Let Me Go

by Chelsea Cain

  “I remembered that you take it black,” Jack said.

  “Yep,” Archie said.

  The orange glow of daybreak had given way to a blindingly blue morning. Archie liked the sound of dawn, the way that every noise seemed bright after the hush that had settled overnight. The grass glistened with dew. The trees were ablaze with fall colors.

  “Are you planning on spending all day on my stoop?” Jack asked.

  Archie took another sip of coffee. “I’m not leaving until I see Leo.”

  Jack frowned over his coffee cup. “I have houseguests.”

  The Russians. Archie had been counting on that.

  “I know,” Archie said.

  Jack looked at Archie for a long time. His eyes were attentive, thoughtful, but beyond that Archie had a hard time reading them. Jack was a handsome man. Even Archie, who knew he could be obtuse about such things, couldn’t miss that. As Archie aged, he saw himself fade and slacken in the mirror. As Jack aged, he only got better-looking—distinguished, people called it. His face was chiseled, his temples gray; he had that square-jawed sitcom father from the fifties look. Just your friendly drug kingpin next door.

  Archie felt a ripple of relaxation move up his spine to that wet cotton in his skull.

  Jack took a sip of coffee. He squinted at Archie, the picture of conviviality. If he knew something violent had happened at his house, he was doing a good job of hiding it.

  “Take a shower,” Jack said. “You can join us for breakfast.”

  CHAPTER

  18

  Archie leaned into the steaming water, letting it run over his head and down his back, rinsing the blood out of his hair. The shower was the size of his entire kitchen, with slick black granite walls, and a built-in granite bench on one side. Archie didn’t know what the bench was for—maybe some people got tired while they took showers and had to sit down. There were three polished nickel spigots. A large one, about the size of a hubcap, over the center of the shower, a hand spigot on a metal hose looped on the wall, and another spigot installed into the granite at knee level, that Archie could only imagine was for washing feet, although why someone would get into a shower just to wash their feet escaped him.

  There was no shower curtain or glass divider—the shower had granite slabs on three sides and was entirely open to the rest of the room on the fourth. Rich people liked to let it all hang out, apparently. Somehow this seemed to work. So far, as far as Archie could see, no water had splashed beyond the imaginary shower border onto the marble bathroom floor.

  Archie studied the expensive-looking products arrayed on the granite shelf at elbow level: shampoos and conditioners in fancy bottles, body washes, soap in a wrapper with French writing on it, and two black washcloths rolled up like burritos.

  If this was the guest bathroom, Archie couldn’t help but wonder what the master bathrooms were like. Solid gold fixtures? The hardware alone looked like it cost more than what he made in a year. The Tudor theme of the rest of the house ended at the threshold—this bathroom was entirely twenty-first century, with automatic faucets, recessed lights, a marble floor, and a gas fireplace. It had taken Archie ten minutes to figure out how to operate the Japanese toilet seat.

  Archie picked up one of the soaps and unwrapped it. The soap inside was black. He’d never seen black soap before. He lifted it to his nose. It smelled faintly like whiskey. Archie rubbed it around in his hands and then lathered his chest. The suds were thick and creamy and as he moved them around his chest the rough, tender tissue of his scars tingled under his touch. He moved his fingers over each one. He knew the topography of every scar—the soft pearly ones that were long and surgical, the tough lumps where she’d driven nails into his chest, and the smaller gouges that marked where she’d just cut him for fun. The combination of the heat of the shower, the pleasant musky odor of the soap, and the pills in his system left him feeling more relaxed than he had been in months. Endorphins pulsed in his brain. He moved his hand down, tracing the length of the scar that ran from his xyphoid process to his solar plexus. The surgeons at Emanuel had given him that one when they’d opened him up to repair the hack job she’d done taking out his spleen. That scar was hard and thick, the flesh faded to a pale seashell-pink. He moved his hand lower.

  “Archie,” he heard someone hiss.

  Archie dropped the soap and spun around. Through the steam, Archie could make out Leo entering the room, just closing the bathroom door behind him. Archie stood there flustered for a moment, and then fumbled to turn off the faucet.

  “Let it run,” Leo said, walking over. “I don’t know if they’re listening.” He came to a stop on the other side of where the shower curtain should be and then just stood there, casually, as if it were perfectly normal to be having a conversation while one person was naked and lathered with soap.

  Did Leo really think that Jack Reynolds bugged his bathrooms, or did he just think someone might have their ear to the door? Archie didn’t pursue it. But he left the shower on.

  “Are you okay?” Leo asked.

  Archie had stepped out of the downpour coming from the hubcap spigot, but stayed in the shower. Blood-tinged water was splattered on his feet. Steam rose around him. Soapsuds slid down his chest. He waited for Leo to toss him a towel, but he didn’t. “I woke up an hour ago near your boathouse with a concussion,” Archie said. “What do you think?”

  Leo was standing in front of the towel rack, blocking Archie’s access to it.

  “The Russians were coming back,” Leo said. “I didn’t want them to kill you. I didn’t have time to explain. I used the choke hold to knock you out. I told them you didn’t see anything. We left you in the bedroom. That was the last time I saw you. You were supposed to come to in a few minutes.”

  They were really going to do this. They were going to have a conversation while Archie was completely naked. The soap on Archie’s chest traveled down the inside of his legs in foamy clumps. He stepped back under the shower stream to rinse it off.

  “What do you mean, you told them I didn’t see anything?” Archie called through the water. “What didn’t I see exactly?” He eyed Leo through the water and steam. Leo had changed out of his bloody shirt, but otherwise appeared still to be wearing his clothes from the night before. His tux pants were wrinkled. His shirtsleeves were rolled up. The collar of the new shirt was open and the pits were slightly stained. He hadn’t slept. He seemed agitated.

  “The guy that was bleeding in the bathtub,” Leo said.

  The walls of the granite shower stall were starting to sweat. Archie inhaled the heat. The pills made his head feel heavy, like his brain was marbled with fat, and he had to fight for clarity. “Go on,” Archie said. He’d washed the soap off and was hell-bent on getting a towel. He moved out from under the shower stream, but Leo was still blocking the towel rack. Archie had to reach around him to get to it, his bare flesh grazing Leo’s body. Still, Leo didn’t move. Archie pulled the towel into the shower with him and started to dry off.

  “One of the Russians,” Leo continued. “They think he was informing to the FSB. He walked in on something he wasn’t supposed to see. They brought him to me. Jack doesn’t trust me, Archie. He was about to walk into a meeting. I had to prove I could handle it.”

  Archie wrapped the towel around his waist, relieved to finally have some coverage. “What happened to him?” he asked.

  “I shot him,” Leo said matter-of-factly.

  The words sank in. Now the towel seemed trivial. Archie sat down on the granite bench. Water flowed around his feet. “He’s dead,” Archie said.

  “He was dead the moment they suspected him,” Leo insisted. “If I hadn’t done it, someone else would have.” He looked at Archie pleadingly through the thin wall of steam that divided them. His eyes were red. A slick film of mucus lined one nostril. Leo wiped at it with his hand.

  None of this made sense. “Where’s the body?” Archie asked.

  “I don’t know,” Leo said, shaking hi
s head. “I helped them get it downstairs into a catering van. When I came back up, you were gone. I assumed you woke up and got out of there. I hoped you had.”

  Archie tightened the towel around his waist and stood up and walked over to Leo at the edge of the shower. “You’re done here,” Archie said. “You know that, right? You’re walking out of here with me, today.”

  “I’ve given ten years of my life to this,” Leo said. “In a few days I can bring down the Russian connection and Jack’s partners in law enforcement. I could do time for murder.”

  “Ya think?”

  “I’m not doing it alone,” Leo said. “I’m taking them with me.”

  Archie couldn’t believe they were having this conversation, Archie in a towel, a deluge of water going down the drain behind him. Leo had killed someone. He was compromised. He was clearly high on coke. And Archie was the one who’d gotten him involved in the first place. “You need to talk to Sanchez,” Archie said.

  The color drained from Leo’s face.

  “What?” Archie asked.

  Leo took a small step back, like an invisible hand had suddenly given him a hard shove. “Sanchez is dirty,” he said.

  Acid burned in Archie’s throat. No. That couldn’t be true. Archie had sent Susan to Sanchez. He’d told her she could trust him. But if Sanchez was dirty, why had he sent Archie to the party to begin with? “He came to me,” Archie said. “He sent me here last night to check on you.”

  Leo’s eyes widened. “Sanchez knows I’m undercover?”

  Archie nodded, seeing where Leo’s mind was going.

  “Then Jack knows,” Leo said. The torrent of water in the shower was the only noise. It sounded like a rainstorm. Then Leo laughed—a hard, mirthless chuckle. “He’s fucking with us,” he said. His eyes were desperate. “I killed a man, for nothing.”

  “Are you sure he’s dirty?” Archie asked. “There’s no doubt?”

  The bathroom door opened again, and Jack Reynolds walked in. Archie made a mental note to lock the door if he ever took a shower here again.

  Leo turned his face toward the wall, clearly fighting for composure.

  “You people have some interesting notions of boundaries in this house,” Archie called.

  “I brought you some clothes,” Jack said, holding up a neat stack of clothing and a pair of shoes. He set the stack next to a potted orchid on the marble vanity and then sauntered over to join them near the shower. Archie tried to act like there was nothing strange about the fact that he was standing there wet and wearing a towel talking to Leo while the shower continued to run behind them.

  Leo still had his head turned, but his color was better, and his expression had formed into something close to neutral.

  “Am I interrupting something?” Jack asked, looking from one of them to the other. “This is quite the intimate little picture. You two seem to like the same women. Maybe you should cut out the middleman and just fuck each other.”

  Leo met his father’s gaze and smirked. “What makes you think we haven’t?” he asked.

  The comment hung in the air.

  Archie coughed.

  Leo crossed in front of Archie, and stepped directly in front of Jack. For a second Archie thought Leo might take his father by the neck. Maybe try out that choke hold again. Archie might not even have stopped him. But Leo’s body was relaxed, his shoulders loose. He had been undercover so long that he could drop into character just like that. Leo grinned at Jack. They were nose to nose, Jack refusing to give ground. “I had his cock so far down my throat,” Leo said, “I thought I’d choke.” He ran his thumb along the corner of his mouth and licked it.

  Archie couldn’t think of anything to say to that, even if he’d wanted to. He wasn’t going to get into this pissing match. Not that anyone was looking to him to say anything anyway.

  Jack smiled, though he didn’t look amused. “Clean yourself up,” Jack told Leo. “Our guests are awake.”

  Leo shot Archie a quick look, and under his mask of libertine bemusement Archie thought he saw another emotion: fear. Then Leo reached out and straightened Jack’s tie. It was an odd little display, rich with both intimacy and malice. When he was done, Leo stepped around Jack and strolled out of the room. Archie watched him go. The door closed silently behind him. If it had been Archie, he would have slammed it.

  Jack stayed where he was. He looked Archie up and down, his eyes lingering on Archie’s torso, his chest and abdomen, where he had the most scars. If Leo had noticed the ravaged state of Archie’s body he hadn’t shown it.

  “I’d really like to finish my shower without an audience,” Archie said, fighting an instinct to re-secure his towel.

  Jack’s eyes stayed on Archie’s abdomen, traveling up the thick scar along his midline that marked where Gretchen had split him open for his spleen. “She worked you over, didn’t she?” he said.

  “She tortured me,” Archie said.

  “Yeah,” Jack said. He lifted his gaze and met Archie’s. There was something lascivious in Jack’s eyes and Archie was certain that Jack had meant for him to see it. Jack chuckled. “I left you something in the clothes,” he said. “Consider it a free sample.” Then he turned around and left the bathroom.

  As soon as the door closed, Archie stepped back into the shower, turned off the water and then stood watching as the last of the water streamed around his feet and circled the silver drain. His pulse throbbed in his fingers. His throat itched. The shower spigot dripped.

  Archie coughed, and felt something come up his throat a millimeter. He coughed again. The tickling sensation intensified, scratching at his larynx. He cleared his throat and spat in the shower and coughed again. His head pounded. He gagged and his throat constricted and the itch became a raw sting. He was bent over, a string of saliva dangling from his lips, when he finally managed to dislodge it. He reached into his mouth to the back of his tongue, gagged once, and pulled out a small, light-colored hair.

  He held the hair between two fingers. It was thicker than scalp hair, and shorter, coarser, with a slight curl.

  Archie felt a vise tightening at the back of his neck.

  He left the shower and walked, dripping, to where his grimy tux lay in a heap on the floor. He dug the brass pillbox from his pants pocket, opened it, and gingerly laid the little hair inside, his fingers clumsy and wrinkled from the shower. Then he snapped the pillbox shut, set it on the marble vanity, and backed away.

  There were explanations.

  The pain in his neck spread forward, up behind his ears.

  The hair might have been in something he’d eaten. He might have inhaled it. It could be a facial hair.

  Archie rubbed the back of his neck. He was losing his mind. This was ridiculous. It was a hair. It could have come from anywhere. Hadn’t a few of the caterers had beards? It could have come off a beard, fallen into a drink Archie was served, and then lodged in his throat.

  He had dreamed about Gretchen, that’s all. She was on his mind, and he was high, and he was being paranoid.

  He needed to get dressed and get off the island. Sober, after some sleep, things would start to make sense.

  Archie dried off and pulled on Jack Reynolds’s satin boxers and tweed pants. The pants were lined with silk. They looked like they cost more than Archie’s car. As he pulled them to his waist, something knocked against his leg. When he reached into the front pocket he found an amber plastic pill bottle. The pills inside were small and round. Oxycodone. There had to be two hundred. There was no label, no prescription. Consider it a sample.

  Archie rolled the bottle in his hand, listening to the music the pills made as they cascaded over each other. He could feel the physical anticipation in his body, his Pavlovian response.

  He set the bottle on the vanity while he finished getting dressed.

  A cashmere sweater. A pair of cashmere socks. A pair of handcrafted leather shoes. He examined his reflection in the mirror. Archie had never looked more in his life like he was wear
ing someone else’s clothes.

  Archie picked his filthy tux pants off the floor and transferred his phone and the compass into Jack’s pockets, and then tucked his gun in his waistband.

  Finally, he picked up the brass pillbox with the hair in it.

  The pillbox was small, about the size of a child’s palm. The brass lid shone under the bathroom lights. Archie held it in his hand for a long moment—such a perfect pretty object in his imperfect hand—and then he slipped the box into his pocket. There were many explanations, but that didn’t mean it would hurt to run a DNA analysis, if only for his peace of mind. There was nothing to do about the rented tuxedo and shoes. They were ruined. Archie picked up the dirty clothes and eased them into the bathroom trash. As the tux fell from his hands the image of the gargoyle flashed in his mind again. His throat burned and he rubbed his eyes. Then he snatched the bottle of pills off the vanity. He pocketed the bottle as he headed downstairs. The pills made a satisfying rattle every time he took a step.

  CHAPTER

  19

  The van was small and dark and crowded and it smelled like BO and stale peanut butter and mildew and cigarettes. The cop with the five o’clock shadow sat in front of a bank of monitors, switches, and dials. Susan had to sit on the carpet, which was gray and stained with spilled coffee. Inside, the van didn’t look like a van at all, but more like a recording studio in a submarine. The cop with the stubble was named Richard. He was sitting in a gray velour chair with armrests that looked like it had been salvaged from the driver’s side of an RV. Richard’s partner called himself Bear. He had a Vandyke beard and dark oval wire sunglasses pushed up on top of his head, and a stool to sit on that wasn’t as comfortable as the chair, but still better than the carpet.