by Lisa Henry
“Stace?” he called. “Remy?”
The Court had never felt quite so empty before. There was usually someone hanging around, crashed on the couch or watching TV. He couldn’t even hear the tinny sound of Carson’s radio playing behind the bedroom door. The only sound at all was the low buzz of the refrigerator.
He headed down the hallway to his room. It was just a narrow space that had once been a storage room or something like it. But it was all Henry’s, and had been since the day Stacy had brought him home. What the hell she’d seen in him, he had no idea. Fortunately he’d shut his mouth and hadn’t questioned his luck.
He opened the door.
“Remy?”
Sometimes Remy crashed in Henry’s room, but today it was as empty as the rest of the Court.
Just a narrow bed in a narrow room. The bed had a comforter thrown over it. A suitcase under the bed with a few changes of clothes in it. An old wardrobe that held nothing apart from the faint smell of mothballs. A stack of books on the floor, each dog-eared paperback picked up from flea markets or thrift shops. Winter nights spent huddled under that comforter, taking turns with Remy to read aloud.
“Rem?” he asked the empty room, as though saying his name could summon him out of the air.
Shit.
He watched the dust motes float through a sunbeam.
The place didn’t just feel empty, it felt abandoned, as though nobody would ever walk in here again. He couldn’t shake the chill. He might have been standing on the deck of the Mary Celeste.
The Court of Miracles was closed for business, and he had no idea why. He wondered if his contact number for Stacy was still current, or if she’d ditched the phone when she left the Court.
He closed his eyes for a moment, and saw his friends, and himself, how Mac must: shadows and dust motes and something intangible. He could almost feel himself melting away.
Outside, Doorbell began to bark.
Henry’s eyes snapped open and his breath caught.
Doorbell only barked at strangers.
Mac didn’t do disguises. Still, given that he was currently on the run from OPR and his own colleagues in the FBI, he put on the faded old John Deere cap that he found in the glove compartment of the truck, and his sunglasses.
He walked several blocks from the Circle Centre to a sports bar. Found a booth, sat in it, pulled out his prepaid phone, and dialed Frank Newman.
He rearranged the napkins while it rang.
No answer.
Shit.
Still, it was a landline. Frank was probably out doing whatever the hell he did. Putting bets on illegal fights or scooping up bargain merchandise that fell off the back of a truck, or bullying ducks or something. Mac had no illusions that Frank was a decent guy. He was just slightly more decent than the men he informed on—or, most likely, greedier—but his information had always been good.
After finishing a crappy cup of decaf, he headed back to the Circle Centre, wondering how long Henry would need to track down Remy. He was disappointed that Frank had been unavailable. He’d hoped Frank would be able to supply him with a name, or at least somewhere to start digging, so he wasn’t hanging his hopes of clearing his name on Henry’s junkie friend.
Henry’s best friend. The guy Henry cried over when they were fighting. The guy he called babe.
His stomach clenched.
No. He was not fucking jealous. If they were more than friends, Henry would have said. There was no way in hell he would have missed the opportunity to make Mac squirm.
Henry.
Worry twisted inside him.
He shouldn’t have let Henry go to the Court of Miracles on his own.
When Henry and Vi were small, and their mom had moved them from Altona to Indianapolis, they’d lived in a tiny studio apartment. At that stage it hadn’t mattered that they’d all slept together in their mom’s bed. Henry and Vi had been too young to see it as anything except an adventure. It had been good in summer when they could play outside, but in winter it had been hard to stay cramped up inside. He and Vi had tried to play hide-and-seek, but with only about three hiding spots in the entire place, it hadn’t exactly been challenging.
That tiny studio apartment with only three hiding spots?
It had at least one more hiding spot than Henry’s room at the Court of Miracles.
Under the bed, or into the wardrobe?
Henry had no idea why he chose under the bed. Maybe he was trying to mix it up a bit after last night. Or maybe it was a flash of childhood memory, because he’d never hidden under the bed when he was a kid. He’d been too scared of the monster he’d find there. Sometimes he’d even hated putting his feet on the floor when he woke up in the mornings, so certain that he’d feel clawed fingers tighten around his ankles. Maybe that was why he hid under the bed now. Maybe some crazy part of him really thought he could choose between the monster and whoever was currently outside the Court.
He slid under the bed, shuffling over as far as he could against the wall, and trying not to choke on dust bunnies. He lay on his stomach, wishing he could sink into the floor. He could see the narrow band of light under the doorway and, if he turned his head, the stack of books.
He kept his breathing shallow and squinted at the books to try to keep himself from panicking.
Footsteps in the Court.
Doorbell still barking.
Someone else barking as well: a woman. Shit. Henry knew that voice. Janice Bixler, Mac’s nemesis from OPR.
Not only was the Court being raided, it was being raided by the FBI.
Henry wondered if there was time to crawl out from under the bed and lounge on top of it with a grin as insouciant as a cream-fed cat’s. If he was caught—and he was caught—then he would have preferred to look like he didn’t give a damn either way. Maybe he could even smile and say, What took you so long? when they opened the door.
Too late.
The door opened.
Henry would have known those sensible shoes anywhere. Valerie Kimura.
Shit shit shit.
A pair of scuffed size elevens followed Val’s sensible shoes in.
“You think this is Henry’s room?” Calvin asked.
“Why would it be?”
“The books.”
He was actually impressed at Calvin’s powers of deduction. Then he decided to be offended on behalf of the other occupants of the Court, all of whom could also read and often chose to do so without anyone holding a gun to their heads.
He closed his eyes and tried not to breathe.
Val’s sensible shoes crossed the floor. The wardrobe rattled open. “Empty.”
Calvin snorted. “Yeah, well I doubt Henry would be stupid enough to hide in a—”
Henry opened his eyes to see Calvin’s freckled face peering at him in surprise.
“Calvin?” Val asked.
Calvin blinked at Henry. Then he let the comforter drop again, and climbed to his feet. “Hmm?”
Henry’s heart pounded.
Above him, silence. He could only imagine the looks passing between Val and Calvin right now.
“Clear!” someone yelled from next door. Stacy’s room. The same call echoed from farther down the hallway.
Henry’s donuts turned somersaults in his stomach.
“Clear!” Calvin called out.
“If he was here,” Val said, “I hope he’d tell Mac that I’m using every bit of influence I have to make sure Bixler doesn’t railroad him in his absence, but he’d better come up with some way to clear his name damn quick.”
Already on it, Bosslady.
He didn’t dare say it aloud, because he wasn’t sure their charade was strong enough to withstand it. Maybe what Val really wanted was plausible deniability, and Henry would be glad to keep his mouth shut and help her with that.
Val and Calvin headed outside again, leaving the door open. Which at least gave Henry the pleasure of listening to Janice Bixler berate her surveillance team for letting h
im slip through their net.
“Whatever he came for, he’s obviously got it and he’s gone again!” she grumbled.
No, not yet.
He stared at the pile of books on the floor. Great Expectations was on the bottom of the pile, which could only mean one thing.
Remy had been here, and he’d left a note.
“This used to be a sewing room.” Cory led Viola into a dark room at the back of the hall. Cory’s papa had taken them to the old house so they could play hide-and-seek, and so he could clean up the broken window from last night. “My mom thinks it’s haunted. But ghosts aren’t real.”
“No,” Viola agreed. Sebastian always said that. Though sometimes Viola got the feeling he didn’t believe it.
Like the rest of the house, the sewing room’s wood-paneled walls were old and scarred. The room smelled musty and the curtains were thick and wooly, like blankets. There was a long work table along one wall.
“You can’t hide in the basement,” Cory said. “It’s too dangerous down there. A lot of stuff is rotted.”
They heard the weed whacker start outside. Cory’s papa had said he’d try to get some landscaping done around the old house while Viola and Cory played.
They walked down the hall into the bedroom. It was clean. The bed was made, and the room was so empty, it felt like no one had been here at all. That made Vi nervous, like maybe Sebby had left again—really left—and wouldn’t be back for a long time.
“Mac and Sebby didn’t sleep here last night,” Vi said, trying not to sound scared. “They only slept here the first night. Last night they slept at our house.” She liked pretending she lived in the farmhouse with Cory and her grandparents.
Cory had opened the closet and was looking at the clothes hanging inside. “Are they together?”
“Um.” Vi frowned. “I think. Mac’s our friend, but Sebby likes him a lot.”
Cory held out the sleeve of a suit. “This was Papa’s. It’s from the seventies, and Nana thinks it’s stupid.”
“It’s nice.” Viola walked over. She looked at the suit more closely. “Sebby wears suits to work sometimes. But not like this one. This has checkers.”
Cory glanced at her. “What does your brother do exactly?”
“Bad things,” Sebastian had told her once. Another time he’d said, “I rehome things people don’t need anymore.” Mostly he said, “Odd jobs.”
“He does odd jobs.” She frowned. “He’d get in trouble with the police for some of them.”
“But isn’t Mac the FBI?” Cory pointed out. “If Sebastian does illegal stuff, Mac could arrest him.”
Viola wasn’t sure how that worked. “Mac likes him,” she said uncertainly. “And Mac’s in trouble too. Mac could get arrested, if people find him here.”
“It’s very exciting.” Cory stood on her toes to tug the suit jacket off the hanger.
“One time Sebby put on my clothes.” She couldn’t remember if she was supposed to tell anyone that story or not. The bad angel at St. Albinus had been caught, so maybe it wasn’t a secret anymore. “He had to dress like me to catch someone bad. At my old care center.”
“Did he get the bad guy?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t think you should have to live in a care center.” Cory pulled the suit pants down too. “It sounds boring.”
“I only had one friend there. Mr. Crowley. But he died. Sarah, my nurse, was my friend, but not as good as Mr. Crowley.”
“I have five friends.” Cory held up a hand and ticked them off on her fingers. “Marissa and Kaitlin and Ashley are at my school. Jason is at the swim club. And Riley is my neighbor. Katy Huffman at my school, she says she has sixty friends. But I think she’s lying.”
“She’s probably lying,” Viola agreed.
Cory turned to Viola, holding the suit. “Do you want to play dress-up, and then hide-and-seek?”
“Yes!” Viola loved dress-up. It was the best game—even better than hide-and-seek. “And I could teach you about acting!”
“Well,” Cory said, pulling some more clothes out of the closet, “I already know acting, sort of. I was in the Christmas play at my school.”
“Do you know Shakespeare?”
“What?”
“He wrote lots of plays. My mom . . .” She stopped. Sometimes it was hard to talk about her mom. Her throat felt funny, and sadness came with the memories. She didn’t cry though, because Sarah at St. Albinus had said Viola’s mom was in a better place, so she shouldn’t cry for her. But Viola thought their old apartment was the best place, and she wished she and Sebby and their mom still lived there. And she wished she hadn’t had an accident, and that their mom had stopped doing drugs. But wishing was only okay sometimes, Sarah said. The rest of the time you had to roll with whatever life gave you. “My mom was in Shakespeare plays. She taught Sebby and me. Want to see?”
“Okay.”
Viola gazed around the room, which was small. The bed took up most of it. “We need a big stage.”
“We could use the sewing room.”
They dragged the clothes in there.
“That can be the audience.” Viola motioned to the far wall. “And this can be our prop table.” She set the clothes on the workbench and looked at Cory. “Who do you want to be?”
“Um . . .” Cory studied the clothes. “I like this dress.” She picked up a cream-colored sweater dress with a black velvet collar.
“Okay.” Viola picked up the suit. “We can do All’s Well That Ends Well, if you want.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s Shakespeare. I can be Bertram, and you can be Helena.”
“What do I have to do?”
“I’ll show you.”
Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie,
Which we ascribe to heaven. The fated sky
Gives us free scope, only doth backward pull
Our slow designs when we ourselves are dull.
It frustrated her sometimes that she could remember these words, but couldn’t remember how to do simple things Sebastian said she could do before her accident. She’d asked him once what was different about her now. She’d known he wouldn’t lie to her. He said her brain worked differently. That she was still the same person—good and kind and funny—but she had trouble focusing. And sometimes she had trouble controlling her emotions.
“But we all do, sometimes,” he’d told her.
He wouldn’t say she was dumber now, but Viola knew it was true. Once she’d found a box of her old schoolwork in the apartment. The essays and tests had her name on them, but she didn’t recognize the words she’d written. Even the handwriting was different—straight and even, instead of the scrawl she used now. Answers to a history quiz: The Battle of Lundy’s Lane. The Wealth of Nations. A paper for English class: An Analysis of Gender in Twelfth Night.
She was never going to be the person she’d been. She was never going to be smart. But sometimes she noticed things other people didn’t.
She wasn’t stupid.
“Is this okay?” Cory turned to model the dress, which she’d put on over her Geology Rocks! T-shirt.
“Beautiful.” Viola put on the suit. “Do I look like a boy?”
“You still have long hair,” Cory said.
“Boys can have long hair.”
“You could pin yours up.” Cory went to the old chest of drawers by the sewing machine and opened the top drawer. Rummaged until she found bobby pins. “Sometimes you have to disguise yourself as what people expect to see, remember? People expect boys to have short hair.” Viola knelt on the floor so Cory could pin her hair. “Perfect,” Cory said, stepping back.
Viola stood. “Let’s move that trunk so it’s not in the audience.” She went over to the large, dark wood trunk. It was too heavy to move by herself, so Cory helped her. They scooted it to the nearby corner. Viola walked back, dusting her hands off, when she noticed something—a faint rectangular outline in the panels of the wall, above where the t
runk had been before. There was a small handle at the bottom, about as high as her waist. She tugged on it, but nothing happened. “Cory?”
“Huh?” Cory appeared beside her.
“What’s this?”
Cory reached out and pulled the handle. First out, and then up. A section of the wall slid up, revealing a small dark space.
“I don’t know,” Cory said, and climbed inside.
Henry stayed under the bed for several minutes after the FBI had gone. He couldn’t believe Calvin hadn’t said anything. Apparently their conversation about protein shakes on Henry’s first trip to the Indianapolis office had paid off.
Eventually he crawled out and stood, dusting himself off.
A second later, he sank onto the bed and sat there, gripping the edge of the mattress.
The Court was finished. Now that the FBI had discovered it, Henry and the others could never come back.
Fuck.
Did the others know? Had agents been sniffing around the place for a while before they came in to search? His throat tightened.
Not the time to get sentimental.
He wasn’t sentimental so much as shit-scared. The Court was the closest thing he’d had to a home, and now he had nothing.
Except Mac.
“Hey, Mac, so I’ve been thinking about this whole turning-over-a-new-leaf business. I’ve decided I want to do it.”
“Oh, Henry, how wonderful. I’m so proud of you, and I can’t wait to let you ram your cock into my ass all night long to celebrate.”
“Yeah, um, before we start with that, I wanted to ask: can I move in with you?”
“Of course, Henry. I thought that went without saying.”
“And can my sister live in your spare room, and can you promise you’re never going to let me down, because I’m the only one who gets to do that to people, and can we be nauseatingly happy and live by the rules and cook together on Friday nights and adopt a dog and a kid and take them to the park and share ice-cream cones and make the world barf with the beauty of how excruciatingly perfect we are together? Because I’ll tell you something, Mac, I’m getting awfully tired of feeling worthless.”
“Sure, Henry. All of that.”
