Page 28 of Death on Gallows Path

“Secrets weary of their tyranny,” she’d said in that earlier conversation — and said again now in my head.

She’d also said, “James Joyce wrote that in Ulysses. What’s most interesting about it is that to become weary, the secrets first must build their tyranny.”

I’d heard something in her voice. “Kit, when you ended our arrangement, were you feeling responsible or—”

“My idea, my responsibility. In the past now.”

That had ended that discussion.

The past.

It did keep coming up.

I looked at the paper where I’d written the result of my research during that writing break.

A phone number.

Not from my past, but Teague’s. Were those secrets weary of their tyranny?

Not letting myself think about it, I made the call.

* * * *

“Quincy.”

Teague’s former partner answered the phone the same way I’ve heard Teague do when the sheriff’s department called — O’Donnell.

It was not using only the last name, or the directness. It was a declaration that he was alert, prepared. As if he’d said, “O’Donnell, reporting for duty,” but not needing the extra words.

Hearing all that in the one-word response on the other end of the phone now stopped me for half a beat.

I suddenly realized I didn’t know if Quincy was his first or last name, adding more beats to my silence.

Teague called him Quincy. Clara called him Quincy. I’d swear I’d heard Ned refer to him as Quincy, the two of them having been introduced by Clara, who’d tracked down Quincy during a visit she and Ned made to the Chicago area.

She hadn’t hesitated to ask him out to lunch and they seemed to have become fast friends.

Me? I’d hesitated for months to ask Teague about him, much less introduce myself. Now I hesitated to respond to his greeting.

By this point, the beats of me being stopped had piled up.

“Who is this?” the voice on the other end said.

“Oh, sorry. Sorry. I— My name’s Sheila Mackey. I’m . . .”

I stumbled over how to describe myself in relation to Teague. Not long ago I’d debated using boopsie-doodle, but that would have been to irritate one of his colleagues at the sheriff’s department.

I didn’t want to irritate Quincy.

Also, that debate happened months ago, before I’d told Teague the major secret of my past. I hadn’t stumbled over such labels since.

“I know who you are,” Quincy said.

And then, while I put aside sorting out names (his) or descriptions of relationships (mine), a new silence developed.

His, this time. I was grateful it was nearly as long as mine.

“Clara said you’d call,” he finally added.