The Merchant of Death (Playing the Fool, #2)

by Lisa Henry

  He looked up at her, widening his eyes. “I gave it to Mary. She said she needed to keep it to show Dr. Carlisle.” He lowered his voice. “It was really dirty.”

  Dreama glanced at the door, shifting from foot to foot as though she had to go to the bathroom. “I’m going to need to see that letter. I need to know what’s going on with your cousin. He could be dangerous.” She stared back at him. “You go ahead and take your nap. I’ll come back later.”

  Thank God.

  She held out her hand. “The phone, please.”

  Shit.

  “It was a present,” he said, trying to imitate Viola’s tone when she got stubborn.

  “I need it, Viola. For your own safety.”

  He clutched the phone in his pocket. “I want to keep my present!”

  “You don’t need to keep anything that bad man gave you. Give it here, now.”

  “No!”

  “Viola. What did you talk about earlier with Dr. Carlisle? At St. Albinus, we only have room for so many people. And we need to make sure that the people we do have here are people who respect the rules. Who appreciate the chance to live somewhere so nice, and who treat this like a home.”

  Oh, you bitch.

  He didn’t even have to try to conjure tears. They were just there. Part of him felt like he really was Viola—alone here, being manipulated by this geriatric nightmare. And part of him was still himself, helpless against his own guilt.

  This is not a home.

  “Do I have to leave?” he asked, voice quavering. He wiped his eyes with the heel of his hand.

  Dreama sat on the bed next to him and took his free hand. “No, sweetie. Not right now. But you do have to calm down and behave.” She paused, looking closely at his hand, then smiled at him.

  “Is it because you don’t have enough money?” Henry kept his voice soft.

  Dreama’s smile faltered. “What?”

  “Rodney said St. Albinus didn’t have enough money. He said Dr. Carlisle asked if he could have his, once he’s dead.”

  Dreama’s face froze with her lips curled slightly up. She put down his hand. “Rodney is very sick, angel. He often doesn’t know what he’s saying.”

  “Does Sebby give you enough money to take care of me?”

  “I imagine so, or you wouldn’t be here.” Dreama’s voice was stilted and strange.

  Henry leaned toward her, as though sharing a secret. “We don’t have as much money as Mr. Crowley. He had a lot of money.”

  “It’s not polite to talk about other people’s money.”

  He knew he was walking a dangerous line. “Mr. Crowley talked about it. He said when he died, his son could have it for his business.”

  “That’s enough, now.” Dreama stood and held out her hand again. “Give me the phone.” No “please” this time. Bitch was rattled.

  He pulled the phone from his pocket and held it. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he whispered.

  Dreama reached out suddenly, and Henry thought she was trying to grab the phone, so he jerked his hand back. Instead, she yanked off his wig. Henry froze, too startled, for a moment, to move.

  “Oh. Well, well,” she said softly.

  Henry stood. He wasn’t much taller than Dreama, but he hoped she’d feel at least a little intimidated. “Give that to me,” he said, as though putting the wig back on could somehow undo what had just been done.

  “Won’t Dr. Carlisle be surprised!” Dreama’s voice held its usual cheer, but her face looked like she’d just tried the banana pudding.

  “Come on,” Henry said, stepping toward her. “If I have to drop my act, you have to drop yours.”

  “Very well,” she said, her voice low, almost a snarl. She tossed the wig into a corner. “I’ve been wanting to do that since you arrived here.”

  He stared at her. “You knew?”

  “How stupid do you think I am?”

  Henry was a little disappointed—might have been a crazy disguise, but he’d thought he was pulling it off well. “Always seemed to work in Shakespeare.”

  “Yes,” Dreama said, sounding a thousand percent less cheerful. The round-eyed angels on her sweatshirt stared up at Henry in mockery. “But this is not Shakespeare, and I can tell the difference between your sister and you in a dress. And I know that man is not your cousin. Sebastian and Viola Hanes. Parents both deceased. No living relatives.” She paused. “Only your sister to miss you, if something were to . . . happen.”

  Henry tried to take the only useful part of his panic—the adrenaline—and use it to stay even with Dreama. “You’re right, he’s not my cousin. That man is a federal agent. He knows exactly what I’m doing here, and if anything happens to me, he knows who to question first.” He swallowed. “He’s actually their foremost . . . interrogation agent.” Interrogation agent?

  Dreama laughed. “I’m curious. Is this little sting operation authorized by the Bureau?”

  “Of course it is.”

  “And they said you could go through our director’s emails without a warrant?”

  How the fuck had she known that? Henry had checked for cameras in the hall leading to the offices.

  But not in Carlisle’s office.

  Shit.

  “Patriot Act,” he said. Because those were two words you could shut just about anyone up with.

  “Bullshit,” Dreama said.

  Except Dreama Carey Coleman.

  “I did what was necessary to prove what I needed to prove,” he said calmly.

  “And did you find what you needed?” Dreama asked. Was it Henry’s imagination, or did she sound a little nervous?

  Henry allowed himself a slight grin. “We’ll let you know.”

  Dreama shook her head. “No.” She smiled again. “See, I don’t think you work for the Bureau. Nor do I think you were authorized to do anything you’ve done here.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Dreama reached into her pocket and pulled out a small silver recorder. She hit play.

  Mac’s voice came through: “Mr. Crowley was sick and old, and he died.”

  Then Henry: “What? So you came all this way to tell me that you’re not going to help me?”

  “I did help you. That thing where I called people and asked questions? That was helping you. But there’s not a crime here. Look, if you need to do this to prove to yourself that this place is still right for your sister, then I think you’re crazy . . .”

  Dreama clicked the recording off.

  Henry refused to let his face show anything. “Ah. You’re a fan of the Patriot Act as well, I see.”

  “This is a monitored facility, Mr. Hanes, for the safety of the patients. That includes security cameras in the room. You’re welcome to check the paperwork, if you’d like.”

  “I’d love to,” he said. “It’d be great if we could get you and Dr. Carlisle on forging patients’ signatures too.”

  “There’s no ‘we,’” Dreama said. “You’re not a federal agent, Mr. Hanes. Ms. Eiling might have been willing to overlook the rumors about what you do to get your money, but I have a feeling you and I play similar games.”

  “I’ve never murdered someone to get what I want.”

  “Neither have I.”

  Henry glanced at the door. A knot of fear hardened in his gut. He looked back at Dreama. “So what happens now?”

  Mac was almost to Zionsville. He was half-listening to the evening traffic report and half-thinking about Janice Bixler. Bixler was gonna believe some dead crack addict over him? Was gonna try to ruin his career over some bullshit complaint?

  Fuck her.

  And okay, maybe she did have a point about his witness. He did, in fact, know where Henry was. And he and Henry were . . . close.

  Sometimes.

  Like the other night, in Mac’s house.

  Like yesterday in Viola’s room.

  Shit, Mac shouldn’t have done that.

  Stupid, stupid, stupid.

  How hard was it n
ot to sleep with a witness? Especially one as obnoxious as Henry?

  “No more fooling around with Henry,” he said out loud.

  A man in a red Escort passed on his left. Mac turned to watch him. “I’m not fooling around with Henry anymore!” he yelled out the window. The guy didn’t even glance at him. Sped on by.

  Shit, Mac needed to drive faster.

  Just because he wasn’t going to sleep with Henry didn’t mean he wasn’t worried about him.

  Maybe Henry was fine. Maybe Mac would get there, and Henry would be telling ghost stories to the dementia patients or building a block fort in the palliative care ward. But Mac’s gut told him Henry was in trouble. And Mac couldn’t explain the feeling that inspired in him. A combination of courage, pride, and determination that seemed to pump strength into his bones.

  It was what, at his most naïve, he’d hoped being an FBI agent would involve. Logically he’d known it wouldn’t be day after day of demonstrating unparalleled courage and impressive quick thinking. Wouldn’t be all taking down bad guys and then dusting his hands off and heading back to the office to get cracking on the next case.

  But some part of him had hoped—had believed—it would involve less paperwork.

  Here was a case where there were actual bad guys, and there was very probable danger. And maybe Mac should have called the cops, but what was he supposed to say? While my compulsively vanishing witness was impersonating his sister and investigating a completely unfounded suspicion of murder at a local hospice, I couldn’t help becoming suspicious myself. So I had my colleagues look into the claim behind my superior’s back while I was supposed to be on sick leave to avoid an aggressive investigation of my actions and character, and guess what? Turns out there is something to it! Now will you please go rescue my Hardy boy? He’ll be the one in the baby-doll dress.

  No, he’d let Henry get them into this mess. And now Mac was going to get them out.

  “I’m coming, Henry,” he muttered. “Don’t you worry.”

  Then, just for the heck of it, he tried, “I’m here, Henry. Everything’s going to be all right.” He softened his voice, pitched it lower, and tried again. Yeah, that sounded good.

  Next he practiced lines for Carlisle. “You’ve murdered your last patient, Dr. Carlisle. Or should I say . . . Dr. Klein?”

  Too sixties superhero-ish. But the Dr. Klein part was good. He’d keep that.

  “So Dr. Carlisle . . . or should I say Dr. Klein? Maybe the court will agree that what you need is a dose of your own medicine.”

  Nah. Still over the top.

  He pictured Henry bound in Carlisle’s office, dress torn, wig askew. Carlisle looming over him.

  Mac would burst in, and Carlisle would look up in surprise . . .

  “Let him go, Carlisle. Or should I say . . . Klein?”

  There it was. Perfect. As long as Henry was tied up and at Carlisle’s mercy, Mac knew his lines.

  Now he really, really wished he could banish the thought of Henry tied up and at someone’s mercy.

  At my mercy.

  Fuck no. Not going there.

  Rescue Henry. Get in, get out, let Henry thank him, then cuff Henry to that hotel bed until it was time to testify.

  Shit, no. No cuffs. Jesus, was Mac seriously getting hard? Seriously?

  Send someone else from the office, like Dwayne, to stand guard over Henry until it was time to testify.

  No, not Dwayne. Dwayne was handsome, and what if Henry . . .?

  Christ, what was wrong with him? He needed to get “sex” and “Henry” permanently unlinked in his mind.

  “I’m not gonna tie Henry to my bed,” he announced to the next car that passed him. “Not even a little bit.”

  He sped up. Why the fuck was he going the speed limit when he had a rescue to perform?

  Maybe he’d been spending too much time with Henry—he’d definitely been spending too much time with Henry—but he was really starting to like bending the rules. “Hey, OPR, how do you like this?” he asked. “Janice? Janice Bitchler, are you listening? Do you have my car bugged? A little buggy-wuggy to see if I snort any cocaine on my way to Zionsville to be close to my witness? Fuck. You. You like this, Janice? You like me breaking the rules? Throwing away the book? Using the book’s pages to wipe my hairy ass?”

  Mac was a fucking renegade.

  Yeah he was.

  And it was time to own that sheeyit.

  He turned the radio from the traffic report and searched for something inspiring.

  The Bloomington Gospel Choir was singing “Nearer, My God, to Thee.”

  Not that kind of inspiring.

  He searched another couple of minutes, and through some miracle of God, the universe, and hairy fucking manhood, he landed on the opening notes of “Eye of the Tiger.”

  “Yes!” he shouted, slapping the wheel. “DUHN. Duhn duhn DUHN. Duhn duhn DUHN. Duhn duhn DUUUUHHHHHN!”

  He was going five over the speed limit. Then seven. Then ten. Then . . . whoa.

  Twelve.

  He was totally going to throw himself into the song when the words started, except he immediately realized he didn’t know any of them. So he mumbled along until he got to the chorus, and then he sang for all he was worth. He didn’t have a great voice.

  Big fuckin’ deal.

  It wasn’t his voice that was going to save Henry.

  It was his entire badass renegade motherfucking body. A body he was gonna press against Henry’s slim, smooth frame and—

  Not fuck him.

  That was for sure.

  Wait a minute, this was Mac’s fantasy. His superhero rescue fantasy. Why couldn’t he save the day and get the girl? Or rather, get the boy who was dressed like a girl? If only for the few minutes until he got to Zionsville.

  Things were sure to get complicated there, but right now, they didn’t have to be.

  Mac leaned back, sang/mumbled through the rest of the song, and let himself imagine exactly what he’d like to do with Henry Page.

  Dreama had Henry backed into a corner between Viola’s dresser and her bed. He clutched his phone tightly, knowing he didn’t have the time to make a call, and wondering if he could really punch an old lady in the face. Yeah, he could. He probably could.

  Strange, but all the old ladies he’d previously conned weren’t like this at all. They weren’t cold. They weren’t frightening. So Henry hadn’t hated their wrinkles and their turkey necks and the spots on the backs of their hands. He hadn’t hated the way they smelled like hand cream and talcum and lily of the valley. But Dreama was just a fucking evil crone, and all the whimsical sweatshirts in the world couldn’t change the fact that she was a dried-up husk of a human being, with only her hatred fueling her. Any second now, Henry was pretty sure, she would ask him to give in to his anger and join her on the Dark Side.

  Dreama reached into her pocket and withdrew a syringe. She uncapped it.

  Henry’s heart raced. “Oh, fuck off.”

  He hated syringes. Always had. Could still remember his mother yelling at him not to touch them—he must have been about four or five—and to get the hell back into his room. And he’d screamed every time he’d had to get a shot. He hated the way the metal point pressed against his skin, pushing and pushing until something gave. Until Henry gave. Even the sight of them made his skin crawl.

  “Language,” Dreama chided.

  “What’s in that?” he asked, backing up against the wall. Yeah, he was definitely going to punch the old bitch. No fucking way was she going to get near him with that thing.

  “It’s just a sedative, honey,” Dreama singsonged. “We give it to all our patients when they need a little help to go to sleep.”

  Henry glanced down at the call button hanging from Viola’s bed. Dreama lunged at him, and Henry tried to get an elbow in her face. He caught the call button with his other hand, and hit it over and over again.

  “Fuck off! Get off me!” She was strong for an old lady. He tried to push her aw
ay, and flinched back as the tip of the needle scraped against his forearm, leaving a bloody smear.

  He dropped to the ground instead and rolled under Viola’s bed. Tried to commando crawl out the other side, toward the door. Dreama grabbed his ankle.

  The door swung open, and a pair of well-pressed trousers entered the room.

  Not Sarah. Not even the scary orderly who looked like he could have played fullback for the Indianapolis Colts.

  “What the hell is going on here?”

  Shit. Dr. Seth Carlisle.

  “Close the door!” Dreama said, grunting as Henry’s foot caught her in the bosom. “It’s the brother! It’s the brother!”

  Dr. Carlisle peered under the bed. “Holy shit!”

  “Let me go!” Henry tried to scrabble forward. “Let me—”

  Dreama jabbed the back of his calf with the syringe.

  Shit shit shit.

  Henry fumbled for his phone. Needed to call 911. Needed to call Mac. Needed to call anyone.

  Except suddenly he was being pulled out from under the bed by Dr. Carlisle, and his phone was kicked away from him. He watched it slide away toward the corner of the room, collecting dust bunnies.

  “Get up,” Dr. Carlisle said, hauling him to his feet.

  Whatever Dreama had injected into him, it was dissolving almost all of his bones. Dr. Carlisle flopped him onto the bed, then stood there, panting.

  “Well,” he said. “What the hell is this?”

  “I told you, Tim,” Dreama said. She retrieved the wig from the corner of the room and laid it across Henry’s forehead. He swatted at it, and hit himself in the nose. “It’s the brother, not Viola.”

  Tim? Who the fuck was Tim? Henry sighed. There were way too many people using false names in this room. Wait, was he Tim? He was pretty sure he’d never pick Tim as an alias because there was a boy he’d liked in middle school called Tim, but he’d turned out to be a real little asshole. The first boy who’d called Sebastian a fag. Said his name as though he had a lisp, until all the other kids copied him. Thebathtian. Thebathtian. Thebathtian. Well, fuck him, at least Henry didn’t have red hair and freckles, right?

  Wait, what was he supposed to be doing? Not thinking about Tim, probably.