A/N: I love all of the response from you guys (y'all?)! Hearing people's theories or what they thought was funny or sad… or cruel on my part, it's just amazing. Now, before I start this chapter, there are a few things I want to say first. When I began writing this fic, I said to myself, "Self, there are three things you need to have: a hunt, a hellhound, and a con." Well, you've seen the hunt, got a taste of the hellhound, and so here's the con (okay, here's part one of the con). Finally, and appropriately located in our mastermind's story. And of course, much love to LeeMarieJack, Alice of Scots, Murakami no Kitsune, floralisette, CaraLee934, and thosepreciouswalls for reviewing. The wait between updates will be a little longer this week and the next, just because of my schedule, but fear not, I will never keep you waiting for too long!
Enough, I've spent too long in this note already. Voila!
Nate tapped his foot anxiously against grey linoleum. He peered through the glass, arching his neck to get a better view of what was happening on the other side. A door buzzed in warning, and a guard escorted the greatest grifter in the world had ever seen to the opposite side of Nate's booth.
Sophie Devereaux looked tired. Raw. Here she was, laid vulnerable without her make up or expensive clothes or cons to shield her. It was pure Sophie. And she was beautiful. Nate picked up the phone on his end and waited for her to do the same.
"Sophie," he said, tapping the glass with his knuckles. "Pick up the phone." She pursed her lips and crossed her arms, giving a minute shake of the head. "I just want to talk. Please?" Nate asked the last word softly, locking his gaze on her stubborn face. Please.
Sophie dramatically rolled her eyes and picked up the linked phone. "I don't want to talk to you."
"All I'm asking you is to listen. Can you do that?" Nate didn't wait for her to answer before pressing on. "I'm sorry."
"Oh," Sophie said lightly. "You're sorry. Well, that makes everything better, doesn't it?" Her knuckles turned white around the phone. "I'm in prison, Nate! Sorry, but not even you can sweet talk your way out of this one."
"I know," Nate nodded, "no, I know. I get it. This is my fault. You don't belong in here, Soph. I'm sorry."
"Yeah, we're done here," she went to hang up, clicking her fingers to get the attention of the guard.
"Hold on! Wait, Sophie, I want to make it up to you," Nate spilled in a rush, hoping she would give him a chance. She looked away and closed her eyes. She took a deep breath through her nose and released it through her mouth. She picked up the phone again. "Thank you," Nate said immediately.
"Let me make myself very clear, Nathan Ford," Sophie replied coldly, "and I'll be sure to use small words so you understand. I am not going to forgive you. There is nothing you can say or do that will 'make it up to me'. After I walk through that door," she pointed to where she had entered, "you are dead to me."
"Of course," Nate agreed. "But if I'm dead, it'll be a little difficult for me to get you out of here. Not impossible, mind you, but it would take some rethinking on my part."
Nothing changed in Sophie's expression except for a tiny narrowing of her eyes. "I'm listening."
"You can be made at me, you can call me dead, but let me do this," Nate lowered his voice. "Help me help you break out of prison."
"You know they record these, right?"
The mastermind shrugged. "I pulled a favor."
"That doesn't sound very honest, Mr. White Knight," Sophie said coyly, sounding more and more like her usual self.
"Who said anything about honesty, Ms. Devereaux?" Nate grinned. "Anyone can make a dramatic entrance, but who can say they stole an exit? Are you in?"
"You had me at 'break out of prison,'" she leaned towards the glass conspiratorially. "So what are you thinking? The Sleeping Beauty? Forty Thieves and a Snake? The Count de Monte Cristo?" Nate shook his head in response to each idea.
"No," he cut in, "it has to be the I Dream of Jeannie."
"Are you kidding me?" Sophie laughed disdainfully. "The Jeannie? That awkward, antiquated, royal-pain-in-the-arse scam? Nate, you use that on housewives going through a midlife crisis and old tycoons on their death beds, not a women's correctional facility. No, we're doing the Sleeping Beauty."
"Don't get me wrong," Nate conceded, "you'd make a lovely Beauty, but it has to be the Jeannie. It'll work, trust me."
"Nate," she hissed sharply, "my court hearing is in three days. I Dream of Jeannie takes three weeks just to set the hook correctly. We don't have the time. Understand? In three days, I could be sent to a prison with even higher security. And the chances of that happening are very high. Interpol is negotiating for my custody. Interpol, Nate, Interpol!"
"So we do it in three days," he said as if Interpol were as intimidating as a baby penguin in a tutu. "It's just a bottle job. Yeah, the Jeannie in a Bottle." He looked pleased with himself.
Sophie scoffed. "I bet you think you're clever. Well, here's something to rain on your parade. Bottle jobs only work when you have a full crew of the best of the best. We," she gestured between the two of them, "are not even half a crew. And only one of us—" she pointed specifically to herself, "is good enough to be considered the best of anything."
"Don't put yourself down like that, you're very good at what you do too," Nate retorted in good humor. "Just trust me, Sophie. The Jeannie's the way to go."
"Nate, you can't run a long game with only two people. It's unheard of—no, it isn't possible!"
"You count for at least two others, Sophie."
"No, it can't be done, Nate. It's insane," she insisted, growing increasingly worried about the insurance investigator's mental health, "especially without a proper mastermind. No, count me out."
"You'd rather stay in jail?" Nate raised an eyebrow skeptically.
"No, I'd rather stay alive. Thank you all the same," she said with finality, "but I won't be a part of a kamikaze con."
"Sophie, who was behind your arrest?"
"You," she responded drily. "Thanks for the reminder, by the way."
"Think again.
"Who, James Sterling?" she tried not to laugh. "He couldn't investigate his way out of a paper bag."
"And what does Sterling want more than anything in the world?"
"A growth spurt?"
Nate smiled despite himself. "No, what does he wish for, Sophie? What does he wish for that you can give him?"
Sophie wrinkled her nose at the possibilities. "Enough games, Nate, our time is almost up." She glanced nervously at the guard.
"The Second David."
The grifter blanched. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Yes you do," Nate chided. "That's why the Jeannie will work in three days: Sterling's already on the hook. All we need to do is string him along a bit. Are you in?"
Her lips tightened as she thought about it. Finally, she sighed. "What the Hell, I've got nothing to lose but my life and freedom. Just one question. How's the Jeannie—bottle or not—going to get me out of prison?"
That was all he needed to hear. "This is what we're going to do…"
Exactly twenty hours later, Nathan Ford found himself back at the women's prison. This time, he was dressed in a baby blue polyester suit, a canary yellow button-up dress shirt, and a mustard-colored tie. He slicked back his hair and all in all, looked absolutely ridiculous and astonishingly unprofessional. Before he entered the facility, he dialed Sterling.
"Yeah, uh, it's Nate. Look, Sophie Devereaux's looking to make a deal."
"What? No, listen, Nate, we can't let her do that. We've worked too hard catching her, we're not letting any lawyer ruin that," Sterling responded, sounding like he had just woken up.
Nate hummed in agreement. "Oh, definitely. No, she's not going anywhere, but you see, she's offering up some of her 'souvenirs.' You know, her real big scores. She's got everyone from IYS to the CIA talking." Sterling was silent for a long time.
"What scores exactly, did she say?" he asked slowly. Nate smiled. He had him now.
"She didn't. Well, not in so many words. She mentioned something about Venezuela, maybe Italy? Yeah, something about Italy."
"The Vatican?" Sterling suggested.
Nate snapped his fingers to sell the part. "The Vatican! Yes, that was it. Anyway, I'm down at the prison now. I'm going to try to talk her out of it."
"No!" Nate couldn't stop himself from grinning at the desperation in Sterling's voice. "No, we should hear what the little minx has got up her sleeve. I'll be there in forty minutes, just keep her talking."
"Sure, Jim, if you think it's a good idea," Nate said. "See you then." He ended the call, satisfied that Sterling was on his way. He entered the prison, his walking pattern changing the minute he walked through the doors. He smiled harmlessly at the guard at the front desk.
"Hi, Jimmy Papadokalis, attorney," Nate upped his Boston accent to the point where it passed irritating and was well on its way to becoming nerve-grating. "I'm here to speak to my client. Ms. Sophie Devereaux? Who do I see about that, huh?" He popped a piece of gum into his mouth and chewed obnoxiously. The guard looked at him with polite disgust and called up his superiors. There was a short conversation in hushed tones before the guard hung up. Nate tapped the front desk impatiently.
Finally, he was cleared to enter the visiting area. Once again, he sat down in front of the glass barrier that separated him from the dangerous criminal that was Sophie. They talked about the weather and the atrocious prison food, Nate's only slightly more appealing suit, everything and anything but the Second David.
"Think that'll do it?" Nate asked her as their time ran up.
"It better," she replied. "Give my love to David." Sophie made sure several witnesses heard her. With that, the two compatriots parted ways. Nate high-tailed it out of the prison, knowing Sterling was going to be there any minute.
And he was, looking deceptively disheveled and bleary, though Nate knew he was alert as always. He watched from his car as Sterling entered the prison. Nate let out a relieved sigh. From word of mouth, their stocky nemesis would hear that Sophie Devereaux had a meeting with one Jimmy Papadokalis (a sleazy lawyer-type) and that she mentioned someone named David. Sterling would fill in the rest. Nate turned the key in the ignition and prepared to back out of the lot. Now, to sell the part, he just had to call certain authorities that would be very interested in some of Sophie's spoils. Nate glanced in his review mirror and slammed on the brakes.
A gaunt, filthy boy about seventeen years old appeared to be sitting in his back seat. Nate jerked around, but found it to be empty. He squinted at the mirror again, but found it to be equally boy-free. He shivered.
He didn't relax until he pulled into his own drive-way. Sam was sitting (still in his pajamas) in the middle of the living room surrounded by National Geographic magazines when Nate walked through the front door. Maggie, sitting on the couch with her legs tucked up close, looked up from her book with a tired smile.
"You look funny," his son informed him. Nate got the feeling he wasn't just talking about the clothes.
"Stressful day," Nate explained. It wasn't even a lie.
Sam picked up a pair of scissors and cut out the picture of a blue Poison Dart frog. "Catch any bad guys?"
He barked out a laugh. "Not yet." Not exactly. He was still quaking when he went upstairs to get into less ridiculous clothing. Nate, changed into his normal attire, headed for the bathroom, wanting nothing more than a hot, relaxing shower. He pushed back the shower curtain.
Two high school kids hung from their wrists in his shower. He recognized one from his mirror. Nate stumbled backwards, a cry catching in his throat. He couldn't tear his gaze from their dirty, blood-crusted skin and hollow cheeks. Their faces were bone-white, eyes blank and dead, lips an unhealthy blue color. He blinked and they were gone.
His knees gave way and he sank to the floor. A shower was completely out of the question now. Nate didn't know how long he sat there, staring at the space where their still bodies had been. His mind couldn't catch up; too much had happened in the past several days. Who were they? It was if he was being haunted. He thought again of the boys' vacant eyes.
What was happening to him?