The Two Gentlemen of Altona (Playing the Fool, #1)

by Lisa Henry

  “Hey!” the guy yelled out. “Hey, where you going?”

  Henry didn’t answer.

  “Hey!” the guy yelled again. “The police say you gotta wait for ’em!”

  He began to run.

  Like always, the worm that fled.

  Mac lay in the hospital, trying to piece together how he’d gotten here. He remembered being on the ground, and the blood, and the knowledge that Henry wasn’t coming back. The car that had driven away. And then nothing but night sounds and drifting until the sirens.

  He was in Fort Wayne. He knew that much. Val was in the room. And a local cop. No Henry, but he hadn’t expected Henry. Of course he hadn’t.

  “Hey,” Val said when she saw he was awake.

  He tried to focus on her. He wanted to be glad she was here, wanted to ask her about everything that had happened. But his mind wasn’t working as fast as he would have liked. He knew he wasn’t supposed to trust her—not yet, not entirely. She’d been the only one who’d known where he and Henry were going. But if someone at the office had hacked his email, who knew how many eyes and ears they had on him? There were other ways they could have found out.

  “Shit.” His voice rasped in his dry throat. He tried to stretch, but his ribs hurt. Most of him hurt, but it was kind of a bland, deep ache—not sharp pain.

  “Easy there.” Val smiled grimly. “This one counts.”

  The local cop glanced up from her phone but didn’t say anything.

  “Clean hole, though,” Val added. “The bullet was easy to remove, and it missed your lung. Not bad, Mac.”

  He looked at Val, because she was his best hope for information. And because he didn’t really think she was playing him. “Henry?” It wasn’t what he’d meant to ask.

  “Haven’t found him.”

  “One guy got away.” Mac’s tongue was heavy. He couldn’t remember if he’d already told the cops that. Didn’t know what time it was, or how long he’d been drifting here.

  “We’re still looking for him. The other man is dead. No ID just yet. We got his phone, and we’re waiting for an analysis of the call log.”

  “Restricted numbers?”

  “Oh yeah.”

  He tried again to move, just to prove that he could. That the pain was no longer paralyzing. “Val?”

  “Mm-hmm?”

  “How’d they find us?”

  Val shot a brief glance at the cop. “I’m not sure.” She cleared her throat.

  For a second, nothing happened. Then the cop stood and said, “I’m gonna get some coffee. Need anything?”

  “No, thank you,” Val said. When the cop was gone, she resumed, her voice low. “I’m still looking into things at the office. It’s not great, Mac. We called in a—” She took a deep breath. “An analyst from Chicago to check out your email account. Messages have been rerouted, but we can’t tell how or where.” She moved closer to the bed. “I have to know right now whether you trust me. Because if not . . .”

  He shifted. Groaned because yeah, that dull ache suddenly sharpened into pain that stabbed him in the chest.

  Val put a hand on his shoulder. “I knew where you and Henry were.”

  “Yeah.” He settled back against the pillow. “You did.”

  “I didn’t tell anyone.”

  “I believe you.” He did. Maybe he was a fool. Maybe Henry and Val both knew that. But Val was the closest thing he had to a friend. They’d been partners for so long, they’d started getting under each other’s armor without even trying. Lots of boring stakeouts and car rides and sitting around doing nothing but shooting the breeze. And there were only so many times you could make small talk.

  So Mac had told her about the cabin, about growing up in Altona, about Cory.

  And Val had told him about how everyone thought she was a lesbian, including her father, because she didn’t have a boyfriend and wore sensible shoes. And she’d guessed, long before he’d mentioned it, and long before their because-tequila-slammers drunken hookup, that he was gay.

  “So, so anyway,” she’d said that night, when they’d come up from kissing. She’d tugged at the buttons of her shirt and pulled it open, “is . . . is this doin’ anything for ya, Mac?”

  Mac had squinted at her breasts. “They’re, um, they’re okay, I guess.”

  The next morning at work they’d refused to look at each other.

  Val hadn’t betrayed him. He was sure of that.

  “How’d the cops find me?” he asked.

  “The guy who was waiting for them said a man ran up to him and asked to use his phone, called 911, and then ran. Do we know anyone who’s got a history of witnessing shootings, calling the cops, and then disappearing?”

  He closed his eyes slightly. “The mole might not be FBI. Are we looking at other agencies? Or other offices?”

  “We don’t know where the hell to look right now.”

  He tried to laugh. “Comforting.”

  “Don’t suppose you saw our second shooter? Whatever you told us a few hours ago didn’t make much sense.”

  “Sorry. And no, I didn’t see him. It was dark, and he was in the woods. A man, though. Definitely.”

  Val folded her arms. “I’ve got to go see how our search is coming. Rest up. I’ll let you know as soon as I hear anything.”

  He nodded. He hardly hurt at all anymore. Just felt tired. “How long do I have to be here?”

  “Overnight. Call me if you need a lift.”

  Val left, and Mac glanced around the room. How the hell was he supposed to call her without his damn phone? But no, there it was, on the bedside table. He wondered who’d put it there. If anyone had gone through it.

  He was tired. Maybe if he rested up, he could get out of here in a few hours. He closed his eyes. Had only had them closed a few minutes when the cop was back to take his statement—a coherent statement, since apparently whatever he’d told them on the way here had made about as much sense as a Beckett play.

  He tried not to think about plays. About Henry.

  If they hadn’t found Henry on the cabin property, then at least he wasn’t dead in the woods. Maybe.

  Mac told himself he didn’t care that Henry had run. Maybe the dead hit man would provide some insight into the Maxfield debacle, and maybe the FBI wouldn’t even end up needing Henry to testify. That’d be good, since he was pretty sure they weren’t going to see Henry ever again.

  He talked to the cop for a bit, then she left him alone to sleep. He dozed off and on for he wasn’t sure how long. Woke once when a nurse fiddled with his IV and again when a disconcerting meal arrived. “No thanks,” he mumbled to the lump of grayish meat next to a web of mashed potatoes spackled onto the tray. “I’m on a diet.”

  He let his eyes drift closed instead. Maybe if he stayed asleep, no one would ask him any more stupid questions about what was going on. Because he was lying in a hospital bed and he’d lost a fair chunk of time, and he didn’t really give a fuck about anything except how much his chest hurt, and how pissed off he wanted to be at Henry.

  “Do we know anyone who’s got a history of witnessing shootings, calling the cops, and then disappearing?”

  Keep running, Henry. Keep disappearing.

  The ache in his chest was probably just from the bullet, right?

  He slept.

  Stacy drove without looking at Henry.

  “What am I supposed to do?” he demanded finally, sick of the silence.

  “Did I say anything?”

  “No. You’re silently judging me, and that’s worse. You think you know better than everyone.” He turned to stare the window. Now he could feel her gaze on him. “Watch the road.” He yelped as she cuffed the back of his head and whirled toward her. “What the fuck?”

  She narrowed her eyes. “You know you’re like the son I never had.”

  “Or wanted.” He rubbed his head.

  “Or wanted. So I do feel some obligation to step in and let you know when you’re being stupid.”
r />   “I’m anything but stupid.”

  “You’re surprisingly stupid for someone so clever. You really think you can keep living this way forever?”

  He played with the door lock. “Don’t see why not.”

  “The disguises, the hiding out, the wrapping people around your finger? One day, it’s all going to look like children’s games. Really fucked-up children’s games.”

  “I like games.”

  Stacy snagged a cigarette from the pack under the gearshift. “You have a chance to start over. To be someone better.”

  He glanced at her. “You don’t know me at all, if you think that’s what I want.”

  “It’s something you ought to consider.” The Buick swerved as she fished for her lighter. “For her sake.”

  That stung.

  “Everything I do is because of her!” He snapped. “The way I live now, I have freedom. Okay? I have money. I can . . . God, no. I don’t want to talk about this with you.”

  “Well.” Stacy lit the cigarette and drew on it. “Good luck staying one step ahead of Indianapolis’s finest.”

  “I’m smarter than the feds.”

  “That include the fed you left bleeding in the woods?”

  He felt sick. Mac’s mother’s blouse lay on the backseat of the car. Cory’s barrette was in the glove box. “I called for a ride. Not a lecture.”

  “The ride’s fifty bucks. But you get the lecture for free.”

  “Just drive.”

  “You sure this is a good idea?”

  “If I’m a paying customer, then take me where I want to go.”

  Stacy rolled down her window, working her way through the cigarette as dark farmland swished by on either side of them. It would be another hour before they were even near the city.

  “How’s Rem?” he asked, when she finally flicked the butt away and put the window back up.

  She blew out the last wisps of smoke. “Haven’t seen him in a few days. He and Carson had a fight.”

  He wasn’t sure he wanted to hear more. “When I’m done, I want to see him. I want to go to the Court.”

  Stacy didn’t answer.

  He rolled his head toward her. “You think I’m a liability now.”

  “I didn’t say that. I just think there’s someone you maybe owe more to than Remy.”

  “I don’t owe anyone anything. Except Viola.”

  “Uh-huh. And if she magically came back, and you could tell her everything about your situation now—what do you think she’d want you to do?”

  “If she magically came back, none of this shit I do now would be necessary.”

  “There are other ways to make money. To have freedom.”

  “And I’ve chosen this way. So lay off.”

  Stacy laid off.

  He looked out the window for the moon.

  Mac was sleeping better, and it took him a while to get with it when his door opened again. It took him even longer to register that it was Jeff who came in the room and shut the door behind him. He offered Mac his strained, earnest smile. “Hey, Mac.”

  “Jeff.” Mac tried to sit up, but the pressure in his chest forced him back down. He hit the button for more pain relief. Hell, he could get used to having that on tap. “Where’s my cop?”

  “I sent her for a break.” Jeff had something in his hand in a parchment wrapper. Whatever it was, it smelled good. “Val said someone ought to stay in Fort Wayne with you.”

  He took a bite of whatever it was. A pretzel.

  Mac’s mind fluttered. Val had said to call when he was ready to come home. She hadn’t said she’d send Jeff to stay with him. Mac’s stomach growled. Good-looking pretzel. Huge and thoroughly salted. He’d had pretzels on the brain earlier too for some reason.

  Henry.

  He and Henry had talked about . . . pretzels. Eggs. Chocolate. They’d talked a lot about food. And about Mac’s family. Henry had disappeared, cut out on him, and Mac still wished he’d kissed him. Again.

  Also, he wanted that pretzel. “Where’s that from?”

  “Some place down the street.” Jeff tore off another chunk. “Not as good as Sammy’s.”

  Mac frowned at the pretzel and then stared at Jeff’s square hands. “Has Val gone?”

  Jeff glanced out the window. “Yeah. Back to the city, I think. She’s not saying much to anyone.” His face was creased with worry. “Something we ought to know about, Mac?”

  How had Mac described Jeff to Henry? A doofus. If he didn’t know exactly what the hell was going on—hell, if the cleaning lady didn’t know—then he really was a doofus. Except what Jeff was really asking, he supposed, was whether or not Val was involved.

  “It’s under control,” Mac said, which is what he always said.

  “Under control?” Jeff set the pretzel on the chair beside him. Salt tumbled off the wrapper and onto the seat. “You got shot, Mac. We all know there’s a leak. You take off with a witness, you don’t tell anyone where you are.”

  Huh. Well, maybe Jeff wasn’t such a doofus after all.

  “It’s under control,” he repeated.

  Jeff shook his head.

  Mac looked around the stark, sterile hospital room and wondered where his local cop had gone. His eyelids were heavy again. He was pulled from sleep a moment—or maybe a while—later by the sound of the hospital PA system. “Security to Level Two. Security to Level Two.”

  Jeff stood. “Shit.”

  Mac watched him. “Problem?”

  Jeff nodded curtly. “We’re on Level Two. Val figured Maxfield might send someone to finish the job.”

  “I’m not the job. Henry was the job!”

  “You’re kidding, right? Who’s more of a threat to Maxfield right now? The witness who runs whenever he gets the chance, or the agent who keeps tracking him down?” Jeff ran a hand through his hair. “He’s a hustler, Mac. A rentboy turned small-time crook. He just wants to get as far away from Maxfield as possible. So who’s the bigger threat?”

  Mac’s skin crawled. How did Jeff know Henry had been a prostitute? Even Mac hadn’t known that. Hadn’t seen Henry’s juvie record. But someone at the field office had.

  “I don’t think anyone’s gonna track him down this time.” Mac tried to keep his voice calm.

  “No,” Jeff agreed. He drew his firearm. Pointed it at Mac. “No, they’re not.”

  Well fuck.

  “Seriously. Seriously?”

  Jeff didn’t say anything.

  “Do you have an exit strategy?” Mac asked. “Because you shoot me, and they’ll sure as shit know who the mole is.”

  “Yeah, but if I don’t shoot you now, they’ll still know.”

  Good point.

  “Fuck you.” Mac tried to move, but all the adrenaline in the world couldn’t push him past the limitations of his injury. He wondered what Henry would do in a situation like this. Talk his way out of it. Or at least try. Was there even a chance that would work? He opened his mouth to find out, but said, instead, “Go to hell, you piece of shit.”

  Which wasn’t exactly conciliatory.

  There was a call button beside his bed. He couldn’t do it though. Couldn’t risk a nurse walking into this.

  “Why’d you do it?”

  Jeff cocked his head. “Really, Mac? We’re doing the whole super-villain speech thing, now? Can I just tell you it was the money and shoot you in the face?”

  Mac winced. The face? For some reason that seemed worse than any of his other options. What if his parents wanted an open casket? Wanted to see him before they put him in the ground, or to touch him? He thought of Pete, the back of his skull splattered in pieces across Gloria Maxfield’s otherwise-pristine kitchen.

  Thought of seeing Henry for the first time that night. Now there was a face he would have liked to touch one more time.

  “They’ll catch you.” His voice wavered. “You’ll die in fucking jail for this.”

  “Maybe.” Jeff ran a hand over his mouth. “Maybe not.”

>   Jeff could try and finish the job for Maxfield and vanish. But sooner or later, the emails would lead to him, or the phone records would. Jeff was on borrowed time. And Mac figured he knew it.

  Strange. He had never liked Jeff. But this was still a betrayal. Not of friendship, but of an ideology that he had thought everyone at the office shared. They were the good guys. They put scum like Dean Maxfield in prison.

  “You piece of shit,” he said again. He knew the drill. Ought to keep Jeff talking. But Jeff knew he didn’t have much time to finish the job. So why hadn’t he?

  He looked at Jeff’s hand, unsteady on the gun, and it dawned on him.

  Jeff didn’t want to get his hands dirty.

  Up to this point, he’d had mobsters doing the bloody work. All he had to do was provide information. Recode phones.

  Jeff was, in spite of his ties to Maxfield, still a pretty ordinary guy. A doofus.

  “You turn yourself in, you’ve got a chance of getting out of prison sometime in the next fifty years,” Mac said. “You shoot me, your life’s over.”

  “If I get caught.”

  “If you get caught,” Mac agreed, feeling more confident. If Jeff was going to shoot him, he would have done it already. And yeah, he might still. But for the time being, he was doing a lousy job of playing cold-blooded criminal. “You’d get caught. Exit strategy, Jeff. There’s a cop here. The nurse’s station is right out there. You ready to shoot your way out of the building? That’s just dumb.”

  Jeff raised the gun. “You think I’m stupid. Thought I was dumb enough to let Henry lift my cell phone without noticing? Well, you’re not so smart either. You’ve got a picture in your office of that cabin, and that’s where you run when you need to go off grid? Your family’s fucking cabin?”

  “At least do the air bubble in my IV. Something quiet. Something no one can prove. C’mon, Jeff. My brains on the pillow—that’s gonna get some attention.”

  He tried not to flinch as Jeff’s finger tensed on the trigger. Just then, someone knocked on the door. Jeff holstered the gun so fast Mac was left blinking. The door opened, and a doctor walked in with a small tray. He turned his back to them almost immediately, setting the tray by the sink. “Sorry to interrupt.” The man’s accent was British, his voice low in a way that didn’t sound quite natural. “But visiting hours are almost over, and it’s time for meds.” His dark hair was slicked back with too much gel. He glanced to one side, fumbling with some pills, and Mac caught a glimpse of black-framed glasses.