Michael sucked air through his teeth. “Oh. Oh no.” Josh Salinger, Felix and Julia’s son, had been the bright and brilliant light that attracted so many people to their house—including Chuck and therefore Michael. Michael had seen him declining in the past two months in spite of everybody’s hope after each treatment for leukemia. Michael was always very grateful for the invitations to the house, partly because he realized that people were so damned worried about Josh, it seemed like Michael should be the last person on everybody’s mind.
“Yeah,” Carl said, the skin around his eyes tight. “I… I knew that kid as a little boy. I’m really hoping this thing we’re doing works out.”
“Will it hurt anyone?” Michael asked worriedly.
Carl shook his head. “No. No. Essentially what we’re doing is asking an estranged family member for some bone marrow. Chuck and Hunter can fly, so they get to go, obviously, and I’ve got the law degree, so I’m going to negotiate.”
“What about Hunter’s boyfriend?” Michael asked curiously. Dylan Li—aka Grace—fascinated him, much like squirrels or bunnies were probably fascinated by cats. Grace was self-absorbed and rude sometimes, but he was also fiercely loyal to Josh and the rest of the family.
“He’s staying here,” Carl said. “He and Josh are… uhm, brothers, I guess. Best way to explain it.”
“Yeah, but real brothers. My brothers are assholes I’m glad aren’t talking to me. Grace and Josh sort of speak the same language.”
“They do.” Carl’s attention was diverted by a black SUV pulling onto the service road to the airstrip. “And speak of the devil, that’s probably Hunter.” He turned back toward Michael and gave a tentative smile. “Thank you. For showing me this. I was not looking forward to the next couple of days, and this is damned cool. It’s totally brightened my day.”
Michael was so happy, he thought he might be glowing. “Birds are cool, aren’t they?” He’d always thought so, even when he’d been hunting them. Falcons, hawks—sometimes they’d just spread their wings under the sun and ride the wind. He’d never had that kind of freedom in his life. Ever.
“I have always thought so.” Carl’s eyes crinkled warmly at the corners before he turned away and started for the front of the hangar. Michael made sure there was water in the little fountain he’d set up for the falcon before closing up the cage and following him, thinking the whole time, He liked it. He smiled at me. He held my hand!
And he’d called Michael “Michael” during their whole conversation.
Oh yes. Reinvention was possible. If only they could get the Salinger kid better, things would be looking up.
Unspoken Among Thieves
MOST OF the people in the Salinger “crew” had day jobs. Pulling gigs with Felix and Julia Salinger and Danny “Lightfingers” Mitchell was fun—and surprisingly fulfilling from a philanthropy standpoint—but it didn’t pay the bills, and if they were scamming all the time, they’d be too recognizable to pull any good cons.
Carl, who didn’t really think of himself as a con or a thief, although he’d participated in both, was no exception. He continued to work for Serpentus, but after his trip to rehab eight years earlier, he’d insisted on picking and choosing his jobs, as well as on retaining some autonomy about how he handled those jobs. It didn’t mean Serpentus wasn’t a horrible bunch of human beings masquerading as an uber-rich board of trustees, but it did mean Carl could help minimize the damage done to some of their most vulnerable victims. Erm, clients.
And over the last few months, having a job—albeit mostly in a consulting capacity at this point—for Serpentus gave him the respectability the Salingers needed in order to keep some of their most outrageous adventures under wraps, covered with his shiny, respectable veneer.
Two months ago, when they’d helped keep Lucius Broadstone’s shelters for battered women safe from some very powerful abusers, Carl had been onsite as a “hired security expert” to explain to the nonlocal authorities what had happened.
Sure, it wasn’t as exciting as thwarting a plan to blow up a factory or climbing through ventilation shafts to steal priceless gems or convincing really horrible people to spill their most terrible secrets on live television, but he liked to think he helped.
But the gig he, Chuck, and Hunter were currently flying toward wasn’t what he was concentrating on as Hunter took off and started them on their first leg of the journey to Brussels.
“Penny for your thoughts,” Chuck asked as Carl stared moodily out the window. The private jet was spacious and comfy, but Carl had always figured that flying was flying. Yes, it was nice not to be sitting in his neighbor’s lap, and he could get up and make use of the wet bar or the kitchenette whenever he felt like it, but he was still enclosed in a small space hurtling in a tight concentric orbit around the earth. As far as he was concerned, he had time to do paperwork, time to nap, and time to listen to that Michael Connelly audiobook he’d been dying to catch up on, and that was pretty much it.
Or it had been before he’d become tight with the Salinger crew.
There was no such thing as uninterrupted time in your own head when you were in close quarters with people who actually gave a damn about you. Carl was having a hard time getting used to that idea.
“You’d get change for that penny,” Carl told Chuck, smiling a little. He and Chuck did have some history, but then Chuck had history with a lot of guys. Take away the history and what was left was a bond formed by two guys who weren’t quite content with the average everyday life the world had to offer and who had somehow found their way outside it.
“No, seriously,” Chuck said softly, coming to sit across from Carl in one of the leather seats. “C’mon, talk to me.” He gave a pretty smile that Carl knew for a fact had gotten him laid more than once. A couple of times by Carl himself. “I’ll teach you to fly.”
Carl frowned. “That better not be a euphemism—”
“No! I swear.” Chuck laughed. “Hunter’s doing the first leg and then napping, and I’m taking the second leg. I hate flying without a buddy in the copilot’s seat. I’ll go over the basics until you fall asleep. I promise it’s not a come-on.”
Carl chuckled, thinking about Lucius Broadstone, the one man apparently capable of making Chuck slow down enough to commit. “I believe you,” he said mildly. “Your boyfriend thinks you walk on water. You’re not going to do anything to fuck that up.”
“See?” Chuck grinned and pointed to his temple and then Carl’s. “You get me!” He sobered. “Now tell me about Car-Car—I mean, Michael.”
Carl grunted, not sure he wanted to talk about Chuck’s mechanic friend, but he didn’t have anyone else he could really talk to about him, either. He thought of Michael, though—large, limpid brown eyes bright with excitement, collar-length brown hair slicked back behind his ears, and boyish, almost delicate features wide open and earnest as he pointed to the prairie chicken sanctuary he’d built with a little bit of ingenuity and an affinity for creatures that couldn’t help themselves—and suddenly talking to Chuck wasn’t optional. His chest gave a little ping, and he needed to say something, to sort out what that ping might mean.