Long Time Gone (Hell or High Water )

by SE Jakes

  He dialed Della’s number. She picked up on the first ring. “Is Betty okay?”

  “She’s fine. Tom’s not.”

  “What happened?”

  “Some cop just arrested him for going inside a house.”

  “What’s the address?” she asked, and when Prophet rattled it off to her, she said, “That’s Miles’s house.”

  “Do he and Tom have a history?”

  “Too much of one to go into right now.”

  “The cop didn’t seem too happy with him.”

  “Which cop?” Della demanded.

  “Tall, dark hair with a silver patch in front, maybe mid-fifties—”

  “Lew.” She said it like she was spitting out something sour. “He’s not easy. He’s got it in for Tom. Always has.” A pause, then Della said carefully, “Don’t let him stay in jail, Prophet.”

  He wouldn’t, but first he needed to do some investigating, find out what the hell had happened. “I’ll take care of him.”

  “I know,” she told him, soothing the sting of Cope’s comment.

  He pocketed the phone and strolled up the street to the mess of fire trucks and ambulances by the fire that was just billowing smoke now. He’d already formulated his plan. He grabbed an ME’s abandoned jacket and took the black bag under it for good measure. He could slip into different identities at will—he’d started doing it as a kid and now it was a necessity in his profession. He’d always found the key was actually believing you could do the shit you were pretending to be able to do.

  You had to believe it was for survival—and in this case, it was for Tom’s.

  I told you to wait for me, T.

  He walked into the house Tom had been dragged out of in handcuffs. Two cops, an older guy and a younger woman, were standing over the body, talking in low voices with an EMT, who was kneeling next to the vic. They all looked over at Prophet.

  “I’m Dr. Savoy,” he drawled, because—according to the ID that had been in the pocket of the jacket—the real Dr. Savoy was visiting from Georgia. Prophet figured he was inside the house with the victims of the fire and would hopefully be there a good long while.

  “I’m Sue. Guessing you’re the visiting medical examiner?” the EMT asked.

  “Sure, we’ll go with that,” Prophet said, and she laughed and quipped, “Good one. You win the hurricane,” as Prophet knelt on the floor next to her and looked down at the dead man with the nondescript brown hair. Someone had closed his eyes, but his mouth was still slightly opened and frothed with white foam. “Poor fucking bastard,” he murmured.

  Sue obviously agreed, saying, “He needs you more than me. Bet you regret offering to come help in the middle of this. You’re all do-gooders until you have to live through one of these storms.”

  “I’m tougher than I look,” Prophet assured her, then nodded toward the victim. “Looks like an OD gone overboard.” He pointed toward the slashed wrists.

  The female cop indicated a small chalked circle on the floor. “Found the razor a couple of feet away. It’s already bagged for you. We also recovered pill bottles upstairs.”

  “Can I see them?” Prophet asked. The cops glanced at each other, and then the woman rifled through the bag of evidence they’d collected and handed Prophet several plastic evidence bags, each containing a prescription pill bottle. Five in all.

  “Who’s the dead guy? Any one of the five different names on these bottle?” Prophet asked.

  “He’s a junkie,” the female cop said. “Real name’s Miles Jones. He probably bought or stole those pills. Wouldn’t be the first time.”

  Prophet would check the name out anyway. As he pulled on latex gloves, he asked, “Got a license?” and she handed him Miles’s wallet. Prophet went through the wallet, memorizing the man’s name, address, and license number to run through his own systems.

  She continued, “Place is clean. No signs of forced entry.”

  “So he let the killer in?”

  “Lew—our chief of police—said he walked in on the crime in progress, but that it was already too late. Name of the man in custody is Tom Boudreaux.”

  The older cop, who hadn’t said a word until now, muttered something at the mention of Tom’s name and actually made the sign of the cross.

  “You guys know this Boudreaux?” Prophet asked casually as he went over the body, looking for additional clues to the guy’s death. The cuts on his wrists were pretty jagged, which would’ve required a heavy hand. If the guy had been high when he’d done this . . .

  The female cop said, “Boudreaux’s from around these parts. Least he was. Tried to come back but folks in the bayou ran him off eventually.”

  “What’s the matter with him?” Prophet asked.

  “Boudreaux’s bad luck,” she told him.

  “Don’t say his name,” the older cop warned as he made the sign of the cross a second time, then pointed at Miles’s body. “This bastard never had a chance after he got involved with the guy.”

  Prophet wanted to know exactly what involved meant, but he’d settle for finding out from Tom. After he was bailed out of prison. After he was cleared of a murder charge, for which it seemed like he might somehow have motive.

  And here he’d thought nothing could be worse than the hurricane.

  The cops went back to talking in low voices. Prophet listened as he snapped pictures, did a little dusting for prints on his own, which no one found strange. MEs were an odd bunch, all with their own quirks, as Prophet had discovered when he’d spent a few months undercover in a series of morgues for a black-ops mission that he never wanted to think about again. That was a whole other level of dealing with the dead.

  He was almost done when he spotted the syringe under the chair in the hallway, adjacent to where Miles had been found. Level with someone lying on the ground, dying, who had maybe just enough strength to throw it out of reach.

  Or he could’ve taken it from the murderer and done the same thing.

  Prophet waited until he could grab it unnoticed and stuck it inside his glove and put it into his pocket. He bagged a few more things that might help, casually searched the house as if he had every right to do so, and came up with nothing but the fact that there was zero alcohol and not even a bottle of aspirin anywhere else, which didn’t exactly jibe with the pill bottles. Addicts weren’t notoriously clean and tidy. Sure, the house was in disrepair, but it was only the bottom floor that looked like there’d been some kind of struggle. The bedroom and bath were neat and clean, with towels folded and the bed made. A Bible and an AA manual were stacked on the bedside table.

  As he went back down the stairs, his phone rang, another unknown number. “Yeah?”

  “Is this Prophet?”

  “Who’s this?”

  “Etienne. Della gave me your number. Before you do anything, head over to my shop.” He rattled off an address and hung up before Prophet could ask who the hell Etienne actually was.

  He told the cops he’d been called to another scene, told the EMT to send the body to the morgue, then walked out of the house and ditched everything but the evidence, picking up a police radio along the way, just for good measure.

  Jesus, everyone let their guard down during a hurricane. It was a great time to kill someone or commit any kind of crime.

  He tucked that away for future reference, imitated the young cop’s voice on the radio to ask about Tom Boudreaux’s whereabouts and learned he was just getting processed.

  The address Etienne gave him was ten blocks over—he walked through the flooded streets, still empty save for emergency vehicles, even though the storm was pretty much done. He scanned the numbers once he got to the right street and saw it was a tattoo shop. Prophet stopped just short of it and stared, remembered Tom briefly mentioning his ex who gave him the tattoos.

  “So it’s fine when he brings up his exes,” Prophet muttered to himself, looking at the E’s Ink sign until a female voice enquired, “Looking for a reading?”

  He was
about to ask if that was some kind of New Orleans term for hooking but turned in time to see a pretty, dark-haired woman standing in the doorway of her shop, right next door to E’s Ink. The sign boasted Accurate Psychic Readings.

  For the love of Christ. Being mistaken for a john would be better than this. “Not the best time,” he said, suddenly anxious to meet Tom’s ex.

  “I’ll read your palm for free.” She came forward and took his hand without permission, which was normally a very bad thing. But she was a woman, so he tamped down his aggression and let her stare at his palm intently. Didn’t bother telling her that Tom was really the only one who could predict his future, and it had nothing to do with his voodoo shit.

  Finally, she looked up at him with a wide smile. “You’re in perfect health.”

  “That’s great,” he managed, because he guessed going blind didn’t count toward fucking health these days.

  “And you’re going to live a long life.”

  Again, really debatable.

  “I see marriage and a child in your future too,” she said quietly, like she knew that might throw him over the edge, and yeah, he was really the come to daddy type. He yanked his hand away, unreasonably angry as he stalked toward Etienne’s place. She shouldn’t lie to people, tell them good things when generally, good things weren’t the norm . . .

  “That’s all people want to hear,” a deep voice drawled, and Prophet looked at the smirking man in the doorway who had to be Etienne. Just had to be.

  And Prophet must’ve been muttering out loud.

  “You’re not the first to come away from her saying that. People go in with an agenda and get pissed when she can’t see it.” Etienne was shorter than Prophet, probably five nine or so with a shock of blond crew-cut hair. He was heavily tattooed—the ink went up his neck and down to his fingers. But the tattoos were gorgeous. Different from Tommy’s, but still art.

  He also had a tongue piercing, which was pretty damned mesmerizing. Etienne knew it too. Add the piercing in his brow and his lip, and yeah, Tom looked tame. Until you saw him naked.

  Which Prophet had. But maybe not as much as Etienne.

  “What’s up?” Etienne asked.

  Wiseass. “You called me.”

  Etienne nodded. Motioned for Prophet to come further into the shop and closed and locked the door behind them. There was no power, but with the windows open and what must’ve been a battery-powered fan, the heat was tolerable.

  Prophet leaned against one of the black leather tattoo tables as Etienne admitted, “Della called me about Tom’s arrest and asked if anything’d been going on. Said you were an investigator she knew who was visiting her friend and might be able to help.”

  Why would Della think Etienne would know anything about Tom’s arrest for the murder of some random guy from his past? And he also didn’t know if he should strangle Della or hug her brilliance on that last part. She probably figured they’d get into a pissing contest over Tom—which still could happen most definitely—and had been trying to avoid it. “What’s the problem?”

  “I’ve been getting threats for the past couple of months.”

  “About Tom?”

  Etienne shifted. “Kind of, yeah. You’re the first one I’ve told. Figured anyone’s better than the chief of police and his crew.”

  “There’s a compliment in there somewhere, right?”

  “No.”

  Asshole. He was beginning to see a pattern with the men Tommy was attracted to. “Did you grow up with Tom?”

  “Yes.” Etienne smirked. “We were boyfriends.”

  Was the guy trying to shock him? Or see how he’d deal with that? “Was Miles also Tom’s ex?”

  “No.”

  “How about Lew?”

  Etienne snorted. “You couldn’t find a more homophobic asshole if you tried. And I told Lew that when he called me about Tom’s arrest.”

  “Must be pretty special if the chief of police personally calls you with news of Tom’s arrest,” Prophet saw Etienne’s eyes darken. “And could you clarify if the threats are directed toward you or Tom or you and Tom.”

  “I’ll take what’s behind curtain number three,” Etienne said.

  “So you and the chief are close . . . and somehow Tom gets the short end of the stick.”

  Etienne’s entire body tensed, but he remained otherwise surface calm. “Look, I’m not tight with Lew—or any of those cops. Lew called to rub it in. I just want to make sure Tom’s all right.”

  That last part, Prophet actually believed, but the phone call from the chief of police still didn’t make sense. “What can you tell me about Tom and his reputation around here?”

  “How much time you got?” Etienne asked. His phone rang, and he glanced down at it. “Gotta take this. Give me a second.”

  Prophet nodded, and while Etienne spoke in rapid Cajun French, he flipped through the albums filled with sketches.

  The walls were also lined with art and with pictures of people’s actual tattoos. He recognized a few of them as Tommy’s immediately, because he’d spent hours staring at them in person. And he’d stared, long and hard, traced them with his fingers and tongue, committed them to memory.

  Etienne came up behind him, looked between him and the picture of Tom’s dragon. “The next picture shows off better . . .”

  “The way the tail wraps around his hipbone,” Prophet finished without thinking.

  “How’s an investigator visiting Della’s friend know what’s on Tom’s hip?”

  Prophet glanced over at Etienne. “I’m good at what I do. You want to help me help him, you need to tell me all the shit you’re holding back.”

  “No way. Not until you give up a little more about who the fuck you really are.”

  I fucking gave up everything already, Prophet wanted to shout. And he gave me up.

  But instead, he walked around the shop, tapping every picture of Tommy’s tattoos he saw. Eight pictures out of what had to be a hundred plus, but Prophet spotted them like beacons on a sinking ship on a dark night. He looked back at Etienne. “Good work.”

  “Good canvas. He drew them himself. Some I used the stencils, some I freehanded. Took a lotta years.” Etienne didn’t seem upset that Prophet might know Tom intimately. It actually had the opposite effect. “Lew’s never gonna give him a fair shake.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Not many people around here ever did.” Etienne sighed. “Just tell him, no matter what happens, get the fuck out of here and don’t come back.”

  “You can’t tell him that yourself?”

  “Better if he and I don’t have contact, because I can’t lie to him for shit. And that’s more for his benefit than mine, all right?”

  “Any idea who sent the threats you’ve been getting?”

  “I have a general idea. Not sure if they’re from Lew or the person who killed Miles. Or if they’re one and the same. And no, I’ve got no evidence of that last part.” Etienne showed him the texts, the first one dated about two months earlier. They were mostly of the standard keep your mouth shut or you’ll die variety, but they escalated into some brutal language.

  I’m going to kill you slowly. Gut you like a pig and let you bleed out while I watch. Gonna make your worst nightmare come true. Gonna make you and your boyfriend pay for everything you’ve done.

  Prophet wanted to ask Etienne what the hell he and Tom could’ve possibly done, but knew that it was better to get question-and-answer time with Tom.

  Etienne told him, “I’m gonna head down to the station now. I’ll post Tom’s bail.”

  “And they’ll just let him out?” Prophet asked.

  “It’s complicated.”

  “Always is.”

  Etienne stared between a picture of Tom’s dreamcatcher tattoo and Prophet. “He didn’t kill Miles, and Lew knows it. They’ll let him out because my father’s the judge who helps Lew keep his job, no matter how many times Lew fucks up. So at least my family’s good for something.
”

  “I’ll go with you to get Tommy.”

  Etienne smiled when Tommy slipped out of Prophet’s mouth. “I knew you weren’t a goddamned PI from the second we spoke on the phone.”

  “You got that voodoo shit going on too?”

  “No. Just know what someone who cares about Tom sounds like.”

  “Let’s get to the station before he gets himself in trouble,” Prophet urged.

  Etienne stared at him for a long moment. “Tom always had a fierce temper, but believe it or not, he’s very slow to boil. Guess you know that once he gets there, shutting him down isn’t easy.”

  Prophet recalled Tom’s fight in the ring, the loss of control that seemed to come out of nowhere. But now, some of the puzzle pieces were fitting together.

  On the way out, Etienne pointed to the tattoo gun and the piercing tools. “If you’ve got time after all this shit’s over. I always did like virgins. Take your pick.”

  From anyone else, that line would’ve sounded cheesy. From Etienne, it sounded hot.

  If you were mine, I’d make you pierce it.

  Tom’s voice, after he’d bit Prophet’s nipple the first time they’d had sex. It tingled every fucking time Prophet thought about those words. He thought about how Tommy had sketched the dreamcatcher on his cast. How he’d fucked Prophet to sleep. How Doc told him Tommy had been upset when the dreamcatcher cast had been cut off.

  Prophet was in so far over his head. And for someone who knew how to swim, that shouldn’t’ve been nearly as terrifying as it was.

  It was only as the police car had pulled up to the station, that what had happened started to sink in.

  Prophet had seen him. Had thankfully hung back, so Tom knew it was only a matter of time before the man came to get him. But the way Lew was treating Tom, it might not matter. They sure as shit weren’t going to give him bail. Or a phone call.

  Miles, dead. Guilt washed over him for a moment, because there’d been many days in Tom’s youth that he’d wished it upon Miles. And so many days since he’d left that he’d promised himself he’d never come back here because of Miles and Donny and the sheriff.

  But if he hadn’t come back here, he’d never have proven to himself how far he’d come. Although losing it with Lew showed him how far he still had to go. Didn’t matter how quickly he pulled it together when he’d spotted Proph—he’d still lost it in the first place.