Long Time Gone (Hell or High Water ) (12 page)

“Right there.” One of the boys pointed.

“Go. Now.”

They ran. Prophet watched until they went inside the house and closed the door, then turned to Tom and smiled suggestively. “Later, we can play commander and good little soldier.”

Tom tried—and failed—to ignore how easily Prophet could turn him the fuck on by shooting back, “I’m not a soldier.”

“Neither am I. That’s why it’s pretend, Tommy.”

“Bastard,” he muttered, and Prophet hooted as they got back in step and walked side by side until they got to Betty’s house. Betty was Della’s age, but she moved like she was ninety, and she cursed like the devil. Prophet told her he loved her, and she told him he was too old for her.

“Betty, give me a chance to prove myself to you.”

“Start with the shed,” Betty said. “Someone’s in there, I swear it. And I’m not making you any promises.”

“You smell smoke?” Prophet asked.

“Yeah. Maybe electrical,” Tom said. In the distance, he heard sirens, but whether they were coming this way or not, he couldn’t tell just yet.

“That way.” Prophet pointed as they walked into Betty’s semi-destroyed backyard. This neighborhood had taken some strong hits. The only way to get into the shed at this point was to climb over a downed tree and through a broken window. Tom handed Prophet his gun and his phone and shimmied up and over. Inside the dark shed, there were several cats who’d sought refuge, but no signs of anything malicious.

“It’s all good in here,” he called, more interested in checking where the smoke was coming from. He managed to step over everything that had fallen to get to the window on the other side, and saw a house on fire down the end of the next street. From his vantage point, he could also see that another tree had downed electrical wires on the corner, blocking entrance to the street because they were lying in water. He could get out through the window and walk along the stone wall of the house behind Betty’s until he was past the danger. It was the fastest way. “Definitely a fire on the next street, Proph—I’m going through,” he yelled.

“Tom, no, fucking wait for me. Come on, it’s too dangerous.”

It was—the wind had picked up again, and the rain was coming down hard—and diagonally. Tom watched the lights of fire engines flash as they rounded the corner.

Then his gaze darted to a house that was closer to Betty’s than the fire . . . Miles’s house.

Miles, who’d made his life harder than it already had been when he’d been a kid.

Miles, who’d hurt Etienne so badly.

The door to the house was open—wide open. And there was no sign of anyone at the door except . . .

He looked again and swore he saw something—someone—lying on the floor inside. For some reason, his mind flashed to Etienne, lying under the bleachers, Etienne, that night in the bayou, and even though he knew it wasn’t Etienne lying there, that it didn’t make sense for him to go, Tom found himself propelled forward anyway. He didn’t even call back to Prophet, just punched out the window, crawled through, and ran up the block, up the stairs, and into the opened door.

Before he could think, he was inside the house, kneeling next to . . .

“Miles,” he said urgently, and the man’s eyes, which were half-shuttered, struggled to focus. But then Miles grabbed for him, white foam bubbling from his lips. He was saying something, and Tom leaned in closer to try to hear even as he was reaching for a phone he didn’t have to call 911.

Shit.

His eyes swept over the mansion’s first floor, looking for something, anything, to help. It was a ghost house. What was once beautiful was now empty and broken down.

Miles wasn’t letting go. Prophet would be here any second. He yelled, “We need help in here!” hoping Proph would hear him and grab the firefighters.

Miles was still frantically holding him, clawing at him, even as he mouthed something. Finally, actual sounds came out of his mouth, and Tom listened hard until he caught something . . .

“Donny?” he asked, and Miles nodded. “Did Donny do this?”

Miles just stared at him, and then he let go. As Tom felt for a pulse, a man’s deep drawl said, “Son, I need you to step away and put your hands over your head.”

Tom didn’t have to turn toward the voice that made his stomach clench to know it was Chief of Police Lew Davis.

Son of a bitch.

He’d known Lew as both a kid dealing with a cop who hated him, and from when he’d been a deputy in the parish, and neither memory was any fucking good. He glanced briefly over his shoulder. “Lew, he needs an ambulance. He’s dying.”

It was only then Tom noticed the blood coming through Miles’s shirtsleeves—because it was on Tom’s arms now. Miles’s shirtsleeves were pulled down over his wrists and halfway over his hands. Which was . . . odd, at best. He pushed a bloodied sleeve up and saw the heavy, vertical cut and the seeping blood.

Ah, fuck, this wasn’t good.

“Stand up and step away from the body. Hands where I can see them, son.”

Something in Lew’s voice made Tom look over his shoulder again. The cop had his weapon drawn, was pointing it at Tom.

Fuck.

He stood slowly, bloody hands in the air, and moved away from Miles.

“On your knees,” Lew barked and, then, into his radio, “I need a bus, and I’ve got a murder suspect in here.” He strode over to Tom and pushed him facedown to the ground. As he yanked Tom’s arms hard behind his back and placed the cuffs tightly on his wrists, Tom said, “He’s dying.”

He looked over at Miles, who’d stopped moving.

Lew was patting him down, pulled the knife out of his pocket, and held it up to Tom’s face. “Is this your weapon?”

Tom didn’t say anything. He knew better. Knowing Lew as he did, anything he tried to offer would be willfully misinterpreted, so Lew pocketed the knife, pulled him up by his arms, and walked him out of the house. And Tom was doing just fine, following Lew’s directions . . . until Lew leaned in and whispered, “You pathetic piece of shit.
Bad loque,
just like your daddy always said you were. Just like your parish knows. Always figured I’d be marching you out in cuffs one day. Your daddy said he’d never been able to make a man out of you.”

Goddamned pussy . . . boy, you’d better toughen up.

Bon à rien. Bad loque.

The thin hold Tom had on his control dissipated in a haze of anger. He yanked viciously against the cuffs, against Lew’s hold . . . against his own goddamned past.

The cooperation was officially over.

After Tommy had refused to wait—the asshole—Prophet had followed the same path, through Betty’s shed and across the stone wall, and he’d been about to follow Tommy down the street and into the house he’d disappeared into, until he saw the cop come out from the small alleyway that led to the back of the house with the opened door.

When the cop raced up the steps, Prophet fought the urge to follow, especially when he heard Tom calling for help just as the cop entered the house, but something stopped him.

He was glad he’d waited, or else the two of them would be in jail, and that wouldn’t be in the least bit helpful.

As he watched from his place behind a car, Tommy’s phone began to ring.

Cope. The partner stealer.

God, he was losing his fucking mind. Had to be the hurricane.

He glanced up and saw Tom begin to fight the tight hold the cop had on him. “Not good,” he said under his breath and then, to piss Cope off, Prophet answered with, “Tom’s phone.”

“Who’s this?”

“Who’s this?” he shot back.

“Ah shit, Prophet—what the hell are you doing with Tom?”

“I’m not
with
Tom. I’m with his phone.”

“What the fuck? Where’s Tom?”

“Why’re you checking up on him?”

“I’m his partner,” Cope said, like he was speaking to a small, slow child. “That’s what partners do.”

“Glad you’re such a Boy Scout. Making Phil proud.”

“Yeah, I do. You, on the other hand . . .” Cope stopped.

After a few seconds of silence, Prophet goaded him, “Grow some balls and say it, Cope. Say it.”

“Nah, too easy a dig, man. You’re already on the outs. Can’t kick a man while he’s down.”

“I’ll show you down, Cope,” he growled. “Your partner’s getting arrested.”

“What for? What’d he do?”

“Not sure.” Prophet saw blood on Tommy’s arms and hands as the cop led him away, and his heart jumped into his throat. Seconds later, he heard the sirens and an ambulance pulled up. The EMTs passed by Tommy and the sheriff and his men in favor of going inside the house.

Which meant the bleeding was happening
inside
the house. Prophet rubbed his forehead and just breathed.

“How can he be getting arrested if you don’t know what he did? ” Cope demanded. “Weren’t you with him?”

“No,” Prophet said through gritted teeth as Tom began resisting arrest again. Quite spectacularly too, but then, as suddenly as the struggle had started, it stopped. He thought he saw Tom glance in his direction, and he didn’t know which of them Tommy had stopped for. All that mattered was that he’d stopped.

But hell, that hold on his control was tenuous at best.

“What did you do, Prophet?” Cope demanded. “Where the fuck are you two? And why in the hell are you even with him—to get him into more trouble?”

Prophet pretended that wasn’t a punch to the gut. “I came to New Orleans to help his aunt, because he couldn’t.”

Cope blew out a breath into the phone. “I didn’t know if he’d make it. Should’ve known he’s as stubborn as you.”

“Yeah, well, I guess that’s why you two get along so well,” he said sarcastically.

“Just when I think you’re semi-human . . . forget it. So what’re you going to do?”

“Get him out of jail,” Prophet said simply, and then he hung up.

Cope was probably rushing to call Phil to report this. Then again, he’d been more than willing to cover for Tom. Tom had turned himself into Phil about coming to his aunt’s. And Prophet had no real beef with Cope. In reality, he was a good partner for Tom. Didn’t take a lot of risks, and Tom would be safe with him, if only because of the nature of the missions Phil tended to put Cope on.

But Tom’s choice still smarted, and Prophet wasn’t above admitting that. To himself.

He dialed Della’s number. She picked up on the first ring. “Is Betty okay?”

“She’s fine. Tom’s not.”

“What happened?”

“Some cop just arrested him for going inside a house.”

“What’s the address?” she asked, and when Prophet rattled it off to her, she said, “That’s Miles’s house.”

“Do he and Tom have a history?”

“Too much of one to go into right now.”

“The cop didn’t seem too happy with him.”

“Which cop?” Della demanded.

“Tall, dark hair with a silver patch in front, maybe mid-fifties—”

“Lew.” She said it like she was spitting out something sour. “He’s not easy. He’s got it in for Tom. Always has.” A pause, then Della said carefully, “Don’t let him stay in jail, Prophet.”

He wouldn’t, but first he needed to do some investigating, find out what the hell had happened. “I’ll take care of him.”

“I know,” she told him, soothing the sting of Cope’s comment.

He pocketed the phone and strolled up the street to the mess of fire trucks and ambulances by the fire that was just billowing smoke now. He’d already formulated his plan. He grabbed an ME’s abandoned jacket and took the black bag under it for good measure. He could slip into different identities at will—he’d started doing it as a kid and now it was a necessity in his profession. He’d always found the key was actually believing you could do the shit you were pretending to be able to do.

You had to believe it was for survival—and in this case, it was for Tom’s.

I told you to wait for me, T.

He walked into the house Tom had been dragged out of in handcuffs. Two cops, an older guy and a younger woman, were standing over the body, talking in low voices with an EMT, who was kneeling next to the vic. They all looked over at Prophet.

“I’m Dr. Savoy,” he drawled, because—according to the ID that had been in the pocket of the jacket—the real Dr. Savoy was visiting from Georgia. Prophet figured he was inside the house with the victims of the fire and would hopefully be there a good long while.

“I’m Sue. Guessing you’re the visiting medical examiner?” the EMT asked.

“Sure, we’ll go with that,” Prophet said, and she laughed and quipped, “Good one. You win the hurricane,” as Prophet knelt on the floor next to her and looked down at the dead man with the nondescript brown hair. Someone had closed his eyes, but his mouth was still slightly opened and frothed with white foam. “Poor fucking bastard,” he murmured.

Sue obviously agreed, saying, “He needs you more than me. Bet you regret offering to come help in the middle of this. You’re all do-gooders until you have to live through one of these storms.”

“I’m tougher than I look,” Prophet assured her, then nodded toward the victim. “Looks like an OD gone overboard.” He pointed toward the slashed wrists.

The female cop indicated a small chalked circle on the floor. “Found the razor a couple of feet away. It’s already bagged for you. We also recovered pill bottles upstairs.”