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

by Lisa Henry

  Making veiled threats like that, she could have had a great career interrogating suspects.

  “Fine,” he said again. He turned and left the reception area, scowling at a startled orderly on his way out.

  Outside in the parking lot, he checked his watch. And Henry, true to form, appeared around the side of the building exactly four and a half minutes later. He gestured wildly to Mac, and Mac crossed the parking lot.

  “Had to crawl out the kitchen window,” Henry said. He shoved a folded piece of paper into Mac’s hands, beaming.

  “What’s this?”

  “It’s my letter of authority to let second cousin Mac visit Viola.” Henry looked as if he was about to burst with pride, like some little kid with a gold star and an elephant stamp on his book report.

  Mac slid it into his pocket.

  “What? Aren’t you going to use it?”

  Mac snorted. “You’re kidding, right? What, I’ve had this all along, and it just slipped my mind five minutes ago?”

  Henry rolled his eyes. “Confidence, Mac. It’s all about confidence.”

  “As in, con man?”

  Henry’s smile faltered for a second, but then blazed brighter than before. “Absolutely. There’s a park across the street. Let’s talk.”

  Mac walked with him, casting furtive glances back at St. Albinus. Now that he’d been painted as the potentially depraved and definitely gropey second cousin, he didn’t want anyone to see him walking away with Viola. Because getting taken down by security, or worse, the cops, would make for a fun conversation. Particularly the part where he explained he was totally innocent because Henry was a guy masquerading as his own twin sister, and yes, Mac had knowingly let him do it. And even lied to keep Henry’s cover intact. OPR would love that, wouldn’t they? Helping a known con man set up in a facility full of vulnerable people? That would not look good. Not from any perspective.

  “Henry,” he said as they entered the park, “it’s gotta stop.”

  Henry turned to face him, his dress floating out and showing off his thighs. “What does?”

  Mac gestured at him. “This. All of this. Look, we could both get in a lot of shit for your little unauthorized investigation. What you’re doing here is illegal.”

  And I’m in enough trouble already.

  Henry’s brow creased. “And so is what they’re doing. It’s illegal too, but it’s much worse than me wearing a dress.”

  “Leave,” he said. “Find somewhere else to put your sister, and then make a real complaint to the police and let them investigate it.”

  “There’s nowhere else,” Henry said. “Do you know what waiting lists are like, Mac? I can’t move her, not anywhere permanent, so I have to make sure it’s safe here, okay?”

  “Even if it’s not—”

  “If it’s not,” Henry said, his voice hardening, “then I’ll make sure it fucking is!”

  “If you’re right about this place, then what you’re doing is worse than illegal, it’s dangerous.” Mac sighed. “You can’t just . . . you can’t just do this. There are rules. There are processes. You can’t just do whatever the hell you want.”

  Henry stared at him for a moment, his eyes dark. Then he held out his hand. “Give me back the letter.”

  “What?”

  “The letter,” Henry repeated. “Give it back. Fuck you, if you won’t help me. Fuck you.” His voice cracked.

  Mac reached for Henry’s hand, and Henry pulled away. Just for a second, Mac wondered what he’d do. Run, maybe, like he always did. Run, and disappear somewhere Mac would never find him again.

  But then Henry wilted. He dropped his hand to his side. His shoulders sagged. “Mac, I have to do this, okay?”

  For just a second, Mac thought, they almost understood each other. Then he remembered that he could lose his job for knowing about Henry’s stupid plan, and not reporting him. Or arresting him. And he remembered that Henry might be in actual danger here. “There has to be another way.”

  “Then investigate it.” Henry held his gaze. “You tell me right now that you will investigate this place properly, and that Viola will be safe here while you do it.”

  “It’s not my jurisdiction,” Mac told him. “And you know I can’t promise you that. Look, I’ve got enough to deal with at the moment.”

  Henry’s mouth quirked. “Yeah, that’s what I figured. Are you gonna turn me in?”

  Mac glanced over Henry’s shoulder at a woman and toddler who were tearing up bread to feed the birds. He thought about OPR, and about Val, and about all the shit he could get into for letting Henry do this. And then looked at Henry’s face again, and caught a glimpse what might have been the real man hiding behind the mask. No, not a man. A kid. A frightened kid who just wanted to protect his sister, and who was asking for his help. In Henry’s place, what would Mac do? “No, Henry, I’m not going to turn you in.”

  Henry swallowed. “Thank you.”

  Mac reached out for his hand, and this time Henry didn’t pull away. Mac curled his fingers through Henry’s. “For the record, I think this is stupid, I think you’re stupid, but I’ll keep your secret as long as you promise to keep me informed. And I mean that. If you find anything at all, you call me and tell me. And if I tell you to get out, you do it, okay?”

  “Okay.” Henry looked at their joined hands, then up at Mac. “So, do I get a code name for our little undercover op?”

  “No.”

  “Because I was thinking, the other night, that we should make a TV show, like The Odd Couple, but with crime. And you’d be the one who was all uptight and tidy, and I’d be the cool, casual one.” Henry drew Mac off the path toward the shade of some large trees. “And we’d have a classic car, and probably a dog sidekick. But, here’s the best part. The title. Are you ready for the genius bit?”

  Mac smiled despite himself. “Impress me.”

  “My name would be Henry Colby, or Henry Jarlsberg,” Henry said, “so we’d be called—”

  “Mac and Cheese.” Mac shook his head. “You’re an idiot.”

  “I’m a genius,” Henry corrected him.

  Mac’s smile faded. “Why would you be called Henry though? Why not Sebastian?”

  Henry’s fingers tightened. “Don’t push. C’mon, I was just telling you about my brilliant idea, and now you’re wrecking it.”

  “Well,” Mac said, “what’s a wisecracking smart-ass character called Cheese without some secret heartbreak?” He kept his tone light.

  “Yeah,” Henry said quietly. “But, you know what it is, Mac? Everyone in my whole life who ever called me Sebastian fucked me over one way or another. Except Viola. She never fucked me over. I fucked her over instead.”

  “What happened?”

  Henry turned toward him, stepping closer. He tugged his hand free from Mac’s, only to reach up and curl it around his neck. His breath was hot on Mac’s ear. “Don’t ask me that. Don’t make me lie to you.”

  Mac rested his hands on Henry’s hips. “All you’ve done is lie to me.”

  “Not about the stuff that matters.” Henry drew back for an instant, and then pressed his lips against Mac’s. The kiss was soft and fleeting. “I like you, and you like me too. Don’t wreck it by wanting to know me.”

  “I already know you.” Mac didn’t know if that was true or not. “I know what it costs you to keep your sister in this place, when you could have walked away and left her in some shitty public hospital. I know that all the lying and cheating and scheming are for her. I know . . . I know that your mother died of a drug overdose a year after you were arrested for prostitution. I know those things. What else is there?”

  “It was my fault,” Henry said. “My fault Vi got hurt. She tried to pull the guy off me. Our mom’s boyfriend. My first john.” He shivered. “He hit her, and she just crumpled, and then she was gone.”

  Mac rubbed his back. “How is that your fault?”

  “Couldn’t shut my fucking mouth,” Henry whispered, his voice stra
ining. “Couldn’t stop from making noise.”

  “Okay,” Mac said. He cupped Henry’s face in his hands and looked into his eyes. “How it that your fault?”

  “What do you want me to say?”

  “I want you to tell me how it’s your fault. Because I think you know it’s bullshit.”

  “It’s not!” Henry glowered. “I feel it, Mac, every fucking day!”

  “How is it your fault?”

  “Fuck off. Is this the Socratic method meets pop psychology?”

  “Shut up,” Mac said. “Answer the question.”

  “You can’t have it both ways.” Henry rolled his eyes. “You are a terrible interrogator.”

  “Shut up,” Mac repeated, and kissed him.

  Well, that worked. Henry’s body softened, and he reached up to link his hands behind Mac’s neck. And in that moment nothing else mattered. Henry, Sebastian, his past, his dumb plan, his criminal history or his criminal future. In that moment, he was just a guy. Just a guy who Mac liked, and who liked him in return.

  “Okay,” Mac said when he finally broke the kiss and Henry was panting against his neck. “Okay. I’ve got your back, okay?”

  “You’ve got any part of me you want,” Henry said.

  Mac wished.

  “I’ll look into the place,” Mac said. “And if I find anything, I’ll turn it over to the local cops. In the meantime, please don’t do anything stupid.”

  “I am totally not going to do anything stupid,” Henry said, stepping away and straightening his dress.

  “Says the man disguised as his twin sister.”

  “That’s not stupid, Mac; that’s genius.”

  “Okay, Cheese, whatever you say.” Mac rolled his eyes.

  Henry grinned at him, and for almost a millisecond, Mac didn’t regret doing this at all.

  Henry sat at the craft table in the atrium and watched Rodney Rhodes try to eat the dry macaroni. Sylvia Barot was also at their table, and she’d braided several pieces of yarn together and was humming as she methodically took the braid apart.

  For some reason, only the really stereotypical psych ward patients seemed interested in craft time. The higher functioning residents were watching TV.

  The place was . . . depressing.

  Henry wondered if he could have been wrong about St. Albinus all of these years. Maybe it always had been a miserable place, and he just hadn’t wanted to see that. But Barbara Eiling had never talked to Viola like she was a child. Had never told Viola it was a privilege to live here. How was it a fucking privilege to be so damaged you were confined to a hospital for the rest of your life? Even a hospital with an atrium and personalized name tags.

  After Dr. Carlisle’s lecture the night before, Henry had tried to do some wandering. He’d seen a tempting paper shredder in the copy room near the offices, but Dreama had spotted him and escorted him back to room 106, and had given him another lecture about staying put. He’d spent a lot of time under Dreama’s watchful eye that evening. She was militant in her mission to bring cheer everywhere she went, and after fifteen minutes with her Henry half wished she’d put him on Crowley’s morphine drip and let it flow. He did learn, however, that she loved gossip. The only time he’d gotten a break from her was when Sarah had come in with a dinner tray and whispered something to Dreama about another staff member getting pregnant with a guy named Dale Gullery, and Dreama had gotten downright giddy and suggested they go into the hall to discuss details.

  “Rodney,” Henry said finally. “That’s gonna hurt your teeth.” He glanced over at Sarah, the nurse. She was supposed to be monitoring them, but she was actually monitoring her cell phone.

  “They’re coming!”

  “Yeah?” Henry turned back to him. “Who?”

  Sylvia hummed.

  “They want what I’ve earned,” Rodney insisted.

  “That’s too bad.” Henry put a final turquoise macaroni wheel on Mac’s necklace. Then, because it wasn’t hurting anyone, he indulged in a fantasy where an imaginary Mac opened a slender white jewelry box on Christmas Eve and pulled out the necklace. “Oh, Henry. It’s beautiful.” Then some real Kay Jewelers shit started happening, and Mac looked up and smiled, and the golden lights on the Christmas tree winked, and outside carolers sang under a smattering of snowflakes as Mac and Henry leaned in to kiss . . .

  Rodney threw a piece of macaroni at Sylvia, and she squalled.

  Mac was half-right. This wasn’t a game—not when Viola’s well-being was involved. But everything Henry was doing here, he did with the hope of impressing Mac. Because even when Mac acted exasperated—okay, it probably wasn’t acting—Henry could tell Mac kind of admired him. And God, did Henry want Mac’s attention. It was like a drug. One of the exciting drugs, like cocaine. Not Shit-Rite and Renal Eez or whatever the fuck most of these people were on here.

  “I told ’em no,” Rodney went on. “You got Crowley, but you ain’t gonna get me.”

  Henry looked up. “What about Crowley?” His voice came out more Henry than Viola, but Rodney didn’t seem to notice.

  “It’s a scare scam! ‘Oh,’ they tell us, ‘there’s not enough beds. We don’t have the money we need to take care of you all properly.’ Donations, they call it. Scared old Crowley so bad he signed the papers.”

  “What papers?” He glanced in Sarah’s direction again.

  “For donations! After he’s gone.”

  “He signed money over to the hospital, you mean? Like, in a will?”

  Rodney threw another piece of macaroni at Sylvia. “Chris always said, you gotta be the fastest dog on the track.”

  “Rodney, what happened with Crowley’s money?”

  “Chris was a shit-bag, but he knew greyhounds.”

  “Hey.” He tugged gently on Rodney’s sleeve. “Did Crowley change his will?”

  Rodney nodded savagely. “Uh-huh! Then Carlisle comes into my room last night. Asks if I want to make a donation. And I said, no!”

  “Rodney—”

  “Chris!” Rodney bellowed. “Chris, I’ll find you! You’ll pay!”

  He kept shouting, and a minute later a nurse came to lead him back to his room.

  Fuck. Not that Rodney was necessarily a reliable source of information, but if Carlisle had approached Rodney about changing his will . . . God, Henry was close. Close to figuring this mess out, but nowhere near close to having proof.

  Sarah was still texting.

  He got up and headed across the reception area and down the hall leading to the offices. Peered inside the copy room. A woman was using the copier; Henry was almost lulled by the hum and click of the machine spitting out paper. As he watched through the side window, another woman came in. “You got a ways to go?” she asked.

  “Yeah, unfortunately,” the first woman said. “The thing’s already jammed twice. Want me to call you when I’m done?”

  “That’d be great.”

  The second woman left.

  Henry headed back to the atrium. Stopped when something caught his attention on the small television mounted in one corner. He squinted at the news ticker. Somebody was dead in prison.

  Henry recognized the name instantly, but he blinked and looked at it again, and again, until it rolled across the screen and disappeared.

  It couldn’t be.

  This was something that ought to happen in a nightmare, Henry glancing up and seeing that name. A name that still had the power to fill him with so much fucking fear.

  Rodney moaned across the room.

  “Shhhh!”

  He watched the ticker until that story flashed by again.

  Jimmy Rasnick. Found dead in his cell. Police were investigating the cause.

  Okay.

  Okay, so who the fuck cared? Jimmy Rasnick had been out of Henry’s life for a long time.

  The bastard was dead.

  Good.

  Good—that was all Henry had to say about that.

  So why was he standing here sweating like he’d just
run ten miles? Sweating, but cold. So fucking cold.

  Why couldn’t he look away from the damn TV?

  He had more important things to worry about than Jimmy Rasnick.

  Isn’t fair, though. He ought to have rotted for a long time. Death’s too easy.

  Wasn’t Jimmy Rasnick who ruined your life, he reminded himself. That was you. Your choices. Your stupidity.

  He took his seat beside Sylvia, but could barely sit still. The macaroni necklace was dumb. Mac. Macaroni. Mac was coming back today. He’d promised. So where the hell was he? And what would he say if Henry hadn’t made any progress with this not-a-case?

  He waited another minute, then casually pushed over Sylvia’s glass of milk.

  Sylvia stared at the puddle, then went back to unbraiding her yarn. Henry got up and went over to Sarah. “I spilled a drink.” He pointed to the mess.

  “Oh.” Sarah blinked, appearing a little confused.

  “Can I go get a mop?”

  Last time he’d been here, Viola had spilled something, and one of the staff had given Viola keys to the maintenance closet to go get the mop herself. He didn’t know if it would work now, under Carlisle’s All The Residents Should Be Treated Like Dumb Animals regime, but it was worth a shot.

  “Uh, yeah,” Sarah said. “I’ll call someone to bring one.”

  “I want to get it. I want to clean up my own mess.”

  “Go get the key from Julie, then.” Sarah pointed to the front desk.

  Henry went and got the key from Julie. Went to the maintenance closet near the hall leading to the offices. The closet was full of mops, brooms, and cleaning supplies. Old slabs of plywood, bottled water, a couple of flashlights, and some extra cots. Henry turned on the light and scanned the small space.

  Come on . . .

  He saw it. A fuse box on the far wall. He pushed his way past some brooms and opened the panel. Flipped the switch to the copy room. Then he did the cafeteria for good measure. He stuck a flashlight in his pocket, shut the panel, grabbed a mop, and left the closet.

  Back in the atrium, he cleaned up the milk, glancing down the office hall every few minutes. The woman who’d been using the copier came out. She headed toward the front desk.