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

by Lisa Henry

“I know,” Val said. “I figured it was something like that. We’ll get it sorted out, but now, you need to get Mac. Got it, Henry? I’m telling you to run.”

  He nodded. “Okay. Okay.” Why was he still nodding? “You can trust me.”

  Dumbest thing he could have said. She couldn’t trust him. No one could.

  But to his surprise, Val said, “I know,” and headed back toward her office.

  So Henry ran.

  With the FBI’s full permission and Penny’s bag of M&M’s for the road.

  Mac was almost out the door when someone knocked on it. He opened it to Henry.

  “You need to get out of here, Mac.”

  “Huh?”

  Henry stepped inside and shut the door. He looked jittery, and his left palm was stained rainbow colors. “OPR’s on their way. They’ve got a warrant for your arrest. We need to run.”

  “My arrest?”

  “They found coke in your office. Not the refreshing beverage.”

  “What the fuck?” Mac was stunned. “I do not have—”

  “No shit, Mac, but the longer you stand there shouting, the better the chances you’ll be apprehended by the Bixler Brigade. Now come on.”

  “How would you know ab—”

  “I was there! I went to the fucking office to find you.”

  “Why?” Something wasn’t right. The Henry standing before him was a far cry from the Henry who thought escaping the bad guys was a jovial game that involved costumes and one-liners. This man was scared, desperate. And most definitely not telling him the whole story.

  “To bring you fucking flowers and chocolate and a lipstick print card that says ‘Thanks for last night’? I don’t know; what does it matter? You weren’t there and Bixler already had the warrant. Val said I should take you somewhere safe.”

  “Val?”

  “Yes, Val. Tall, black hair—”

  “Henry, shut up!”

  “Why are you telling me to shut up when I’m the one with the fucking information?” Henry shouted back.

  “Because what you’re telling me isn’t something I can understand.”

  “Wrap your fucking shiny head around it, Mac. They’re coming for you. Right now. You can either get in Penny’s car and go with me, or—”

  Mac knew a moment of absolute dread. “Penny’s car?”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake, I didn’t steal it! She lent it to me. She and Val want us to run. That’s the truth, and the only question right now is whether you trust me.”

  The look Henry gave him was pleading.

  He wants me to trust him.

  “I can’t run,” Mac said firmly. “That would make me look guilty.”

  “You already look guilty, Mac! The cocaine in your desk really did a number on your halo.”

  “I’m not guilty, and once the—”

  “It doesn’t matter if you’re guilty or not! You’ve been set up. And for all you know, whoever’s doing it has more than a bag of coke up their sleeve. You think you’re gonna prove your innocence from a prison cell?”

  “And what do I prove by running? That I’ve got something to hide.”

  “Val said you have to come with me. And she’s your boss.”

  Under other circumstances, he would have laughed. But Henry was serious, fists clenched, jaw set.

  “She trusts me,” Henry added.

  Mac took his phone from his pocket. “Let me call Val.”

  “There’s no time!” Henry actually grabbed his sleeve, and when Mac met his gaze, Henry shook his arm. “At least come with me for a little while. Don’t let them arrest you right now. You can come back later if you’re that fucking desperate to go to jail, but for now, just—just come with me.” The hitch in Henry’s voice was slight, but it did more than his words could. Mac searched Henry’s face for any sign of artifice. Not that there would be any. Henry was a master liar.

  He opened his mouth to answer, not really sure what would come out, but then Henry went on, his speech quick and stilted: “If you go to prison I won’t ever see you again.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean if you’re not around, I’ll run.”

  “No,” Mac warned. “You’re staying to testify.”

  “I’m staying for you!” Henry’s clenched jaw trembled. “If I try a—another way of living, it’s gonna be with you or not at all. I can disappear anytime I want. Any fucking time. But you make me—” He drew a quavering breath, no longer looking at Mac. “I promised you.”

  Mac didn’t move. Henry’s hand slid from his arm.

  Logic told Mac he couldn’t believe a thing this guy said, ever. But some part of him thought he was getting better at telling what was real with Henry.

  Henry was trying.

  Trying to learn the difference between doing the wrong thing for the wrong reasons, and doing the wrong thing because it was the only way to keep someone safe.

  He was trying to help Mac. And that Scooby-Doo episode had been him trying to help his sister.

  Mac wondered that he ever could have thought Henry was selfish. Foolish, yes. Dangerously so.

  But never selfish.

  “Okay,” he said.

  Henry looked up and smiled, and for a second, Mac thought he had been played after all. But the muscles in Henry’s jaw and neck were still tight, and he didn’t look smug, just relieved. “Then grab your fucking head polish and your toothbrush and let’s go. Vi’s at the hotel. I have to stop and get her.”

  “I didn’t say I’m going with you for good. Just until I can get ahold of Val and figure this out.”

  “I just hope you know somewhere we can hide for a while. I don’t exactly have a lot of friends now that I’ve stopped using the FBI recruiting poster for target practice.”

  “Aw, Henry.” He followed Henry out the door and toward the car. “That’s kind of sweet.”

  Henry glanced over his shoulder. “I am kind of sweet, Mac. Once you get to know me.”

  “You’re certainly something, all right.”

  “Just say it. Say I’m sweet.”

  “You’re sweet.” He got into the car alongside Henry.

  “Then I’m not good for you.” Henry started the engine.

  Mac wasn’t sure what to say to that. Henry wasn’t smiling.

  “Your doctor,” Henry continued, “said to lay off the—”

  “I don’t care what my doctor said.”

  Henry glanced at him. “You’ll care someday when your heart explodes.”

  He backed out of the drive and floored it down the road.

  It was only a short drive to the hotel. Mac’s cell rang twice, and he checked in case it was Val. But both times it was a number he didn’t recognize—though he could guess who it belonged to. Val wouldn’t be stupid enough to call, now that he was on the lam. Now that—and Mac still wasn’t sure he’d got this right—she’d organized for Henry to take him on the lam.

  He took the battery out of his phone. Screw that. If he was being set up, and he was obviously being set up, then Henry was right—he needed to hole up somewhere long enough to think, and to figure out what the hell was going on. Why Val thought Henry should be there with him, he wasn’t sure.

  Because that had gone so well last time, hadn’t it? If he’d learned anything when he was squirreled away with Henry in Altona, it was that he tended to do all his thinking with the wrong head.

  He swore under his breath.

  Henry glanced at him sharply as they entered the lobby of the hotel.

  Mac pulled up short. “Anything you want to tell me, Henry? Are you involved in this mess somehow, because you’ve been looking at me strangely since my place. You look like a dog that stole the last sausage and is trying real hard to act like nothing happened.”

  “Nothing happened.” Henry’s tone was light, but his gaze wouldn’t fix on Mac’s. Slid right over him like he wasn’t there. “There was no sausage and I was out back the whole time digging holes in the garden.”


  Mac frowned at him. “Did you know Jimmy Rasnick?”

  An almost imperceptible twitch in Henry’s jaw, but no answer.

  “Because whoever killed Lonny Harris did it the exact same way that Rasnick shot his victims.”

  “Lonny’s dead?” Henry blanched. “Shit.”

  Mac rubbed his aching chest. “You knew him?” he demanded.

  “He was a piece of shit.” Henry shook his head.

  “Did you know Jimmy Rasnick?” Mac asked him.

  “Everyone knows who Jimmy Rasnick was,” Henry said, lifting his chin. “My mom was a junkie, remember? Did some dealing, as well. So yeah, I met the guy. Of course I met the guy.”

  “You told me once you didn’t know Rasnick.”

  “Well maybe I didn’t want to take a trip down memory lane then, okay?” Henry punched the call button for the elevator. “Maybe I didn’t want to tell you that when I went crying to my mom’s friend Jimmy fucking Rasnick about how we didn’t have the money to pay for Vi’s hospital, he was the one who told me I could always suck dick for a living.”

  “Is that true?”

  “Yep.”

  “Is it the entire truth?” Mac was sure the flicker in Henry’s eyes meant it wasn’t. “Henry, I need to know this shit, okay? Because at the moment I don’t know what the fuck is going on. Someone who knew Rasnick has got a hard-on for revenge, so, yeah . . .” He followed Henry into the elevator. “So I know why I’m being set up, but I’d sure as fuck like to know who’s doing it.”

  Henry watched the numbers climb higher. “I don’t know, Mac, really I don’t.”

  “I don’t believe that. This is you, Henry. There’s always something!”

  “Yeah? Fuck you.” There was no anger in Henry’s tone. He jiggled his leg as the elevator climbed.

  Mac didn’t know whether to feel guilty or vindicated. He never knew with Henry.

  The elevator pinged open.

  Henry led the way down the hall.

  “Viola?” Henry called as he swiped his keycard and pushed the door inward. “Vi?”

  Mac saw it first: a thin trail of blood across the carpet. He elbowed Henry aside, and reached for his firearm.

  Henry was livid. “What are you—” His gaze dropped to the carpet. “Viola!”

  Mac had never seen him look so suddenly, horribly afraid. Not with Dreama Carey Coleman standing over him with a syringe. Not even in the cabin in Altona.

  “Stay here,” he said, edging toward the bedroom door. He opened it cautiously. The room was empty. He crossed the carpet—more blood—and slid the bathroom door open.

  Viola was sitting on the floor. She was holding a book open in her lap, the pages smeared with blood. She lifted her face. She was crying.

  “Viola,” Mac said. She looked so much like Henry that his throat ached. “Remember me?”

  “I hurt my hand, Mac.” Tears slid down her face.

  “It’s okay.” He reholstered his firearm. Grabbed the washcloth off the rail and knelt down beside her on the tiles. “Let me have a look at it.”

  “I don’t like blood,” she whispered.

  “Me neither,” Mac said. “Henry! She’s okay!”

  Henry was right there. “What happened, Vi?” He tugged her injured hand toward him.

  “I was cutting out a bird picture and I slipped,” Viola said, her eyes wide. “Is it a lot of blood? I kept my eyes closed.”

  “If you hold on to the washcloth, it’ll stop bleeding in a second.” Henry laid the washcloth in her palm, over the cut, and curled her fingers closed. He held his hand around hers. “Why were you alone?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Henry dropped her hand. He stood, turned, and punched the wall. “That fucker! That useless junkie piece of shit!” He punched the wall again. Mac flinched at the force behind it. “Fuck!”

  Mac looked from Viola to Henry. “You’re scaring your sister. Calm down.”

  Henry made a strangled sound in the back of his throat. He squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his forehead against the wall. He opened his fists, his fingers straining. “Sorry.” He straightened. “Vi, where’s Remy?”

  “He had to leave,” Viola said in a small voice. “I said I could stay on my own.”

  Henry didn’t respond.

  “Okay,” Mac said. “Viola, come and sit on the bed. It’s more comfortable than the floor.”

  Henry watched narrow-eyed as Mac helped Viola to her feet. He settled her on the bed, made sure she was holding the washcloth tightly, and went and fetched her a bottle of water from the minibar. Then he returned to the bathroom, and to Henry.

  “Want to tell me what happened here?” he asked in a low voice.

  “He was supposed to be watching her.” Henry’s voice cracked. “He promised he would, but what the hell’s a promise mean to an addict, right?”

  Mac put a hand on Henry’s shoulder. Leaned in close. “She’s okay.”

  “Not just her, Mac! Remy was supposed to be here for you too.”

  “Remy?” Mac knew the name . . . or at least he’d heard or maybe read it recently. It was unusual enough to catch in his memory.

  “This morning Remy told me that Lonny Harris had been paid to set up a federal agent,” Henry said. He shrugged. “It’s you, Mac. It’s gotta be you.”

  Mac released him and stepped back. What was it he’d said to Henry in the elevator? This is you, Henry. There’s always something. Well, what if that something turned out to be that Henry didn’t just know Lonny Harris, he also knew that Harris had been paid to lie about Mac?

  It had been a long time since Mac had believed in coincidences. He was taking a leap of faith on this being one now. Because Henry Page played a long con, didn’t he? He lied for a living. And this was the point, right here in this hotel bathroom, where Mac had to decide whether to believe him, or whether to tell him to go fuck himself.

  He could walk away.

  He didn’t need Henry.

  He didn’t.

  Had Henry been trying to warn him in the car? “Then I’m not good for you.”

  Fuck.

  Henry had to know he’d end up lying to Mac. Breaking his promise. He was who he was.

  Henry stared at him. Opened his mouth to say something, then shut it again. Swallowed. Pressed his lips together. Swallowed again. Finally got a word out: “Mac.”

  He felt a rush of need. Different than lust. It was just as hot, just as desperate, but it ran deeper. He reached out and cupped Henry’s face in his hands. “Promise me. Promise you’re not fucking lying.”

  “Promise,” Henry whispered. He leaned in.

  Mac dropped his hands. “Pack Viola’s bags. Five minutes.”

  Don’t give me time to change my mind.

  “Mac,” Henry murmured, frowning. “What—”

  “Five minutes.” Mac kept his voice steady.

  “Okay,” Henry said, his eyes as wide as Viola’s. “Five minutes.”

  Vi loved road trips. Henry saw she was smiling before they even cleared downtown.

  “This is a nice car,” she said.

  Henry checked that the GPS jammer was working. Best. Investment. Ever. Penny wouldn’t report her car as stolen until she absolutely had to, but there was no point in leaving a trail of breadcrumbs for OPR to trace in a few hours, was there?

  He passed the M&M’s back to Viola.

  She leaned forward, and her hair snagged on the hanger from which Henry’s suit hung in a long black bag. “Ow,” she said, untangling herself. “Why do you have a suit? Are you going to work?”

  “You never know.” Henry reclaimed the M&M’s. “I wouldn’t want to be caught anywhere without a suit. Not even in—” He glanced at Mac as they turned off East 96th and onto I-69. “Really, Mac? We’re going this way? Tell me we’re heading to Muncie, please. Said no one ever.”

  Mac didn’t answer right away. “We’re going to Altona.”

  He opened his mouth to ask Mac what the fuck he was talking about,
then stopped himself. Maybe Mac had a plan. Shit, Henry wanted to trust that he did. “I should have driven.” He leaned back.

  “And where would we go then?” Mac asked.

  Henry shrugged.

  “The Court of Miracles,” Viola suggested.

  “Vi.” Henry sighed. “The Court is a secret, remember?”

  “I remember.” A note of steel crept into her voice. “But Mac is our friend, and secrets are bad.”

  “Yeah, secrets are bad.” He stared out the window for a moment. “You know what else is bad?”

  “What?” Viola asked.

  “Sequels.”

  “I like The Empire Strikes Back,” Viola said.

  “So do I.” Henry found his glasses in his bag and put them on. One earpiece squeaked when he opened it. “But The Empire Strikes Back is the exception to the rule. Grease 2, anyone?”

  Viola passed a green M&M up between the seats, and Henry took it.

  Mac watched the road.

  “Sequels,” Henry said, “are generally crap. Which is why I’m wondering why we’re going back to Altona instead of heading for Mexico right about now. Given that last time we were at the cabin, Mac, you got shot. Remember that?”

  “We’re not going to the cabin,” Mac said.

  “Where are we going?” Henry asked.

  Mac drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “Well, I can’t believe I’m actually saying this, but, Henry, I’m taking you home to meet my parents.”

  Henry’s mouth dropped open.

  Well, fuck.

  That was the worst idea he’d heard in a while.

  Explore the rest of the Playing the Fool series:

  riptidepublishing.com/titles/series/playing-the-fool

  Dear Reader,

  Thank you for reading Lisa Henry and J.A. Rock’s The Merchant of Death!

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