Burning Bridges (Shattered Highways Book 2) Read online

  Tara N. Hathcock

  Burning Bridges

  First published by Quiet+Kin Publishing 2021

  Copyright © 2021 by Tara N. Hathcock

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  Tara N. Hathcock asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  Book design by Trey Hathcock

  Photo image copyright Steve Snyder, www.imagesoftheoarks.com

  Night sky image by Kai Pilger from Pexels

  First edition

  ISBN: 978-1-7352815-9-9

  This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy

  Find out more at reedsy.com

  Contents

  Preface

  Special Thank You

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Also by Tara N. Hathcock

  Preface

  While Quincy O’Connell is a fictional character and not based on any one particular person, I did draw many of her symptoms from my own experiences with migraines. If you suffer from chronic migraine, you understand the intensity of the pain, the inability to sleep no matter how tired you are, and the physical and mental exhaustion that comes from trying to live your life in spite of your circumstances.

  Depression is a very real consequence of living with that kind of constant pain and fear and, left unchecked, can easily and too-often lead to thoughts of harm. If you or someone you care about suffers from depression and persistent thoughts of harm, I urge you to reach out for help. To a pastor, a police officer, a trusted friend - just reach out.

  https://suicidepreventionlifeline.org/

  Special Thank You

  The bridge used on the cover of this book is a real bridge. Located in Cedar County, Missouri, the Caplinger Mills bridge was built in 1895 and is still open to pedestrian traffic today.

  I’d like to thank the incredibly talented Steve Snyder for the gift of this photograph. Whether familial obligation or the kindness of your own heart, this shot captures everything I saw in my mind to represent the second half of Quincy’s story and I am so thankful for your kind contribution.

  If you’ve never had the pleasure of seeing Steve’s art, or if you’re interested in local historical and natural photography, support another local, independent artist and check Steve out at: https://www.imagesoftheozarks.com/

  “Turn around, and keep your eyes closed shut,

  For if the Gorgon, Medusa,

  does appear, and you see her, You would

  never be able to return upward.” - Dante

  Prologue

  The ground was hard and gravel bit into his face as he turned his head, trying to get his bearings. He felt the rock dig into the skin of his cheek and forehead, drawing blood, the wetness sticky and warm against his skin in the cool of the night. He tried to open his eyes but something was covering them, an effort to keep him wrapped in darkness, which is when he truly began to panic.

  He tried to bring his hands up to his face but they were stuck behind him. He wriggled his fingers, relieved he could at least move something but hissed at the pins and needles that flooded through them at the movement. His hands were tied behind his back. Why were his hands tied behind his back? He racked his brain as he squirmed on the ground, trying to free his arms as he searched his memory for an explanation. There was none.

  Enough, he thought sternly. Panic wasn’t going to help right now. He needed to be calm, to think clearly. He took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. It was cold. Much colder than it should be in Arizona in the middle of April.

  Okay. That was a start. Not a great one, considering what it indicated, but still, it was something.

  So what did that tell him? He wasn’t in Arizona anymore. Not where he remembered being last. What else? He took in another deep breath. He could smell exhaust, cigarette smoke…no, not cigarette. Cigar. There was a distinct difference between cigarette and cigar smoke and after driving a truck and spending the last 20 years in and out of truck stops and weighing stations, he could tell the difference.

  There was something else too, under the smoke and the exhaust. It smelled like Christmas. Or rather, like the Christmas tree farms that dotted the Iowa hillsides. It definitely wasn’t a scent you came across often in the deserts of Arizona. So he was somewhere north, and possibly east, where it would still be cold this time of year and where cedar and pine trees were more common. He was hours, then, from where he last remembered being at the very least. Days, maybe. He racked his brain. Why wasn’t there anything there? How could he be missing so much time?

  My truck, he thought suddenly. Where’s my truck? He could remember pulling over at a truck stop in Sedona. He’d gone in for a quick bite and a shower, and then came back outside, crawled into the small sleeping quarters behind the driver’s seat, and sacked out. That was it. That’s all there was until about ten minutes ago.

  Gravel rattled beside his head and he froze. There was a crunch as someone shifted and the smell of smoke grew stronger. Whoever was smoking that cigar had just dropped it and snuffed it out under his shoe. He had been awake for at least ten minutes and had no idea this guy was right beside him. The panic started again.

  “Hey,” he called, “who’s there?”

  Nothing but silence. He struggled, fighting the straps that held his wrists, and managed to flip over onto his back. He still couldn’t see, but he realized it wasn’t the blind fold. He couldn’t open his eyes.

  “Where are we?” he asked. “Why can’t I see”

  That last question came out a bit shaky. Of everything happening right now, that was the one that scared him t
he most. Miguel could always see. It didn’t matter if it was the dead of night or if he was shut in the sleeping compartment of his truck, no windows, no lights, no anything. He could see. It was hard to sleep when night was as bright as day and even harder when the sun was actually up, sure. But he’d give anything right now to be blind from seeing too much instead of just blind.

  There was no other sound, but he knew the guy was still there. He fought his way to a sitting position and kicked out towards where the sounds of shifting gravel had come from but made contact with nothing. Suddenly, he felt a sharp prick as something jabbed into the back of his neck. He tried to pull away but without the use of his arms, he only toppled back to the ground. Before he could try to pull himself up again, he felt a wave of dizziness sweep over him, and he realized the sharp poke he’d felt had been a needle.

  I’m being drugged.

  It was a quizzical thought. It was also the last thought he had before the nothingness claimed him again.

  Chapter 1

  Quincy

  Quincy hit the ground hard, her head slamming into the concrete beneath her with a dull thud, and she groaned. She needed to move but her body didn’t want to cooperate. It was dark and damp, and the attack had come without warning. She had already taken a beating and the ever-helpful voice inside her head was telling her to just stay down and be done with it.

  But Quincy was nothing if not a fighter. She forced her battered body to the side, narrowly avoiding the boot aimed at her ribs, and rolled to her feet. It wasn’t as graceful as she’d like, but it got the job done. Once she was up, she used the momentum from the roll to dance backwards, trying to keep her feet light like she’d learned. Her biggest strength in a fight was her ability to run away, but that wasn’t going to be an option this time. There was too much empty space between her and safety. She would never be able to outrun the guy.

  She kept her eyes on her attacker, watching how he moved, trying to get a read on his attack plan. Her other strength was her mind. If she could dodge long enough to see how he moved, she should be able to pick out patterns, weaknesses, and take advantage.

  There were no weaknesses. The guy coming at her was huge, with a good foot and at least 75 pounds on her. With no obvious signs of weakness in his movements, her best bets would be natural weak points - joints and other, ahem, obvious targets.

  Ladies don’t play dirty, the voice in her head said.

  Ladies don’t get assassinated either, she thought moodily. We adjust.

  When she had started thinking of herself as a we, she really couldn’t say. But at some point, she had started giving her tormentor more autonomy than she should. It was becoming a problem.

  But a problem for another time. She pulled herself back to the present and to the situation she found herself in. Again. The initial attack had caught her by surprise, although it really shouldn’t have. She was usually so focused. Hyperalert. But it had been a long day, and all she really wanted was a long, hot bath and a good stiff soda. She had one of her medium-grade, annoying headaches and her mind was on the can of Coke that better still be in the mini fridge where she’d stashed it.

  Which was why, when the man came up behind her, he was able to get one arm around her neck and the other around her waist. But it only took a split second for her brain to kick into ninja mode and she had her legs off the ground, altering the man’s center of gravity, before she even had time to think.

  He had dropped her, hard, and instead of trying to dart forward like he expected, she slammed backward into his knees and he toppled over her, rolling up into a crouch before she could do anything else. His foot shot out, slamming into her own knees and knocking her off-balance. She had landed on her side as the guy aimed a kick at her ribs. She managed to get her right arm between her and the shoe coming her way, but the impact still knocked the wind out of her.

  She’d managed to roll the other way and make her feet before the guy was on her again, swinging an arm at her head that she dodged - and then tripped over her own feet, hitting the ground flat on her back and cracking her head.

  This time when he came, he came straight on. She lay perfectly still, letting it appear as though she was frozen. So when her arm shot up, palm out, and slammed into his face, it caught him as off-guard as he’d originally caught her. The sickly crunch of his nose gave her a surprising feeling of guilt.

  The guy toppled back, more from his own momentum than hers, and gave her the opening she was looking for. The next logical step was to bolt for the nearest intersection or somewhere that would make her visible to other people. Instead of following logic, she slowly climbed back to her feet and wandered over, patting her attacker awkwardly on the back as he hunched forward to staunch the flow of blood.

  “You okay?” she asked, trying to sound sincere.

  “Shouldn’t you be running away?” he mumbled, doubled over and breathing hard.

  And then, “I think you broke my nose,” he groused, voice muffled by his hands and the blood streaming down his face.

  “Probably,” she agreed. “But that’s what happens to men who hide in dark corners, waiting to ambush helpless women.”

  “As well it should.” He raised to his full height, using one hand to mop the flow of blood from under his nose. “And you’re not exactly helpless.”

  Logan was a lot of things, but stupid wasn’t one of them. Usually.

  “That was a preemptive strike,” she said, digging in her bag and pulling out a wad of paper towels. “It’s hard to drink someone else’s soda when you’re spitting blood.”

  She handed him the paper towels and he pushed them against his nose.

  “You’re really passive aggressive about your soda, you know that?”

  “Because it’s mine.” She eyed him speculatively, noting the barely-there grin beneath all the blood. “You already drank it, didn’t you?”

  “When you live with two men, what’s yours is ours,” he said. “I thought you’d made peace with that fact.”

  She sighed, giving him time to pull the bloody paper towels away from his nose.

  “Why do you have paper towels in your backpack?” He gave her a slightly concerned look. “And why do they smell like pickles?”

  “You’ll never know,” she said lightly, shoving his arm back up towards his face. He really was a mess. She’d feel bad, really, except for her drink. And the attacking her unexpectedly thing. But that was for her own good. Drinking the last of her Coke wasn’t in anyone’s best interest.

  “Come on big guy. Dave said he’d bring dinner home with him.”

  Logan tipped his head back, putting more pressure on his nose.

  “You really got me good,” he said. “Dave’s going to have to set it. Again.”

  Quincy shrugged, torn between guilt and pride. Dr. David Garrison would be unsurprised to see Logan dragging in with another broken nose. It wouldn’t be the first time in the last few months, after all. Logan had taken it upon himself to teach her to fight and to no one’s surprise, she was a quick study.

  She grabbed him by the elbow to guide him forward.

  “I’m sure he’ll be shocked,” she said dryly.

  He would not be shocked. Exasperated. Affectionately annoyed. But not shocked. In the last month, they had broken office furniture, a wall, and bits and pieces of both of them. At least it wasn’t her nose this time - women with black eyes tended to draw attention. And every time, Dave merely shook his head and fetched his first aid kit, muttering about children and their destructive habits.

  Living with two men had not been easy. She had been so used to living on her own that sharing her space, what little there was, with two people much larger than her had been overwhelming at times. They tried to be accommodating, or at least Dave did. But Logan was right - with three people living right on top of each other, the “What’s yours is mine” rule was hard to avoid.

  They wound their way through the deserted alley to the back of the clinic Quincy and Dave
worked in and slipped in the back door. Theirs was the last building at the end of a blind-end alley, giving them the privacy they needed to slip in undetected. Logan moved aside the false wall he’d put up to block access to the basement stairs and they walked down together, Quincy guiding Logan by the arm so he could keep his head tipped back and gave a little knock on the door before pushing it open, letting Dave know they were coming in.

  “I hope Chinese is okay,” Dave said from where he was standing near the table. “After the pizza incident, I thought we’d go for a whole different culture.”

  He turned, sighing when he saw Logan.

  “I broke his nose,” Quincy supplied helpfully.

  “Did he deserve it?” Dave asked, clearly torn between amusement and exasperation.

  “Yes.”

  “Alright then.” Dave uncrossed his arms. “You know the drill, Logan.”

  “To the couch!” Logan sounded surprisingly upbeat for someone with a broken nose.

  The Couch was code for the beat-up old bench Logan found months ago on the street and hauled into the basement for extra seating. It was sturdy and the cushions were made of a much-used, easily-wipeable vinyl, which made for an excellent triage zone.

  Logan made it to the couch and lay back while Dave pulled his bag out from under his desk. A quick snap, a little gauze, a lot of ibuprofen, and Logan would be just fine. Business as usual. The men had already moved on to discussing what football game was on that night and Quincy couldn’t care less.

  Quincy hated coming back to the basement. It was small, windowless, and dark. She felt trapped, confined to an airless, dank dungeon with only one way out. She didn’t like any place with only one way out.

  Dave had agreed several weeks ago to let her man the front desk in his clinic upstairs, which had been generous of him considering they had just met and she hadn’t been all that friendly at the time. But there had been no way she was going to be able to stay in that tiny basement all day.