Conned: A Bureau Story (The Bureau Book 6)

by Kim Fielding

  “No.” If he let Birdie in, the dybbuk would destroy them both.

  God, if only he knew how to escape this! But the dybbuk was neither a pair of handcuffs chaining him to a bed nor a cabinet with trick doors. It wasn’t a gun pointed at his heart, and he didn’t have a bullet tucked away inside his cheek. He’d never been taught this kind of trick.

  But…. A thought glimmered at the edge of his fading consciousness. He had been taught something that might help. Not a trick at all, but an exercise of faith. An act of compassion. A plea for peace.

  “El malei rachamim….” He’d last recited this prayer at his father’s grave, with his mother standing silent and pale in her grief. Now he was certain nobody but Birdie heard the Hebrew trickling from his tightened lips, but that was okay. In fact, it was enough to say the words silently because behind him chanted an entire chorus with his father’s familiar voice leading them all. Lending Abraham Ferencz—their son, their grandson, their ever more distant descendant—their strength and grace. Their acceptance and love.

  Oh God, full of compassion, who lives on high, give infinite rest beneath your divine wings, among the holy and pure who shine like the sky, to this spirit. Protect him forever and tie him with the rope of eternal life. May he rest eternally in peace.

  “And let us say, amen,” said Birdie.

  The dybbuk screeched. No—the sound came from Emil, who’d thrown his head back so far that it seemed his neck must be broken. His mouth was open in an impossibly wide O; his scream was like a siren, piercing and inhuman, enough to shake the curtains and rattle Abe’s bones.

  Crespo collapsed to his knees, gun still clutched in one hand, and covered his ears with his arms. Townsend released Abe and staggered back a step. Birdie smiled. Thomas surged forward and gathered Abe into his steady arms.

  The dybbuk released its hold on Abe and zoomed away, like a suddenly deflated balloon, heading straight to Emil.

  Oh, good Lord. Abe suddenly realized that the dybbuk had never been the spirit of a dead person. It was a piece of Emil’s living soul.

  Emil made a sound no human throat should have formed, and he collapsed bonelessly to the floor. Dark blood trickled from his open mouth, but his eyes remained open and focused on Abe. In his final moments, just before the light in his eyes died for good, he sobbed once and rasped three words: “Forgive me, Abe.”

  Emil’s lungs rattled to a halt.

  Crespo rose unsteadily and prodded Emil’s corpse with his foot. Abe’s attention was focused there too, so he startled when Thomas abruptly let go of him and lunged to the side.

  Thomas was too late, however. Townsend’s unwavering gun was trained on Thomas, who skidded to a halt. “Give me the Prince,” Townsend said.

  Thomas snarled. “Shoot me and get it yourself.”

  “If I do, your Bureau pal will use his gun on me. I’d prefer to avoid that unpleasantness. Give me the amulet and nobody else need die. I might even offer you a job once I’m settled comfortably in Washington.”

  “I’d never work for you.”

  They glared at each other, with Crespo adding his own fierce look from near Emil’s body. None of them paid any attention to Abe, who was unarmed and expending his last energy in simply remaining upright.

  None paid any attention except Birdie, now more visible than ever. He gave Abe an impish grin. “C’mon mate. You know what we need to do.”

  “I don’t—”

  “I’m stuck here for good and it’s not right. Not comfortable either.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Thomas and Townsend remained in their face-off, both frowning as they heard only Abe’s side of the conversation.

  “It’s not your fault,” Birdie said. “But I’d appreciate your help in fixing it.”

  “How?”

  Birdie jerked his chin in Townsend’s direction. “Persuade him to let me in. I can’t do this without his permission.”

  Abe shook his head. “How— I can’t—”

  “Of course you can. You know what to do. Tell him what he wants to hear.”

  Ah. Moving slowly because his body still felt as if it had been turned inside out twice, Abe shuffled to Thomas’s chair and lowered himself into it. All the living men in the room stared, as if afraid he might do something horrible at any moment. Which, in fact, he was going to do. Although it would be the right horrible thing.

  “Mr. Townsend,” Abe said.

  “What’s wrong with you?”

  “Nothing a gallon or so of gin won’t fix. But first I have a proposition for you. A solution to the stalemate.”

  The merest shadow of a smile played at the corners of Thomas’s mouth, giving Abe the support he needed. Townsend scowled, but Abe recognized the look in his eyes: he was a fish eyeing the worm that squiggled so interestingly on the hook.

  “You want political power, right? That’s what the Prince would give you. But what if I can offer you something even better?”

  Figuratively, Townsend swam a little closer. “What could you possibly have to offer me, my boy?”

  “A much longer life, for one thing. You’ll barely age, never get sick, and it will be almost impossible for anything to kill you. But more than that. You will gain several extraordinary talents. Do you remember what I did to you the other day?” Abe smiled brightly.

  Townsend shuddered. “I could hardly forget, could I?”

  “You’d learn to do that. Your skills wouldn’t come to you all at once, but over time—which you’d have plenty of—and you’d be able to do things no living man could even dream of. You wouldn’t have political power, but you’d possess a very different kind. Who’s stronger, Mr. Townsend? The figurehead in office or the person standing in the shadows, telling the figurehead what to do?”

  Thomas was very clearly fighting a full-blown smile by now, so it was fortunate Townsend wasn’t looking at him. “How is this possible?” Townsend demanded.

  “Ibbur.”

  Crespo issued a small gasp of recognition, and now he was struggling to keep a serious expression as well.

  “I don’t know what that is.” Without being aware of it, Townsend had lowered the arm holding the gun, which meant Crespo could have shot him; for that matter, so could Thomas. But neither did. They waited for Abe to finish his con.

  The best way to fool someone was to tell them as much of the truth as possible, skittering around the details you didn’t know or, as in this case, didn’t want them to know. It worked with séance guests, who were always happy to know that their deceased mother loved them and wished them well in life. They heard what they wanted to and didn’t notice the omissions, such as details that would prove whether the medium was truly in contact with their relative.

  “It’s possession. The spirit of a righteous man settles within you and grants you his powers.”

  “Why would you offer this to me when I nearly killed you?”

  “Because I’m tired of people dying.” And when Abe sighed, his exhaustion and pain were real. “I’ve fallen in love with Thomas, you see, and I’d like for both of us to remain together—alive. Not hunted like beasts.”

  Townsend was still swimming back and forth in front of the bait. “Why should I believe you?”

  “Because doing so gives you the best outcome. If you harm any of us, the Bureau will be after you. And the Prince won’t give you instant absolute authority. Or the ability to dodge a bullet.”

  While Townsend sucked on his lip, Thomas returned the gun to his pocket and relaxed his stance. Good. He was showing his belief in what Abe was saying, exactly the way Rosie did as a plant in Abe’s séance gatherings. Crespo nodded as well, and although he didn’t put his gun away, he pointed it at the floor.

  “I don’t know….” Townsend deliberated.

  Abe looked him in the eyes. “This is my truth. Not a single lie amidst it.”

  “I’ll be young again….”

  “No. The ibbur won’t reverse aging. But it will slow it down to a craw
l, and it will restore vitality.”

  And that was part of a good con too. Don’t promise them the moon and the stars because they won’t believe it. Show them the limitations of your offer.

  “When can you do this?”

  “Right now, Mr. Townsend. As soon as you say yes.”

  And Townsend bit. “Yes,” he whispered.

  Birdie rushed to Townsend almost as quickly as the dybbuk returned to Emil, but stopped just short of contact. He cast a longing look at Thomas before turning to Abe. “You’ll remind him again I loved him?”

  “Every day, if you want.”

  “Nah. Just now and then. And you’ll treat him right? Help him learn to bend without breaking?”

  “I’ll do my very best.”

  Birdie squared his shoulders, every inch a soldier marching to his fate. “Right, then.” He nodded.

  Abe… pushed. It was a bit like giving someone a boost over a high wall, or like helping someone lift a heavy load. It was neither of those things really, but it did the trick. Birdie flowed into Townsend like a river flowing into the sea, not disappearing exactly, but mingling, becoming water neither sweet nor fully saline. Townsend’s eyes went very wide and the gun tumbled from his hands, luckily not going off in the process.

  “Oh!” he exclaimed, and then he fell to the floor with a thud.

  Abe collapsed right after.

  23

  “It’s a scheme.” Thomas stood by the open window, blowing smoke down toward Union Square.

  Abe groaned a second time, louder and more theatrically than the first. “What is?”

  Thomas turned slowly, just for the pleasure of seeing Abe alive and bare-chested, blinking groggily from the rumpled bed. “You’re trying to get me to take you to every posh hotel in the city.”

  Blinking slowly, Abe looked around the room. “Which one is this?”

  “Sir Francis Drake.”

  “Ah. Nice.”

  Thomas snorted. “Should be, considering what they charge.” Three dollars and fifty cents a night, which was outright robbery. But the bed was like heaven itself, the view was nice, and the staff delivered food—and liquor—via a clever panel in the door.

  Abe groaned a third time. “I need to piss.”

  “I’d imagine so.”

  “Don’t think I can make it by myself.” Abe lifted a hand a few inches and let it drop back to the mattress with a little thud.

  Thomas stubbed out his cigarette in a glass ashtray and strode toward the bed, where he tugged the covers off of Abe.

  “I’m naked,” Abe said.

  “Made it easier to care for you. Can you walk with help or shall I carry you?”

  “Walk.”

  In fact, Thomas ended up nearly dragging him to the bathroom and seating him on the toilet. Abe protested weakly about the indignity of it all, but even he had to admit that standing and aiming was beyond his current capabilities. Thomas leaned in the doorway, far enough away to give him a speck of privacy but close enough to dart forward and catch him if he collapsed.

  “Wow,” Abe said finally. “That was a full bladder.”

  “You’ve been in bed for thirty-six hours.”

  Abe gaped. “I slept that long?”

  “You stirred a few times, but yes. Now, what next? Food? Booze? Sleep?”

  “That’s… a really nice bathtub.”

  “You want to bathe? Now?” Thomas was incredulous. “You’re barely conscious.”

  “I feel— What Emil did to me— Yes. Now.”

  Thomas could have bullied him into waiting, or he simply could have carried him back to bed, but Abe had spent enough time being controlled by others. So Thomas turned on the taps and adjusted the water temperature. “Will you be all right alone for a minute?”

  “Of course.” Slumped on the toilet, Abe smiled, despite the bruised and tender-looking skin around his bullet wound.

  Thirty minutes later he lolled in the bath like a pharaoh, nibbling on the fruit and biscuits Thomas was hand-feeding him, bit by bit. On the side of the tub sat a bottle of slivovitz—thanks to Thomas’s very substantial tip for the bellboy—but Abe had drunk only a little. After plenty of fresh-squeezed orange juice and an egg and toast, he was looking stronger.

  And beautiful. Good Lord, such a sinfully beautiful man.

  Abe grinned at Thomas’s expression. “You’re not thinking of shooting me, are you?”

  “After all the work and money I’ve invested in you? I should say not.”

  The splash Abe aimed at him was too half-hearted to reach its target.

  “This floor is bloody uncomfortable.” Thomas shifted his position on the ceramic tile. “Are you ready for dry land yet, Your Majesty?”

  “I sup-pose.” Abe drew out the word lazily.

  Thomas helped him up and toweled him dry—a hardship, with all that tempting skin right under his hands—but Abe made it back to bed with only a little assistance, and he even managed to adjust the pillows himself. “There’s a wireless on that table!”

  “Every room has one, I’m told. We can listen when your head stops hurting.”

  “I didn’t even notice the headache.” Abe chuckled. “Too many other aches clamoring for attention.”

  “Get some rest, then.”

  Abe gave him a close look. “You too. Have you slept at all for the past couple of days?”

  In truth, Thomas hadn’t done more than doze, even though Abe hadn’t needed much direct care. But Thomas had carried an irrational fear that if he slipped too deeply into slumber, he’d awake to find Abe gone. Not run away, but simply disappeared, like a coin in a magic trick. Now he shrugged and reached for his tobacco.

  “Don’t,” Abe said. “Take off your clothes and get into bed with me.”

  “You can’t possibly—”

  “Tom.”

  The name did it. He’d been Thomas or Donne to nearly everyone, and Tommy to Birdie, but he was Tom to Abe alone. A special enchantment, probably, wrapped up in those three little letters. He didn’t mind.

  Efficiently but not hastily, he undressed until he was as bare as Abe and then slid in beside him. He tried to leave some space between them, but Abe scooted over at once and half draped himself over Thomas with a contented sigh. This was something new, something he’d never had the opportunity to enjoy with Birdie, nor any interest in pursuing with someone else. This was true intimacy, and Thomas may have sighed. He rested a hand on Abe’s warm shoulder.

  “How did you get me here?” Abe asked.

  “Crespo helped. He rang some other agents to take care of the mess in my office. I’ve no idea where they came from or how they arrived so quickly. Then he helped me carry you to a taxi, bribed the hotel staff to pretend they didn’t notice you were unconscious, and helped me get you up here. I undressed you without his assistance, however.”

  Abe’s chuckle tickled Thomas’s skin. “He’s a good man. Or… whatever he is.”

  Thomas had been wondering about that last bit himself but had decided Crespo’s identity was nobody’s business but his own. “He gave me all the money in Townsend’s wallet. It’s plenty to keep us comfortable for some time.” Nearly a thousand dollars, actually. Why he’d been carrying so much was a mystery—but not one Thomas would bother to solve.

  “Townsend.” Abe tensed against him. “Is he….”

  “He was breathing when I left. The Bureau has him now.”

  “It’s not him any longer. Not Birdie either.”

  “I know.” Thomas had grieved Birdie a decade earlier and had no more room for it in his heart. “He was a hero, wasn’t he? Even after death.”

  “He was.”

  Thomas held Abe slightly tighter and dropped a kiss on his messy curls. “So were you.”

  “I almost let that fucking amulet convince me—”

  “But you didn’t. Anyone can be brave when there’s nothing to fear, and anyone can resist when there’s no temptation. A hero makes the right decision in the worst circumstances
. You’re a mensch, Abraham Ferencz.”

  Abe’s laughter gently shook them both. Then he sighed, his breath ghosting across Thomas’s chest. “What did you do with the Prince?”

  “Gave it to Crespo.”

  “Do you trust him with it? Trust the Bureau?”

  Thomas stroked Abe’s warm back, loving the smoothness of his skin and the hardness of the muscles beneath. He loved the contradictions of this man, the complexity, the stubbornness. Loved the way that, when he was with Abe, he could let his defenses down a little, because Abe could see through to his real self anyway. And he loved that Abe could hold his own.

  “I’ve told you before that I trust nobody. But I suppose I distrust Crespo less than the average. And you, Abe. I have faith in you.”

  Making love was out of the question, but the tender kiss Abe gave him was just as good.

  24

  Abe stood with his hands on his hips and surveyed the room. “It looks strange.”

  Thomas flashed his now-familiar grin. “You used to have this room stuffed full of glowing gauze and trick cabinets and black curtains and decks of marked cards and Lord knows what else. That was strange.”

  “Not for a séance room.”

  Now it was a very ordinary parlor with modern furniture and bright draperies and two framed advertising posters from Abe’s magic shows. There was a third framed print as well, one that Thomas had chosen, showing hundreds of ghostly soldiers walking across a poppy-strewn field toward a war memorial. Entitled Menin Gate at Midnight, the original had been painted two years earlier by an artist named William Longstaff. Sometimes Thomas stared at the print for a long time, and afterward his hands would shake so badly that Abe had to roll his cigarettes. Those nights, he usually woke up screaming. But he insisted on keeping it in the parlor anyway, and Abe figured that every person was entitled to their own form of prayer.

  Thomas stepped close and ran a broad thumb over Abe’s lip, making Abe shiver with want. “Are you missing the séances and the shows?”