Casey beamed at him. “Does that mean you forgive me?”
“You were mad at me, remember?” Frank said. The memory of it would have brought on a fresh bout of melancholy had Casey not still been grinning so widely.
“Oh yeah. I don’t even know why. It wasn’t your fault.”
“It was partly my fault.” At the very least.
“You only say that because you like feeling guilty,” Casey said. “You tried to warn me.”
“I should have told you the truth.”
“I don’t think it would’ve mattered.” Casey laughed. “Bella’s really pretty.”
“She is not that pretty.”
“God, I wanted to hit you. Isn’t that so weird?”
“Weird,” Frank mused. That was one word for it.
“Would you have hit me back?”
“No, Casey.” There was only one moment between them that could’ve been considered remotely violent, and Frank was still mortified over it. Maggie’s car had broken down, and the two of them needed a ride to Casey’s school. Casey had jokingly yelled, “Shotgun” to claim the front seat, which was an expression Frank was naturally unfamiliar with. He’d thrown the kid to the ground and pulled out his gun, ready to massacre whoever wielded the suspect shotgun near Frank’s family. Despite being shoved off his feet, the incident had made Casey laugh until he could hardly breathe. “But I might not have pulled Vincent off of you either.”
Casey smiled and skeptically said, “Sure.”
“He’s killed men for less,” Frank said seriously, then clenched his jaw when he realized they were talking about killing again.
“Is he okay? It looked like a bad one.”
A bad one made worse by what Frank had said about him. It was easier to defend Vincent’s ruthlessness to Casey, who wouldn’t know the difference, rather than admit to Bella or even to himself that he had failed at teaching Vincent. “He’s probably asleep. I didn’t have any medication for him. We were in such a hurry to leave that I forgot it.”
“Because someone killed Silva?”
Frank sighed. He wanted to tell him about Silva, to never lie to him again, but Casey wouldn’t understand. Frank didn’t want him to understand. “Everything’s going to be fine, kiddo. You know that, right? I’m not going to let anything happen to Gideon, or anyone.” He cupped Casey’s head in his hands, that single segment of hair shorter than the rest escaping his grasp. “You’re safe.”
“I know, Frank. I’ve always been safe with you.” Safely locked away with the wolves at the door. His Cosette. Frank released him, smoothing down his uneven hair. There was paint in it. “Bella said that Gideon’s safe now too. Or will be…once whoever ordered it dies. I guess Silva sent someone to take care of it? Or something?”
Frank said nothing. The chill had returned to his bones.
“Was it my father?”
“No,” he said. “It was no one you know, or will ever know.”
“Thank you. For telling me.” He smirked. “We can stop talking about it now if you want.”
“Yes. Please.”
“Okay. Can I get you anything? More wine, or something stronger?”
Frank sighed. “May I borrow a pair of your boots? I’m wearing goddamn house slippers.”
“Blue plaid, or glitter?” he said with a grin.
Of all the pairs of shoes Casey owned, he had to have brought those to France. Plaid would send the wrong message to Bella. She would think he had forgiven her. Frank groaned. “Glitter.”
Chapter Fifty-Two
Migraines always brought memories of being stabbed. Not so much the pain in my head, knives behind my eyes, layer of grey matter peeled away like filleting a fish; but the isolation, feeling alone in my misery, like being locked away in that hotel room where I first met Frank all those years ago. Like before, visitors came bearing food, although now it was Frank with gummy bears and cans of Coke, instead of Charlie with cold fries and ashtray cheeseburgers, and a drink he’d likely spat in.
Frank shut the door quietly behind him and mouthed “Hey,” not speaking, silent for my sake.
“Hi,” I said, slowly sitting up. Movement aggravated it. Lights, sounds, even thinking made it worse. But gummy bears helped. Maggie sent care packages from America every couple of months, stuffed full of gummy bears. “What time is it?”
“It’s late,” he whispered, sitting beside me and gently pulling me close, petting my head like that could make it all go away. “Didn’t I say that you could get into trouble in that short a distance?”
I sighed. Oh yeah. The reason atom bombs were going off in my skull. Silva was dead. “I didn’t kill him.”
“I know.”
“I could have,” I said bitterly, remembering Frank’s words in that room as I lay on the floor in pain. Like kicking me while I was down. He’s not capable of it. “You meant in my current condition, right? That I couldn’t kill him with a migraine?”
“Yes,” Frank said. I wanted to believe him. I almost did believe him. Frank was an exceptional liar. He kissed my hair. He smelled sexy, like fire and Bella’s perfume. It gave me a hard on. Sex was out of the question, but if he was good I’d let him blow me. “What happened to your eye?” he asked.
Déjà vu. I had a black eye when we first met, courtesy of the guy I’d been sucking off for room and board. Getting slapped around by a guy whose cock had been in your mouth was manlier than what happened this time. “Bella tried to blind me with her eyeliner.”
“Ah,” he said impassively, as if I’d just told him there was a sale on dog food. But I knew better. Bella, and her eyeliner, were in danger.
“How is she? Apart from psychotic.”
“Casey gave her a valium. She’s asleep.”
My valium. “And Casey?”
Frank smiled. That was enough of an answer.
Chapter Fifty-Three
Frank leafed one-handed through the mail that Casey had been considerate enough to retrieve from the city, enjoying a cup of coffee in the brief moments Kiki permitted him to stop petting her. Vincent was feeling well enough this morning to put in an order for breakfast without a dose of medication, Bella was safe in his guestroom away from Malkolm’s retribution, and Casey was by his side, smiling as if his heart had never been broken. It was good to be home.
He stopped abruptly when the plain white envelopes of bills became highly colorful. “Shit!” Casey exclaimed, grabbing what must’ve been six envelopes out of his hand. “I forgot about those.”
Frank raised his eyebrows.
“Parking tickets. I’m sorry! I was gonna pay them.”
The plates. He had changed them while loading the trunk, and had never changed them back! Frank stood with a start, sending the dog flying to the floor. He hollered up the stairs to Vincent, who took his sweet time obeying his beck and call. “Which address did we use to register the car?”
“What?”
“Answer the fucking question, V!”
“The apartment,” Vincent said, and let him panic over hand-delivering his address to his enemies for a full thirty seconds before casually mentioning, “I took off the plates, Frank. At a gas station near Prague.”
“You did?”
“You were upset about Casey,” he said, and gave the said offender a dirty look. “We all know he’s your Achilles’ heel.”
“Am I?” Casey asked with a slight grin, completely overlooking V’s glare. It wasn’t much of one at any rate. With his blackened eye Vincent looked as ferocious as a newborn kitten.
“What did you do with our plates, Vincent?” he asked. Switching plates with a stranger was as risky as leaving the plates on for all to see. It would take very little to learn the stranger’s address, and find the real license plates.
“Put them in Bella’s trunk.”
Frank slumped back into his chair. The possibility of Malkolm finding their address, and it would certainly be Malkolm who tracked them down, was left up to a crazed, flame-scarred man�
�s curiosity over the charred contents of Bella’s trunk. They would have to sell the place. Or raze it to the ground. But first they would have to warn Alan and Bertrand to stay away.
Vincent leaned over the chair, wrapping his arms around him. “You okay?”
“No.”
“Are you gonna ask me what I did with the plates after Bella set the car on fire?”
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, then counted to two hundred and seventy-eight until he was fairly sure he wasn’t about to grab Vincent, flip him over the chair, and strangle him in front of Casey. “What did you do with the plates after Bella set the car on fire?”
“Put them in the trunk of our new car. Do you want them?”
“Non, mon chaton, that’s perfectly all right. Please put them back on the car.”
“They’re kinda burnt.”
“I do not care.”
“Am I excused?”
“Oui.”
Vincent kissed him on the forehead and left the room in silence. Casey, who usually found Vincent’s antics amusing, was nowhere near smiling. He looked worried, his expression making him resemble his mother again and putting a further damper on Frank’s newly bad morning. “Ça va?”
“Are we sure the car was registered at the apartment?”
“Something happened, didn’t it?”
“I don’t know. Maybe not. I’m sure it’s nothing.”
“Casey, I was worried about you. Something happened. Tell me.”
“There was just this guy at the gallery. He startled me, that’s all.”
“There’s a difference between someone startling you and someone threatening, Case.”
“He wasn’t really threatening, he was…weird. He appeared out of nowhere. He didn’t say anything, he just came right up to me and then walked away.”
Frank slipped Casey an envelope, his pulse elevating. “Let’s see him.”
Casey ran his hand through his hair and got to work on a thumbnail sketch of a man Frank had never seen before. It did not reassure him. “Is that all?”
“Um…not really.” Casey winced. “That was kinda the last time I saw my sketchbook.”
“Bella was in there?”
“And you, and Vincent. I am so sorry.”
“It is not your fault.” Frank affectionately cupped the back of Casey’s head. “You didn’t know.” He walked away without another word, heading to the bedroom where Bella was curled up on the bed. She was listening to Casey’s green music player at a volume he could hear from the doorway. “We have to talk.”
She glanced up, her eyes puffy and as red as her hair. She removed one earphone and did not sit up.
“Do you know this man?” He set the envelope in her hand.
Now she sat up. “Casey drew this?”
“You know him?”
She ripped the envelope, and whatever past due bill was inside, into tiny pieces. “Where did he see him?”
“Who is he, Bella?”
“Malkolm’s handler.”
Frank sat on the bed, the wind knocked out of him. Malkolm’s handler at Alan’s gallery. Malkolm’s handler face to face with Casey.
“Where the fuck did he see him, Frank?” she asked again, shoving him to expedite his answer.
“The gallery.”
“What the fuck was he doing at the gallery?”
“I don’t know,” he said irritably. “You bought one of Casey’s paintings. How did you pay for it?”
“Credit c—”
“Goddamn it, Bella!” he yelled. This was why he paid cash. Malkolm would have known Silva was on his deathbed. He would have been waiting for any opportunity, especially after Silva deliberately sent her away. The only reason Malkolm had not attempted to kill her before was because of Silva. Malkolm had men at his disposal, men who had a similar hatred for the boss’s little princess. Not to mention those who had a personal vendetta against Frank. Karl for one, who along with being psychotic, was the most lethal member of Silva’s team.
“So they know about the gallery. I spent money all over Paris.”
“Casey’s sketchbook is missing. Want to guess whose picture was in there?”
“Aw, fuck!” she said.
“I have to make some phone calls. We are not going back.”
“The fuck we’re not!” she growled, her eyes misting over. “You’re coming with me. Or Casey is.”
“Don’t you dare,” he said, his voice quavering with fury.
“What are you afraid of, Frankie? Vincent knows how to shoot. He can hold down the fort.”
“Vincent’s not—”
“Not what?” V asked from the doorway.
Frank always forgot how quickly auto-maintenance could be done when he didn’t have to rely on Charlie. There was no denying what he had been about to say: that Vincent was not capable of taking care of himself, much less anyone else; that Vincent was defenseless; inadequate; frail.
Vincent’s eyes were brimming with tears of anger. God, he was beautiful. There was something about seeing him work with tools that made Frank’s knees go weak. Then Vincent threw the screwdriver at his head, landing the pointy bit in his arm as he instinctually shielded his face. V had already stormed out of the room by the time Frank lowered his defenses, walking—not running—away from the scene. Chase me I’m mad at you.
“So we’ll call for reinforcements,” Bella said, unable to keep herself from smiling at the tumult that really was all her fault.
Frank glowered at her and followed his husband’s path of destruction, as if Vincent needed to throw books to the floor on his way out the front door. His little blond head was tilted downward as he stomped away from the house, not looking back, listening to Frank’s footfall to gauge his speed.
Vincent had once fumed all the way from their apartment to the Père Lachaise cemetery before realizing he wasn’t even mad anymore. Frank wished that would be the case now, but he knew better. He had hurt him where it hurt the most, and the fact that Vincent was fully aware of how fragile he could be only made it worse. Frank couldn’t even pick up speed for fear of making him run, making him overexert himself and add to the stress he kept denying he was under. At least through everything Vincent was hardwired to receive attention, and he would stop walking as soon as he had enough time to look sufficiently upset. Frank just hoped that would happen before a migraine got the best of him.
He watched the back of his head, mentally warding away the pain, praying that this outburst would be the one that cured him the way he prayed of every shift of emotion, every breath, every heartbeat. Vincent stopped suddenly, crumbling into a sob with the heel of his hand against his temple. Frank ran to him, holding him in his arms and sensing that this was as bad as it would get. No fainting. No seizures. No death. It was a small relief, but one he would willingly accept.
“I hate this!” Vincent screamed, which could not possibly help matters. “You never used to treat me like this!”
“I’m sorry, baby,” he whispered, cradling his head.
“You think that I couldn’t protect them? I couldn’t protect Casey?”
“You’re not there yet.”
Vincent punched him and yelled, “You stopped my training!”
“I’m not there yet.” Frank turned away in shame. “I couldn’t protect you, Vincent—”
“How could you have known? And it’s not as if anything like that’s ever going to happen again. Even on a soap opera they wouldn’t use the same plotline with the same character.”
“This isn’t a soap opera.”
“Then quit being so melodramatic! You came for me, Frank. You were there.”
“I wasn’t there,” he admitted. “I lost it. When I saw you…”
“So you’re crazy. We knew that already. And I’m the one shooting steaks off trees because you won’t let me kill people. What does that say about me?”
Frank smiled. They’d had nearly the same argument over sanity mere moments before making love for
the first time. And as much as it scared him to think that he could succumb to madness, he knew that Vincent was right there with him. He always had been. “That you’re sick in the fucking head.”
“Okay then.” Vincent roughly wiped his tears away with his sleeve. “So what are we gonna do about Gideon?”
It was perhaps not the best time for such a revelation, but the less Vincent had to be stressed over the better. “Silva ordered the hit. Only there never really was a hit. He didn’t send her to kill Gideon, he sent her to me. His time was running out. He wanted to know she was safe before he died.”
“But then who killed…” Vincent stopped, the look on his face like he had just caught Frank eating the last of the ice cream. “You did?”
“He was gambling with Gideon’s life!”
Vincent hit him, and would have continued to do so if Frank had not grabbed his wrists. “You asshole! You promised I could do it!”
Frank laughed. V was still trying to attack him, but he could not help himself. For all the guilt that had been haunting him, the anguish he had been through over the past few days, Vincent was furious not because of what he had done, but because he hadn’t been the one to kill the old man.
“Don’t laugh at me,” Vincent said, ceasing his struggle to get teary-eyed again.
“You can have the next one.”
Vincent pouted. “Self-defense doesn’t count.”
“Since when?”
“Since now. I want a hit. A real hit.”
“I’m sure we can work something out, angel.” Frank was not quite ready to let Vincent know about Silva’s book, but he’d do just about anything to avoid a further quarrel. V was the only one who could possibly understand, and forgive him, for killing Silva.
Vincent’s face brightened in a way that could not be good. “Alan?”
“No.”
He frowned, carrying it long enough that Frank was starting to reconsider. Vincent smiled again. “Antoinette?”
Killing Antoinette Bergeton couldn’t possibly upset anyone. They may even find a few donors for the cause, and who knew, she might be in the book already. “I’ll think about it.”
Les Recidivists (Chance Assassin Book 2) Page 29