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

by Lisa Henry

  Mac pushed the hair back from Henry’s eyes. His face was serious. It was always serious. He tried so hard to do his job right. There were people who devoted their entire lives to the pursuit of being good. And who had that kind of energy? A free fall into degeneracy was so much easier. He’d tell Mac that, as soon as he was normal again. As soon as he wasn’t crying like a fucking five-year-old.

  “Sebastian,” Mac said.

  Henry closed his eyes. It was such a stupid name. He’d known that when everyone at school had started making fun of it. But he’d still held on to a private love for it. That name was a gift from his mother—she’d given something she loved so much to him. He’d felt connected to the past, to all of history, to storms that tore people apart, to everyone who’d ever pretended to be someone they weren’t. To Shakespeare scratching words onto a blank page, conjuring a whole imaginary world from scraps of the real one.

  Why not let Mac have it? Maybe Mac knew what to do with Sebastian. If anyone knew, it would be Mac.

  “You’re good, Mac,” he mumbled. “Always.”

  “No.” Mac’s voice was soft, maybe even regretful.

  Henry opened his eyes. “What do you mean? ’Course you are.”

  “I’m in some trouble at work.” Mac rubbed his head. “Bad trouble.”

  “You?”

  “Yeah. OPR thinks I’m no good at all.”

  “Aw.” Henry closed his eyes again. “You gotta tell ’em. You’re the good guy. Tell ’em how you saved me.”

  “I don’t think they’ll be too impressed by that.”

  “’Cause you kicked an old lady?” He remembered that part.

  “Because I was there and I wasn’t supposed to be. And now I’ve got Zionsville on top of everything else I’m being investigated for.”

  “Like what?”

  “Can’t give you details. But someone’s been spreading rumors about me. Trying to drag me down. I’m not sure why.”

  “Jealous,” Henry said, turning his head so that he spoke into the pillow.

  He was glad Mac was telling him this. Like they were friends, maybe. Or like Mac needed someone to talk to, and he no longer thought Henry was the worst candidate in the world.

  “I’m gonna need you to meet with OPR. So you can tell them what happened in Altona. With the shooting,” Mac added quickly. “Not—the other stuff.”

  Henry shifted onto his side. Drew his knees up. He wanted to burrow under the blankets. “You want me to tell too many people too much stuff.”

  Mac placed a hand on the back of his neck and squeezed lightly. “I’d like it if you’d help me.”

  “I will, Mac,” he said softly. “You helped me. ’S only fair.” Didn’t matter what he promised Mac. Once he was thinking clearly, he’d find a way out of here. Take Viola and go.

  “Thank you.” A long pause. Henry wanted him to go away. Or stay all night. Mac’s hand was still on his neck, and Henry could feel his heart whumping against the thin mattress. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

  He turned his head. Forced his eyes open once more and blinked through his tears. “What do you mean?”

  “Are you going to run?”

  Guilt played through him. How had he known? Aside from at least four notable precedents. “I . . . It’s what I do.”

  “But not this time.” It wasn’t a question, exactly, although it wasn’t a statement either. “This time, you don’t. You go back to that hotel room that the FBI is somehow still paying for, and you stay there.”

  Henry felt a weight lifted off him. It was nice, once in a while, to be told what to do. Just once in a while, though. Like this was probably his quota for the decade. But it was nice. “Do I?”

  Mac nodded firmly. “And you tell me where Viola is, so I can go and get her and bring her to you.”

  “Oh no. No way do you walk in there, Mac. No way.” He lowered his voice. “We have an FBI recruiting poster. On the dartboard. You’d just be walking into a world of hurt feelings.”

  “And criminal activity?”

  “That too.”

  Mac stroked his hair. “I’m not letting you go.”

  “Am I under arrest?”

  “No. I’m just not letting you go.” Mac scowled, as though he was as surprised as Henry to find himself saying those words in a nonthreatening manner. “Can you arrange for Viola to come to you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Good. Do that. Because St. Albinus is currently seeking new management.” Mac cupped his cheek. “And I know that you won’t run if Viola’s safe with you. So you look after her, and I’ll look after you, okay?”

  It sounded too simple, but Henry didn’t have the energy to fight it at the moment. He wanted to believe that it could be a happy ending. That, their identities sorted out and their lies unraveled, they got to hold hands and take a bow as the curtain fell. The guilty punished, the innocent rewarded, fortunes restored, and true love for everyone.

  Henry wanted to believe it so much his stomach ached.

  “‘Or I am mad,’” he murmured, “‘or else this is a dream.’”

  Let fancy still my sense in Lethe steep;

  If it be thus to dream, still let me sleep!

  Sebastian’s words.

  He’d always loved that about the comedies. The certainty—the promise—that however crazy and tangled and confused everything got, the final scene would restore order. That when the curtain fell, it was done, and the characters were frozen there forever. No more lies, no more confusion, no more schemes and plotting. But maybe that was only true of tragedies. Maybe the only certain ending was death.

  In life, dreamers woke.

  “It’s not a dream.” A rueful smile tugged at the corners of Mac’s mouth. “And we’re probably both mad.”

  “Okay,” Henry said. “I could be mad for a while.”

  He closed his eyes again, turning his head into the gentle pressure of Mac’s hand.

  Still let me sleep.

  He wanted this moment to last forever.

  “When they get here, you can’t be here,” Henry said.

  At least he looked semiregretful about it. Mac picked up the room service menu from the desk. Twelve dollars for a cheeseburger? How many of those had Henry put on the FBI’s tab? Shit. Eighteen for a steak burger? For eighteen dollars Mac would want to see the chef personally lasso the unlucky cow in question. He closed the menu and put it down again. “You don’t want me to meet your sister?”

  “I don’t want you to meet her ride,” Henry clarified. “My friend, she’s, um, she’s . . .”

  “Like you.”

  Henry looked away. “Yeah.”

  Henry had been agitated since coming back to the hotel from the hospital. He hadn’t even asked about Dreama Carey Coleman or Seth Carlisle. Just nodded when Mac had assured him they were both in the custody of the local police, and a homicide and fraud investigation had been launched. He wondered how much of it was Henry’s theatrics—he liked the excitement, but his interest died the moment the action did—and how much of it was because of what he’d said at the hospital.

  “I’m stupid. You’re right. And I probably always will be.”

  He wondered if Henry had shut down all conversation about St. Albinus because he was ashamed; Mac had told him he was stupid, and Henry thought he’d proved him right by coming so close to being killed by that crazy old bitch. Except Mac didn’t really think he was stupid. He thought Henry was the opposite: too clever for his own good. Which, in practice, often looked exactly the same.

  Or maybe Henry remembered what he’d said in the room back in St. Albinus.

  “Sebastian’s crazy about you. He loooves you.”

  It shouldn’t have warmed Mac the way it did. Not when Henry had been ninety percent Demerol at the time. And it wasn’t as though Mac could ask him about it. Not when he was ninety percent bullshit the rest of the time. But he liked to think that if he peeled back enough layers of Henry, if he actually got a good look at Seb
astian underneath, then maybe it would turn out to be true. Maybe Sebastian loooved him.

  Henry fiddled with the hem of his shirt and didn’t look up.

  Mac almost missed his cockiness. Almost.

  “I’ll take a walk,” he said. “There’s a store on the corner. Do you want anything?”

  “I’m good.” Henry wiped his hands on his jeans. Nervous. Henry was actually nervous. “They’re gonna call before they get here, so—” He broke off at the sudden knock on the door. “Shit.”

  “I’ll get it,” Mac said, since Henry seemed frozen to the spot. He crossed to the door and opened it.

  Viola. There was no mistaking her. While not quite Henry-in-a-dress, not exactly, she was definitely his twin. The same warm hazel eyes. The same fine dark hair. The same beautiful smile.

  “Well, shit,” said the woman with her. An older woman, with short strawberry-blonde hair, and tattoos climbing her bare arms. “You must be Mac.”

  She stuck out her hand, and he resisted the urge to twist it behind her back and read her rights. He shook it instead. “And you are?”

  “Just staying for a minute, hon.” She followed Viola in.

  “Sebastian!” Viola exclaimed.

  “Hello, Vi.” Henry hugged her. He closed his eyes tightly and buried his face in her shoulder while she smiled.

  Mac’s heart tugged. This was just like at the hospital, when Henry had come close to understanding what he’d risked. When he must have realized he wasn’t invincible.

  “Hello,” Viola said, smiling at Mac over Henry’s head. “I’m Viola.”

  “I’m Mac.” He held out his hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Viola.”

  Henry straightened and stepped away, allowing Viola to shake Mac’s hand.

  “Is this where I have to live now?” she asked him.

  “For a little while,” Mac said. He could feel Henry bristle and worried he was being patronizing. “Is that okay?”

  Viola dropped his hand. “Do I get my own room or do Sebby and I have to sleep together?”

  “You get the bedroom,” Henry said. “I’ll stay out here on the couch. It folds out, like a real bed. I’ll show you your room. Come on.”

  Awkward moment. Mac stared at the red-haired woman and she stared back at him.

  “So, I hear you got shot,” she said at last.

  “Yep.”

  “That sucks.”

  “Yep.”

  He had the impression she was evaluating him keenly. Which normally he wouldn’t have cared about, except he didn’t know where this woman fit into Henry’s life. He didn’t know if her opinion counted with Henry. Obviously she was no stranger—she’d been caring for Viola—but what if this was the Henry Page/Sebastian Hanes equivalent of meeting the parents, and nobody had told Mac?

  And was it odd Mac felt somewhat flattered that Henry had talked to his friend about him? That he’d told her about Mac’s injury—which he didn’t think of as a badge of heroism, but . . . okay, maybe he did a little.

  The woman elbowed him, just a quick nudge. “Look after him.”

  She walked to the bedroom and leaned against the doorframe.

  “I’m out, you two,” she told them.

  Mac watched the shadows shift in the room as Henry came to the doorway.

  “Thank you,” Henry said softly to the woman.

  She clapped his shoulder. “Be careful.”

  Henry snorted.

  “I’m serious, mister. Lay low for a while.” She leaned closer to him and said something Mac didn’t hear.

  “What?” Henry said.

  “Yeah. So keep your nose out of trouble.” She turned and headed for the door. Nodded at Mac.

  “Bye, Stacy,” Viola called. “Maybe we can play cards again soon.”

  “Good-bye, Viola.” Stacy hesitated a moment. She seemed tired. A little unsure. Her gaze went to Mac’s again. “Please.” Just one word, spoken firmly and quietly.

  Mac nodded. “All right.”

  After she was gone, Mac went to the bedroom doorway, where Henry and Viola were talking in low voices. He cleared his throat, and they both glanced up. Spooky, almost, the twin faces looking at him. “I guess I should head out too.”

  “Oh.” Henry’s mouth remained slightly open. “Um. I’ll see you later, then.”

  “My buddy from the PD will be around soon. He’ll need statements from both of you.”

  “The bad angel’s gone.” Viola stared intently at Mac.

  “Yeah,” he said. “You just, uh, you’ll need to answer a few questions. To make sure the bad angels stay gone.”

  “Okay, Mac.” Henry was dismissing him, he was pretty sure.

  “Okay, Mac,” Viola echoed. She smiled at him.

  God, poor Henry. He had to know it wasn’t his fault. Shit happened. Mac saw it happen every day. Was sure Henry saw it too. The randomness of it was hard. There were bad guys, sure. But mostly there were just people, and circumstances you couldn’t possibly gauge your reaction to until you were in them. Sixteen was too young to start shouldering so much guilt.

  “Henry.” Mac cleared his throat, unsure what to say but somehow not ready to leave yet.

  Henry’s expression was unreadable. “Bye, Mac.”

  Mac left, trying not to feel any sort of ache, any regret. Whatever he might think, even if he thought he—what, loved?—Henry or Sebastian or both of them, Henry couldn’t give him that back. Henry’s loyalty was and always would be to his sister. And rightfully so. Except it wasn’t just loyalty. It was a sense of duty. An attempt to repay a debt that only Henry believed existed.

  Besides, Henry’s friends had an FBI poster taped to their dartboard. This was hardly an advisable match.

  He shook his head as he walked down the hotel hall toward the elevator. An advisable match. From Shakespeare to something out of one of those Regency romances his mom read.

  If he was going to love someone, you’d think he’d be able to just fucking do it. What made a guy who’d taken a bullet in the line of duty so goddamn cautious when it came to something that should be fucking simple? A feeling. One feeling. One word. And he’d have faced a thousand mob bosses with guns before he’d sit down and ponder what that one word meant.

  He almost turned back. Wasn’t that what you were supposed to do? You were almost out of the building or on the plane or driving home in the rain, and then suddenly you turned around and raced back and told the other person how you felt. And then they said they loved you too, and you kissed, and the credits rolled. No word on what happened next. How you dealt with the fact that one of you belonged in a prison cell, and the other should be facilitating that.

  He kept going. Even if he was going to declare his love for Henry, he couldn’t do it with Viola there. Maybe he could spring it on him tomorrow, when Henry came to the office to talk to Bixler and her cronies about what happened in Altona.

  Or maybe he could keep it to himself.

  “But I need to know . . .” Henry wanted to choose his words carefully, then decided honesty was the best route. “I need to know you’ll stay sober, and that you’ll stay with her.”

  The hurt in Remy’s expression was fleeting. “I know. I promise.”

  “It might be a few hours.”

  Remy smiled wanly. “You can stay out the whole night, you know. If you need to.”

  “I’ll be back tonight. I have to . . . I can’t be away from her that long.” He glanced at the door to the bedroom. Viola was sleeping. And Henry, because he was weak, because he was selfish, was going to steal a few hours with Mac.

  “I wouldn’t let anything happen to her.”

  Henry cupped Remy’s cheek. “I know you wouldn’t. I know you looked after her.”

  Remy’s smile was embarrassed this time. “She looked after me, more like.”

  “Good.” Henry passed his thumb briefly over the swelling at the corner of Remy’s mouth.

  Fuck. This was so hard. There were people who needed him. And Mac ne
eded Henry like he needed a case of full body lice; yet he was the one Henry was choosing to be with.

  Henry withdrew his hand.

  “Sorry,” Remy whispered.

  “For what?” Henry asked softly.

  “You ought to be able to trust me.”

  “I do. Or I wouldn’t go.”

  “You ought to be able to trust me all the way.”

  Henry didn’t answer.

  “I want to quit. Soon.” Remy swallowed. “Maybe when you come back. Maybe starting tomorrow, I could get clean.”

  He’d heard that before. But he nodded anyway. “That would be nice. We could use some of the money we’ve got saved and you could go somewhere. Some of those places aren’t so bad, you know?”

  “Yeah.” Remy looked at his hands, which were folded in his lap. “Would you visit me ever, do you think?”

  “Of course I would.”

  “I don’t think you would.”

  “Remy!” Henry swatted his shoulder. “I’d move in there with you.”

  “Don’t joke. I’m not joking.”

  “Me either,” he said. “I’ll always be around for you.”

  Remy shifted away from him. “I’ll think about it.”

  “It’s about figuring out what works best for you. Right?”

  “I don’t know what would work.”

  “Maybe spend less time with Lonny, yeah?” Henry said.

  Remy was quiet. “I know you want to think he . . . he’s got something to do with it. But I do actually make my own choices. You know?”

  “I know. But he does have something to do with it. Every time you start to get clean you end up out somewhere with him. And you end up using.”

  “Well, you’ll be glad to know I’ve got no idea where he is now.” Remy got up and walked to the bathroom. Shut the door firmly, but kept talking. Henry listened to him piss as he spoke. “Won’t answer my calls. So I won’t be fucking going anywhere with him.”

  Henry didn’t answer. Remy came out a minute later, shaking the water from his hands.

  “Look, I’m sorry,” Henry said.

  “Not your fault I’m a fuckup.”

  “Rem. Don’t make this a bigger deal than it is. I’m trying to help.”