by Lisa Henry
The covers on this bed smelled musty, but Henry climbed under them anyway. Tried to distract himself from the flashes of light he could see even through his closed eyes, and jammed his fingers in his ears. Too scared to feel stupid about it.
“‘O mistress mine,’” he whispered into the pillow. Viola’s voice had been sweet and high. So had his, at that age. He still had a good timbre, but his voice wasn’t strong enough to sing professionally. Viola could have. “‘O mistress mine, where are you roaming?’”
A thunderclap drowned him out.
Shit shit shit.
If he hadn’t been such a fucking child, he could have been rolling around on the cabin floor with Mac still, instead of huddling here wrapped up in his own fears. He was more panicked now than when Joe Hitman had shoved that gun in his face, and that made no sense at all. But this wasn’t a rational fear. This was something primeval. He’d seen that gun and his mind had worked frantically to come up with a fix. Create a distraction and run. But this fear was bigger. It was paralyzing. And how the hell could you distract a storm?
Helplessness. That was it. Storms made him feel helpless, and small, and afraid.
If people ever asked him—and it was weird the shit people asked—Henry said needles. He was afraid of needles. Because that wasn’t really a rational fear, but it was one that people were tolerant of. And it wasn’t a total lie; while he wasn’t really afraid of needles, he didn’t like them. He certainly didn’t want to go dancing across a field of them or anything. They just didn’t terrify him like storms. Not bone-deep. Not at a fucking cellular level.
And it didn’t make sense. Why were you allowed to have a fear of needles even as an adult, but a fear of thunder and lightning was something you should have outgrown? Fear was fear.
The mattress dipped. “Henry?”
He pulled his fingers out of his ears and tried to sound casual. “Yup?”
“Are you cold or something?”
Yes. Yes, that was the only decent explanation for being curled up under the covers. “Yeah. Might be coming down with something.”
Mac pulled the covers off.
Henry opened his eyes just as another clap of thunder sounded, and he knew Mac saw the fear in him. He was broadcasting in fucking Technicolor.
Mac didn’t say anything. He pressed a hand to his forehead. “You don’t feel hot.”
“Must be delayed shock.” That was plausible, right? “So I’m just gonna stay here for a while, okay?”
Mac’s face was unreadable.
The tension wound tight in Henry again. The horrible anticipation. Any second now. The storm was building, building, and any second now the thunder would crash over the cabin again. As bad as any storm he remembered from his childhood. Worse, because he didn’t have Viola anymore.
His fault.
All his fault.
“Okay.” Mac stood up.
Stay. Please.
Henry didn’t say it. He pulled the blankets back up and shoved the pillow over his head. Waited for Viola to come and save him, like always. Would be waiting for that for the rest of his life.
“Are you scared, Sebby?” She’d shoved the flashlight right in his face.
“Yes!”
She’d crawled in beside him, and put her thin arms around him. “Don’t be scared. I’ll look after you.”
Always. She always looked after him. Smarter than he was, tougher than he was; he’d worshipped her. He’d wanted to be her. Wasn’t enough that he looked like her. He’d wanted to be her.
“Thunder is just like a dog growling at a mouse,” she’d told him once; an eight-year-old’s wisdom. “It’s only scary if you’re the mouse.”
He was always the mouse, but Viola made it less scary.
Henry’s throat ached. There were no words for how much he missed her. None that could explain the gaping hole she’d left in his life, still ragged at the edges. Smarter, tougher, fearless Viola. She’d always promised him they’d do great things together, and he’d believed it. Lucky she couldn’t see him now, huddled under the blankets in a rundown fishing cabin, cowering at a thunderstorm.
The mattress dipped again. “Henry?”
“What?” He tried to slow his breathing. Tried not to look so fucking obvious.
Mac pulled the blankets down. “Here.”
A chocolate bar. Henry stared at it, and then at Mac.
“The sugar is good for shock. Remember?”
Henry grabbed it. “My favorite. How did you know?”
“Well, you stole it.”
Henry glanced around the room uneasily. It was dark outside now; night had come with the storm. Storms were worse at night. Louder. Bigger somehow. But he could hardly burrow under the pillow to eat his chocolate.
“Some storm, huh?” Mac said.
Henry tore the wrapper open and shoved the chocolate in his mouth. “Mmm.”
Mac frowned at the window for a while, and then looked back at him. “Listen, what happened before . . .”
Henry shivered as thunder rumbled. Tried his hardest not to hear it. Not to flinch when it built into a crash.
“What did happen before?” Mac’s gaze was intent, but his voice was a little uncertain, a little shy. Henry had never heard that tone from him before, and wouldn’t have imagined it was possible.
“I enthralled you with my freaky sex mojo,” he mumbled through a mouthful of chocolate. A huge, distorting, nonconductive mouthful of chocolate. Now with twenty percent more nuts.
“What?”
Henry swallowed. “I said, I thought we were just messing around.”
“Right.” Mac’s face was guarded again. He turned and lifted his legs onto the bed. Leaned against the headboard. Which Henry didn’t mind at all. It felt good to have someone with him, someone big and tough like Mac. “How’d you get started conning? I mean, when do you realize it’s something you can make money off of?”
Henry closed his eyes against the sudden flare of lightning. “When do you realize? Shit, I don’t know. The first time you spin some fucking john a sob story about your poor, sick baby brother who hasn’t eaten in days, and he’s so hungry, mister . . . And they get so guilty they suddenly don’t want their cock sucked anymore, and they’re shoving more money in your hands than you asked for in the first place.”
Silence, apart from the storm rumbling as it finally receded into the distance.
Henry opened his eyes. “What? You’ve seen my fucking juvie record.”
Mac’s face was solemn. “I haven’t, actually.”
Henry’s guts twisted. “Yeah, well, spoiler alert.”
Mac didn’t say anything for a long while. When he did speak at last, it wasn’t the question Henry had been expecting. “Did you really grow up in Altona?”
“What?”
“When we were driving through, you were just staring out the window like it could have been anywhere.”
Henry managed a grin. “It’s Altona, Mac. It could be anywhere. That’s the depressing fucking tragedy of the place.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“It doesn’t really matter what I say to you, does it?”
“I guess not,” Mac said. “Why would I believe anything that comes out of your mouth?”
Henry sucked chocolate off his fingers. “Exactly. Smart man.”
Mac shook his head and stood up. “Good night, Sebastian.”
Don’t call me that.
Except to say it was to show Mac his vulnerable belly, wasn’t it?
“I don’t answer to that,” he drawled instead. “Because guess what, Mac? It was Henry Page in that kitchen. It was Henry Page who saw Maxfield shoot Pete. And if you want Henry Page to testify, you’d better remember his fucking name.”
Mac stiffened. Henry held his gaze even as lightning flashed again. “And you’d better remember who’s got the gun.”
“Aww. Are we fighting now? Is this a fight, baby? Hmm, I guess I won’t be inviting Raoul over to
use the hot tub with us after all. Which is a shame, because you could use a good fuck, Mac. But now you’ll just have to fuck off instead.” Henry rolled over so his back was facing the door, and pulled the blankets up again. “Good night!”
“Asshole.” The door slammed.
Henry brought his legs up and hugged his knees. Occasional flickers of lightning showed through the weave of the blanket, and he squeezed his eyes shut. The thunder was distant now, a low rolling rumble through the night. Almost drowned out by the rain.
“‘O mistress mine, where are you roaming?’”
He could almost feel Viola’s fingers twined in his as she sang.
“‘O, stay and hear! Your true love’s coming.’”
Henry swallowed around the lump in his throat and punched the mattress. He wished he’d done things differently. Wished he hadn’t fucked up like he had.
Except wishing wouldn’t make it better. Wouldn’t change the past. Wouldn’t bring Viola back. He could make all the fucking wishes in the world, and he’d still be here: stuck in a cabin outside Altona, with a guy who hated his guts and wanted to jump his bones at the same time, waiting for a hit man to track him down and put a bullet in his head.
Mac was halfway up the ladder to the loft when it hit him. He couldn’t let Henry sleep alone. Because if they’d been followed, or if someone tracked them down here, what the hell was the point of sleeping in a separate room? So he would be comfortable and rested in order to wake up and discover Henry’s corpse in the morning? He climbed the rest of the way to the loft, pulled the camping mattress off the bed there, and dropped it down the ladder. He’d sleep on the floor of the bedroom. At least that way, if anyone broke in, he’d have a better chance of defending Henry.
The storm was starting to blow over, the rain less angry, the thunder distant. Leaves were still shaking in the night breeze, pressing against the windows. He dragged the mattress across the dusty floor, leaving a trail. Knocked sharply on the door to the bedroom, then pushed it open. Henry lay perfectly still, a dark lump on the bed, breathing with a phony slowness that was almost insulting. Mac expected a cartoony snore any second now, complete with whistling.
He let the mattress fall to the floor. “I’m sleeping in here,” he said brusquely. “We need to stick together.”
Henry didn’t answer.
Fine, then.
Mac settled on the mattress. It was either too early or the stress of the day had caught up with him, because he wasn’t anywhere near sleep. He wished he’d brought a pillow from the loft bed. And wished he had pajamas so he didn’t have to lie there in his khakis and button down.
What the fuck? If he was worried about propriety around Henry, that window was closed and painted goddamn shut. He took off his pants and unbuttoned his shirt, then lay in his undershirt and boxers, willing himself not to get hard again as he remembered the feel of Henry’s body, his mouth, his cock pressed against Mac’s.
What had freaked Henry out? The storm? Or messing around with him? Mac would have kept going. Would still be going now. Would fuck Henry all night long, if Henry would let him.
No. He couldn’t. Not with a criminal.
Not with a witness. Holy shit. It had been easy to forget during these last few hours that Henry was a witness—the only witness—to the Maxfield shooting. Mac might have just ruined this entire case, if anyone found out. The William Jefferson trial redux.
He closed his eyes.
From now on, he had to make sure that when he looked at Henry, he was seeing him for what he was. A liar. A criminal. The bane of Mac’s fucking existence.
“The first time you spin some fucking john a sob story . . .”
A john. Shit.
Don’t feel sorry for him. He’s exactly what you thought.
Henry had flouted his authority at every turn. Made him look bad. Insulted the way he ran; what the fuck was that about? Flappy arms. He didn’t have flappy arms.
He’d show Henry flappy arms.
He had to piss. He stood and crossed to the small bathroom, shut the door, and turned on the light. A giant moth fell off the bulb and fluttered against his head. He swatted it away, took a piss, washed his hands with an ancient bar of strawberry soap, and then went back to the bedroom. Tried not to look at Henry as he crossed to the mattress. He wished he knew where Henry had put those toothbrushes. He didn’t like that his mouth still tasted like Henry.
Didn’t like that what he really wanted right now was to taste Henry’s cock.
Maybe if they’d finished what they’d started, Mac wouldn’t feel this way. If they’d just fucked, he could go back to being disgusted with Henry.
“And they get so guilty that suddenly they don’t want their cock sucked anymore.”
So what, Henry had started conning to get out of whoring? Fuck. Talk about a rock and a hard place. It wasn’t a decision anyone should have to make. Particularly a kid.
“. . . and they’re shoving more money in your hands than you asked for . . .”
If this was on his juvie record, then Henry had been sixteen. Or younger.
What was wrong with Mac? Fantasizing about fucking someone who’d spent at least part of his childhood getting fucked by pedo sleazebags.
Well, he’s all grown up now. He knows what he’s doing.
He’s the one who came on to me.
Mac still felt sick.
He lay awake for a couple more hours, trying to reason out who in his department might be working with Maxfield. All he saw were the faces of people he didn’t really know, but whom he’d trusted implicitly. Could be any of them. All of them. None of them.
The record had been requested at three o’clock. The building had been evacuated by then. So if the request for Henry’s record could be traced to a phone or computer in the building, then the mole had gone back into the building after the evacuation.
He had to talk to Val. Tomorrow. He’d find a way.
What had Henry said? Criminals clung to the people they loved because they had so few people they could trust?
Maybe Mac didn’t have many people he could trust. But he had Val.
He finally drifted off, thinking about Dennis’s funny nose.
He woke sometime in the night. It had started raining again. Not a storm, just a gentle rain that fell steadily on the roof and might have lulled Mac any other night.
But tonight, rain would make it harder to hear anyone approaching the cabin.
There was a low rumble of thunder, far in the distance.
The bed creaked. Then Henry was on the floor beside Mac, still wearing jeans but no shirt. He climbed onto the thin mattress next to Mac and curled there, his head under Mac’s chin, his arms folded against his chest. Mac didn’t move. Didn’t even breathe for a few seconds. But Henry didn’t move either, didn’t initiate anything. Just exhaled steadily against Mac’s neck. After a moment, Mac relaxed.
Fuck. Just go with it. It’s not hurting anything. Now. Yet.
He reached up to the bed and yanked a blanket down. Spread it over them. Placed one arm around Henry, and they both slept.
Henry made sure to get up before Mac did. Made sure to get up so quietly that Mac wouldn’t wake. He went to the kitchen and ate a can of tuna and another chocolate bar. Drank a glass of milk. Wandered into the bathroom and tried to shower and wash his shirt with the gummy bar of soap. Brushed his teeth. Wondered what sort of 3 a.m. delirium had possessed him to sleep next to Mac last night. It hadn’t even stormed again; he’d just woken, anxious, when the rain started to fall, and he’d needed to do something to stave off the panic.
And Mac hadn’t taken it as an invitation. Hadn’t touched him except to put an arm around him, which had felt better than Henry wanted to admit.
When Mac finally got up, Henry was careful to be aloof and cold. After all, Mac was the reason he was in this situation in the first place, and Mac thought he was a liar and a stupid kid, which was true. But he was smarter than Mac in some ways.
&
nbsp; The FBI can protect me, Mac, really? The FBI’s gonna get us both shot in the head.
So maybe we should fuck while we still can. You know. Go out with a bang.
His only regret, he figured, would be not getting back to Zionsville like he’d promised.
Big fucking regret though.
The biggest.
Mac seemed a little confused when Henry greeted him only with a curt, “There’s tuna.” Then he got angry, which was his default emotion. He slammed through the cabinets, presumably looking for a toothbrush, since he was clutching a travel tube of toothpaste. Henry had put both toothbrushes in the bathroom, but no need to tell Mac that. He’d figure it out.
Eventually.
Henry stared through the front window of the cabin.
If he hated storms, he’d always liked the morning after, and not just because he was relieved. Because the world smelled fresh and new, like the storm had scrubbed it clean. He could see the sunlight filtering down through the still-damp leaves of the trees, making them seem bright, almost luminous.
Well, if he was going to be stuck with Mac for however the hell long in this damned cabin, at least he could get his fill of fresh country air while he was at it, right?
He waited until Mac went into the bathroom, then he headed outside.
When Mac came out of the bathroom, the front door of the cabin was wide open and Henry was gone. Shit. Fuck. Shit. Mac pulled on his shoes, checked his firearm, and rushed outside.
The car was still there.
“Henry!”
Mac looked around. Where the hell had the asshole gone? He jogged a little way down the curved dirt track that led to the road, ignoring the little voice in the back of his head that singsonged flappy arms, flappy arms, you’ve got chicken flappy arms. The road was a bit muddy from last night, and the only footsteps he could see were his own. He turned back.
Behind the cabin, a track led down through the woods to the edge of the lake. Mac’s dad had always said the best thing about the cabin was the privacy. Mac and Libby had thought it was boring. You could spend all weekend at the cabin, even in the middle of fishing season, and hardly see another soul. When he was a kid, he had pretended he was some sort of cross between an Apache tracker and Sherlock Holmes. A torn leaf, Libby? Well, that’s because the criminal mastermind just slipped down this track. The way the leaf is torn tells me that he is in a hurry. And left-handed. And has a boat waiting to take him to China.
