Scar Tissue

by Samantha Simard

  “Emphasis on the super-secret, please,” Lottie said, shifting in her chair. “Technically we’re on the books as a think-tank.”

  Scarlett raised an eyebrow from where she was squished into the loveseat between Sebastian and Constantin. “Are think-tanks actually a thing? I thought that was a bullshit job people had in movies.”

  “I did too, but you’d be surprised how many people buy it without asking a single follow-up question,” Tara said, tapping a few more keys before she glanced at Wolfe. “Are you cop friends going to get here soon? I’d rather only explain this once if I can.”

  With the perfect timing that only police officers and background dancers possessed, Detectives Kamienski and Silent Mark arrived, their unmarked cruiser spitting gravel as it blocks the end of Frogger’s driveway. They were inside and set up with coffee a moment later, and Wolfe made quick introductions between them and Tara.

  “Alrighty, so here’s what we found,” Frogger said, leaning forward with her elbows on her thighs, hands clasped between her knees. “Before he got elected governor, Halliday was the namesake CEO of a major pharmaceutical company. While that’s not a secret—it was all over the news in the last election cycle—it’s relevant to us because one of Anton’s shell corporations had investments in Halliday’s business.”

  “Interesting, but not illegal,” Constantin said, crossing his arms over his chest. “You would not have stopped there.”

  Tara snorted. “Not hardly. This is where it gets a little difficult to follow, but I’ll bullet point it for you: the governor was supposed to give up control of Halliday Pharmaceuticals before he took office. He no longer manages the company nor does he own stock, but that doesn’t mean he’s not involved—on the contrary, it turns out the new CEO is Halliday’s college roommate, and the biggest shareholder? Anton’s shell corp, Morningstar Holdings.”

  “Shit.” Diana pinched the bridge of her nose, which was as close to stressed as Wolfe had ever seen her. “Morningstar Holdings owns Blakely Manor. David was out in Petersham this morning, and he saw Anton’s car go through the gates.”

  Kamienski shook his head in disgust. “Guess we know why all those zoning changes and other laws Anton used the Mass Art Murderer to get through never got any pushback from the governor’s office.” He snapped his fingers and pointed at Wolfe. “He wants Halliday to win the election, doesn’t he? But he can’t be too obvious about it, so—”

  “He puts money on every horse in the race,” Wolfe said, picking up on the idea. “And in the case of Big Mike, he drags the horse out of the goddamn stable. No one would suspect Anton was involved, because he has enough ways of disguising his wealth that it’s hard to trace back to him.”

  Scarlett jumped in next, coffee sloshing out of her mug in her haste to set it down. “I bet everything was peachy-keen, until Christopher’s campaign started gaining too much momentum. The shooting at Stela made things worse for Anton because it played the sympathy card in Christopher’s favor… but all the sympathy in the world is worth nothing if you’re dead.”

  “And then Halliday has zero competition and he wins reelection in a landslide,” Frogger finished, glancing around at all of them over the tops of her glasses. “Problem is, all of this is circumstantial at best and illegally obtained at worst. It won’t help you put this puppeteering motherfucker behind bars—no offense.”

  “None taken,” Constantin assured, rubbing his chin in thought. “What made him choose Laine? He could not have known about her connection to Wolfe, so she must have one to Christopher. What could it be?”

  Lottie spoke for the first time in a while: “I don’t know, but the primary is tomorrow. You guys should probably figure that out.”

  The ping of a text message bounced around the room, and everyone checked their phones. It was Sebastian who looked at his the longest, and when he stood up Wolfe saw his knees shake momentarily before he got control of himself. “I’m sorry, but Constantin and I need to leave.” He flashed a smile that was stiff like cardboard. “My father has requested my presence, and the last thing I want to do is arouse his suspicions.”

  The two of them hustled outside with Constantin plastering his phone to his ear to order a ride, and after a split-second hesitation Wolfe got up and followed them. He made up the distance between them with a few long strides and put his hand on Sebastian’s shoulder. “Bash, hey, wait a second. What does your dad want?”

  Constantin kept walking toward the curb—he was likely trying to give them some privacy, but he’d never admit it. When Sebastian turned to look at Wolfe, there was something worn-down to the sharp edges of his face. “He wants me to visit Danh Sang and his men,” he said, and the implication behind the words made Wolfe’s blood run cold. “There is a shipment of Rapture coming in tonight and apparently the Red Dynasty is… dissatisfied about something.”

  “I don’t understand,” Wolfe said, a catch in his voice that he had to work to clear. “Anton hasn’t made you… visit anyone since that night you almost died. What changed?”

  The faintest hint of amusement made Sebastian’s mouth quirk up. “It seems like an odd coincidence, does it not?” He brought his hands up to rest flatly against Wolfe’s chest, as if he wanted to push him away but couldn’t make himself do it. “I have to go, Jim. If I do not, Anton may start looking in places we do not want him to.”

  Wolfe made a slightly hysterical sound. “Bash, do you think I give a damn about that?” he asked, and of course he did, but all of it paled in comparison to how much he hated the thought of Sebastian having to degrade himself on his father’s orders, again. He didn’t know how but the hand he’d had on Sebastian’s shoulder had wandered to his face, and Wolfe was amazed at how perfectly his jaw fit into his palm. “You have to know I’d drop everything in a second, that I’d burn this goddamn city down to—”

  Sebastian’s crooked fingers grasped the material of Wolfe’s t-shirt tightly and pulled him down so he could press their mouths together in a kiss. That did two things: it stopped Wolfe’s romantic monologue in its tracks and it broke his brain because Sebastian was kissing him. He kissed back, of course, and while it wasn’t nearly as bad as that time his and Caitlin’s braces got stuck together and Patrick had to use a wire snips to cut them free, it wasn’t Wolfe’s best work. Sebastian didn’t seem to mind, making a sound in the back of his throat and pressing closer when Wolfe tilted his head to deepen the kiss, with one hand touching Sebastian’s face and the other holding his side.

  When air became a necessity, Wolfe pulled back enough to stare into Sebastian’s eyes. They were even prettier up close, little starbursts of aquamarine scattered throughout the azure of his irises. “I’ve wanted to do that for so long,” he admitted quietly, thumb stroking over Sebastian’s cheekbone. “But I was terrified you’d think I just wanted sex, or that I’d scare you away.”

  “I could never be afraid of you, Jim.” Sebastian’s voice was soft but firm, and he dropped a feather-light kiss at the corner of Wolfe’s lips before he stepped back. The expression on his face was… something else, a depth of emotion that Wolfe knew immediately he didn’t deserve but would guard with his life. “I like you too much for that.” A black Mercedes pulled up to the curb and he moved toward it, allowing Constantin to open the back door for him. “Please check in with my mother. I need to know that she’s okay.”

  “I will.” Wolfe had to force those two words out, a burst of affection in his chest making it hard to breathe. “And Sebastian? I like you too. Be my date to the wedding?”

  This time when Sebastian smiled it was a bright, genuine thing. “Of course, Jim. I’ll see you soon.”

  ~***~

  Jake was allowed to go back to the house in Cambridge only after he swore to Angela on a copy of Good Housekeeping that he would never do drugs again. He’d been there for a few hours when the doorbell rang. He waited for Misha to answer it before he remembered his roommate was in classes all day—and now whoever was out there was holding do
wn the doorbell like a five-year-old. He glanced down at his t-shirt and sweatpants and decided he was too exhausted and disgusted with himself to give a damn if the idiot on his porch had a problem with his scars.

  Jake opened the door and was shocked to see Frankie Sullivan on the other side. He wore his BPD uniform sans his gear belt and hat, and his cruiser sat in the driveway behind Jake’s Camaro. He held a twelve-pack of orange soda in one hand—Jake’s favorite—and in the other he had a greasy paper bag from the Jewish deli in East Somerville they used to walk to together on Fridays after school… at least until senior year. “You still like corned beef, right?”

  “Yeah, I’m not a fucking heathen,” Jake answered, and after a moment’s hesitation he stepped aside. “What are you doing here, man?”

  Frankie set the food and drink down on the kitchen island, turning to face Jake and running a hand through his curly brown hair. “I’m here to fix things with my best friend, if you’re willing to try.”

  Jake crossed his arms over his chest, barely suppressing a wince when the motion snapped an adhesion built up on his shoulder. “I’m not unwilling, but why the change of heart?” The last time he’d really talked to Frankie was during the Mass Art Murderer’s rampage, when his friend Alana Bach had been kidnapped. “A few months ago you figured I was a suspect in the most vicious serial killings since the Boston Strangler and now you’re bringing me corned beef?”

  “And matzo ball soup,” Frankie said, which was enough to get Jake to come closer and take a peek inside the bag. “Look, I know I screwed up in senior year—”

  Jake snorted as he unpacked the containers of soup and paper-wrapped sandwiches. “Screwed up? You outed me to our entire school, Frankie—which meant you outed me to all of Somerville way before I was comfortable being gay.” He got out silverware and glasses, which he filled with ice and soda, and they took the whole mess over to the second-hand IKEA dining table Misha had picked up at a garage sale. “Not even my mom knew, and I wasn’t the one who told her, Father Donahue did.”

  Frankie’s eyes went wide. “Shit, I didn’t know that.”

  “Yeah, well, you can imagine how the local Catholic parish felt about one of their former altar boys turning out gay. His words were… not kind.” Despite how traumatic the whole episode was, the next part always made Jake chuckle. “Ma broke Donahue’s nose and she hasn’t been to church since.”

  Frankie choked on part of a matzo. “That’s awesome. I mean, it’s not, but the mental picture of your ma boxing that old bastard is something else.” He put his spoon down. “Jakey, listen… when you told me you were gay, I was totally blindsided. I didn’t have a problem with it, but back then a lot more people thought it was wrong. I was scared of what might happen if you told anybody else… and then I did something real dumb.”

  Jake chewed on corned beef and sauerkraut and made a rolling motion with his free hand. “Go on.”

  “You remember Zara Rialto from biology class?”

  “She’s pretty hard to forget, between the bull ring and the shaved eyebrows.”

  “Right, well, I kinda… slept with her a couple times? I got Kevin to buy me beer and we hung out at her place when her dad wasn’t home.”

  “How does this relate at all to you outing me to all of Somerville?”

  “I’m getting there!”

  “I bet that’s what Zara Rialto said to you.”

  Frankie laughed at the cheap joke and nudged Jake with his shoulder. “You’re a giant dick.” He drained the last of his soda. “The third—and last—time she and I did the whole drink a little, screw a little thing… it was same day you came out to me. And I had a couple more beers than I normally would’ve, and later, during the pillow talk—”

  Jake held up a hand. “Wait, did you just say pillow talk? Is that a real thing real people say?”

  “Whatever, man, let me finish.”

  “… I bet Zara Rialto said that too.”

  “Oh my God,” Frankie lamented, rolling his eyes. “She kept needling me, saying she could tell something was wrong… and I sort of blurted out that you’d told me you were gay. She didn’t really react, which should’ve been a huge red flag, and then the next morning…”

  “‘Jake Wolfe is a fag’ was spray-painted on the front of the school, yes, I remember,” Jake said dryly. He kicked Frankie’s ankle. “Why didn’t you tell me what happened?”

  “I was embarrassed as hell.” Frankie shrugged, fiddling with his spoon. “Plus I thought you’d think I was lying, and even if I wasn’t, it was a piss-poor excuse for fucking up your last year of high school. I’m so sorry, man.”

  “Well, you’re right—it is a piss-poor excuse,” Jake started, and when Frankie looked at him with hazel eyes full of hurt he smiled and kicked his ankle again. “But it’s also the truth, and I accept your apology.” He put his sandwich down on the wrapper and opened his arms. “Come here, you big stooge.”

  Frankie hugged him hard, the badge on his chest biting into Jake’s shoulder. He smelled like sweat and the peculiar blended stench of the inside of a police cruiser, and Jake felt grounded in a way that he hadn’t in years. “I missed you, Jakey,” Frankie muttered near his ear, a little catch in his voice indicating he was close to doing a Sullivan Ugly Cry. He didn’t comment on the scars, didn’t seem to mind the way they felt when his hands brushed Jake’s biceps.

  “Missed you too, Frankie,” Jake replied, and when they broke apart, an idea struck him. “Hey, do you have a date to your sister’s wedding yet?”

  Frankie made a face. “No, and Caitlin’s been all over my ass about it.” Their eyes met, and it was like they hadn’t spent any time apart—Frankie could still read him like a book. “You thinking what I think you’re thinking?”

  Jake grinned at him, so hard his face hurt. “I’m thinking if we go together, we can get those cool couples’ drinks at the open bar without any awkward small-talk.”

  ~***~

  Sebastian and Constantin arrived at the Ramada in Dorchester right as rush hour peaked on the Southeast Expressway, bumper-to-bumper cars trying to leave the city in a mass exodus less than fifty feet from the swimming pool behind the motel. Just down the road was The Rainbow Swash, a brightly-colored paintjob over a 140-foot tall liquefied natural gas storage tank owned by National Grid and the largest copyrighted work of art in the world. Sebastian caught a glimpse of it as they pulled into the parking lot, but it was soon obscured by peeling siding and single-pane windows.

  Constantin ordered their driver to wait for them to return, and they were halfway to the entrance of the motel when someone whistled at them from the far corner of the lot, close to the chain-link fencing and the traffic. Sebastian turned his head to locate the source of the sound, and at first he didn’t see anything, the shadows lengthy in that area. Then he nudged Constantin in surprise when he spotted none other than Danh Sang leaning against the front bumper of a midnight-blue Lexus, Thanh Ngo standing next to him with his hands clasped behind his back.

  He and Constantin switched directions, heading for the Lexus instead. “This is… unexpected,” Sebastian said, not bothering with formalities. “My father told me your men requested my company.”

  Sang inclined his head in acknowledgement. “That is the lie I told him in order to get a meeting with you. And do not look so tense, Sebastian—I have a proposition for you, and if you accept, you will not be required to snort coke or fuck my men anymore.”

  Constantin opened his mouth—probably to tell Sang to go to hell—but Sebastian held up a hand for silence. “I’m listening.”

  “You already know Anton’s preparing to cut the Red Dynasty and the other gangs out of the Rapture trade.” It was a statement, not a question, but Sang waited for Sebastian to nod before he continued. “If that happens, your father’s power will have little limitation and he will eliminate any potential competition. That is the kind of bloodbath no one wants to see, not even yours truly. Here is my offer: you steal the Rapture
formula from Anton, and I will kill him and make sure it cannot be linked back to you. He’ll have an… accident.”

  Sebastian went completely still. A thousand responses flashed through his head as his pulse ratcheted up, but only one made it out of his mouth: “You’re serious.”

  Sang brushed at some invisible lint on his suit jacket and raised a brow. “Are you interested?”

  “Sebastian,” Constantin said, low, and serious, and it was enough to get him to glance in his bodyguard’s direction. “Amintiți-vă de fabula rusă.”

  Remember the Russian fable.

  The Russians had many sinister stories, but Sebastian knew the one of which Constantin spoke. The Scorpion and the Frog was a tale that had fascinated him as a child, not because it involved animals, but because he couldn’t understand why a creature would hurt another when it was against their best interest. There were a few versions, but essentially it went like this: a scorpion asked a frog to carry it across a river, and the frog hesitated, afraid of being stung by the scorpion. The scorpion argued that if it stung the frog they would both drown, so the frog agreed to transport the scorpion. The scorpion climbed on to the frog’s back and the frog began to swim, but midway across the river, the scorpion stung the frog and doomed them both. The dying frog asked the scorpion why it stung, to which the scorpion replied, “I could not help it. It is in my nature.”

  Sang was a scorpion if Sebastian had ever met one, but Anton was a miserable bastard, one that had caused Sebastian and countless others so much pain to fuel his own selfish desire for power. This was an opportunity not to knock him off the metaphorical chess board, but to upend the entire game. Even though David and Diana had good intentions, if they hadn’t found a way to charge Anton with something by now, it wasn’t going to happen, so perhaps… perhaps this was the only way. And if it looked like an accident, then Sebastian would still have influence with his father’s associates and could dismantle his operation from the inside out.