The Merchant of Death (Playing the Fool, #2) Page 13

  Viola ran her hand down his neck and onto his back, feeling the tight muscles there, his sharp shoulder blades. She might never get to do this for anyone again. Sebastian felt too guilty now to ever let her comfort him—he felt like he should always be the one doing the comforting. And she wasn’t allowed to have babies, because her brain would never grow up enough.

  But she had this, tonight, with Remy. It didn’t really matter if he wanted her to be someone else.

  “Sebby wouldn’t like you getting hurt,” she whispered. He didn’t say anything, but a minute later Viola heard his sharp, small inhale. “It’s okay,” she said.

  “No, no, no. Vi. No. Don’t look . . .” He curled halfheartedly, pulling his hands up to his face. “Don’t tell him. All right? That I was like this?”

  “It’s okay if you’re sad,” she told him. Mr. Crowley hadn’t liked people’s bullshit. But he’d said it wasn’t bullshit to cry. Viola couldn’t remember what she’d been crying about the day he’d told her that. But he hadn’t acted impatient with her, the way he sometimes acted when people were “bitching and moaning.”

  “If I could stop for anyone, it’d be him.” Remy’s voice broke. “I’ve tried.”

  “Sebby won’t be mad if you don’t. He’s not mad at me, and I do things I shouldn’t.”

  Remy dragged a fist across his nose. “He makes me want to be better. And I don’t . . . I can’t even show him that.”

  “It’s okay.” She felt embarrassed and stupid for not knowing anything else to say. She wanted to be better too. Remy’s sadness was something she recognized, something she thought she’d felt before. But it was also beyond her. Not something she knew how to heal.

  Remy sat up, scrubbing his eyes. “Sorry, Vi. I shouldn’t be doing this to you. I’m going to bed.”

  “You can stay,” she said tentatively.

  Remy stared at the floor. Then he lay on the couch again. This time she stretched out with him. He clumsily tugged a blanket off the back and pulled it over both of them. They wedged themselves together, and Viola breathed in sweat and smoke. Something sweet and warm too. She imagined she was grown-up, healthy and whole. Imagined that Sebastian didn’t have to feel guilty about what had happened to her. That Remy didn’t have to worry about being better. He was already a good person. Sebastian knew that too.

  None of them were bad. They just couldn’t be good all the time.

  And maybe that was okay.

  Because fuck the rules.

  Because Mr. Crowley said you only had to be good enough not to piss God off so completely He crossed you off the invite list.

  If they couldn’t be good, they could be good enough. Maybe they already were.

  Viola fell asleep, matching her breathing to Remy’s.

  Henry forced his eyes open. He was in a hospital room. He must have drifted off. He tried to raise his head, but it felt heavy. He looked around for Vi, hoping she wasn’t lying in her tiny bed, awake and lonely. Hoping she wasn’t watching him sleep and thinking he’d abandoned her to deal with her fear alone.

  It took a ridiculous amount of effort to keep his chin from dropping back to his chest. No. Not a hospital room. St. Albinus. He was in a room at St. Albinus, but not Vi’s room. This room was stark and smelled like bleach.

  Mr. Crowley’s room.

  He tried to lift his arms but couldn’t.

  He was strapped to a wheelchair.

  It all came back in pieces, through the fog in his brain: Dreama and Dr. Carlisle. Dreama stabbing him with the needle. Dr. Carlisle telling Dreama to take care of him. Was this taking care of him? Leaving him strapped to a wheelchair until . . . until what? He had to get out of here. Mac was right. He’d been foolish to stay. If something happened to him, Viola really wouldn’t have a chance.

  His hands were strapped at the wrists, so he couldn’t reach the wheels. And some hysterical part of him wanted to laugh. He’d always longed to ride in a wheelchair as a kid. He’d told his mom he was going to break his leg on purpose just so he could. She’d told him not to be stupid.

  But he’d turned out pretty stupid, hadn’t he?

  He thrust his body forward, trying to move the chair, but the brakes were on. Fuck it. He pulled against the leather wrist straps. No give. It didn’t help that his muscles were still rubbery.

  He rattled the chair. He even shouted a little, since fuck it, it was worth a shot. Maybe a staff member who wasn’t part of the evil scheme would hear him and get him out. But no one came.

  Well, not right away, anyway.

  He slumped in the chair again, letting his thoughts drift. How long had Crowley known there was something off about St. Albinus? Had he had time to be afraid?

  Henry didn’t know whether he was afraid or not. He was too tired to decide. Maybe he’d been waiting a long time for an excuse to stop fighting. Not an excuse to get himself killed, exactly. Just an excuse to stop spending his life trying to stay one step ahead of danger.

  An excuse to do what Mac promised him he could do.

  Be good.

  “Mac ’n’ Cheeeeese,” he sang to himself, his voice a slurred mumble. “Can’t be beat. Delicious together . . .” He looked at the strap around his left wrist. “Always a . . . treat.”

  Eventually the door opened, and Henry forced his head up. Dreama stood there holding another syringe. Great.

  She did not look cheerful. Her hair was coming uncurled, and she’d removed her sweatshirt and was wearing a turquoise old lady–style T-shirt. She meant business now.

  She closed the door behind her and walked over to Henry. “We’re going to do this quickly, before I get called away again.”

  “Do what?” Henry tried to raise his eyebrows but ended up squinting.

  “You’re going to take some more of this medicine.”

  She held up the syringe. Henry shook the chair again. “Fuck you!” he tried to yell. It was like those dreams where you needed to scream but all that came out was a croak.

  Dreama put her hand over Henry’s cuffed wrist and brought the needle toward his arm. “Just stay still now,” she chided.

  Fuck.

  Henry was afraid.

  Definitely, definitely afraid.

  The needle was nearly touching his skin when the doorknob turned. Dreama looked up. The door was locked, but whoever was on the other side rattled the knob insistently. “You can’t come in here,” Dreama called.

  There was a moment of silence, and then a massive thud, and the door flew open.

  Mac stood in the doorway, hand on his gun.

  “Wanna bet?” he asked.

  Mac took in Dreama with the syringe and Henry, wigless, strapped to the chair. He didn’t think; he just moved, grabbing Dreama and trying to wrench the needle away from her. She wouldn’t let go, so he shoved her backward and kicked upward, catching her forearm. The syringe flew from her hand and clattered across the floor. Dreama shrieked, but the sound cut off as she hit the wall. She slumped to the ground.

  Henry stared at her motionless body, his mouth slightly open.

  Mac hurried to his chair and started undoing the straps.

  “Mac,” Henry said. “How dishoo . . .?”

  “I had to sneak in through a storeroom window,” he said gruffly. He was looking forward to getting Henry out of here so he could kill him personally. Not fair to let Dreama Carey Coleman have all the fun. This was not what he had imagined when he’d thought about coming here to save Henry.

  Okay, it was almost exactly what he’d imagined, right down to Henry being tied up with a supervillain looming over him. Still, he hadn’t actually thought Henry would manage to get into this much trouble in so short a time.

  “Mac? Dishoo roun’house kick an old lady?” Henry asked him as he worked on the second strap.

  He glanced behind him at Dreama. She was still breathing.

  “No,” he said shortly. “I—I was—”

  “You dihh.”

  “I was trying to get her to drop
the needle, and she fell—”

  “’Cause you kicked her.”

  “I’m sorry, did you want me to let her inject you with that?”

  “No, Mahhh. You’re th’ awesomest of all the awesome. Iss juss you kicked—”

  “If anyone asks, I used necessary force.” If Janice Bixler asks.

  “Fuckin’ kicked an old lady. In the face. Killed her.”

  “I did not kick her in the face.” He jerked the other strap free. “And she’s not dead.”

  “She is down.”

  “I need you to stand up now.”

  “Down for the count.”

  “Henry. Focus.”

  Mac tried to lift him, but Henry’s body was a deadweight.

  “Fuckin’ Mac and Cheese,” Henry mumbled into Mac’s shirt as Mac lifted him awkwardly and started to drag him. “Fuckin’ unssstoppable.”

  “Work with me here.”

  “I dunno what they gave me.” Henry’s head lolled back, and he smiled. “It’s pretty good though. Goooood . . .”

  “Focus,” Mac said again, and wondered if he should just dump Henry back in the chair.

  Henry raised a hand and swatted him on the side of the head in what might have been intended as an affectionate gesture. “I am focus. Focusing. I am focusing.” He made a strange noise in the back of his throat. “My bones’ve melted.”

  “Okay.” Shit. He needed to call the local cops. And Val. And he needed to track down Dr. Seth Carlisle, aka Timothy Klein. And it would be much, much easier to do these things without Henry hanging around his neck like a millstone. But there was no way he was leaving him with Dreama. And no way he was not making Henry’s safety his first priority. “Okay, you need to get back in the chair, and we’ll get out of here.”

  Henry slumped into the chair, his dress riding up. Shit. He hadn’t been kidding about wearing Viola’s underwear. “Mac,” he whispered. “Rescuin’ me.”

  “Yeah.” Warmth spread through Mac. “That’s right. I’m rescuing you, Henry.”

  “Sebastian,” Henry murmured. “You oughta rescue him too.”

  Mac pulled his phone out of his pocket. “Yeah? Would Sebastian let me rescue him?”

  “Sebastian’s crazy about you. He loooves you.” Henry put a finger to his lips. “Shh. Don’t tell.”

  Mac stilled momentarily. Forced himself to go ahead and dial the cops. Henry was drugged out of his mind. Mac couldn’t trust anything he said under the best of circumstances. And yet he paused in the middle of putting in the number. Closed his eyes for just a second and placed a hand on Henry’s cheek. Felt him lean into the touch.

  “It’s all fucked up. Isn’t it, Mac?”

  Mac shook his head. “No.” He put the phone up to his ear. “I’m gonna get you home.”

  “Don’t have one of those,” Henry mumbled.

  “You’re going home with me.” And God help me, I will chain you up if it keeps you from running again.

  “Okay.” Henry’s eyes closed.

  Mac spoke to the 911 operator, keeping a hand on Henry’s shoulder to make sure he didn’t fall out of the chair, and an eye on Dreama to make sure she didn’t rise up screaming like a thing from a horror movie. Because if horror movies had taught Mac anything, it was that an enemy was never as down for the count as you thought it was. Mac hated horror movies. His sister Libby had loved that sort of shit as a kid, and thought Mac was secretly scared. He wasn’t. He just didn’t like unrealistic movies. Still, it was hard to shake the idea that Dreama wasn’t out cold at all . . . that she was lying there in wait like some sort of swamp monster.

  Mac relayed his location to the operator—as much of the situation as could be adequately explained in a few brusque sentences—and then disconnected the call and dialed Val.

  “Mac? Where the hell are you?”

  “Zionsville. I found Henry.”

  The soft clicking of keys. “What happened?”

  “That’s a long story,” Mac said. “But someone tried to kill him. We’re okay. I’ve got a perp down, and I’ve called the local PD for backup. I think Henry was right; I think they were killing patients, or at least benefiting from their deaths.”

  Val groaned. “When you get back to the office, I’m going to need to hear that long story, Mac. All of it.”

  “Deal.” Mac slid his phone into his pocket.

  “You in trouble, Mac?” Henry’s eyes were open again, barely.

  Mac raised his eyebrows. “Only when I’m with you.”

  Henry’s face fell. “Uh-oh. I am a bad influence.”

  “You sure are.”

  “Did I miss the shoot-out?”

  “What shoot-out?”

  “Bang,” Henry said, jabbing his finger into Mac’s leg. “You know, when you chase the bad doctor down the hallway, and you kick down another door, and he tips over a filing cabinet to—to slow you down, and paper goes everywhere, but Mac, you just vault that motherfucker! Then you shoot him.”

  “You watch too much TV.”

  “Mac ’n’ Cheeeeese.” Henry started to hum. “Always a treeeeeat.”

  “Shhh.”

  “Right,” Henry agreed solemnly. “Because of the bad guys.”

  “Because of the song,” Mac corrected.

  The residential wing was mostly empty. Mac had realized when he’d entered that the residents were at dinner. There had been a low hum of noise—voices and the scrape of chairs and cutlery—coming from the dining hall. He’d only had to avoid a single orderly on his way to Viola’s room. He’d slipped inside and found it empty. He’d seen the signs of a struggle. The bed had been shifted and Henry’s wig was lying on the floor. For a second he’d panicked, and then, heading back up the hallway toward the offices—he’d demand some fucking answers there—he’d heard a voice coming from behind a closed door.

  “You’re going to take some more of this medicine,” Dreama had said. There was something in her tone that had made Mac’s skin crawl. And then he’d heard another voice. Not words exactly, but a sound that was scared and angry and desperate. Henry.

  Mac would have kicked down a hundred doors to get to him.

  “It’s a good song, Mac,” Henry whispered.

  Mac rubbed his shoulder. “It’s okay, I guess.”

  Henry smiled, and then frowned. “So what about the shoot-out?”

  “You know, after that last one at the cabin, I’m really not in the mood.” He released Henry for a moment, and crossed to the door. It was still ajar, with the lock well and truly busted. He peered down the empty hallway, and then turned to face Henry. “In fact, why don’t we skip that part altogether this time?”

  “Awww, but you’d be awesome, and you’ve got to end with a shoot-out.”

  Mac leaned against the door, glancing at Dreama before looking back to Henry. “Is that the only option?”

  Henry wrinkled his nose. “I guess we could end with a kiss instead?”

  Mac grinned. “Yeah, that might work.”

  “Delicious together,” Henry mumbled, his eyes closing again.

  Mac watched Henry doze off in the chair, and waited for the local cops to arrive.

  Henry awoke in a hospital bed.

  It was night.

  He remembered the ride in the ambulance. He remembered trying to slide off the stretcher into Mac’s lap, and he remembered the annoyed paramedic strapping him down. He remembered demanding that the doctor in the ER give him his bones back, or at least arrange for a suitable transplant. He’d been adamant about not wanting the old woman’s on the gurney beside his, not just because she had to be at least six hundred years old but also because he’d walk funny with a lady pelvis. He remembered Mac apologizing a lot.

  The rest was hazy.

  How Mac had actually been there, he didn’t know. He had a vague recollection of talking to Mac back at St. Albinus, and something about a song, but everything else was a blank.

  He swallowed, staring at the ceiling. He was alone. Again. Knew this feeli
ng so well. You woke up in a hotel. Or some rich old lady’s guest room. Or in a hospital. You woke up in someone’s bed. You woke up, and even though you knew life could be good, even though you were willing to play the game as long as you were allowed, you were still disappointed for just a second to learn that you still existed. And were still alone. No matter who was beside you or who was calling you to breakfast or checking your pulse, you were always fucking alone.

  He ought to leave. Ought to go get Viola. Find out what had happened with Dr. Carlisle and Dreama Carey Coleman. But already those two seemed like ghosts, like characters from some childhood story he couldn’t quite remember. Viola was the only person who was real, who would always be real and would always matter. So he ought to find her and take her away somewhere.

  Except he just lay there. Tired.

  Eventually Mac came and stood in the doorway. Henry didn’t know what Mac was doing there when it was clearly past visiting hours. And he didn’t know how to feel when he saw him. His heart was stupidly hopeful, but there was a sadness, a kind of quiet defeat tearing at that hope. In another life, maybe this would work. Maybe Henry would be the kind of person who was allowed to hope for love, who was allowed a bursting sort of happiness when someone like Mac entered a room. But not this life.

  “Hey.” He tried to smile at Mac, and immediately felt his face collapse. Tears streamed, and this was stupid, this was so, so stupid, but it was such a sad thing, the way this would never work.

  He willed himself to stop. He wasn’t some little kid who cried when he didn’t get what he wanted. He didn’t fucking cry at all. Maybe he was still on whatever Dreama had given him. With any luck, that’s what Mac would assume.

  Mac didn’t say anything. Just sat on the edge of the bed and put a hand on Henry’s head as though he were going to try to draw evil spirits out. Which, come to think of it, would be helpful.

  “I’m sorry,” Henry whispered. It felt good to say that, and to mean it. He was sorry. About everything. “I’m stupid. You’re right. And I probably always will be. I hurt people. All the time. But I don’t know how to stop.”