Page 54 of Prodigal Son

Axelle ducked her head over her lap and blinked at the sudden burn of tears. “Yeah. I know. He was a real shithead.”

“So’s my old man. But here we are.” Trying to save him, trying to take on the kind of enemy that no police force on earth could take down.

It was quiet a long moment; the old building settled around them, like a soft sigh.

“Come on,” Albie finally said, and stood. “Let’s go get something to eat.”

When Axelle lifted her head, it was with the knowledge that she had to stop pretending she wasn’t invested in all of this. She was here, she was involved – she could wallow in bitterness, or she could man up.

When he held out a hand to her, she took it, and let him lift her to her feet.

It brought them too close together, their faces level, noses just a few scant inches apart. It was nothing – innocent, even – but his hand felt rough and warm around hers, and the heat of his breath touched her face, and it smelled like whiskey.

“Oh,” she said, stupidly.

He grinned, a quick sideways twitch of his mouth, and then turned her around to face the door. “Off you go, lead the way.”

And inside she was thinkingoh. Oh, oh, oh no.

Sixteen

Abe had a cramped little apartment above his warehouse gym that still smelled like laundry soap and toast, just like Fox remembered. He assumed, if the place smelled the same, that Abe ate afternoon tea just the same: two pieces of toast, one with butter, the other with strawberry jam; tea with a splash of bourbon; leftover lox from the morning’s breakfast, kept cool in the fridge along with his assortment of vegetables, fruit, and kosher pickles. He’d always been regimented about the things he put into his body. Save that splash of bourbon at tea time, he didn’t drink; it muddled his thoughts, and that was an intolerable state of being for a man who lived in anticipation of a government raid.

A glance around the flat revealed that the place looked the same: well-loved furniture, threadbare rugs, but no clutter, and a military cleanliness. Heat from the radiator steamed the window. Chipped white mugs hung in a neat row above the sink. The curtain that cordoned off the bed was pushed back, revealing perfect tucked blanket corners and white pillows propped up against the iron headboard.

Thiswas his favorite thing about Abe: nothing ever changed. Steady voice, steady hands, steady routine. Devin had always traveled around like an American cartoon rail-rider, here one moment and gone the next, different clothes, different hairstyles, different pregnant mistresses. The only constant was his smile…and that was nothing but a hunting lure, hooks hidden in the blinding flash.

Abe’s kitchen table was small and square; he pulled an extra wooden folding chair down from the hooks on the wall and, with some shuffling, managed to fit five seats for all of them. Mugs were set out, and sugar, a little pot of fresh cream in a blue-glazed pitcher. Abe set the teapot, also blue, on a folded towel in the center of the table, overhead lamplight gleaming down the smooth, tan skin on the back of his hand, lifting high over the topography of fat veins and humped knuckles. He had fighter’s hands.

It had been silent throughout all this. When he was seated, he leveled a look straight at Fox, implacable, and said, “Now explain.” Abe was a person who didn’t give a flying fuck about Fox’s reputation, and that was a comfort.

He felt something in his chest loosen.

Evan reached hesitantly with one spindly arm for the teapot and began to pour for everyone.

Fox took a breath and said, “Long story short, this one” – he hooked a thumb toward Devin – “started digging around in shit he shouldn’t have, and now everyone associated with Project Emerald is a wanted man.”

Devin sighed elaborately as Abe’s gaze cut to him. “He’s oversimplifying it, as usual. It isn’t as if Istartedthis. I got a tip-off about–”

“Tip-off from who?” Abe interrupted.

“I’m getting to it. From Morgan. He said someone was digging into the old files, and no one was safe. Someone had all our names, and addresses, and the like. Knew who our families were. It was a warning. It…” His constant confidence wavered here, doubt edging into his expression, and his voice. “It spooked me, Abraham, I won’t lie. I decided I had to know what they knew. So yeah, I broke in, and I took the files, and they caught me on film. It’s what I had to do.”

“Why you?” Abe asked, eyes narrowed.

Devin made a play at his cocky grin. “Because I’m the best.”

“No, you’re not,” Abe said, flat. “I am. So why really?”

Devin made a face. “The rest of you have more to lose than me.”

“You have nine children,” Abe deadpanned. “And I have none. Try again.”

A look came over Devin’s face, then. One Fox had no memory of ever seeing. It was…serious. Grave, even. Tight with an uncharacteristic display of indecision. He said, “You know why.”

“Ah,” Abe said, and picked up his tea. “That old conscious. Still alive.”

Devin’s face slipped back into something more normal. “I’ll have you know–”

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