Long Time Gone (Hell or High Water )

by SE Jakes

  When Prophet led him back into the bed, Tom made a stop first, grabbing Miles’s letter off the shelf and handing it to Prophet.

  “It’s all here, Proph.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah, I’m sure,” he said, then started. When he’d read Miles’s letter, he’d had to break the seal of the envelope. “I can’t believe you didn’t read it.”

  “It wasn’t my place.”

  “But it is your place to look through my bags.”

  “That’s different.”

  “How?”

  “We’re sleeping together.”

  “We weren’t the first time you did it.” Prophet stared at him, and Tom’s throat tightened as he finally realized why Prophet hadn’t read it. “Shit. The video.”

  “Yeah, the video,” Prophet echoed.

  The letter in Tom’s hands was somewhat equivalent to the video of Prophet that Tom had watched over and over. Granted, he’d gotten it before he’d even met Prophet, but once he had . . . he still hadn’t revealed it, had hung onto that piece of Prophet’s past without telling him. He’d intruded before Prophet had been ready.

  Prophet hadn’t wanted to do that to him, even though he could’ve easily justified reading it. “I’m sorry, Proph.”

  “It’s in the past.”

  “Past doesn’t stay fucking buried.”

  “For me, that will.”

  Prophet’s words were a fierce promise as he tugged Tom to sit next to him while he read the letter about what happened that night in the bayou, a night Tom couldn’t erase from his mind or his conscience, no matter how hard he tried.

  Tom—

  I know I’m the last person you’re expecting to hear from. I’m in AA and I’m sober for the first time since high school, and I’m supposed to make amends. No, I want to. It’s time.

  I went into the bayou knowing that Donny had a knife. He told me what he thought we should do, and really, it was just to scare you both, especially Etienne. The sheriff didn’t know anything about that. I’m sure he figured we’d try to beat you guys up, but the knife . . .

  I can’t even explain it, Tom. I was the son of a drunk. That’s not an excuse, but I was getting beaten every night, and then I’d drink until I passed out, wake up, go to school, and bully other people to make myself feel better. And it took me a long time and a lot of mistakes to get to this place. I’m never giving up my sobriety, no matter how hard it is to face the facts that I raped someone, that I took another man’s life . . . and that I’d planned to hurt you and Etienne that night.

  Would I have used the knife on you? I want to say that the man surprised me—scared me. I want to say that I wasn’t waiting in the dark for Etienne to come along the path toward the swamp. But I was, because raping him had made people think I was gay, and because of that, I hated him. It was all my own fault and I couldn’t see that. Could only see the hatred I carried inside.

  We’ve carried this shit around with us for too long. Looking back, I can’t believe what I did—to Etienne and to you. The only way I can truly show you I’m sorry is to come forward with what I did. I realize you might get in trouble for helping the sheriff cover the crime up, but I’m going to make sure everyone knows that it was forced on you to do so. Please understand that my coming forward is the best way for me to unburden you.

  —Miles

  “And unburden himself,” Prophet muttered as he refolded the letter. “He made this more about him than Etienne or the man he killed. That’s bullshit.”

  “You seem to know a lot about making amends,” Tom realized aloud.

  “I’m an expert,” Prophet said seriously. “Does this sound like him?”

  “No. He was an idiot most of the time. He was also drunk and high most of the time, so maybe this is the real him. I’ll never know now.” He glanced down at the note. “It looked like he was really going to come forward.”

  “And so anyone with something to hide would want to shut that down. Where’s that sheriff who sent you into the woods now?”

  “He’s dead. His son’s the new sheriff.”

  “Jesus H. Christ, Tommy. Just . . . fuck, don’t ever go job hunting without me, okay?” Tom just ducked his head against Prophet’s chest, and Prophet sighed. “So the sheriff’s son has a lot to lose if this comes out. Think the old sheriff involved Lew?”

  Tom shook his head. “They bonded over their dislike for me, but I know Lew doesn’t know what happened in the cemetery.”

  “I’m not ruling any of them out at this point. Tell me what the old sheriff knew.”

  “He found us when the sun came up because we didn’t meet him at the swamp. Etienne said we couldn’t leave the man’s body there alone. We guarded it against the gators. So he saw the body and the blood on me and Miles. And that asshole didn’t confess like he’d promised. Etienne stuck up for me and Donny stuck up for Miles and the sheriff told us to all keep our damned fool mouths shut, if we knew what was good for us. That it was Etienne’s and my word against Donny and Miles’s, and that no one could prove which one of us stabbed the guy. Which meant the word of a gay artist and the king of bad luck against two normal boys.”

  “What about that little thing called evidence?”

  “Donny got rid of the knife in the swamp. We didn’t wash the blood off because we thought it would make us look guilty when, as Donny pointed out, it was an accident.”

  “Fuck. So the sheriff forced you to protect each other. And you did.”

  Tom nodded, his voice tight as he said, “He got . . . gentler though. He didn’t so much as threaten, but he told us the man was a transient. Homeless. It was an accident. No sense ruining any of our lives any more than they already were for an accident.”

  “Miles would’ve killed you and Etienne, T. Would that have still been considered an accident?”

  He heard the anger in Prophet’s voice. “Around here, at the time, yeah.”

  “Shit.” Prophet ran a hand though his hair. “We’re getting the fuck out of this place.”

  “Too late now.” He thought back to how he’d felt all those years ago going home, showering. Sleeping in his bed and going to school. “I kept my mouth shut all these years. Watched the sheriff throw the body in the bayou.”

  “You were fucking fourteen. Jesus. Don’t you dare blame yourself.”

  “Miles started up with the drugs pretty much right after that. So the letter, that’s his first apology. I’m guessing he finally said he was sorry to Etienne too.”

  “Etienne said he did,” Prophet told him.

  “You’d think things would’ve been better after that, but everything got worse, especially for Miles and Donny. Since they left Etienne alone instead of their usual attempts to bully him and they didn’t call me bad luck anymore, the rumors started. They were gay. They were cursed.” Tom sighed. “That’s the kind of shit that sticks with you. That’s the kind of shit that ruins you.”

  “It didn’t ruin you, T. I know that, because I know you.” Prophet ran a hand over the bracelet, a reminder, and then he laced his fingers with Tom’s. “So according to the letter, Miles was going to admit he killed the man in the bayou. The sheriff who covered it up is dead, so yeah, I mean, look, it’s a scandal but . . . is that really motivation enough to kill?”

  Tom shook his head, then stared at Prophet. “What if the man Miles killed wasn’t a transient?”

  “I’m guessing the gators won’t be talking,” Prophet said grimly. “We’ll get to the bottom of it. But fuck, I hate that you went through this shit.”

  “I had to learn to be tough.”

  “You’re tough enough, T.” Prophet slid an arm across his shoulders. “Always were.”

  “Guess I’m lucky I’m not more fucked up.”

  “Dude, you’re plenty fucked up.” He played with the leather bracelet on Tom’s arm. “You know why I gave you this, right?”

  “Was it John’s?”

  “No, mine.” Prophet smiled. “We all have o
ur amulets.”

  Tom studied him. “Bullshit.”

  Prophet laughed. “John bought that explanation. So did you, for a while. It was mine, though, T. And no, I never needed an amulet. But I believed in both of you. The bracelet was just a reminder of that.”

  Tom’s throat tightened. “It worked,” he managed. “You’re a fucking romantic bastard.”

  Prophet looked oddly pleased with himself, even as he said, “You take that back!”

  “I won’t tell anyone,” Tom promised.

  Prophet grumbled, then said, “Etienne never got in touch with you about any of this shit with Miles and AA?”

  “No.” He glanced at Prophet. “And no, I don’t think he’s a suspect.”

  “I didn’t say anything.”

  “Look, the last time I heard from Etienne was right before I went to Eritrea. He told me to stay away from this place. I thought he just meant . . . in general.”

  “Why didn’t he get specific?”

  “He knew it would bring me back here,” Tom admitted.

  “And what about your voodoo shit?”

  Tom shrugged. “Doesn’t work like that. Not around here. My voodoo shit always throws off warning bells when I hit the state border. Because if I’d known that E was going to be in trouble . . .”

  Was that true? Etienne had been in trouble all the time, because of Tom, because of the fact that he’d always stood by Tom and forced his parents to do the same. Etienne took up for him, and in turn, Tom made things easier on himself and on Etienne by staying away. Especially because Etienne told him to stay away. “Fuck, I knew something was up, okay? I knew it and I pushed it down because I didn’t want to come back here.”

  Prophet nodded, like he’d known Tom had been lying about his voodoo shit a few minutes earlier. “Did Della know any of this?”

  “If she caught wind of any of it, past or present, she hasn’t said a word.”

  “It’s all right, Tommy.”

  Tommy threw up his hands. “It’s not, okay? You can’t escape the past, Proph. No matter how hard you run, how much time goes by. You can’t ever escape.”

  Prophet winced, then grabbed him. At first, it was a one-armed hug, and then his free hand went up to Tom’s face, his palm spread, thumb caressing his earlobe, fingers sliding along his jawline.

  This was past and present slamming together. And his future was the man who was holding him, which hit Tom as hard as it must be hitting Prophet. But their reunion on the grass and the kitchen wall and floor and in his bedroom . . . that told the tale.

  The fact that Prophet was staying here to help him figure all of this out sealed the deal.

  “I know, Tommy. I know you can’t escape. That’s why I didn’t want to get you involved in my past.”

  Tom lifted his head to meet the gray-eyed gaze. “But I’m here. Don’t you think I need to know, for my own sake?”

  Prophet looked pained, then swallowed hard before saying, “Yeah, you do. But sometimes it’s . . . I never want to talk about it.”

  “I get that.”

  “Thanks, T.”

  Tom buried his head against Prophet’s chest again, realizing that Prophet’s arms had never left him. Realizing that, in all of this, there was an implicit promise. “Not letting you off the hook though. And I’m not letting you go,” he said, his voice muffled.

  “Considering I’m the one actively holding you . . .” Prophet started, but his words were calm and quiet. He got it.

  They finally both did.

  Tom slept restlessly. The pain had returned, but he was resisting more meds, and Prophet couldn’t blame him. He stayed next to him in bed, because that’s how Tom seemed to sleep best, and he checked the local news on his phone.

  So much going on in New Orleans still. Extra police presence, plus people coming back to their houses. Out-of-state electrical trucks, contractors, and medical personnel. It was nearly impossible to carry out an investigation there. And a killer was running around in the midst of it all.

  His phone beeped. A text. Cillian. Again.

  He glanced over at Tom, who appeared not to have heard the beep.

  You’re enjoying all the bayou has to offer?

  When people stop trying to kill me, Prophet typed back.

  Seems to be a regular fault of yours.

  Yeah. Not sure why.

  You can’t even type that with a straight face.

  Prophet scrubbed his face with his hand. It’s amazing how parents can fuck up their kids so badly.

  Which is why I don’t plan on having any.

  Prophet sighed, rolled restlessly out of bed, and he walked over to Etienne’s drafting table.

  You paused. You want kids.

  “You and those goddamned pauses,” Prophet muttered. I didn’t say that.

  You’d make a great father.

  That statement slammed Prophet in the chest harder than he’d ever thought possible, and he was glad they weren’t face-to-face, because there was no way he could’ve kept his poker face on. He threw the phone onto the table with a clatter, a silent acknowledgment that not answering was more of a tell than anything.

  He figured he could lie to Cillian that someone picked that moment to try to murder him again. Whether the spook would buy it or not was up to him.

  His hands shook a little, and he wanted to do exactly what he’d told Tom not to do—drink to forget.

  You’d make a great father.

  Don’t go there, he warned himself. Doing so would mean he’d have to expose shit he’d shoved down a long time ago.

  “Do as I say, T,” he said out loud.

  Tom’s hands landed on his shoulders, and Prophet reached up to touch them.

  Tom kissed his neck. “What did Cillian say?”

  “Something nice,” was all Prophet offered.

  “I’ll make a mental note to never do such a horrible thing.”

  Prophet snorted, then said, “You might want to call Cope.”

  “Why?”

  “He might know you got arrested.”

  “Might?”

  “Does.”

  Tom groaned. “And you’re just telling me now?”

  “Been busy,” Prophet pointed out. “But don’t worry, he blames me.”

  “Well, in that case, no big deal.”

  “Assholes, both of you.”

  “Gonna tell me that Cope and I deserve each other?”

  “Do not even . . .” Prophet pointed at him.

  “What?”

  “Your accent’s thicker when you pull shit like that.”

  “You don’t like my accent?” Tom asked, attempting to make his drawl sound innocent and failing miserably.

  “Not. A. Bit,” Prophet said, equally unconvincingly. Tom rested his chin on the top of Prophet’s head for a moment, then pulled away, tugging Prophet with him.

  As Prophet turned to get up from the chair, he caught sight of a framed sketch hanging in the corner, almost out of sight. Gil Boudreaux. Younger, smiling—hard to fucking believe he ever had.

  “The devil always smiles, Proph,” John said from his perch on a bench across the room. “Have I taught you nothing?”

  Prophet rubbed his eyes then turned to refocus his gaze on the picture. “Why did Etienne draw your father?”

  “I drew it,” Tom said quietly. “I was trying to find some common ground. Thought if I showed him I respected him . . .”

  “You drew it?” Prophet echoed.

  Tommy stared at him. “I’d wanted to give it to him on Father’s Day, but we ended up fighting, and then I went back to school for summer classes.”

  “Let’s go back to bed, T. So much less complicated there.”

  It really wasn’t, but Prophet was willing to let them lie to themselves a little while longer.

  Prophet would really have liked to have moved out of this place and into hiding somewhere safer, especially since Gil Boudreaux knew where they were. Prophet had no doubt that if and when Gil heard abo
ut the newest murder, he’d let the police know where to find his son.

  He watched Tom sleep. Reread Miles’s letter, trying to reconcile all this shit, when a sound at the door had him up and out of the small back bedroom. He gently closed the door behind him, weapon drawn.

  The front door opened, and a kid walked in as if he had every right to. A suspicious, pissed-off kid who was probably somewhere in the fifteen- to sixteen-year-old range.

  “Who the fuck are you?” the kid asked.

  “Who the fuck are you?” Prophet asked back, although he knew the answer an instant later and softened. “I’m here with Tom Boudreaux—we know your dad. Etienne.”

  The kid looked him up and down. “You don’t have any tattoos.”

  “Is that like a state crime now?”

  “Should be,” the kid muttered. “Have you seen my dad? I just got home from a class trip and stopped at his house to see him. There’s mail from three days ago in the box. Sometimes he comes here to paint, and he gets all caught up, and I have to remind him to eat. And shower.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Remy.”

  “Remy, I’m Prophet.” Prophet wished Tom was awake, because a total stranger shouldn’t have to be the one to break the news to a kid. “We haven’t seen your dad since the night after the hurricane.”

  “Was he out in it? Because he likes to do that sometimes, go out and take pictures of the storm.”

  “No. I saw him after the storm.” Prophet eyed him. “Has your dad ever just left before and not told anyone?”

  Remy looked at the ground, like he wanted to say something but knew he wasn’t supposed to.

  “He’s not in trouble. At least not with me or Tom. We’re just trying to find him.”

  “Sometimes he’ll take off, yeah. But he’ll usually call or leave a note or something.”

  “Did anything look out of place to you in his house?”

  Remy looked troubled. “I just . . . I got a bad feeling in there, so after I saw the mail, I took off for here.”

  “I didn’t hear a car.”

  “Too young to drive. Legally anyway. So I hitched.”

  Prophet just shook his head. “Put your stuff down and grab something to eat.”

  Remy didn’t argue. “Where’s Tom?”