Long Time Gone (Hell or High Water ) (16 page)

Prophet ran a hand over his cheek as if he knew that was as much of an admission as he’d get for the moment. Kissed the back of his neck before muttering, “Dammit, Tommy.”

“I didn’t think I’d be let out.”

“Etienne said the ME ruled it a suicide.”

“When have you ever known an ME to rule that quickly?”

“In this town, I don’t know what the fuck’s going on, but your ex’s family seems to be willing to lend a helping hand.” Prophet paused. “Although Etienne said that this time it wasn’t necessary. So what, you think Lew had an ulterior motive in letting you out?”

Tom nodded. Tested the bonds. Prophet’s hands landed on his wrists, letting him know he wasn’t being let go just yet.

“I want to call you fucking paranoid—and I hope to hell that’s all it is—but dammit, my gut’s screaming too.” He shifted off Tom, pulling out of him and pushing Tom so they were both on their sides, facing each other. “Which is why you don’t leave my side.”

“I didn’t mean to fight like that,” Tom said suddenly. But he’d felt like he’d been fighting for his life, fighting against everyone and everything in this goddamned place.

He’d been fighting his past. You’d think by now he’d have realized that never worked.

“If you harnessed your temper, stayed in control when you fought, you’d be as dangerous as fuck.”

“So teach me.”

“You’re dangerous enough already.”

Tom turned to stare at him. “You going to untie me?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“On if you’re going to continue to spiral down.”

Tom stared at the sheets. “Keep me tied.”

Tom woke from a brief nap with sore arms, a sorer ass, face, and ribs and less of a piss-poor attitude than he’d thought he’d have.

He glanced over at Prophet, who was texting, concentrating on the screen, a small smile tugging at his lips. Without looking at him, Prophet said, “I know you were dogging Cillian in Somalia. That you followed him to four different hotels. That you were nearly robbed and beaten twice.”

“How do you know all of that?” Tom demanded, attitude newly engaged and prepared to launch, because he’d told no one that, not Cope or Phil. Hadn’t emailed or called anyone from his EE phone while he’d been there.

Finally, Prophet looked up at him. And lied. “Cillian told me.”

“Try again. He might’ve known I was following him, but I’m not that fucking transparent. Personally, I think it was just a lucky guess.”

Prophet sighed. “That lead you had on Cillian? That source who was helping you track him?
Cillian
was the source who tipped you off. You were going in circles most of the time. At one point, he had you tracking me.”

“Again, how do you know all these things that almost happened to me? Was Cillian following me? Why bother to throw me off the track then?”

“I have a lot of sources, Tommy.”

“Maybe someday I could meet some of them,” Tom shot back. “Are you working for Cillian?”

“Not for him. He had a job. A one-off. Offered it. I took it. Freelance. All mine. And for the record, he made sure you were a good three days behind me every step of the way.” He paused. “That was early on, when you first got to Eritrea. And you were alone, right? Not with Cope? Zero backup in a part of the world you’re not familiar with?”

Tom hung his head. Prophet stood, pocketed his phone, and knelt on the bed behind Tom. Untied the T-shirt and rubbed his wrists and arms to get the blood circulating. Tom didn’t deserve that at all, but Prophet didn’t seem angry anymore. He’d softened, and that made Tom feel worse. “Cillian played me. Asshole’s better than I gave him credit for.”

“He’s good, T. Really fucking good. You need to back off him completely.”

“Why aren’t you? Is this about Sadiq?”

“What’s your issue with Cillian?”

“I don’t trust him.”

“But he’s not doing anything for you to trust or not to trust.”

“He’s looking into things for you. Anything that concerns you . . .” He stopped, feeling more than halfway foolish by saying it out loud. Putting stuff like that into an email was one thing but . . .

Prophet stroked a hand along the back of his neck—a cool touch against his suddenly overheated skin. “He was.”

Tom turned to stare up at him. “And?”

A tick in Prophet’s jaw, and then, “He told me John’s dead.”

“And I know you can’t be fucking thinking about believing him.”

“I have no reason to think he’s lying.”

“Bullshit you don’t. Prophet, come the fuck on. You searched for the guy for two years, found nothing. I’m sure, even after you came back from the search, you kept looking, am I right? And in the space of what, weeks, Cillian finds his body?”

Prophet blinked at him. “Maybe it was never lost.”

Tom slammed a fist against the bed. “I don’t know why I bother.”

“Me neither.”

“Fucking impossible.”

Prophet nodded, accepting that easily. Like the guy enjoyed owning it. And then he conceded slightly. “Look, I also took that job—a lot of jobs—to throw Cillian off track.”

“How so?”

“If Cillian knew I was too busy to sniff around—because he’s gotta know I don’t fully believe him about finding proof of John’s death—and he knows you can’t get close to him, then he’ll go about his business like he’s got nothing to worry about.”

“Does he, though?”

“Yep. Mal.”

“So Phil knows . . .”

“Nothing,” Prophet said sharply. “He can’t know. For his safety. For the safety of everyone else at EE.”

Tom nodded and tried to process everything Prophet had just told him. “Did I fuck things up?”

“No. It actually helped,” Prophet admitted grudgingly. “Your reaction to Cillian . . . is that because you don’t like the guy or because—”

“It’s not because of Cillian. I just don’t believe him. And neither do you.” Tom pointed at him, then dropped his hand. “Let me help you find John. I want to be your goddamned partner. And I know I chose Cope—but I guess I was hoping we could still . . .”

“Fuck?” Prophet asked.

“I didn’t want to lose you, Proph. That’s what it was all about.”

Prophet nodded tiredly. “Can we deal with one thing at a time? Your crisis is a little more pressing than a man I’ve been trying to find for ten years.”

“Yeah. But can you do one thing first?”

“What’s that?”

“Put that back on me?” He motioned to the bracelet on the table next to where Prophet had been sitting. “I wanted to, but it didn’t seem right.”

God, could he sound more fucking stupid? But he was done hiding, and it was the way he felt.

Prophet didn’t hesitate, got up, grabbed the bracelet, sat next to Tom on the bed, and tied the thin strip of leather around his wrist. Tom flashed back to the first time he’d done so, before the cage match, when Tom had been as turned around as he was now.

But he knew a hell of a lot more now, about himself and Prophet, and he took comfort in that as he slid his hand into Prophet’s. He was thinner but somehow more muscled, the look of a battle-worn soldier who used his job in lieu of a gym. “I keep getting you in trouble.”

Bad loque.

“I’d follow your gut anywhere, T. That’s not the issue. I’m worried about
you
.”

“I know you get angry, Proph. Don’t you ever fight? Just fucking lose it and start punching whoever’s closest?” He realized he’d growled those words, that his hands had fisted.

Prophet, of course, had too. Reached out and physically unfisted Tom’s hands. “I try not to. And when I do, I don’t fight angry. Anger gives your opponent the upper hand.”

“Ivan didn’t have the upper hand in that cage match.”

“Of course he did—you hurt him when you didn’t mean to, and that shit will haunt you forever.”

He hated Prophet for being right. “You took care of John like this. And you grew to resent it.”

“After a while, yes. I hated feeling guilty about it, about him. But the more violent he got, the more angry he became. It escalated, and by the end, I was more his keeper than his lover. And I won’t go there again. I can’t. Because as shitty as it was for me, it was actually worse for John. Much worse. So that was my fault.”

“You’re not responsible for anyone else’s—”

“I made myself responsible,” Prophet interrupted, and Tom knew when to cut his losses, so he closed the subject and opened a new one.

“I’m going to clean up. Then I need to make a stop. Will you come with me, Proph?”

“Of course, T,” Prophet told him without a second’s hesitation. “’S’why I’m here.”

Prophet followed Tom through the bramble of tall grass and other plants that lined the bayou. The heat of the day had waned as the afternoon pushed into early evening, and there was still a decent breeze, the remnant of the hurricane that had put all this shit into motion.

Granted, something good had come out of it. Someone. It hurt to watch Tom’s shoulders set so stiffly as he walked ahead, like he was marching to his death. Tom wouldn’t tell him where they were going, only assured him that no one would follow their asses out here.

And Prophet could see why. You could fucking die out here, and no one would ever find you.

At first, they’d driven Etienne’s old Jeep through flooded roads. The sun was fighting to come out and water had receded somewhat, leaving some roads still inaccessible, but Tom knew every single back road and shortcut in this damned place.

They’d left the Jeep half a mile back.

“This is a graveyard,” Prophet said suddenly as stone mausoleums suddenly loomed out everywhere between the tall grasses.

“Yes.”

“Why isn’t it underwater?”

“It’s never flooded. It’s one of the only places that doesn’t.”

“But the bodies are still all above ground.”

“Yeah, they’re shoved into these mausoleums together.” Tom pointed to the nameplates on the sides as they walked.

“That’s not right.”

“Everyone says it’s not right that this place never takes on water. It’s low enough. The surrounding areas always flood.”

“So what, Mother Nature has respect for the dead?”

“They say it’s because there’s evil buried here.”

“Evil?”

“People who weren’t allowed to be buried with their families. The unclaimed. Criminals.” Tom’s face wore a troubled expression. He’d stopped at a small clearing and Prophet came up next to him to see a small gravestone, the only one that was clearly marked and not brimming with overgrowth. Someone tended lovingly to this grave.

“That’s my mom’s grave,” Tom said in answer to Prophet’s unspoken question.

“She’s all by herself.”

“They have too much respect for the criminals to bury them next to her,” Tom said, his voice tight.

Prophet put a hand on his shoulder, but didn’t push Tom further. Everything in its time. “Do you do the upkeep?”

“When I’m here. When I can’t be, I pay old man Brown to come out here and do this for me. Don’t want her to be forgotten. Feel bad the rest of them are.” He shrugged sadly. “I was too young to have a say where she was buried, because it sure as hell wouldn’t’ve been here. But I don’t believe in disturbing the dead unless I absolutely have to.”

“How old were you when she died?”

Tom glanced at him. “She died in childbirth.”

“Ah, Tommy.”

Tom shoved his hands in his pockets. “Thanks for coming along. I know you wouldn’t let me go alone, but that’s not the only reason I asked you.” He glanced at Prophet with a hint of laughter with zero humor behind it. “Correction: I shouldn’t come alone. Don’t say you can’t teach me anything.”

Prophet gave Tom’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “Want me to give you some space?”

“Yeah. If you don’t mind.”

Prophet didn’t, backed away to where he could keep an eye on Tommy and the area that surrounded him. He’d never been a religious man, but he’d been known to say a prayer or two. So he sent one up for Tom’s mother.

Had a million questions that he expected Tommy wanted to give him answers to today. Bringing him here was the breaking of the dam. The flood of information would follow shortly.

And reciprocation would be a complete and total bitch—and Tom would definitely demand it once he got his head back on straight. But Prophet had already let him in more than he should’ve.