by Lisa Henry
He glanced in the mirror one last time. He did look kind of hot. A glam-punk kid would stand out in Plainfield, but he was a fan of go big or go home when it came to disguises. He didn’t look like Henry Page; that was the important thing. And when heads turned, hopefully people would focus on his clothes and his lipstick instead of what direction he was heading or what he was doing.
He let himself miss Remy for a moment, now that he was alone in the room. He didn’t want Remy sucking Carson’s dick, but it wasn’t like he could offer Remy a better alternative. Maybe when he got situated somewhere—somewhere far away from Indiana, with some nice old lady writing him tuition checks—he’d send Remy some money. But he’d make a deal with him; he’d offer Remy the money if and only if Remy kicked the habit. Maybe they could even live together. Pretend to be brothers and get someone to sponsor them both. That way he could keep an eye on Remy and help him through the withdrawal.
Wishful fucking thinking.
He pocketed the local restaurant flyer. His stomach was growling every few seconds, and he wouldn’t have minded grabbing something to eat on the way out of town. He was nearly to the door when someone knocked. Fucking shit. He hadn’t really thought McGuinness and Co. would show up this soon. But the voice on the other side of the door said, “FBI.”
Not Mac’s voice. Maybe Dwayne. Or Jeff. Poor, phoneless Jeff. Henry almost felt guilty about that one.
The room’s only window was next to the door. He really was rusty at this hiding-out shit. If he’d had the money, he would have found some fancy, labyrinthine hotel and gotten a room with at least two exits.
“Open the door.”
And after all the effort he and Remy had gone through with the disguise . . .
He took a peek under the bed. Dust, tissues, a tampon. If he crawled under there, maybe he could slip out behind the feds once they’d entered the room.
And go where?
Stupid. How could he give Remy grief for ruining himself when he was here writing his own tragedy? He could have had it all—immunity, witness protection, and maybe a few decent weeks or months before Maxfield’s gang caught up with him. Instead he was fucked.
Psychologists said most criminals secretly wanted to get caught. Bullshit. The last thing he wanted was to open that door and see Agent McGuinness standing there.
Well, maybe not the last thing.
“Open the door now.”
Maybe he could convince Mac he’d panicked. That he’d never meant to run; he’d just gotten so scared of Dean Maxfield he’d had a temporary lapse in sanity. A lapse that had lasted long enough for him to steal a phone, compromise the plumbing of the FBI office, call for a getaway vehicle, and change his clothes, hair, and makeup.
He did the lost little boy thing pretty well. It was worth a shot. Mac had been decent to him when he’d acted scared before the interview. And all right, he hadn’t totally been acting. If he’d thought for a second the FBI really could keep him safe, he’d have given them everything from Maxfield’s preferred brand of cologne to a speculative play-by-play of the bullet’s passage through Pete O’Flannery’s head.
He went to the door. Nothing for it but to go quietly and hope for another escape attempt somewhere down the road.
He opened the door, and immediately staggered backward as a man who made Agent McGuinness look roughly the size of Woody Allen shouldered his way into the room. He pointed a small gun at Henry—a really small gun; apparently this guy had nothing to compensate for. “Don’t move.”
Shit. If this guy was FBI, then Henry was the Lindbergh baby.
Henry really fucking hated guns. Carson. Carson was always packing—one of several reasons Henry’d never liked having him around the Court. Carson drank too, and guns and booze were never a good combination. Why was he thinking about this now? Because of Remy. Because if he was going to die, he wanted to die thinking about Remy. Viola too.
He couldn’t die now, because Carson drank too much and carried a gun, and he made Remy suck his dick for money, and Henry had to stay alive and make sure Remy was all right.
And he had to stay alive because he’d promised Viola he would. Promised her that a long time ago.
“Howdy.” He willed his voice not to shake.
“Into the bathroom.” The man sounded impatient, almost bored. Did hired guns get bored, like cashiers and sales reps and the high school kids who checked that your lap bar was down on roller coasters? Was this just another day in the life of Joe Hitman, who didn’t want to be late to his next appointment?
“Okay.” Henry glanced to the side and took a tentative step back. He didn’t want to get any farther from the door. But Joe was definitely herding him toward the bathroom. “I gotta tell you, man, I don’t know what this is about.”
“This is about Dean Maxfield.”
“I don’t know who that is.” He backed into the bathroom, since that tiny gun was getting closer and closer to his chest.
“Into the shower,” Joe ordered, jabbing him.
Buy me dinner first.
Henry did a quick assessment of the bathroom. A bar of facial soap and a small bottle of shampoo. Two towels on the toilet tank, both a disturbing shade of yellow. Nothing he could hope to bludgeon the guy with, even if he’d been any good at fighting.
He wasn’t going to make it back to Zionsville after all, promise or no promise.
He was going to die like old Pete, his brains blown out. Then this guy was gonna wash the blood down the bathtub drain, put Henry’s body in a bag and take it to White River to sleep with the fishes.
When you put it that way, sleeping with the fishes, it didn’t sound quite so bad. He liked fish.
Henry was shaking so hard, he wasn’t sure he could step over the tub’s ledge even if he wanted to.
“Fuck,” he whispered, still planted on the bathmat. “Please don’t do this. I’m not gonna talk. That’s why I ran! I don’t fucking want to talk.”
“Shut the fuck up.” Joe nudged him between the shoulder blades with the gun, and Henry shut the fuck up.
The curtain was pulled back slightly, and Henry could see the faucet had a Hampton valve.
Joe jerked the curtain aside, cursing as one of the rusted rings caught on the bar. He looked up to see what the problem was, and Henry knew that was the only chance he’d get. He reached into the tub, twisted the valve with one hand, and yanked the showerhead outward with the other. Then he ducked so the spray caught the hit man in the face.
Joe sputtered.
Henry twisted, throwing his elbow full force into the small of Joe’s back. The hit man grunted as his knees struck the edge of the tub. Henry ran.
He threw the room door open and bolted down the concrete walkway, heading for the stairs. He checked over his shoulder to see if Joe was following, and cried out in surprised as he collided with somebody.
With Dwayne.
Either thank fuck or oh fuck, Henry wasn’t sure. He was gonna go with thank fuck.
Dwayne stared at him for a moment in surprise, and Henry realized that was probably because he looked like he was fleeing a Placebo concert.
Mac came up behind Dwayne, and he seemed just as surprised. Henry glanced back. Joe had finally emerged from the room, but one glimpse of the guys in suits, and he ran toward the stairs on the opposite end of the building.
Henry pointed. “Hit man,” he said between gasps. “Maxfield . . .”
Mac was already running after the guy. He ran kind of funny, with his elbows out like a chicken. Henry was still sort of awkwardly huddled against Dwayne. He stepped back and worked on peeling his damp shirt away from his skin.
He was shaking. Which was embarrassing. And when he tried to open his mouth to say something glib, what came out sounded mortifyingly like a sob. So he turned and leaned against the rail, gripping it hard.
“Uh, Henry?” Dwayne patted his shoulder.
The same sob thing happened when Henry opened his mouth again. He nodded.
“Gonna have to cuff you,” Dwayne said quietly.
Henry nodded harder. His chest was so tight it hurt. He forced himself to take a breath. Made his voice work. “I’ll go with you. I won’t run. I’ll help you. Whatever you need.”
“Okay.” Dwayne stepped toward him.
Henry put his arms back. Felt dizzy as he stared over the railing without his hands to brace him. He closed his eyes as the cool steel closed over his wrists. Fucked now, so fucked, but it was better than being dead. As soon as the cuffs were on, he sank down onto the concrete, pulling his knees up to his chest and pressing his back against the rails. He put his forehead to his knees, listening to the crunch of his gelled hair against his pants. He kept his eyes shut, grateful that Dwayne didn’t bother him.
After a few minutes, he heard footsteps on the stairs again. Mac’s voice. “He hopped the fence behind the motel. Calvin and Jeff are gonna try to head him off on 39. We’ve called for backup.” He nudged Henry’s foot with his toe. “You hurt?”
Henry shook his head.
“He’s ready to help us out,” Dwayne told Mac, still in that quiet, even tone that actually made Henry feel a little better. Dwayne was a good guy to have around in a crisis—toilet paper or otherwise.
“All right.” Mac’s voice was gruff. “Into the car. You pay your bill?”
Henry almost laughed. “Cash up front,” he said hoarsely into his lap.
Mac helped him up. Henry was led to the car, not ready to think too hard just yet about how Maxfield’s guy had discovered he was at the Man Inn the Moon right around the same time the FBI had.
The kid was shaking like a leaf.
Huh. The kid. Henry had said he was twenty-five, but he looked younger now. He was dressed like a kid, but it wasn’t just that. He was also scared like a kid. Maybe it was his expression—the sort of haunted, wide-eyed look that Mac didn’t believe anyone could fake—that made Mac ride with him in the back while Dwayne drove.
“You okay?” he asked in a low voice.
“Pretty, um, pretty fucking glad to see you, to be honest.” Henry flashed a shaky smile, then turned to look out the window again.
“When we get back, I’m going to set you up with a sketch artist,” Mac said. “I want you to get it down while it’s still fresh in your mind.”
“Didn’t really see his face. I was sort of concentrating on the gun.” Any smart-ass intent in the remark was drowned by the shudder that ran through him. He turned to Mac again. “I don’t do guns, Mac. I hate guns.”
Mac wasn’t fond of them either when they were shoved in his face. And as much as he had wanted to see the smart-ass rattled, it wasn’t really as satisfying as he’d imagined. Henry was on the back foot here, sincerely afraid, and Mac didn’t like it at all.
“Huh,” Mac said after a while, wanting—God help him—to get Henry talking again.
“What?” Henry frowned a little.
“What the hell did you do to your hair?”
“At least I have options.” Henry shifted around to face him properly, cuffs jingling behind him. “What are yours? Glossy or matte?”
Dwayne had a sudden coughing fit in the front seat.
Mac shook his head and turned toward the window, fighting a smile.
Henry’s stomach growled loudly.
“Dwayne, pull in here,” Mac said as they approached a plaza with a couple of fast-food places.
Ten minutes later, they were on the interstate, Henry uncuffed and chowing down on a burger and fries, Mac picking at a salad. Dwayne offered Henry his fries after Henry recounted, around mouthfuls, how he’d gotten away from the hit man. Henry took the extra food gratefully, and tipped the carton toward Mac in offering.
Mac declined. Henry shrugged and shoveled fries into his mouth.
When Henry was done eating, Mac procured the cuffs. Henry glanced at him, then held out his hands. In front of him this time, not behind. Mac didn’t press the issue. He stared at the traces of grease glistening on Henry’s fingertips while he fastened the cuffs.
Henry placed his hands in his lap and gazed out the window.
Mac ought to have been glad for the silence. There were a lot of things he wanted to say to Henry. Mostly variations on You fucking idiot. But Henry wasn’t an idiot. Not by a long shot.
He wasn’t going to ream Henry out just yet. There’d be time enough for that later. But he couldn’t resist asking, “Did you really think we wouldn’t find you?”
Henry gazed out the window for so long Mac thought maybe he hadn’t heard—that he was stuck in some PTSD trance. “Took the FBI five years to find the guy who bombed the Atlanta Olympics, and he was dumpster-diving right under your noses the whole time.”
“That was before my time. And you’re no Eric Rudolph.”
“Thank God. What an asshole.”
Mac didn’t point out that, while certainly preferable to setting off bombs, cheating people out of money was a pretty asshole thing to do. “I tracked down Jimmy Rasnick.” He was never quite able to resist an opportunity to gloat about that. And he wanted Henry to know that he was good at his job, despite letting Henry escape. Twice. “Jimmy fucking Rasnick.”
“Never heard of the guy.”
“Well, he’s a much bigger fish than you.”
“I’m not a fish,” Henry said quietly.
Mac opened his mouth to ask Henry who he’d called at the FBI office. Saw Henry with his head pressed against the window, one hand still shaking enough to make the cuffs rattle, if Mac listened closely. He didn’t ask.
“I know you won’t believe me,” Henry continued after a moment. “But I am sticking around this time. I want these guys put away.”
“I’m gonna make sure you don’t have any choice but to stick around.” Mac spoke matter-of-factly. He didn’t mean it as a threat. Henry ran because that was what Henry did. He lied and he cheated, and then he bolted before anyone could call him out on it. Take away the bolting option—take away the temptation, keep an eye on him every fucking second—and Henry might just make a decent witness. He had an eye for details and a good memory. He’d have to, wouldn’t he, in his line of “work.”
Henry nodded against the window and didn’t say anything else.
Mac picked at his salad all the way back to Indianapolis.
Mac had an office, not a cubicle. As the sketch artist worked, Henry looked around. The usual stuff, but it offered him a tiny glimpse into the guy’s life. Or lack thereof. No smiling photograph of the wife and kids. Single then. Either never married, or divorced and bitter enough that he didn’t want the reminder of his failure staring at him every day. Henry was going with never married. And probably closeted. Mac was giving out some serious vibes.
The I-don’t-know-if-I-want-to-punch-you-or-fuck-you kind of vibes.
There was a framed newspaper article on the wall: RASNICK SENTENCED TO THIRTY-EIGHT YEARS. Rasnick. The big fish. The guy he’d told Mac he’d never heard of. Henry looked at the guy’s mug shot for a second, then looked away. Next to the framed article were two certificates. Whatever community leadership awards were, Mac had gotten two of them in a row. Ryan McGuinness. Mac did not look like a Ryan. As an alias, Henry would have told him to ditch it immediately.
His degree from Georgetown was also hanging on the wall.
The bookshelves were full of exciting titles like Standard Operating Procedures and Code of Federal Regulations. And something called Fiscal Law Handbook. Which, given the size of it, should have been called Fiscal Law Tome instead. Or A Fiscal Law Epic in Six Hundred and Fifty-Three Acts.
There was one personal photograph on the shelf. Mac, wearing an ugly shirt and holding a fish. He was smiling at the camera. Henry almost didn’t recognize him.
He fidgeted as the sketch artist did her thing. He was sick of doing this now, and way beyond the point where it had stopped making any sense. The more questions the woman asked, the more Henry was convinced he hadn’t seen the guy at all. No, he couldn’t remember if his
nose should be sharper, or broader, or frankly if he’d even had a nose at all. He didn’t want to lie, not about this, but he wondered how much his memory was just filling in the gaps so he could get it over with.
“You do much fishing?” he asked suddenly.
The sketch artist squinted at him. “What?”
“I was talking to Mac.”
Mac, who’d been sitting quietly on the other side of the desk this whole time, said, “Pay attention, Henry.”
Henry had noticed the subtle shift in Mac’s attitude back in the car. He’d expected Mac to revert back to cranky asshole on his home turf, but he hadn’t. Not totally. How much of that was down to Henry’s palpable fear at the motel, and how much was because of his new look, he wasn’t sure. Costumes did that. They changed the way that people reacted. Was Mac projecting some sort of protective demeanor because Henry was dressed like a teenager, or was that protectiveness coming from a different place? He shifted in his chair, jutting his chest forward. And bingo. Mac’s gaze slid straight to the nipple that was peeking out of the mesh.
Interesting.
“I can do two things at once.” Henry swiped his tongue over his lower lip. “I’m incredibly versatile.”
Mac snapped a pen down on his desk.
Whoops. Too much.
Henry hugged his arms to his chest. “Talking helps me think.”
And so did teasing the shit out of Mac, apparently. It made him calmer. Made him forget what a fucking mess he’d been back at the motel, burrowing into Dwayne’s broad chest like he really was some skinny helpless twink.
Mac muttered something Henry didn’t catch.
“What’s that?”
“It was a ‘no,’” Mac said. “I don’t do much fishing.”
Henry looked at the photograph. “Shame. Looks like you really enjoy it.”
Mac grunted. “It’s okay.”
Mac’s broad grin in the photo said it was a hell of a lot more than okay, but Mac just wouldn’t give him an inch, would he? Not that he deserved it, of course. Hell, he could swear on all the saints in the . . . in wherever one kept saints, that he was going to stick around and testify, but Mac wouldn’t believe him.
