Tempest (Playing the Fool #3)

by Lisa Henry

  “You think you are.” Henry twisted his mouth into something like a smile. “Where were you when I was fifteen? Where the fuck were you when it was still possible?”

  He stared into Henry’s eyes. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

  “Nothing,” Henry whispered. “Don’t say anything. I’m ruining it, aren’t I?”

  “No.” He wondered if the word was a denial or a plea. “Henry, I—”

  Fuck. I love you?

  The unsaid words hung starkly between them.

  “Yeah,” Henry whispered. He closed his eyes. Tears gleamed on his lashes. “Doesn’t matter.”

  A hundred things he could have said, should have said, but Mac couldn’t find the words. He wondered if it was even possible to ruin this indefinable thing between them. Because what was it really? If he didn’t know, then how could he fight for it?

  They lay there in silence until Mac’s mom called them down for dinner.

  After a dinner Mac could barely touch, Henry suggested they head back to the old house.

  Mac supposed they should—though he half dreaded the idea. It would just be the two of them in that dark, moldy old place—and what the hell was he supposed to say to Henry, in light of what he now knew?

  “I think you should spend the night up here,” his mother said.

  Mac exchanged a glance with Henry. “We shouldn’t . . . uh, it’s probably not safe.”

  “Listen,” his mom said. “We know there’s a risk having you in the house. But I’d rather we were all together if something happens. Really.”

  “I agree,” his dad said. “If anyone comes looking for you, we can deal with it. In the meantime, I say we try to enjoy one another’s company.”

  Henry shrugged. “The company is much nicer up here.”

  Mac couldn’t tell if that was a jab at him or a comment on how isolated the old house was.

  “Stay here!” Cory begged.

  “Yeah, Sebby,” Viola said. “And Mac! We’ll show you Cory’s science.”

  “I’d love to see some science.” Henry smiled. He’d eaten his entire dinner, and had managed a decent parody of his usual good cheer. To someone who didn’t know him well, he’d have seemed all right.

  Do I know him well?

  Henry went to take a shower, promising he and Mac would come to Cory’s room later to see some science. Mac took the burner phone out into the yard and called Val.

  “We okay to talk?” he asked when she picked up.

  “As far as I know,” she said. “God, I’m glad you called.”

  “Because you’ve cleared my name?”

  “Not exactly. But I’ve got some info that’ll interest you. How was your meeting?”

  “Frank’ll let me know if he gets anything. What’s the info?”

  “Ohhh, Mac. You’re gonna like this. Bixler’s a dirty birdie.”

  “What?” He lowered his voice, as though there might be someone spying from the trees. Shit, he wouldn’t rule it out. “You’re sure?”

  “Can’t prove anything yet. But a few years ago, she was under investigation. Suspicions of bribery. But she’s got friends in high places. The investigation was dropped suddenly.”

  He tried not to let himself get too hopeful. “Who was in charge of that investigation? Can you contact anyone associated with it?”

  “I’m working on it. You know these things take time.”

  “So it comes down to whether we get something on Bixler before she finds me.”

  “Or whether we can figure out how you were set up. We’re going against some powerful people here. I don’t know whether it’s going to be harder to prove your innocence or her guilt.”

  “Depending on what Remy gives me, maybe we can kill two birds with one stone.” He thought again about the tapes Remy had mentioned. If Lonny Harris had made tapes . . . if he’d said who was putting him up to this . . .

  “I’ve also got a couple of agents watching Mick Cranner,” Val said.

  Cranner. He’d made a drug run for Rasnick years ago, but the FBI had never been able to pin him. No evidence Cranner had even been a major player in Rasnick’s game. “Seems like a waste of time.”

  “The local police want to believe the Rasnick party dissolved once Jimmy went to jail. But if that’s not true, then right now Cranner’s the closest thing we have to a Rasnick connection.”

  “Except for Remy,” he pointed out.

  “Remy helped him with a job, and J.J.—Rasnick—paid him in heroin,” Henry had said. Maybe Remy’s connections went beyond Lonny Harris.

  “I suppose.” Val’s tone seemed a little off.

  “Henry’s been trying him,” he told her. “But no answer. We’re heading back to the city tomorrow to try and track him down.”

  “Mac . . .”

  “What?”

  A long pause. “Never mind.”

  “You don’t think using Remy is a good idea.”

  “I do, actually. I think it’s a rare opportunity, you having a connection with Henry. He’s an intellectual criminal, and he’s probably got smart crim friends. Which could work against us, but in this case, I think it’s a good thing.”

  Having a connection with.

  Was that what the kids were calling it these days?

  “So what’s the problem?” He knew something was bugging her.

  “I really think you should let me talk to Remy.”

  Absolutely not. Remy would bolt. “No can do.”

  “You need to lay low.”

  “I need to clear my name.”

  “Fuck. Mac, at least tell me where you’re meeting him.”

  “I’ll let you know when I know.”

  He could almost see her shaking her head.

  “I thought you liked doing things by the book,” she said.

  He looked across the darkening yard. Something was moving in one of the trees, and his heartbeat increased steadily. A second later, a black-and-white cat raced down the trunk and toward the road.

  Paranoid much?

  He eased his grip on the phone. “The book hasn’t been helping me lately.”

  “Or you’ve been spending too much time with someone who doesn’t appear to know the book exists.” Val paused and then said, her tone serious, “So how is Henry?”

  Mac glanced toward the house. What purpose would it serve, telling Val what Rasnick had done to Henry? It’d be a violation of Henry’s privacy and his trust.

  And what if Henry wasn’t telling the whole truth? What if his former connection to Rasnick did have some bearing on Mac’s current situation? Not that he believed Henry was working against him. But Henry was skilled at withholding information.

  The odd thing was, he was less interested in confiding in Val from a professional standpoint, and more interested in—Jesus, wasn’t there a better way to say it?—relationship advice. Was it completely idiotic to care so much about someone who was never going to be normal?

  And none of this, “But what is normal?” bullshit. Fucked-up childhood equals fucked-up adult. If he were okay, then he wouldn’t be an “intellectual criminal.” He’d have a job, he’d have a home, and he would go to the police when he suspected foul play in a residential care facility—not dress up like his sister and try to get the Scooby-Dooby scoop himself.

  Val had dated a pot dealer in college. Told Mac how scared she’d been that someone would find out when she’d applied for a job with the FBI.

  But look at her now—the boss. So no biggie if I want to date a former child prostitute turned con artist and still work for the federal government. Right?

  He rubbed his head with his free hand. “Do you think I’m crazy?”

  “Why?”

  “Because—” He gripped the phone tighter. “Because I’ve spent my whole career catching bad guys. And he’s not a good guy. But I really . . . He’s . . . it.”

  He’s what?

  “Oh, Mac. Haven’t you given up on good guys and bad guys yet?”

/>   “That’s hard. That’s hard for me.”

  “I know.” Val sounded sympathetic. “But listen. Henry hasn’t killed or maimed anyone. He’s not a drug dealer or a terrorist.”

  “He . . . runs.” Mac shook his head, frustrated. “He shows up just long enough to turn everything upside down, and then he disappears. I don’t want to live my life just hoping he’ll keep coming back.”

  “He’s the Mary Poppins of gay con men,” Val said. “You could do worse.”

  “Thanks, Val. That’s really—” He froze.

  Headlights.

  There were headlights coming up the road.

  Could be anyone. It’s a public road.

  Except the car was slowing down.

  “Shit. I’ve got to go.”

  “Mac! What is it?”

  The car turned into the drive and started up toward the house. “Fuck. Val, I’ll call you later. Someone’s here.”

  He hung up and ran for the house.

  Bixler. It had to be Bixler and her OPR cronies. Who the hell else would it be?

  “Ryan?” his dad asked worriedly as the screen door crashed in the frame.

  “Car,” Mac said, rushing through to the dining room. He grabbed the extra plates from the table and took them into the kitchen. “Henry, someone’s coming.”

  Henry was pouring a glass of milk. He shoved the jug back into the fridge.

  Mac’s mom hurried toward the stairs. “I’ll get the girls.”

  “Lock the door, Dad. Take your time to answer it.” Mac dumped the plates in the sink. “Henry, go.”

  Henry didn’t move.

  “Go.” He grabbed Henry by the shoulder and turned him toward the back of the house. “Go out the back door. Head for the old house. I’ll be right behind you.”

  “Mac!” Henry had to argue, just like always. He spun around. “What if they’re surrounding the house already?”

  His mom was coming back down the stairs, Viola behind her. Cory, wide-eyed, remained at the top.

  “If they’re surrounding the house already, then we’re already caught. But if they’re not, then we need to leave right now.” He twisted his fist in Henry’s shirt. “So take Vi and get. The. Fuck. Out.”

  Henry’s eyes widened. “You are totally turning me on right now.”

  “Jesus Christ, Henry.” Because apparently there were people who went to pieces in an emergency, and apparently there were people who went straight to the lowest common denominator. Mac had almost missed the underlying waver in Henry’s voice that told the truth: Henry was scared too. He gentled his tone. “I’ll be right behind you. Promise.”

  Henry nodded, and peeled away. He took Vi’s hand and drew her toward the back door.

  “I’ll be right behind you,” he repeated firmly. Don’t run any farther than you have to. He turned to his parents. “God. I’m so sorry for bringing this down on you.”

  “Bringing what, Ryan?” his dad asked. “People asking questions? I think we can handle that.”

  “Go, honey,” his mom said. “We’ll make sure there’s nothing for them to see.”

  “Thanks, Mom.” Mac headed out the back door.

  It was growing darker. He kept close to the house as long as he could, then slipped down past his mom’s garden shed toward the chicken pen. He could see Henry and Viola, hand in hand, in front of him. Sticking to the shadows like alley cats, until they were past the first fringe of trees into the field behind the house.

  He ran to catch up with them. He made sure he kept his arms close to his body. He did not want to give Henry another opportunity to critique his running style.

  “Mac.” Viola’s voice was pitched high with worry. “I left my shoes on Cory’s floor.”

  “It’s okay.” Cory was smart. She’d kick them under the bed.

  “My socks will get dirty.”

  “We’ll wash them tomorrow, Vi,” Henry told her.

  They climbed the fence at the bottom of the field, and headed through the trees toward the old house. In the darkness under the trees, Mac could hardly tell the difference between the twins. Henry had a little more height, and Vi’s hair was longer, but most of their differences had been softened by the gloom. They even moved the same way, fluid and graceful.

  They reached the old house.

  Henry pushed the door open and tugged Viola inside. He waited in the doorway for Mac, then closed and latched the old kitchen door after him.

  “Okay.” Mac tried to catch his breath. “Let’s go upstairs.”

  “My feet are wet,” Viola said.

  Mac followed them upstairs to the main bedroom. Viola sat on the bed and peeled her wet socks off. Henry shifted from foot to foot.

  “Why are we upstairs, Mac?” His voice was low. “They won’t come over here, will they? Pretty sure you need a warrant for that shit, or an invitation to come in, right? Like vampires.”

  “Vampires aren’t real,” Viola said.

  “I know that, Vi.”

  Mac thought back to what Val had said. Janice Bixler might be a dirty birdie. Or she might just be so convinced of his guilt that she was willing to break a few rules to get to him. He understood that. He’d been there.

  Felt different standing on this side of the equation.

  “Let’s just wait and see.”

  “Sure.” Henry folded his arms over his chest. “Let’s wait and see.”

  From here, Mac couldn’t see his parents’ house. But it was set closer to the main road than the old house, so there was no reason whatsoever for a car to travel farther down the road. A car with no headlights on.

  He shook his head. As though that made it somehow invisible. He hoped Bixler drove into a ditch. “Company.”

  “They won’t come in, will they? Mac?” Henry kept his voice a whisper.

  “I don’t know.” A spray of gravel as the car pulled up. “The closet. Let’s go.”

  He opened the door.

  “We won’t all fit in there. Unless it’s a secret passage to Narnia.”

  “C’mon, Henry.” Mac pushed him gently in. “This house was built by a bootlegger.”

  At the back of the bedroom closet was a sliding panel. Libby had always said it was where their grandpa had hidden the booze, although Mac had argued that it wasn’t really a big enough space, and who would want to sleep next to all that flammable liquor anyway? This hidey-hole, he figured, was probably where he’d kept his ill-gotten cash. And possibly his pornography and his guns. Grandpa McGuinness had lived large.

  The compartment was a tight squeeze, and it smelled faintly of mothballs. Mac shut the panel behind them.

  “It’s dark in here,” Viola whispered. “I don’t like it.”

  He linked his fingers through Henry’s.

  “Can I still have my sleepover with Cory?”

  “Vi. Please, shhh. Please.” Henry yanked his hand free of Mac’s, presumably to comfort Vi. “We have to be quiet now.”

  “Don’t touch me!” She started to struggle.

  “Vi! Not now.” Henry’s voice was as sharp as Mac had ever heard it.

  “Let me go! You’re being mean.”

  Vi’s elbow caught Mac in the ribs. “Viola.” He hoped his tone was soothing. He racked his brain for something to say to calm her down. “Sebastian’s scared. He’s really scared that bad people will find us. Can you help keep him safe?”

  He felt Henry go rigid beside him. Caught the glint of Viola’s eyes through the darkness. She’d fallen still.

  “You’re scared, Sebby?” she asked.

  “Yes,” Henry whispered. It didn’t sound like a lie.

  Viola’s arm brushed his side as she put her arms around Henry. She didn’t say another word.

  Mac flinched at the sound of breaking glass downstairs. Must be the window beside the kitchen door. It would be simple enough to reach in and unlatch the door now.

  The staircase creaked.

  “Shh,” he whispered.

  He felt Viola shift, he
r arm tensing against his as she held Henry more tightly.

  It was strange to see them like this, with Viola the protector for once. But maybe that was how it had been, before Jimmy Rasnick. Henry had told him before that Viola had always looked after him, and had tried to save him that night. He couldn’t imagine the burden of Henry’s—Sebastian’s—guilt. It was no wonder he’d needed an alias or two dozen to escape into. Because Sebastian was still afraid.

  The bedroom door opened. The footsteps came closer. Mac held his breath as the closet door rattled open. Light pierced the crack between the wall and the sliding panel. It felt as stark as a searchlight and his heart pounded, but then it was gone and the closet door was shut again.

  Crisis meetings in the McGuinness household were a lot lower key than the ones Henry had sat through at the Court of Miracles. So far there had been no swearing, no bitter recriminations, and no death threats. No hard liquor either, although he could see a bottle of tequila sitting on top of the refrigerator in between one of those statues of the waving cats, and a World’s Greatest Dad mug bristling with pencils.

  Tequila would have been nice right about now.

  “Janice Bixler,” Ian said, flicking the card down on the kitchen table.

  Mac sighed and rubbed his forehead.

  “Are you telling me that this woman broke into the old house?”

  Mac nodded. He leaned back in his chair.

  “Well, who the hell do I complain to about that?”

  “Nobody, Ian,” Ana said, setting a coffee down in front of him. She squeezed his shoulder. “We never saw anything, right, Ryan?”

  “Right,” Mac said.

  “It’s just a window,” Ana said.

  “It’s the principle,” Ian grumbled.

  Principles. Those were luxuries Henry had never been able to afford. Sold them out at around the same time as his pride, he figured. And his shame. He didn’t miss them. It was easier to not give a fuck about the things he did and the people he screwed over.

  My conscience hath a thousand several tongues,

  And every tongue brings in a several tale,

  And every tale condemns me for a villain.

  But fuck it, right?

  He forced a smile as Viola slid into the chair next to his. “Did you find your shoes?”