Long Time Gone (Hell or High Water ) (14 page)

Prophet was in so far over his head. And for someone who knew how to swim, that shouldn’t’ve been nearly as terrifying as it was.

It was only as the police car had pulled up to the station, that what had happened started to sink in.

Prophet had seen him. Had thankfully hung back, so Tom knew it was only a matter of time before the man came to get him. But the way Lew was treating Tom, it might not matter. They sure as shit weren’t going to give him bail. Or a phone call.

Miles, dead. Guilt washed over him for a moment, because there’d been many days in Tom’s youth that he’d wished it upon Miles. And so many days since he’d left that he’d promised himself he’d never come back here because of Miles and Donny and the sheriff.

But if he hadn’t come back here, he’d never have proven to himself how far he’d come. Although losing it with Lew showed him how far he still had to go. Didn’t matter how quickly he pulled it together when he’d spotted Proph—he’d still lost it in the first place.

“Let’s go.” Lew pulled him out of the car roughly, nearly hitting Tom’s head on the edge of the door. He’d also put the cuffs on him so damned tightly that Tom’s hands had gone numb, but he didn’t say anything.

“
Bad loque
,” he heard one of the cops mutter as he was pulled along. Lew walked him down the steps to the overcrowded cell in the basement. Lew gave a hard tug on the cuffs before he took them off and shoved Tom inside, saying, “Guys, this is Tom—he’s a
former
sheriff’s deputy. Treat him as such.”

There was an immediate buzz through the jailed men—a couple of catcalls, mixed with rumbles of the kind of violence that sprang up fast and uncontrollable. Violence he understood.

Bad luck. Bad news.

He flexed his hands to get the blood flowing now that the cuffs were off and put his back to the wall in the far corner. He didn’t need training to tell him to do that; he’d learned at a young age that if his daddy was coming for him and there was no escape, he wouldn’t get as hurt this way. Because at some point, his father would hit his fist against the wall instead of Tom and, if he was lucky, that would stop him. If he wasn’t, Tom would at least get one less blow.

He pulled himself back to focus on the situation at hand. This wasn’t the time to be dragged into the past, not when he was locked in this cell with fifteen other men, all in various states of intoxication and aggravation. The only air came from the large fan positioned overhead toward the open bars, but it barely moved the sticky air.

“Cop, huh?” one of the men said, his tattoos unmistakably those of a gang member.

“Not anymore,” Tom said.

“So what, you’re just like one of us?”

Tom didn’t answer, felt the fight build inside of him, wouldn’t be surprised if smoke started coming out of his ears. It had nothing to do with the men surrounding him. They would simply be the unfortunate ones to suffer the brunt of his anger.

He stared straight ahead, willed himself to stay calm. Made a mental note to ask Prophet how exactly he managed to do so.

“So, cop, what do you want us to know about you?”

Tom smiled and surrendered to the inevitable. Because you couldn’t escape your fucking past, so why bother trying? “I’d rather show you.”

Prophet waited in the back of Etienne’s car, in the lot across the street from the police station. While he waited, the radio he’d lifted blurted out the news that there’d been a brawl in the downstairs cell.

And no surprise that Tom Boudreaux was involved.

“Fuck, Tommy,” he muttered, punched the door of the car with the side of his fist. Watched tensely as an ambulance came and took away four men. None of whom were Tommy, which made his stomach unclench. So Tom had started—and finished—the brawl, apparently. And all he’d have to show for it would be an entirely new crop of enemies and some bruises. It also meant that there might be some assault charges pending. Which he’d find out if Etienne ever got the fuck back out here. He pondered storming the station but figured he’d make things worse.

Speaking of worse . . .

He pulled his phone out of his pocket when he heard the beep of a text that he recognized from his personal phone. Hoped it was from Tommy—like maybe the asshole could’ve made Prophet his one phone call—but knew it wouldn’t be.

Cillian asking,
How’s the bayou?

Bayou’s fine. I guess they didn’t kill you.

They certainly tried. I hear your partner’s in a bit of trouble.

“How the hell does he know that?” Prophet muttered.
How the hell do you know that?

Don’t bother searching your phone for chips.

Then how do you know?

Prophet, I know everything.

Fuck him, Cillian did.
Yeah, and? You gonna help him?

I don’t think I’m his favorite person. He’s not exactly mine, either, since I know you stood me up for him. Although I know as well as anyone that work comes first.

Prophet nearly typed,
Tom’s not work
, but something stopped him. Maybe it was for Tom’s protection, or something else, but he simply answered,
Figured you’d understand.

Seriously, anything?

Got it covered.

Good to know. Speaking of cover, please, tell Tom that, although I can appreciate his watchdoggedness, I prefer not to be investigated. Especially not by amateurs.

Ah, fuck. Should’ve known Tommy would do something like that. An odd part of him stirred, though, at the thought of Tommy doing shit like that for him.
I’ll tell him, but I’m not his mother.

No, definitely not that,
Cillian responded
.
After several moments of nothing, Prophet was ready to put the phone away when Cillian texted again.
Answer me one question, though. Have you lost any sleep wondering what I was going to do to you once I got you on that couch?

Prophet snorted, then stilled. He waited the appropriate amount of time that wouldn’t trigger any of Cillian’s psychological tendencies and typed,
How do you know I wasn’t going to be doing that shit to you?

Ah, yes, well . . . that’s enough to make *me* lose sleep tonight.

Prophet closed the phone because Etienne was strolling back to the car, an hour after he’d gone inside. He got in behind the wheel and started the car.

“Aren’t we going in for Tom?” Prophet asked.

“They already released him. He took off.” Etienne tightened his hands on the wheel and blew out a breath.

“Either your family works miracles, or Lew really was busting his chops when he arrested him,” Prophet muttered.

“Yeah, well, it’s a lot of both, with a bit of
sometimes the truth prevails
. The ME says that Miles OD’d and cut his wrists. They’re calling it a suicide.” Etienne slammed the wheel with the butt of his palm.

“And you don’t buy that? I saw the AA book in his room.”

“It wasn’t just an OD. He’d been clean for six months—the longest he’d ever been clean since he was a teenager.”

“Addicts slip all the time,” Prophet said. Refused to add,
They can’t help themselves
, because he didn’t always believe that everyone couldn’t curtail their behaviors.

“There’s no lost love between me and Miles. None. So if I don’t believe it . . .” Etienne paused. “I can’t fucking believe I’m still dealing with this shit. Should’ve pulled up stakes like Tom warned me to.”

“Seems like he’s got problems staying away.”

Etienne stared at him in the rearview. “You can handle him.”

“Yes.”

“Do you want to?”

“I’m here, right? Can we go fucking find him before he finds more trouble?”

Etienne sighed, pulled keys out of his pocket and tossed them back to Prophet. “Those’ll let you in to where he went—bet my life on it. I’ll drop you off.”

“I can get there on my own.”

“I’m sure you can, but . . .”

“But?”

“I’m not going to be responsible for any more loss, all right? Tom needs you.” He started the car and then paused. “Miles was deep into his recovery.”

“What aren’t you telling me? Beyond what you and Tom did when you were together that has someone threatening the hell out of you.”

Etienne ignored the last part. “The rumors started after Miles’s last few AA meetings.”

“The meetings that are supposed to be confidential?”

“Yep. And then Miles calls me. When I didn’t answer, he wrote me a letter.”

“Do you have it?”

“I almost burned it, but I didn’t want the bad karma.”

“You people and your curses.”

Etienne glared at him but didn’t say a word. “He also wrote Tom a letter. I’m guessing the basics are the same. I wasn’t going to pass it along to Tom but . . .” He reached into his back pocket as he drove, nearly running them off the road, and handed Prophet a sealed envelope with Tom’s name on the front. Prophet stared at it, then put it into his pocket.

Etienne frowned. “Aren’t you gonna read it?”

“I’m going to give it to Tom.”

“You really don’t know what happened to us.”

“No. Want to share? Because I’m guessing you didn’t bother to share with Lew.”

All Etienne would say was, “It’s a mess—and Lew knows all about it. The story’s something that should come from Tom, not from me. But Miles confessing opened a whole can of worms. Probably for Donny too.”

“Who’s that?”

“Miles’s best friend. Well, former. They had a falling-out years ago. He probably got a letter too.”

Prophet understood Etienne’s instinct to protect Tommy by not giving him more details about Miles—couldn’t fault him for it, actually, since he’d been trying to protect Tom since he’d met him. Then again, it wasn’t like Tom asked for it or wanted it. Which is probably why Prophet and Etienne did it. “Can I see those texts again?”

Etienne handed him his phone. “I had a friend trace them. Couldn’t, because they’re from a throwaway.”

“Mind if I check their work?”

“Knock yourself out. Just get me the phone back when you can.”

Like Prophet didn’t have enough phones already, and all of them seemed to bring him nothing but trouble. Still, he pocketed it and asked, “How can I get in touch with Donny?”

“You can’t.”

“Okay, Etienne, enough with the cloak-and-dagger shit. I’m guessing you can get in touch with him and tell him to lay low, then? It’s not like I have a lot of time to travel down the rest of Tom’s memory lane here.”

“Donny’s not my favorite person, but yeah, I can.” Etienne paused. “Tom’s past is gonna come out, and it’s gonna get ugly. You sure you’re up for this? Because up ’til now, I’ve tried to keep you out, like Tom’d want, but you’re a stubborn son of a bitch.”

“Yeah, I know that,” Prophet muttered. “And I’m not sure of anything.” Etienne glanced at him in the rearview again, looked like he was going to say something, but changed his mind, shut his mouth, and drove Prophet through the flooded streets that turned to pure mud back roads of the bayou that was the source of all Tommy’s pain.

Prophet let the door swing open to the small cabin, tucked deep in the bayou, that Etienne called his studio. But he didn’t walk through it. Not immediately.