The Merchant of Death (Playing the Fool, #2)

by Lisa Henry

  All Henry could do was stare.

  “Hell-o, Viola!” the woman trilled, violently cheerful. “You gave us all quite a scare.” She turned to Sarah. “I’ll take it from here.”

  Sarah left.

  “Where did you go, young miss?” The woman shook her head, and her Pooh Bears wobbled.

  Henry didn’t answer. Viola sometimes had spells where she wouldn’t talk to anyone. Henry thought staging one of those was his safest bet right now. The Technicolor nightmare leaned forward, her face inches from his. Her breath smelled like chili. Henry glanced at her name badge. Dreama Carey Coleman. Volunteer Staff.

  “Now what are you grumpy for?” Dreama asked in that false-cheery voice. “If anyone should be grumpy, it’s the people who didn’t know where you’d gone. Who had to go looking for you. Wouldn’t you agree, sweetie?”

  Christ, if he’d had any idea Viola was in the clutches of this condescending maniac, he would have removed her from St. Albinus a long time ago. He stared at his hands.

  “Well.” Dreama straightened. “Dr. Carlisle will want to talk to you, but he’s occupied now. And I’m a busy little bee as well. So how about this: you can take half an hour to shower and get changed and think about what we should tell Dr. Carlisle about our plan for keeping you out of trouble. You remember what we said last time? How you might need closer monitoring to cure those wanderin’ blues?”

  Henry’s jaw tightened. Had they really threatened Vi with this Big Brother bullshit? He forced himself to nod.

  “Half an hour,” Dreama repeated. She pointed to the wall clock, which read quarter to twelve. “So when the big hand is on the three.”

  Henry really, really wanted to slap her. But he doubted that would help anything.

  “You’re a big girl, right? You can shower by yourself. You’ve been doing really well lately.”

  Of course Viola could fucking shower by herself. What the hell was this woman smoking? But he thought of times Vi forgot how to do things. How to make a sandwich, or how to button a shirt. She’d brush her front teeth, then stop without doing the back teeth. Most of the time she was fine. Just every now and then, she wasn’t.

  But that didn’t give this Dreama lady the right to talk to Viola like a child. Henry balled his hands into fists and waited for her to leave. Then he glanced around the room. Half an hour. When the big hand hit the three. Showering was out of the question, not least of all because it would mess up his makeup. He waited three minutes, then opened the door. Peered out into the hall. Dreama was at the reception center in the front, talking to someone. He made one more check that the coast was clear, then hurried down the hall to the room where the name tag had been taken off. He opened the door and slipped inside.

  The room was bare, the bed stripped of sheets. The dresser drawers were open and empty. Henry walked around. It was as if no one had ever been there. He wondered if he’d ever see Vi’s room like that, stripped of anything that made it a home. He shivered.

  In a small waste can by the bedside table, a green, turtle-shaped name tag was lying on a small pile of tissues and paper. Henry picked up the name tag and uncrinkled it. Bill Crowley.

  On the table was a photo. Recent—February, according to the date stamp from the camera. Mr. Crowley, with his gray, wispy hair and hoard of wrinkles, standing by the Midwest Sports Complex with a younger man. The younger man was smiling, and Crowley almost was. The resemblance was clear—father and son. Had to be.

  He left Crowley’s room and headed down the hall. He’d have to cross the reception area to get to the offices, and the hub was bustling right now. Suddenly, a wail sounded from the room next to Crowley’s. The name tag on the door was shaped like a dragon and read Rodney Rhodes. “They’re coming!” a male voice yelled. “Chris! When I find Chris, I’ll kill him. I’ll kill him!”

  Henry glanced around. If someone came to investigate the racket, they’d see him, so he hurried toward the reception area. In a moment of good fortune, a nurse spilled a tray she was carrying beside the front desk, and the other staff bent to help her clean up. He slipped across and into the opposite hall. There was a large copy room to his left, and then the hall turned to the right and became a corridor of offices.

  These doors had official name plaques beside them, with braille lettering under the written names. He found Seth Carlisle’s office, which had blinds partly covering the window. Henry stood to one side and peered in. Carlisle was at his computer. Henry flattened himself against the wall. Spied Mary Glanaham’s office across the hall. Light on, door slightly open. No sign of anyone inside. He hurried in and went to the phone. All the speed dial numbers were labeled. He hit Carlisle, Number 2.

  The man answered on the first ring. “Carlisle.”

  “Dr. Carlisle,” Henry said. “This is Greg Frasier, the new volunteer?”

  “What is it?” Carlisle snapped.

  “Well, um, Rodney Rhodes in Room 102 seems to be having a—a hallucination. And he’s getting kind of hysterical. I’m not really familiar with the procedure—”

  “Get the on-duty nurse to give him a sedative.”

  “See, all the nurses are busy right now, and I was told it could be a while before anyone’s available. And I’m really worried about Mr. Rhodes.”

  “Is he violent?”

  “Um, no, but I think any minute now— Oh God, he’s getting out of bed! Says he’s going to find Chris and—”

  “I’ll be right there.” Carlisle hung up.

  Henry watched from Mary’s office as Carlisle opened his door and stepped out, heading in the direction of the patient rooms. Then Henry darted inside Carlisle’s office and pulled the door shut behind him, heading straight for the computer.

  Carlisle’s inbox was open. Henry scanned the subject lines and opened an email from the Berry, Kropf & Putzler law firm.

  Dear Dr. Carlisle,

  We are pleased to inform you that Bill Crowley’s most recent will stands. The funds from Mr. Crowley’s account will be transferred to St. Albinus next week. A discussion with Crowley Jr. this morning was productive, and I don’t think he has any further plans to contest.

  Best,

  Tom Kropf

  Berry, Kropf & Putzler

  Attorneys at Law

  Henry looked at the rest of the emails. Saw one from Dreama Carey Coleman two days ago, subject line: Retirement, and opened it.

  It can be Rio or Ragsdale, as long as I’m with you.

  -D

  He scrolled down to the original email from Carlisle.

  Where do you want to fly, angel?

  A “most recent will” from Crowley? A transfer of Crowley’s money to St. Albinus? Another Crowley contesting it? Crowley referring to Dreama as “angel”? Something was definitely afoot here.

  He tensed as he heard the squeak of rubber-soled shoes in the hall. It was time to get the fuck out. He waited a moment, then opened the door and slipped into the hallway again. Turned left at the copy room and walked swiftly toward reception. He nearly bumped into a frazzled-looking staff member. “Sorry,” he said in his normal voice, before remembering he was dressed as Vi. The guy didn’t seem to notice.

  Henry steeled himself to make the big cross. As he looked up to make sure the coast was clear, he stopped dead.

  Standing at the front desk, talking to the receptionist, rubbing his bald head the way he did when he was agitated, was Special Agent Ryan McGuinness.

  “I’m here to see Viola Hanes.” Mac hadn’t been prepared for this at all. He’d triple-checked the address when he’d pulled up at the St. Albinus Care Center. Henry’s sister was in a nuthouse?

  Maybe he shouldn’t have been so surprised.

  “And what’s your relation to Ms. Hanes, sir?” the receptionist asked.

  “A friend of her brother’s.”

  “All right, sir, if you’ll just sign in . . .” The woman passed a clipboard to him. “She’s in room 106.”

  In room 106. Not wandering the streets of Zionsvil
le. So if Viola was back where she belonged, where was Henry?

  Mac signed his name and headed down the hall to his right.

  He knocked on the door to 106.

  “Come in,” said a soft voice.

  When he entered room 106, Viola Hanes was lying with her back to him. She had on a large T-shirt and jeans with silver spangles on the back pockets. She was built just like Henry, that was for sure. Hair just a little lighter, and longer.

  “Viola?”

  “I was going to say sorry.” Mac started at the voice, which was distinctly unfeminine—and incredibly familiar. “I was going to say I can explain everything.” The figure on the bed rolled to face him. “But I think you’re the one who needs to explain what the hell you’re doing here.”

  “Henry.” Because while the makeup was good, it was definitely Henry. Mac was too shocked to move, or to say anything else.

  Henry sat up. “What are you doing here, Mac?”

  He knew it was foolish, but he was a little disappointed Henry didn’t seem glad to see him. In fact, Henry looked downright angry, which was ridiculous, because Henry was the one doing something stupid—not him.

  He jarred his tongue loose. “Why are you in your sister’s room at a mental hospital?”

  “It’s not a mental hospital!” Henry glared. “It’s a care center. And I asked you first.”

  “I came to find out who Viola was.”

  Henry stood and approached him. Stood so close that the toes of his purple sneakers touched the tips of Mac’s black loafers. And just like that, Mac was in love again. Lust. Whatever.

  “Well, she’s my twin sister, okay? And she’s in a lot of fucking trouble, because this place is running some kind of scam, maybe even killing people. And I’m not leaving until I find out what’s going on.”

  Mac sighed. He was an idiot. No amount of lust was worth the constant aggravation of dealing with Henry Page. Sebastian Hanes. Whoever. “Henry, if that’s what you suspected—if you’ve got good reason to suspect it—then why the fuck wouldn’t you tell the authorities?”

  “Because Viola’s scared!” Henry’s voice was barely above a whisper, but it was fierce. “She left here because her friend in room 104 died suddenly. Under what I’m now convinced are fucking weird circumstances. I think the new director is extorting money from patients—one of the volunteers might be involved too. I wasn’t going to bring Vi back here if it was dangerous.”

  “So where did you put her?”

  Henry swallowed. His expression lost some of its ferocity. “With some friends.”

  “With some friends,” Mac repeated, trying to keep his voice steady. “With your gang of criminals, you mean? A bit out of the frying pan and into the fire, isn’t it? Especially when you have absolutely no proof that anyone here is—”

  “Carlisle’s emails,” Henry interrupted.

  “What?”

  “Seth Carlisle. He’s the new director. I went into his office—”

  “Henry.”

  “Looked at his emails—”

  “Henry.”

  “And found a message about Mr. Crowley—that’s Vi’s friend, well, former friend—having recently made a new will. A will leaving his money to St. Albinus. Somebody—I think his son—is contesting that. Or was, before someone shut him up. Why would Crowley leave his money to St. Albinus if he has a son?”

  “Maybe they’re estranged. Maybe—”

  “There’s a recent photo of them in Crowley’s old room. They don’t look estranged.”

  “How many rooms here have you been into?” he hissed.

  “Just Carlisle’s office and Crowley’s room. Oh, and Mary Glanaham’s office. Briefly. To use the phone.”

  He rolled his eyes. Heaven seriously fucking help him.

  He was partly sympathetic. He’d had no idea Henry was dealing with a sister in long-term care, and he was impressed—disguspressed—by the lengths Henry was going in order to ensure she was safe.

  But then a louder voice said, No, this is just like Henry. Claiming he had to go help someone in need, and now here he was in a wig and spangled jeans, lying, deceiving, breaking and entering, reading private emails . . .

  “I should have figured,” he said coldly. “I’d track you down, and what would you be doing but finding ways to make my life hell?”

  “This has nothing to do with you. I didn’t ask you to come here!”

  “You’re lucky I did come here before you got yourself in serious trouble!”

  “Who do you think you are?” At some point Henry had gotten his face close enough to Mac’s that he could feel little flecks of spit when Henry snarled at him. “Some kind of fucking overbearing mentor trying to get me to see the light? Fuck you! I’m not a good guy. This is what I do, and it’s what I’m good at. And this is my sister we’re talking about so stay out of it.”

  And then they were kissing, because fuck it.

  Mac ran his fingers through Henry’s wig. Pushed his hips against Henry’s until Henry’s knees buckled and he sighed into Mac’s mouth. Henry squeezed Mac’s shoulder and closed his eyes, his tongue sliding over Mac’s.

  They parted. “I hate you,” Henry murmured.

  “Sometimes I wish I hated you,” Mac replied. Would have made things a lot easier.

  “Yeah.” Henry stroked his neck with his thumb. “That’s it. I wish I hated you.”

  They kissed again, Mac sucking on Henry’s tongue until Henry was rubbing against him. Henry gave short, staccato sighs, half-frustration and half-need, and he fidgeted more the longer Mac worked. Finally he laughed, pulling his tongue away.

  “Okay.” Henry stepped back. “I don’t hate you. But Mac, some shit’s not your business, all right?”

  “And some shit’s definitely not yours. Like Carlisle’s emails.”

  Henry grinned. “But he’s a shady old fuck. And I’ve got his number. You’re kind of impressed, right? I mean, I’ve only been here half an hour.”

  Mac shook his head. “You’re gonna need the good guys’ help on this one.”

  “Do I have it?”

  The door opened before he could answer. They took another step apart, and Mac tried to play it cool as a woman who looked like Cory’s American Girl Samantha doll might at age sixty—curly brown hair, chipmunk cheeks, a tiny bow mouth, and dark, vacant eyes—entered. She wore a flat gold chain around her neck, and a Winnie the Pooh sweatshirt.

  Mac hated Winnie the Pooh.

  “Viola!” The woman’s voice was cheery in a demented sort of way. “What’s going on here? I thought you were going to shower by the time the big hand was on the three?”

  “I have a visitor,” Henry said in a high, soft voice.

  “Oh!” the woman said, as though noticing Mac for the first time. “Hello. I’m Dreama. I’m a volunteer staff member. And you are?”

  “Uh, Mac. I’m Viola’s cousin.” He immediately wanted to kick himself. Should have stuck with family friend. “Second cousin.”

  “Mm, oh!” Dreama nodded, her eyebrows raised. “How funny. Mr. Hanes never mentioned any living family.”

  “Well, there are a lot of things Mr. Hanes neglects to mention.” He glanced at Henry.

  “I haven’t seen Cousin Mac in a long time,” Henry said. And damn, he was good. His voice didn’t sound like a falsetto imitation of a girl’s at all. It sounded like the real thing.

  “Well.” Dreama smoothed the front of her sweatshirt. “Viola. I did want to let you know Dr. Carlisle may not be available to talk to you for another hour or so. Are you hungry now? When was the last time you ate, angel?”

  “I’m not hungry.” Henry had his hands folded strategically in front of his jeans. “I want to talk to Mac.”

  “Very well.” Dreama cast a glance at both of them. “I’ll be back later.”

  Dreama left the room. Mac walked to the door and closed it, then turned to Henry. “Who is she?”

  “She’s the one I think might be working with Carlisle.”
/>
  “Her?”

  “I know the Pooh is misleading . . .”

  He grimaced. “I fuckin’ hate Winnie the Pooh.”

  Henry started. “How do you hate Winnie the Pooh?”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Okay, the Disney-fied cartoon is awful, but the original books?”

  “Hate him. And all his stupid friends. Especially Tigger.”

  “Aww, now Tigger. Great character.”

  “He . . .” Mac gestured to try to convey his disgust. “Bounces.”

  Henry slapped him on the shoulder and walked toward the bed. “Well, you know the wonderful thing about Tiggers is he’s the only one.”

  “That’s one too fucking many.”

  Henry sat on the bed. He looked . . . pretty. Beautiful. “Is it because they’re talking animals and you only like realistic stuff?”

  “It’s because they’re obnoxious.”

  “You like me. I’m obnoxious.”

  “The jury’s still out on whether I like you.”

  “Aw, Mac.” Henry leaned back on his hands. And spread his legs more than Mac thought was necessary. He looked—unless Mac was imagining it—a little hurt. “So, good guy. How are you gonna help me?”

  “What do you need?” Mac couldn’t believe he’d even asked, when the correct response was: No, Henry. You’re not a cop, this isn’t an investigation, and I have real work I need to do. Like a certain John Doe who’d been shot Rasnick style.

  “I need all the info you can get on Seth Carlisle,” Henry said. “And anything you can find on Dreama Carey Coleman. And I need stuff on the law firm of Berry, Kropf, and Putzler—anything regarding Bill Crowley’s estate. I’ll work on finding out if any other patients here have changed their wills recently.”

  “You’re not going to stay here.”

  “I have to. They’ll get suspicious if Viola goes missing again.”

  “They’ll also get suspicious when they notice Viola’s got an Adam’s apple.”