Chapter Ten
“Back to you, Gavin!” concluded the announcer from down a long and echoing tunnel.
Hard hands locked onto Archie’s biceps and he was hauled up and slung into a wooden chair next to one of the empty tables.
“You sure know how to make an entrance,” Beau muttered. “Put your head between your knees.”
A large, capable hand landed between Archie’s shoulder blades, pushing him forward, and Archie complied, taking slow, deep breaths as tiny stars flashed and floated beneath his closed eyelids. He could hear the buzz of excited voices in the background, though the words were indistinct.
This is really not my day.
He didn’t realize he’d given voice to the thought until Beau asked, “Which part?”
“Every part.” Archie opened his eyes and blinked down at the sticky floorboards a few inches from his face. He was grateful Beau had not laid him out on those grimy planks to resuscitate him.
“Is he drunk?” someone asked from overhead.
“Let’s find out. Have you been drinking, Special Agent Crane?” Beau’s fist was still locked in the back of Archie’s jacket collar, the knuckles of his hand brushing Archie’s hair and nape. And the funny thing was, even after all this time, all this distance, he’d have known that touch, known Beau’s hands on him anytime, anywhere.
Archie sucked in a deep, unsteady breath and sat up, dislodging Beau’s grip. He rested his elbows on the table, face in his palms, trying to get command of himself. “What a funny guy,” he muttered from behind his hands.
There was a loud click as someone set a glass on the table next to his elbow.
“Thanks,” Beau said, though clearly not to Archie. “Drink some water, Special Agent Crane.”
I swear to God, if he calls me Special Agent Crane again in that fucking tone of voice, I’m going to punch him…
The brief flare of anger was helpful.
Archie lowered his hands, picked up the glass and swallowed a couple of mouthfuls of cold water. The dizziness was receding but he felt sick with shock.
Breland dead.
Suicide.
He stared numbly at the TV screen, though the evening’s news cycle had already moved on to other topics.
Nearly two years of work, two years of Archie’s life gone. Just like that. Sure, they still had Cummings and Ronson, but Breland was the ringleader. Breland was the man with the plan. The guy with the contacts. Contacts to financial backers. Contacts to weapons dealers. Contacts to other like-minded groups—potential cells, potential threats. Cummings and Ronson were just foot soldiers.
“Finish that and I’ll drive you to the ER.” Beau’s voice jarred Archie from his joyless reflections.
He looked up—Beau’s face seemed a million miles away; his expression was somber, his blue eyes dark and undecipherable.
Archie shook his head. “Thanks. No. I’m fine.”
“Oh yeah, you’re great,” Beau drawled. “We can all swear to that.”
Archie glanced past Beau and saw he had the complete attention of an elderly bartender, built like bantamweight prize fighter, and the entire line of customer-occupied bar stools—three of whom had the unmistakable look of off-duty cops.
Right. Because in Twinkleton he was forever and always doomed to make a spectacle of himself, even when he was just minding his own business and looking for somewhere to grab a quick bite.
He said, “But I’d be grateful for a ride back to my hotel.”
Beau’s mouth curled a little, but he said, “Up to you.”
He moved away to the bar to pay his tab and Archie swallowed another mouthful of water and carefully stood up. He felt wobbly, off-balance—nothing new there, really—but otherwise okay. He just wanted to get back to the privacy of his room—
His cell rang.
The ring sounded shockingly loud, also strange and unfamiliar, as though it had been months since he’d had a phone call. Archie fumbled for his phone, answered automatically, and Deputy Assistant Director Wagner said, “Archie, I know it’s late, but I wanted to tell you before—”
“I just saw it on the news.”
Wagner burst out, “It’s a goddamned catastrophe and I’m demanding a thorough investigation.”
“Yes.”
Archie was on autopilot. But yes, an investigation was needed, no question. However, there was no reason to think this was anything more than what it appeared on the surface. The number of suicides occurring in federal prisons was about half the number of suicides in state prisons, but the numbers were still too high. Life behind bars was hard. Harder on some than others. And Breland hadn’t been the model of mental health before incarceration.
“There’s no denying this is a huge setback, but our case isn’t dead.”
“Sure.”
Not dead, no. On life support for sure. The government would get its convictions for the two remaining conspirators. Archie had no doubt. But the real prize. The prize that had been worth months of living in the lion’s den, of risking his life every single minute of every single day, of having to kill—
Yeah. That was forfeit.
Wagner’s faraway voice said, “I’m sorry, Archie. I know how difficult...”
“Not your fault,” he said brusquely.
Wagner cleared her throat. “Right. Well, we’ll talk when you get back. Just focus on getting on your feet again.”
“Yes. Will do.” Good thing they weren’t FaceTiming.
Wagner’s, “Good night” was subdued.
Archie clicked off his phone, shoved it in his pocket. When he glanced up, he saw Beau watching him from the bar.
Beau finished paying his bill and joined him. “Ready to go?”
Like he might want to stay for the floor show? Oh wait. He was the floor show.
Archie nodded and turned toward the door.
It probably said something, something sad, that even in these extreme circumstances, he was uncomfortably conscious of Beau right behind him, Beau’s energy and aggression breathing down his neck. Except it wasn’t exactly energy and aggression assaulting his senses so much as that spicy aftershave and the crisp rustle of Beau’s uniform and jacket and the firm tread of his boots just about clipping Archie’s heels.
But when they reached the door, Beau moved to hold it for Archie and put his hand on Archie’s arm as though he expected Archie to keel over in that first gust of fresh air.
Archie did not keel over, of course. He was made of sterner stuff that, for God’s sake—despite how it might look after his semi-swoon. Even after getting beaten nearly into unconsciousness, he’d managed to—but he couldn’t think about that now. Especially now.
And it hadn’t been for nothing. They’d managed to stop the attack on the base. Lives had been saved. That was not insignificant.
Lives had been lost, too.
He had done everything in his power. But some things were beyond his power.
Beau let go of him and they walked the short distance down the street. They reached Beau’s SUV. Beau unlocked the vehicle. Archie climbed inside and let his head fall back against the seat rest.
What the fuck did any of it matter?
Beau came around, got in behind the wheel, started the engine. The radio crackled into life. But dispatch sounded muted and the officer reports were casual. Another quiet night in Twinkleton.
As they pulled away from the curb, Beau, eyes in his rearview, said, “You sure you don’t want to stop at the ER? Have them take a look at you?”
“I’m sure.”
Beau was silent. He said finally, “That was your case going up in smoke, I guess? On the news?”
“That was it.”
“Were you the undercover agent? Are you how the group was infiltrated?”
Beau was smart and quick. In school, he’d never really had to apply himself anywhere off the football field because, well, he was Beau Langham, hometown hero. No teacher, nobody was going to fail him. Nobody was going to keep him from leading the football team to win the state championship again. Real life, adult life, was different, but Archie wasn’t surprised Beau had achieved his goals. He believed Beau when he said he was good at his job.
He nodded wearily.
After a moment, Beau said, “Sorry.”
“Yeah.” Archie added in afterthought, “Thanks.”
Six minutes later they were back at the inn. Beau parked streetside in the hazy yellow light of streetlamps. Archie reached for the door handle.
Beau turned off the engine and said, “I’ll go up with you.”
Archie turned back, gave a short laugh. “Why?”
Even in the gloom, he could see Beau’s scowl. “Because you almost passed out. And you look like you’re about to do it again.”
“I should have eaten. That’s all.”
“Okay, well, you still haven’t eaten, so that’s not reassuring. You’ve been wandering around town like the walking dead for two days. It’s my job to notice and be concerned.”
“I appreciate the concern. I appreciate the ride. But—”
“Besides.”
“Besides what?” Impossible to read Beau’s face in the eerie glow of the dashboard, but what Archie could see of his expression, did not look promising.
“I want to talk to you.”
Archie said a little bitterly, “Of course you do. Well, if you think you’ll have more luck questioning me in my weakened state, go for it.”
The gloom made it impossible to actually stare each other down, though they were trying. Beau seemed to recognize the ridiculousness of the situation. He gave a weird laugh and said, “You just can’t be wrong, can you, Crane?”
“How am I in the wrong?” Archie protested. “How is this a problem for the police chief? I’m not drunk. I didn’t pass out. I got woozy because I haven’t eaten and got some...some bad news. More bad news.”
“And?”
“And I don’t like being treated like a suspect when you know goddamned well I didn’t have anything to do with John’s murder.”
“And?” Beau persisted in that infuriating tone.
Archie had earned a rep for never losing his cool. That was because his colleagues had never seen him trying to deal with Beau Langham. For the second—third?—time in one day his composure evaporated in a blaze of long repressed rage and injury. “And what ? I don’t understand what’s going on with you, Beau. You ended things. You dumped me . Remember? In no uncertain fucking terms. You ended—”
Beau moved to speak, and Archie raised his voice, overriding him, “And don’t tell me that what happened seven years ago isn’t relevant because we both know that’s bullshit . I’m not stupid. You’re still holding some grudge against me even though you got every goddamned thing you wanted and I got—”
Alarmingly, Archie’s voice cracked, and thank God for it because he was spared saying something truly embarrassing, but also something not true, because he had also gotten much of what he’d wanted.
“No, you’re not stupid,” Beau said calmly. “But you’re as unaware as ever.”
“Unaware?”
“You prefer self-absorbed?”
Archie stuttered, “S-s-self- absorbed ?”
“Jesus Christ, Crane. Do you really not remember everything that happened back then?”
“What are you talking about? You dumped me.” He was starting to feel like a broken record, like he was stuck in a time loop.
“Yes.”
Archie raised his hands in bewilderment.
Beau let out a sound of sheer exasperation. “This is why we need to talk.”
He opened his door and got out.
Now? Really? But okay. Whatever. Far be it from Archie to deny Beau the pleasure of yet again expressing his feelings.
The summer night was cool and sweet as he opened his door and climbed out. His heart was banging around his ribs in that fight or flight adrenaline rush. He did not want this; he did not have the energy or anger necessary to take Beau on again. But sometimes the fight came to you.
The winding cobblestone path through the trees was deeply shadowed, dew-beaded cobwebs glimmered in the soft glow of lantern-shaped garden lights. This time, Beau led the way, striding a few steps ahead on the damp walk.
He reached the hotel entrance, waiting silently for Archie to join him. Archie used his keycard. Beau opened the door and they went inside the silent and empty lobby.
Scarlett Langham stood at the front desk, and she did a doubletake when her brother walked in with Archie.
“Hey, is the kitchen still open?” Beau called.
“No, the kitchen isn’t open. Are you serious?”
“Can you order Special Agent Crane something to eat?”
“From where ? It’s after eleven.”
“Scarlett.”
Scarlett shook her dark hair back impatiently. “Yes, Chief . I’ll order the special agent something to eat from who knows where.”
Special agent.
For the love of God. Now she was doing it, too.
Archie said, “I don’t need anything to eat.”
Beau and Scarlett ignored him—this was starting to feel like old times at Casa Langham—and he headed for the stairs. Not that he kidded himself Beau would forget about their little tête-à-tête. Maybe Beau was the one stuck in a time loop because what the hell was there to say seven years later?
At the same time—and this was the troubling part, the painful part—he couldn’t quite smother that flicker of doubt, worse, of hope, that there was still maybe something to be offered, explained. Not that anything could be changed, but he would have liked to understand why everything had happened the way it had. And why Beau was still so angry nearly a decade later.
By the time Archie reached the top landing, Beau was right behind him again.
They walked in silence down the hall—everybody in the inn appeared to be tucked up for the night—Archie unlocked his room, and they went inside.
The lamp next to the bed was still on, the coverlet on the bed thrown back. Everything was as he’d left it—in, it felt like, the distant past. Before he’d learned about Breland. Before he’d learned that those sixteen months had been for n—
Don’t be stupid. You know better.
Maybe it was time to pop open that bottle of antidepressants.
Beau quietly closed the door behind them, and Archie sat down on the side of the bed. There was really no choice about that. He was too tired to stand. He watched Beau warily. Beau gazed back at him, and it went through Archie’s mind that maybe Beau wasn’t as one hundred percent sure of his next move as he’d seemed four minutes earlier.
Beau’s face twisted and he said, “The timing’s shit, but if I don’t say this now, it might not get said.”
“Maybe you should go with that instinct.”
It wasn’t cowardice on Archie’s part; he just couldn’t see the point in punishing each other for things that had happened a lifetime ago. He didn’t want to fight with Beau. He really didn’t.
But Beau didn’t seem to take it in the spirit it was meant. He flushed. His eyes narrowed. “Sorry, but I just can’t take another minute of you walking around thinking you’re the victim in all this.”
“I never said I was a victim. I think—I know —you decided to end our relationship. That was your decision, not mine. That’s all I ever said. What I don’t get is why you’re apparently still mad about it.”
Beau laughed and shook his head. “Jesus Christ. Are you going to sit there and say you have no clue why I’d want to end things?”
Not for the first time, Archie felt that they were talking at cross-purposes.
“I know you weren’t happy—”
Beau overrode him. “The fact is, I just pulled the plug. You’d already ended things.”
That was too much. Archie said fiercely, “How did I end things? By going away to college? By taking the job I told you for years I planned on having?”
They were keeping their voices down, both always, instinctively aware of being overheard, but the conversation was heating up fast, both of them flushed and bright-eyed with emotion.
“Are you telling me, you don’t think the timing was maybe a little problematical—I mean, if you’re actually still claiming you gave a shit about anyone but yourself.”
“The timing ?” Archie was blank. “The timing of what ? College?”
Beau shook his head in disbelief. “Jesus. What happened that summer, Crane?”
Archie stared at Beau. Beau was as pale as he’d been flushed. He cast his mind to the summer before he’d left for college. It had been a rough and emotional few months. For both of them. But yes, it had been harder on Beau. Hell, yes. But.
He said slowly, “Dasha Martin saw us kissing behind the fieldhouse.”
“We got outed.” Beau met Archie’s gaze and corrected, “ I got outed. Because, yeah, you were already out. You were used to—”
Beau’s cellphone rang.
It was like being jolted out of a dream. They both flinched. Beau made a sound of angry impatience, snatched up his cell, bit off, “Chief Langham.” His expression changed; he said a little sheepishly. “ Oh . Thanks. I’ll be right down.” He turned, and face to the door, said gruffly, “I’ll be back.”
He slipped into the silent hallway, remembering to leave the security guard flipped, so he could get back in.
Archie stared, stricken, at the closed door. His memories of that summer clicked past like images in an old-fashioned slide show.
Jesus. Right. It had been during the last few weeks of that final summer vacation. Before they were supposed to start college. Beau had already been unhappy about Archie’s decision to go to San Diego State, but he’d come to terms with it—seemed to come to terms with it. But then they’d been caught fooling around in the grass behind the fieldhouse. It was summer vacation. School was closed, the campus empty, but somehow goddamned Dasha Martin, Beau’s stalker, as Archie had not-so-jokingly referred to her, had stumbled over them. And Dasha was not only obsessed with Beau, she was a blabbermouth of wide renown.
It hadn’t taken long for word to spread.
For Archie it had almost been a relief. He had despised, resented, the sneaking around. Had hated—and sure, been a little hurt by—Beau’s rampant paranoia. All the same, he’d felt horrible for Beau. Being outed had been a living hell for Beau. However, they were both going away in the fall, and Archie knew from his years in Twinkleton that you could put up with anything for a limited amount of time. He had known Beau would be okay, and Beau had been okay.
Maybe not as quickly, and maybe not as okay as he’d pretended.
Maybe not as quickly, and maybe not as okay as Archie had wanted to believe.
Nervous restlessness had Archie on his feet, circling the old-fashioned room. Suddenly, those cozy four walls felt like they were closing in on him, the space was hot and stuffy. Too small. He made another round of the room, pausing at one of the tall double-sash windows, pushing it open. Cool damp night air flowed in.
As he turned away, he knocked one of the small decorative cushions from the wingback chair. He bent to pick it up from the carpet and froze as, out of the corner of his eye, he caught the flash of moonlight on metal.
Squatting down, he studied what looked to him like the scaled G-10 handle and steel spine of a tactical knife, peeping out from behind the chair seat cushion. His scalp prickled in sick recognition—followed by instant alarm.
Behind him, the room door opened.