Long Time Gone (Hell or High Water ) (5 page)

Ah, fuck it.
Tom does. Gotta check on his aunt.

Tom’s family isn’t your problem. Neither is Tom.

That was all true. “And yet, you’re in a truck headed to help a man who gave you away like yesterday’s news.” Prophet shook his head at himself and dropped the phone into the cupholder without answering Cillian.

A camouflage-wearing Guardsman strode stiffly over to his truck. “You’re from out of state,” he barked at Prophet.

“Yes.”

“Sir, we’re not letting any out-of-state residents past this point. Please turn your truck around.”

The guy was a former Marine. Even without the tattoo on his forearm of the globe and eagle and snake, Prophet would’ve known it because of his stance. He thought about pulling the military card, decided against it because he was feeling like too much of a dick. Especially after Cillian’s comments.

He flipped his fake FBI ID badge. “Gonna let me through now, son?”

Without waiting for the answer, he jerked the old Blazer through the barricade and gunned it, not bothering to look in his rearview.

Prophet: One. World: Zero.

Then again, Mother Nature was prepping to be the big bitch she was and would even out that score soon enough.

And he’d climbed out of hell for this, using Tom’s emails as a lifeline. Maybe just in time too. Because if he’d gone any deeper, he would’ve been unreachable in a way that no email could fix.

And that’s what he’d been going for, of course. Dig deep, forget anything that happened above ground. Even now, he could turn around. No one was actually expecting him up ahead, so he wouldn’t be missed. But his conscience wouldn’t allow it.

Goddamned motherfucking thing. If he could’ve cut it out with a knife, he might’ve.

He’d already argued with himself (and lost, obviously) that he wasn’t fit for human company—and by human, he meant civilian—and that’s who he’d be facing when he drove into New Orleans and the French Quarter and . . . Tom’s wealthy Aunt Della.

Did she know about him?

He didn’t know much about Tom’s past, beyond the jobs with the FBI and the sheriff’s department, but what little he did know made him angry. And he was in a really bad place inside his head to be around people who made him angry.

Who the hell had Tommy been fighting in that ring four months ago? Had to be family. Prophet had seen that same fury too often in John not to know that. And now . . . to have to face someone who had to have known what Tom had been going through as a kid . . .

Another Carole Morse, who saw nothing but an angry son and didn’t investigate further.

Another Judie Drews, who couldn’t do anything.

He mulled that over as he pulled into Della Boudreaux’s driveway but kept the truck running.

The house was old but refined, well tended, and cared for. Obviously, someone with money lived there, because this was one of the wealthier sections of the city. And he sat in his truck in the driveway, unable to get out and approach the door.

He hadn’t thought much beyond getting here to help Tommy’s aunt. But that was a start. He would help her because Tom’s words had helped him.

I’m not sorry. I’m trying to take care of you.

But I could take better care of you if I was with you. I realize that now.

I’ve also realized that it’s really never too late. For anything.

For now, that would have to be enough. He finally shut off the truck, got out, and walked up to the porch.

There was so much opportunity here, but Tom had grown up in the parishes of the bayou, not in the French Quarter. So why would he be so concerned about Della, who could probably afford the queen’s security?

He knocked on the door and was greeted by a shotgun to the chest. He stared down at the barrel and then the woman holding it. She was pretty. Cultured. And still somehow fierce, in ways that had nothing to do with the shotgun pointed at him.

And still, you didn’t protect Tommy.

He froze his anger, stopped thinking about Tom’s scars and his temper. He’d just have to use what anger he wasn’t able to tamp down to fuel his hurricane prep. “You’re doing it wrong.”

“Son, I’ve got a gun to your chest and you’re telling me that I’m doing it wrong?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“Closer isn’t better.” He disarmed her with a swift motion, then offered the weapon back to her. “Further away you are, the less unpredictable I can be.”

Della’s eyes had opened wide with surprise, but she recovered fast. Took the shotgun back and said, “Okay. Knock again so we can start over.”

“I’d rather spend time getting you ready for the hurricane.”

She tilted her head and assessed him. “Friend of my nephew’s?”

“Tom and I worked together.”

“Think I won’t notice you avoided the question?” Prophet raised a brow, and she shook her head. “Tom didn’t tell me you were coming.”

He held up his phone to show the list of messages from Tom, proof that he actually knew the man well. “My name’s Prophet. And that’s his work email, right?”

“I thought he was busy with work, but I see he’s got a lot of time to send emails,” she said coolly. “Nice to meet you, Prophet. Why did you bring a U-Haul? Are you also moving in?”

“Supplies. Unless you’d like to evacuate?”

“Never have. Never will. And I have supplies, you know. This isn’t my first hurricane.”

“You don’t have supplies like mine.”

She moved aside to let him in, and, after a brief pause as he realized there had never been any escape, he entered.

The house was just as nice inside. He thought back to Tommy’s rental apartment, half an old Victorian near EE’s HQ and wondered if that was a conscious thing, if somehow this home pulled to Tommy that badly.

“Is there anyone else who’ll be staying with you during the storm?” he asked, taking in the portable oxygen concentrator a few feet away.

“Roger and Dave rent the third floor. They’ve lived with me for the past ten years, but they’re completely useless during storms.”

“I heard that.”

Prophet had seen the man coming down the stairs before he’d spoken. Della simply rolled her eyes. “Prophet, meet Roger. Prophet is Tom’s friend—he’s got supplies and he’ll get us through the worst of the storm.”

“Is that right?” Roger asked.

“I’ll do my best,” Prophet said as he shook hands with Roger.

He looked to be in his late sixties. A man Prophet assumed to be Dave followed closely behind. Both men were still handsome—Dave was taller and thinner, Roger shorter and mouthier—and Prophet liked that they had no problem holding hands, in front of a stranger or otherwise.

Roger saw him glance at their hands. “We’ve been together thirty years.”

Prophet had known John for nine—best friends for all of it, lovers for four years. Add to that teammates and confidantes. Sometimes Prophet had loved him, and sometimes it had been just the opposite, which he suspected happened in every long-term relationship.

“You didn’t ask what it feels like to be with the same person for so long,” Roger noted. “Which means either you are or were in a long-term relationship yourself, so you know what it feels like, or you’re built for one.”

“Please ignore his rambling pontifications—they’re well-meaning but totally insane.” Dave dropped his voice to a stage whisper. “He’s already been drinking.”

“Hurricanes frighten me,” Roger said.

“We’ve got him,” Dave said, pointing to Prophet. “Does it look like anything frightens him?”

“Well, does it? Wait, don’t answer that.” Roger held up a hand. “I need more wine.”

Yes, they had a great hurricane plan—drink themselves silly. Granted, from where Prophet stood, it seemed like a decent way to go.

“So, you work with Tom,” Roger continued. “And your wife or girlfriend doesn’t mind that you’re here?”

Prophet gave a smile that was harder than he thought to muster because Tom’s face flashed in front of his eyes. And then it got easier because Tom would get pissed being associated with the word
girl
. “I’m single at the moment.”

They weren’t trying to dig—they’d read him as straight. Most did, and Prophet liked it only because he never liked anyone knowing things about him.

He also liked surprising the hell out of people.

Dave sighed. “Before we interrogate the man, why don’t we let him get settled so he can save us.”

Roger lifted a wineglass in Prophet’s direction.

Della had pointed him in the direction of a bedroom on the second floor, and Prophet checked it out quickly. He only planned on using it for scoping rather than sleeping, but he didn’t tell her that. Just like he didn’t mention the inflatable boat and the power engine and oars he’d keep on the second floor, in case they needed to float the hell out of there.

And then he got to work. He wore his iPod most of the day, blasting lots of classic rock so he could pretend not to hear Della or Roger or Dave trying to engage him in conversation—as he’d predicted, he just wasn’t there yet. Back from battle and not ready for civilians. And it would pass, but not before the hurricane hit. And maybe he wasn’t good at hiding his thousand-yard stare, because they really hadn’t tried to talk to him much anyway.

They did, however, talk
about
him a little, because they thought he couldn’t hear, and Della said she was worried about Tom, but other than that, they went about their business.

Mainly, they were helpful and unobtrusive.

It took him the rest of the day and overnight to finish his prep sufficiently enough in his eyes. First, he built the pad for the generator, and while it set, he worked on everything else.

Eventually, the groceries were inside. Prophet’s truck was in back, away from the trees and wires, ready for an evac, if necessary. Radios, batteries, just-in-case flashlights, and water were set up.

“Neighbors?” he’d asked earlier.

Della had rolled her eyes. “Most of them evacuated. They like to follow rules.”

He knew he couldn’t say something like
rules are important
with a straight face, so he didn’t bother.

Finally, he installed the generator to the panel, which thankfully wasn’t as old as the house, because otherwise the thing would be useless. Still, he only wired for essentials so he wouldn’t overload anything.

By then, the rain had started in earnest, the wind picking up quickly, a warning that this hurricane wasn’t slowing down.

By 0600, he was sitting at the kitchen table, surrounded by maps and his laptop, making several evac plans, just in case. GPS would be down, and even though—thanks to EE—his was satellite powered and installed directly into his truck, he didn’t trust anything to work the way it was supposed to. He’d also gone through Della’s medications, making sure she had more than enough, and he’d made a few calls to ensure he could get more in a hurry. Because that shit you couldn’t fool around with.

As early morning ambled along, Della wandered into the kitchen. He’d made a full pot of coffee, and she poured herself a cup while he continued to concentrate on what was in front of him.

He didn’t look up, not until she slid sandwiches and a glass of lemonade next to him.

“You haven’t eaten much since you got here, and you can’t live on coffee alone,” she told him, and his stomach growled in agreement with her. He’d had a PowerBar at some point, and some soda, but that wasn’t exactly the breakfast of champions.

“I got wrapped up,” he admitted.

“I’m grateful, but I can’t let you starve.”

Why’d you let Tom get hit?
he wanted to ask back, but even he wasn’t that much of a dick. Not when he could stuff a sandwich in his mouth instead.

“You’re close with Tom?” she asked delicately.

“We were partnered up on a job.” That was as truthful an answer as he could give.

She sat across from him at the table, her shoulders squared as if she’d read him and was expecting battle. “And now?”

Prophet was unable to keep the anger out of his voice when he said, “I’ve seen the bottom of his feet.” It was the first time he’d ever let himself actively think about that, never mind speak about it to anyone. The first time he’d allowed himself to dwell on it.

The majority of Tom’s scars were covered up by his tattoos, but his feet . . . There was no way to cover the scars of old cigarette burns on the soles of his feet.

Tom had to know Prophet had seen them. But he’d offered no explanation, and Prophet wouldn’t push something he understood all too well.

“I’ve seen them too,” she said quietly, the kind of quiet that held a carefully concealed rage. “I was the one who took him to the ER. But it was too late to stop them from scarring.”

He didn’t bother to hide his heavy sarcasm. “Right. Can’t let them scar.” He was tired as hell of concealed rage. Hiding shit was where all the trouble started.

She blinked. “Listen up, boy—don’t come in here thinking you know everything.”

“I think I know enough.”

Della sighed. Muttered something that he was pretty sure were Cajun curses before telling him, “Tom stayed with me on and off his whole life. I’m his father’s sister. My brother and I aren’t close. He always said I thought I was too good for the bayou. Maybe that’s true. Or maybe I just didn’t like the violence. Tom’s mother didn’t fit in there either.”