Chapter 38
Jem studied Stephen. It was his first look at the other man since Tean had pointed out the relationship, and now it was easy to see the similarities. The laceration from the antenna had already scabbed.
The sap was a problem.
“Mckell,” Dean shouted. He took a step toward her and stopped to stare at Stephen. “What’d you do?”
“What the fuck’s going on?” Sawyer shouted. When no one responded, he tried again—aiming for angry, but his voice beginning to fray. “Hey, I’m talking to you!”
“Get in that bedroom,” Stephen said, “and shut the door. Maybe I won’t kill you.”
Jem didn’t look over his shoulder, but there was a rattling sound as someone yanked on a doorknob. Aiden, he guessed. Without taking his gaze off Stephen, he said, “Go. Put something in front of the door.”
“You need help—” Quinn began.
“Get in there,” Jem said.
Movement behind Jem told him the rest of the coaching group was leaving. Dean lingered the longest, wringing his hands as he stared at Mckell, but finally he slunk into the bedroom. The door clicked shut, and then came the muffled sounds of furniture thumping across the floor.
Stephen was still standing there. Behind him, the overhead lights picked out the silver and blond of Brigitte’s hair like she was standing under a spotlight, but it left her face in shadow.
“You’re making a big mistake,” Jem said.
Stephen shook his head. He took a step forward.
“Get lost,” Jem said. “Right now.”
“Give us the briefcase, Jeremiah,” Brigitte called from the hallway. “That’s all we want. Once that’s done, we can go back to being a family.”
In spite of himself, Jem laughed. “You two are a match made in heaven, you know that? What, now you’re working together?”
Stephen shifted his weight, but he stayed where he was.
“Or you can’t make up your minds?” Jem asked. “Yes, no, yes, no. I guess it’s hard. You need each other. You can’t trust each other. How long did it take before you started blackmailing her?”
A smile slanted slowly across Stephen’s mouth.
“I couldn’t figure out why you wanted me up here so badly,” Jem said, speaking past Stephen, letting the words carry to Brigitte.
“At first, I thought I knew. Hey, we’re a family.
Let’s get back together again, make things right.
That’s what you wanted me to think. And it worked.
” He couldn’t help it; his voice got thicker when he said, “People will believe anything. Especially if they want it to be true.”
“This is a complicated situation,” Brigitte said. “And we can still be a family. But you have to give us the briefcase.”
Jem ignored her. “Once Tean told me what was going on, though, I couldn’t wrap my head around it.
Here you were, running this great scam. Why drag me into it?
The only answer was that you needed me. But why did you need me?
Because you were in trouble. And the only kind of trouble that mattered had to be something to do with stealing all that money.
Then I thought about where we found the bank statements.
They were incriminating. Why would Stephen keep them in his room, even hidden, unless he needed them for something?
” No one spoke. “And then it landed: he needed them so he could hold them over your head with Gerald. I guess the whole keep-it-in-the-family thing didn’t work out the way you wanted. ”
“This is taking too long,” Brigitte said to Stephen.
Stephen started to move forward, but Jem said, “She wanted me up here to distract you. That first night when you lifted my wallet in the bar. That was all about getting you out of your room and keeping you busy so that she’d have time to try to find those documents.
What happened? Someone called you and said, ‘Hey, I’m your brother, and I want to get a drink with you in the bar?
’ Maybe someone sent you a picture of me?
” When Stephen didn’t answer, Jem said, “I’m close, right?
Something made you want to see if it was true—if it could be true.
That’s why you came to the bar. That’s why you lifted my wallet.
And you saw my name, and you knew, and then you ditched the wallet, and Maeve and Milo picked it up. ”
“Something like that,” Stephen said.
“Your name’s not Stephen, is it? Sawyer looked you up. He couldn’t find you. You’re not real.”
“I’m real enough.” Stephen took a step. The sap bounced against his thigh. “The briefcase.”
Jem was grinning. It was like he’d taken all those addies he’d found, like he was skating.
Like someone had turned up all the lights until the world was on the edge of being too bright, but in the best possible way.
His heartbeat was higher in his chest. His skin was tight, and the snow-burn on his cheeks throbbed.
Excitement made his gut tense, his balls draw up.
Hours and days of wandering around in the snow, being lost in the dark, being so fucking helpless.
And now, finally, something was happening.
“It’s Jacob, right? Jacob B.? It’s on your prescriptions.”
Something darkened in Stephen’s eyes.
“J.B.,” Jem said. “Just like Jem Berger. How about that? I bet a lot of guys wish they had the same initials as their awesome big bro.”
Stephen—Jacob—laughed. “Do you know what I kept thinking, watching you stumble around the last few days, trying not to cover my eyes every time you somehow managed to fuck things up even further? How is he still alive? That’s what I couldn’t figure out.
How have you stayed alive all these years?
You’re a walking shit show. Tell me. I want to know. How?”
“Stick around,” Jem said. “You’re about to find out.”
“Enough,” Brigitte called sharply. “Get the briefcase. They’ll have called security by now; we don’t have any more time.”
“You know what kills me?” Jem asked.
“How easily I put you on your ass the first time?” Stephen—Jacob—said as he took a step forward. He flexed the arm holding the sap, building up a little momentum.
“Fuck that noise,” Jem said. His lips were dry, and they felt like they might split as his grin got bigger. “What kills me is that you two don’t have any idea what’s in that briefcase.”
Something—annoyance verging on anger—flickered across Jacob’s face. “I guess we’ll find out.”
He came forward the same way he had the day before: unhurried, his stance relaxed.
Jem spun the paracord to build up speed and shifted his weight to the balls of his feet.
The gun Mckell had been holding was about six feet away, lying on the floor where Mckell had dropped it. Jacob was standing in the way.
Jacob came within range, and Jem darted forward.
The last time, he’d made the mistake of counting on Jacob reacting the way most people reacted.
Most people, if someone attacked, freaked out.
Most people panicked. Most people pulled back, tried to gather themselves, looked for an escape.
Jacob, on the other hand, knew how to handle himself.
And that’s how he’d gotten the upper hand.
This time, Jem wasn’t going to give him the same chance.
He whipped the hex nut at Jacob’s face. Jacob pulled back, but only for a moment.
As the hex nut zipped through the air, he was already recovering, regaining his posture, reaching for Jem’s sweatshirt with one hand as he swung the sap with the other.
Jem never gave him a chance. He was still moving forward from the attack, and he drove his shoulder into Jacob’s chest. Jacob twisted and tried to get away, but Jem grabbed him and barreled forward. They staggered out into the hall. Brigitte was screaming.
When Jacob recovered, Jem felt it. The hand holding the sap pulled back.
Jem tried to shove Jacob so that he could get some distance, but he realized now that he’d made a mistake—yes, he’d caught Jacob off guard, but he’d also put himself exactly where Jacob wanted him.
Jacob had a handful of Jem’s sweatshirt, and now he used it to yank Jem off balance, almost exactly as he’d done the last time they’d fought, some sort of bullshit control move that Jem hadn’t seen before.
It worked—again—and Jem lost his balance.
Only a lot of years fighting dirty saved him. His instinct—anyone’s instinct—was to hold on to Jacob, to try to keep himself upright.
Instead, Jem let himself fall.
The sap glanced off the crown of Jem’s head instead of connecting full-on.
For a moment, Jem’s vision clicked off. Then it was back, and everything tilted.
He was rolling across the carpet. Nausea made his throat clench.
The fluorescents overhead were too bright, and his head pounded.
It didn’t hurt, not exactly, but a part of him knew that was mostly the adrenaline talking.
Soft steps on the carpet.
Jem got on all fours.
“Come on,” Jacob said, his steps moving closer. “Seriously? That’s it?”
A foot flashed out at Jem’s face, and he scrambled back.
Jacob laughed.
“Leave him alone,” Brigitte was saying. “All we need is the briefcase.”
Somehow, Jem got himself against a wall. The world still felt like it was trying to twist out from under him, the hallway snaking in on itself like a kaleidoscope. Jacob was coming at him. The gun—Gerald’s gun—was tucked into his belt.
Behind him stood Brigitte, wringing her hands, her eyes flicking between them.
Jem dragged himself upright. He got the antenna out of his pocket. He tried to snap it out to its full length, but his body didn’t seem to remember how to do anything. He tried again, and this time he got it. Jacob wore that same slanting smile.
Jem took one hobbling step away from the wall to give himself room to work.
He tried to turn it into a feint, and when Jacob adjusted himself, turning in response to the unexpected movement, Jem slashed with the antenna.
He whipped it at Jacob as hard as he could.
Jacob got an arm up, and he absorbed most of the blow, but the tip of the antenna scored a line at the corner of his eye.
Blood rose from the laceration and trickled down his cheek.
“Fuckin’ A,” Jem panted. “Come get some more.”
For the first time, real anger twisted Jacob’s face. He wiped the blood away, flicked it onto the carpet, and reached for the gun.
Jem laughed.
“I’m glad you think this is funny,” Jacob said.
“You want to know how I stayed alive all this time?”
Jacob brought up the gun.
“People,” Jem said. “I know people. So, what I think is funny, is that we’re beating the shit out of each other while she’s running away with the briefcase.”
Jacob’s eyes widened. He spun back toward the room.
Jem lunged forward and threw an elbow against the side of Jacob’s head.
Jacob staggered, and Jem jumped on his back.
He drove his elbow into Jacob’s head again, and this time, Jacob fell.
Jem rode him down to the floor. He got the gun first, twisting it out of Jacob’s limp hand.
A quick pat-down turned up a gravity knife and a keycard.
Jem pocketed both of them and stuck the gun behind his waistband.
When he got to his feet, Brigitte was still standing there, staring at him. She hadn’t moved during the fight, not once. Not that it mattered. Because Jem had learned a long time ago that people would believe anything if they were afraid it was true.
“There’s not one fucking thing in that briefcase about you,” Jem said. “Have a look. And then forget about it, because the police are going to need it to prove Mckell killed Gerald.”
“Jeremiah, I didn’t— I wouldn’t have let him—”
“That’s not my name,” Jem said as he limped past her—the best he could manage, with the hallway still tilting around him. “My name is Jem.”
And then the lights went out.