’m going to make a call. There’s someone I want you to see at the hospital.”

  “Oh, no, no,” Quinn said. “No hospital. I didn’t mention the vomiting because I didn’t think there was a causal connection. The vomiting was caused by… something else.”

  “And that something was?”

  “Binge drinking,” Quinn said without hesitation.

  Boatman shook his head. “Every time you come in here you don’t say ten words. I had no idea you were such a party girl.”

  “That’s me,” Quinn said. “A binge-drinking slut.” She hadn’t thought through the slut part and immediately regretted it.

  Boatman stared at her and then slid his chair back so that she could stand. “Were I forty years younger, I would try and exploit that last statement, but I don’t have it in me anymore. Be sure and check out with the receptionist.”

  A few minutes later, the sisters exited the building. “Can you swing me by Taft Books on Hollywood Boulevard?” Quinn said.

  “Sure,” Mia replied, getting into the car. “After we eat.”

  “I don’t wanna eat.”

  “Then watch me eat. Get in.”

  Not much later, they’d parked, fed the meter and were seated at Musso & Frank Grill on the Boulevard. Ordinarily, Quinn loved the ambiance of the restaurant. It opened in 1919 and hosted everyone who was anyone in Old Hollywood. Chaplin and Fitzgerald were both regulars. Today, however, she sipped at a glass of room temperature water and nibbled bread. Mia got the bone-in ribeye—a heavy meal for lunch—and tore at it enthusiastically.

  “Have you talked to mom and dad?” Mia asked.

  “What do you think?”

  “They miss you. They say, ‘What’s happening with Quinn?’ and I say, ‘Fuck if I know’. How’s the bread?”

  “Scrumptious.”

  “Since you’re not going to volunteer anything,” Mia said. “I’m going to introduce a topic.”

  “Not the ‘other women’ thing…”

  “No, I was bored with that as soon as you told me. This is more of an interpersonal topic.”

  Quinn’s back stiffened. Here it comes…

  “I think it’s time we hash out why you’ve always hated me.”

  “Is it really that time? I mean, honestly, I could skip it for now.”

  “Nope. I’m chauffeur today. If you dodge, I’m not giving you a ride home.”

  Quinn could, in theory, walk home, but didn’t think she had the strength. She sighed, mirroring Mia’s histrionic tone. “I haven’t always hated you.”

  Mia smiled around a mouthful of ribeye. “Forgetting the fact that I don’t believe you, when did you start hating me?”

  “To be clear, I always disliked you, but I only started hating you recently.”

  “I have a pretty good idea why as far as the childhood years go. I can’t even say I blame you, but what bumped you up from dislike to hate?”

  Quinn took a sip of tepid water. “I… have always made up things. Writing. Art. That pottery phase in college. My website. Free expression is big with me. It’s up there pretty close with ‘not dying’.”

  Mia put her head down dramatically. Her own version of Here it comes. She didn’t stop chewing. “This is about school, isn’t it?”

  “It’s not school if you’re not learning anything.”

  “Who says I’m not learning anything?”

  “How can you learn anything when you’re shutting down the teachers? When you’re keeping the other people from learning. They’re paying to be there, same as you.”

  “Yes, but they’re learning the wrong things. We all are.”

  Quinn looked away. “Typical alt-left thinking.”

  “‘Alt-left’? Where’d you get that, FOX News?”

  “Yeah, because I’m a sixty year old man and I can’t get enough Viagra and Sean Hannity. No, I’m talking about shutting down free speech. It’s wrong regardless of what side you’re on. I heard about what you and your friends did. It made the goddam papers. Interrupting your professor. Holding up signs in the lecture hall. Standing behind her. Mocking her. How is that progressive? It’s fascistic is what it is.”

  “Every one of those professors tows the company line. White male patriarchal thinking. Somebody’s gotta put the brakes on or it’ll be dispensed for another three thousand years. And ‘fascist’ is right wing, not left.”

  “Okay, so you’re not Hitler, you’re Stalin. But let’s talk about that professor. I saw her on TV. She was a nervous wreck. She’s scared to death of you guys. Is that what you wanted?”

  “If you wanna make an omelette…”

  Quinn rolled her eyes. “She’s black. And she’s a lesbian. She’s on your side!”

  “Then she shouldn’t shill for the Man.”

  “You’re right. And you’re the one that should stop her.”

  “Somebody’s got to.” Mia said, dropping her fork. “Let’s wrap this up. I wanna go.”

  “Sure. Fine. Take me home, then you can go right back to your Safe Space.”

  “Fine.”

  “Halloween’s coming up… Why don’t you write a manifesto on costume sensitivity.”

  “Maybe I will.”

  “Great.”

  “You’re paying.”

  “Haven’t you learned how to be a good commie? We’ll go dutch.”

  “Whatever. I just wanna go.” Mia raised her finger to summon the elderly waiter and stuck her tongue out at her sister.

  The Henaghans came back out onto the Boulevard and headed toward Mia’s yellow BMW. The younger girl was the beneficiary of a dead grandfather too but was less careful about her money.

  With a chance look to her right, Quinn saw a man leaning against the facade of a building two doors down from Musso & Frank. He’d been reading the paper but folded it when the two women exited the restaurant. He wore a gray suit from a different era. Between that and his dark fedora, he looked like Film Noir in color. The car parked on the street in front of him was of the same vintage. Cadillac Convertible Coupe. 1940s-era. Beneath the brim of the man’s hat, he had steely blue eyes and craggy cheeks. If he’d been a character actor, he definitely would’ve played heavies.

  He followed them.

  Quinn grabbed Mia by her bicep and forced her to move more quickly. “Don’t look back,” she hissed. “I think we’re being followed.”

  Mia looked back.

  The older woman was flabbergasted. “I told you not to look back.”

  “You mean the creepy dude in the suit?”

  “Yes.”

  “How do you know he’s following us?”

  “Because, when we came out, he wasn’t moving. Now he’s moving.”

  Mia grinned. “Maybe he likes the cut of your jib. This could be an opportunity.”

  They reached the BMW. Mia beeped both doors unlocked. “I’m not looking for a jib cutter,” Quinn said. As they drove by the man, Quinn saw him stop and watch them pass. She locked eyes with him when they were parallel.

  Given the aggressive stranger, they blew off a trip to Taft’s.

  Mia dropped Quinn off at the stairs leading to her apartment. After she’d gone up one flight, a voice to her left spoke to her. “Are you okay?”

  Henaghan turned to see Annabelle Grindle standing in her own doorway. She hesitated. “I— I think so,” she said.

  “I saw guys going in and out of your apartment all morning. I was curious.”

  Quinn smiled. “Yeah, I kinda blew up my toilet.”

  Grindle returned the smile. “This I’ve got to hear.” She stood out of the way so Henaghan could enter. The younger
woman passed the older and the older shut the door behind her. “Now, can you quantify ‘I blew up my toilet’? Do you mean that literally or was there a… plumbing destroyer of a Movement?”

  “Look at me,” Quinn said, indicating her petiteness. “I don’t have that kind of digestive firepower.”

  “Okay, so literal.”

  “Yes. Shattered porcelain, scorch marks, spouting water. The whole nine yards.”

  “You cherry-bombed your own shitter?”

  “There’s a metaphor in that phrase somewhere. But, no, I did not cherry-bomb my own shitter.”

  Annabelle sighed wearily, indicating her couch. “Please. Begin at the beginning. Leave out nothing. Especially the part about why your eyes look so damn creepy.”

  Quinn sat, self-consciously closing then opening her red eyes. “This is the former journalist in you. ‘Local Woman Detonates Hapless John’.”

  “Those muscles never atrophy,” Grindle conceded, sitting in the chair opposite Quinn.

  Henaghan struggled for a minute, debating how much of her stranger-than-fiction story she should tell. She went for the Full Monty, beginning with the stabbing (and the David Olkin story that preceded it), then the return of Noah Keller (whom Grindle knew and despised), then the strange dreams, then the vomiting—both natural and pyro-enhanced. She made sure to point out that her creepy eyes were the result of the regurgitation. When she was finished, Annabelle scowled at her and she expected a flummoxed rebuke. That’s not what she got.

  “Ordinarily, I’d ask you to share what you’ve been smoking,” Grindle said. “But there were nuggets in there I found disturbing.”

  “The part where I went all Smaug the Dragon on my toilet?”

  “That is unusual behavior for a twenty-seven year old Southern woman in moderately good health, but no. You haven’t read The Devil’s Garden yet, have you?”

  Quinn shook her head. “Things have been a little nutty,” she said.

  “Mmm. You need to read it cover to cover, but I’ll save you some time in the short run. Flip to the index and go to the entries on ‘Guild, the’ and ‘Verbic, Reginald’.”

  “For real?”

  “Yeah,” Annabelle replied. “It wouldn’t be a book on the occult in Hollywood without Verbic and the Guild.”

  “I thought it was about satanism.”