Q is for Quarry (Kinsey Millhone 17)

“Where’s Quorum? I’ve never heard of it.”

“Well, neither had I, but Con says it’s just south of Blythe near the Arizona line. Now here’s the kicker on that. Turns out Frankie Miracle grew up in Quartzsite, Arizona, which is just a few miles from Blythe in the same neck of the woods. Con wants to take a detour through Peaches and talk to Iona Mathis on his way to Quorum.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow morning he says. I thought I better warn you in case you want to make up an excuse.”

“Not at all. I’ll go. I could use a change of scene. What about you? Are you feeling up to it?”

“You two go on. I’ll wait and see what the doc has to say. They may want me back in the hospital for the third time this month. Talk about tedious.”

“How’re you holding up?”

“I’m not thrilled with this new development, but I don’t see that I have much choice.”

“I’ll hold good thoughts for you.”

“I could use a few,” he said. He hesitated. “This may be out of line, but I’m wondering if Con’s told you about his wife’s suicide.”

“I knew she had cancer, but he never said a word.”

“That’s why he gets so pissy on the subject. He thinks he could have saved her.”

“Could he?”

“Of course not. When it comes right down to it, you can’t save anyone except yourself. Sometimes, you can’t even do that. Anyway, I thought you should know.”

He smiled to himself for reasons I suspect were unrelated to me. I watched while his army discharge papers disappeared into the shredder with a grinding sound.

12

My packing for the trip took all of five minutes. At most, I figured we’d be gone for two days, which meant a toothbrush, toothpaste, two clean T-shirts, a sweatshirt, two pairs of socks, four pairs of underpants, and the oversized T-shirt I sleep in. I shoved it all into a duffel the size of a bolster pillow. Since I was wearing jeans and my Sauconys, the only other items I’d need were my running sweats, my windbreaker, and my little portable Smith-Corona. Dolan had opted for an early start, which in his terms translated to a 9:30 departure. This gave me time to sneak in a three-mile run, followed by a supersetting weight session at the gym. I was racking up virtue points in case I didn’t have the chance to exercise while I was on the road.

By the time Dolan pulled up, I was sitting on the curb, reading a paperback novel with my shoulder bag, typewriter, and duffel. At my side, I had two rubber-band-bound stacks of index cards in my bag. He must have run his vehicle through a car wash because the exterior was clean and the floorboards were free of gas receipts and discarded fast-food wrappers.

Now that we were cohorts, he didn’t feel required to escort me around the car and let me in. I hauled the door open, while he reached over the seat and shoved his suitcase to one side. “You can put your things back there with mine unless you’d rather leave ’em in the trunk.”

“This is fine.” I tucked my Smith-Corona on the floor, tossed my duffel in the rear seat, and got in. I tried hauling the door shut, but the hinges responded sluggishly and refused to budge. Dolan finally reached across me and gave the door a yank. It closed with a thunk. I wrestled with the seat belt, jerking until I’d pulled sufficient length to reach the catch and snap it down. I spotted a fresh pack of cigarettes on the dash. “I hope you don’t intend to smoke.”

“Not with the windows closed.”

“You are so considerate. You have a map?”

“In the side pocket. I thought we’d go the back way. I’d take the 101 to the 405 and hit the 5 from there, but with my bum ticker, I don’t want to risk the freeway in case I die at the wheel.”

“You’re really making me feel good about this.”

Dolan turned onto the 101 heading south while I flapped at the California map and refolded it into a manageable size. By my estimate, Peaches was ninety miles away, roughly an hour and a half. Happily, Dolan didn’t like chitchat any more than I did. I sat and stared out the window, wondering if love would blossom between Henry and Mattie.

The coastline looked smoky. There was a harsh light on the ocean, but the surf was calm, advancing toward the shore in long, smooth undulations. The islands were barely visible twenty-six miles offshore. Steep hills sloped down to the highway, the chaparral a dark mossy green, flourishing after a wet autumn and the long damp winter months.

In many sections of the hillside, the vegetation had been overtaken by thick patches of cactus shaped like Ping-Pong paddles, abristle with thorns. I’ve always thought California prisons could discourage escape by seeding the surrounding landscape with vicious plants. Missing prisoners could be located by their howls of dismay and could spend their stay in solitary confinement picking thorns out of their heiniebumpers.