Tempest (Playing the Fool #3) Page 2

  “This is temporary. Okay? I’ll go back into the city tomorrow and try to get in touch with an informant of mine.”

  “I’ll come with you.”

  “You need to stay with Vi.”

  “God, you are so—” Henry paused and sucked air through his clenched teeth. “Annoying.”

  “Hey, pot. I’m the kettle. Look, we’re the same fucking color.”

  “Cute.”

  “We’ll talk about this later. For now, lose the attitude.”

  “Uh-oh.” Henry rolled his eyes. “I’m in troooouuuuuble.”

  “If you can’t quit acting like a prick for me, how about for her?” Mac nodded at Viola, who was still watching the goats. “She needs you now.”

  “She doesn’t need me.” Henry’s voice was low. He wouldn’t face Mac. “I let her down. Again. I let her get hurt. Again.”

  Ah. So Mac had missed the obvious when he’d been trying to figure out what was eating Henry. He’d assumed Henry was pissed at Remy. That Henry was afraid of the storm. That he disapproved of Mac’s choice of Altona as a hiding place.

  But he’d failed to recognize the guilt. Henry had left Viola under Remy’s watch when he’d gone to warn Mac about OPR. Remy had bailed, leaving Viola unsupervised, and Vi had cut her hand. It hadn’t been a serious injury, but Mac had never seen Henry appear as terrified as he had at the sight of his sister’s blood on the hotel room floor.

  Mac felt stupid for not understanding sooner. Henry still thought he was to blame for Viola’s initial injury ten years ago. Of course he would feel history had repeated itself with the Remy incident.

  Trouble was, neither of them could afford to indulge Henry’s guilt at the moment.

  “I know you feel bad,” he told Henry. “But it’s over. Doesn’t matter anymore. And you’ll be much more useful if you focus on what’s happening now.”

  Wrong thing to say. He knew it the second Henry looked up. “You asshole,” he hissed. “You think it doesn’t matter that I got her hurt? It matters.”

  “You didn’t get her hurt. She’s safe.”

  “She doesn’t need me,” Henry repeated softly. “I need her.”

  “I know.” He clapped Henry on the back. Henry ducked his head.

  “Sorry,” Henry said to the ground.

  “It’s all right. We’re gonna handle this. Mac and Cheese, remember?”

  Henry raised his head, wonder in his expression. “Mac, did you . . . did you like my idea for our TV show after all?”

  Mac groaned. “No.”

  “Do you wanna hear the theme song again?”

  “Absolutely not.” Mac gave Henry a quick kiss on the forehead. “Into the house.”

  Henry grinned wide, and Mac was so relieved he didn’t even grumble when Henry picked up the bags and walked toward the house, singing, “Mac and Cheeeeese, always a treat—C’mon, Vi!—Mac and Cheese, can’t be beat. Delicious together . . .”

  Mac shook his head and followed them in.

  Henry wasn’t sure how normal families worked. Okay, so there was probably no such thing as a normal family outside of a Norman Rockwell painting, but he had a feeling Mac’s family was a hell of a lot closer to that ideal than his own. And it was no accident he was thinking of Norman Rockwell. Mac’s mom, Ana, was wearing an apron, for fuck’s sake. She even wiped her hand on it before reaching out to shake Henry’s.

  “Oh, it’s nice to meet a friend of Ryan’s,” she said, when clearly what she really wanted to ask was what the fuck was going on.

  “Is Dad around?” Mac asked.

  “He’s down by the back paddock, I think. Do you need me to call him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, honey. Why don’t you and your friends take a seat in the den?” Ana opened the screen door of the kitchen. For a second Henry thought she was going to shout, then he heard the sound of a bell.

  “Don’t they have phones in the country?” he asked in an undertone, which was shitty and unfair, and why the hell didn’t Mac just punch him or something? Henry had been a prick since they’d left Indianapolis. And it was more than the thunder that still rumbled every now and then in the distance as the storm moved away. Henry’s shirt was still a little damp from the walk to the house because apparently Mac didn’t believe in either umbrellas or in waiting until the rain had completely stopped.

  Mac ignored the comment.

  Henry followed him into the den. The den was exactly what he’d been expecting. Neat and tidy, the furniture a little worn with use, two comfy couches sagging in just the right places. A flat-screen television with a crocheted doily underneath the stand. A china cabinet full of knickknacks and photo frames. A gappy-toothed curly-headed Ryan McGuinness grinned out of one.

  “You look stupid with hair.” Henry tried to lighten his tone with a smile, but it didn’t work. He just sounded petulant. “Sorry. I just— Fuck, I don’t know.”

  Mac reached out and grabbed his shirt. Tugged him close. Wrapped his arms around him until Henry was suffocating on his aftershave. He didn’t even care though, because it felt good to be held like this. Felt good, just for a second, to be looked after. The second stretched into at least a minute before he peeled himself off Mac, his face burning a little.

  He managed to put some distance between them before Mac’s parents appeared.

  Mac’s dad was Mac in thirty years, but with hair.

  “Ryan,” he said. “What’s going on?”

  A little girl brought up the rear. Freckles and glasses. A Darwin fish shirt. Her face lit up when she saw Mac. “Uncle Ryan!”

  She launched herself at him.

  “Easy, kiddo,” Mac said, turning slightly to deflect her. He caught her under his left arm and squeezed, wincing slightly. Henry’s gaze immediately went to Mac’s ribs. The bullet wound. “It can’t be vacation time already, is it?”

  “It is! And Mom and Dad are in San Francisco, so I’m staying here!”

  Viola stepped closer to Henry, and took his hand.

  “Henry, Viola,” Mac said. “My dad, Ian, and my niece Cory.”

  “Hello,” Viola said.

  “What’s going on, Ryan?” Ian asked.

  Mac squared his shoulders. “Let’s sit down.”

  For decent folk—and Henry had decided they were decent folk. He bet Mac’s dad had never even gotten a speeding ticket, and he said “fudge” when he hit his thumb with a hammer. And he bet Mac’s mom just clicked her tongue and shook her head when he said it—they took the news well that their son was now a fugitive from the FBI.

  Surprisingly well.

  But then, even decent folk could keep a few secrets.

  “First thing,” Ian said, “you’ll need to hide the car. Anyone approaching the old house by foot might see if you park in those trees.”

  “Grandpa’s barn?” Mac asked.

  Ian sucked in a breath through his teeth. “Well, might need to clear it out first. Take the old still apart.”

  “That thing.” Ana shook her head. “It should have been gotten rid of years ago. It belongs on a trash heap.”

  “Belongs in a museum, more like.” Ian caught the expression on Henry’s face and smiled, unabashed. Henry was a little impressed at Mac’s family history of criminality, and a little disgusted at their hypocrisy. Disguspressed. Definitely disguspressed. “My father was a little fast and loose with the law in his day.”

  Henry wondered if now was the time to speculate about that sort of thing skipping a generation.

  “Nobody can know I was here.” Mac leaned back in his chair. His shirt rode up a little, and Henry tried hard not to stare. “I’m heading back into the city tomorrow, but Henry and Viola need a place to lay low.”

  Henry narrowed his eyes. As if Mac had any hope of tracking down Remy and clearing his name without him.

  Ana twisted her apron through her fingers. “Oh, Ryan, of course we won’t say anything to anyone. Cory?”

  “Cross my heart.” Cory traced her finger over
her chest, then jutted out her chin and got a stubborn look on her face that was obviously a McGuinness family trait, since Henry had seen it a lot on Mac. Mostly when he was refusing to play nice with Henry. Or refusing to play naughty.

  “But you can’t stay at the old house,” Ana said. “It’s filthy, I’m sure, and damp. And there are probably spiders.”

  “Mom, we’ll be fine there,” Mac said.

  “I like spiders,” Viola said.

  “Me too!” Cory exclaimed.

  Ana didn’t seem any less concerned. “You know, maybe I ought to at least go over the place with the vacuum.”

  “Mom.” Mac sighed and rubbed his head the same way he did when Henry was driving him up the wall.

  Henry turned and studied the photographs in the cabinet again. They were a collection of moments, captured forever behind glass. Picnics, and weddings, and sepia-toned children in funny clothes. Mac in a baseball uniform. A girl who looked a little like Cory wearing an ugly prom dress and a bad hairdo. He wondered if this family was so perfect that the skinny boy on her arm was Cory’s dad. High school sweethearts. Norman Rockwell would have approved.

  He also saw his own unsmiling reflection staring back at him.

  There were no pictures anywhere of Henry as a child. Maybe in someone’s old class photo on a wall, there they were: Sebastian and Viola. Maybe when they were at kindergarten and they wore their hair the same and sometimes changed clothes in the middle of the day to play a trick on their teachers. Maybe when they were older, in a junior high yearbook, out of focus in the background of a photo featuring some popular kid who’d never known the Hanes siblings existed. Then they hit puberty, or Vi did, and suddenly she was taller than he was, with broader hips and boobs and stuff, and Sebastian still resembled a little boy. It had taken him a few growth spurts to catch up again and to finally overtake her.

  Their mom had taken pictures of them when they were little, but he had no idea where those albums had gone. The ones filled with theater programs and playbills and photographs of the three of them. Later, when she was hooked, there were fewer times worth commemorating, even if she’d still had a camera.

  Once in a while, johns had taken photographs of him. Never of his face though. He guessed they hadn’t wanted him tracked down if those photographs were found, hadn’t wanted him to tell the police how old he was.

  The sort of photographs people had of Henry didn’t belong in any china cabinet.

  “Henry?” Mac’s voice.

  He turned sharply to Mac, who nodded toward his mother. He looked at Ana.

  “I was just saying we were going to do chicken sandwiches for dinner,” she said. “Does that sound all right?”

  He smiled. “Sounds perfect.” He cranked his smile up a couple of notches. These were Mac’s parents, after all. He’d better quit moping and play nice. “Will you let me help with dinner, to say thank you?”

  Mac frowned. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. We should probably just grab some stuff and take it to the old house. The less time we spend up here, the better.”

  “Oh, come on, Mac. It’d be rude not to socialize.” For all his haranguing Mac that they’d picked the worst place ever to lay low, he did feel a perverse need to show off. How quickly could he get in good with Mac’s family? He was pretty sure it’d take no time at all. He smiled again at Ana. “And chicken’s my favorite.”

  She returned the smile, though it was a beat too late for his liking. “Thank you, Henry. We won’t need any help though. Ian can fix you up some sandwiches to take back to the old house, if you’re determined to stay there.” She glanced at Mac.

  “We don’t have a choice. We have to stay out of sight.”

  “Well,” Ian said, “at least let’s have coffee before you go.”

  “I can’t drink—” Mac started, and Henry knew he was about to tell his parents he’d given up caffeine.

  “I’ll help,” Henry said, standing.

  “Me too!” Cory said. “Viola, you can come too.”

  Ana looked skeptical. “Is that too many cooks in the kitchen?”

  “It’s fine.” Ian waved.

  “We’ll pour an extra big cup for Mac,” Henry said. “He’s been driving all day.”

  He didn’t have to turn back to know Mac was rolling his eyes. He followed Ian, Viola, and Cory into the kitchen.

  Alone with his mother, Mac wasn’t sure what to say.

  She spoke first. “I’m glad to see you. Though I wish it was under better circumstances.”

  “Mom—”

  “First you get shot, now you’re on the run?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  She shook her head.

  “Mom?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You know I didn’t do it? The stuff they’re saying I did?”

  “What are they saying you did?” Her tone was mild. “You never told us.”

  “I didn’t want to with Cory there. And I’d rather not give details now. I just . . . Do you believe me? If this gets on the news, you’ll know it’s not true. Right?”

  She stared at him. “I believe you, Ryan.”

  “You hesitated.”

  “I hesitated because what a question. You’re my son.” She paused. “And also because of him.” She glanced toward the kitchen. Behind the door, Henry was laughing at something his dad had said. She looked back at Mac. “Who is he?”

  “A friend.” He hoped she wouldn’t push.

  “He’s very charming.” She put a slight edge on charming that Mac didn’t like.

  He decided the truth might be helpful here. “He’s actually incredibly obnoxious and almost completely untrustworthy. But I’ve got to keep him safe.”

  “Ah,” his mom said, like she didn’t quite believe him. Which was fair enough, he supposed, since maybe incredibly obnoxious was a little harsh. Completely untrustworthy, though—that might still hold. Ana’s gaze landed on the kitchen door again. “He knows all the right things to say. But I wasn’t born yesterday.”

  He was secretly pleased that his mother hadn’t fallen for Henry’s act. “Good instincts. He lies for a living.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “He’s not so bad though. Once you get to know him.”

  “As long as you’re wise to him,” his mother said.

  “Oh yeah. He’s done playing me.” Mac softened his voice. “Loves his sister. Everything’s for her. Everything. He might be a shit, but he’s a shit with a cause.”

  “Worst James Dean movie ever.” She gave him a soft smile.

  Mac laughed, but sobered quickly. “I’m sorry to drag you into this. I really am.”

  “God knows we could use a little adventure around here.” She smoothed her apron. “Is this why you asked me about Louise?”

  “Huh?”

  “You called the other day to ask me about Louise Hanes. I told you she had twins. A girl and a boy. The girl was named Viola. The boy was not Henry.”

  Shit.

  “I know this is a cop-out answer,” he said, “but it really is complicated.”

  “Well. Whatever you feel like telling me, I’ll listen.” She studied the empty feeder outside the window. It was usually occupied by at least a few finches, but the storm must have scared them off. “Viola . . . Is she . . .?”

  Mac saw his mother struggling for the PC term.

  “She had an accident. A few years ago. She has some permanent brain damage.”

  A nod. “You know, sometimes I wish you had made it as a pro baseball player. A lot less worry for me.”

  He snorted. “I was fourteen. I only wanted to try out because all the cool kids were doing it. Look at me now—I can’t even stick to a running schedule. The doctor says my cholesterol—”

  Cory burst out of the kitchen, followed by Viola. They were both giggling. “Nana, I’m gonna show Viola my room, okay?”

  “All right. Has your papa got the coffee done?”

  “Um, almost. Come on, Viola!”

>   They hurried down the hall.

  A few minutes later, Henry and Mac’s dad emerged from the kitchen with three mugs of coffee. And a plastic cup. Henry handed the cup to Mac. “I got you some juice.”

  “How thoughtful,” Mac grumbled, taking a sip.

  His dad sat on the couch opposite Mac. “So you’re going back to the city tomorrow?”

  “Yep. Think I know someone who can maybe help me sort this out.” Mac glanced at Henry. He still hadn’t figured out how this was going to work. Presumably, Henry would know best where to look for Remy. Yet he definitely didn’t want Henry tagging along when he went to the city.

  Except what were the odds Remy would talk to him unless Henry was there to facilitate the conversation?

  Henry didn’t comment, and Mac’s dad changed the subject. He and Henry talked animatedly about tractors, and Mac wondered where the hell Henry had gained such extensive knowledge of farm equipment.

  The more I learn, the less I know.

  Mac’s mom eventually had to call Cory and Viola. He heard the bedroom door open and two sets of footsteps race for the living room.

  “Nana?” Cory asked. “Can Viola stay in my room? I can sleep on the floor, and she can have the bed.”

  His mom’s mouth fell open slightly. “Ah, honey, I think Viola—”

  “Please?” Viola looked at Henry. “I’d like a sleepover.”

  “Uh . . .” Mac turned to Henry too. “I think the three of us should—”

  “Pleeeeaaaaase, Uncle Ryan?” Cory clasped her hands. “I won’t tell anyone she’s here. She can hide in the closet if anyone comes.”

  A flash of pain. Henry was right. He shouldn’t have dragged his family into this. Now his nine-year-old niece was promising to help hide the houseguest, if it came to that.

  Please don’t let it come to that.

  “What do you think?” his mom asked him. She seemed calm, at least. Almost amused. “You’re all welcome to stay, you know that. I certainly wouldn’t let anyone into the house. But if Viola wants to sleep up here and you two want to stay in the old house . . .”

  He was still watching Henry. “Your call. The OPR’s not looking for Viola. If they find us at the old house, it might be better for Viola if she’s not there.” Dumb thing to say, maybe. If the FBI found them and arrested Mac for the coke and Henry for fleeing and aiding Mac, it wasn’t like Viola could just stay here with Mac’s family forever, or flee on her own. And Mac doubted that after what had happened with Remy, Henry would let Viola out of his sight.