“It’s a good thing,” Bridget said, “because I’m shit at it.”
“No.” Her mother came toward her. “You’ve done—you do—more than anyone ever expected, but that question I asked you at the table about Owen, well, that’s a question that applies to you too.”
“What question?”
“Do you think these sacrifices are fair?” her mother asked. “To you?”
Bridget sighed. “I don’t know, Mom. I haven’t asked myself that question. I can’t afford to ask it.”
Her mother lifted a hand to touch Bridget’s cheek. “I think you’re reaching the point where you can’t afford not to, sweetheart.” She looked into Bridget’s eyes. “No one expects you to sacrifice yourself at the feet of Owen’s illness. No one except you. Will you think about it?”
Bridget nodded, but not because what her mother said was true. She just needed to get out of there, out onto the street where she wasn’t Owen’s sister and her parents’ daughter, where she could pretend the people she loved most weren’t slipping through her fingers bit by bit.
“I have to go,” she said.
Her mother kissed her forehead. “God keep you, child.”
Bridget opened the door and hurried down the front steps of the porch.
God keep you, child.
It was something her mother had said to her when she was little, kissing Bridget’s forehead when she tucked her in at night or kissing her hands with love even after Bridget had gotten in trouble.
Strange that she should say it again now, after all these years, at a time when Bridget was becoming more and more convinced that God himself couldn’t save her.
That he couldn’t save any of them.
Chapter Twelve
Nolan sat across from Will and watched Bridget come toward the booth at the back of Foley’s. She unwound her scarf, her long hair shining like newly minted penny in the Christmas lights hanging over the bar, her cheeks pink with cold.
“Hey.” She avoided Nolan’s eyes as she took off her coat and he pretended not to notice her full breasts under a snug-fitting sweater, the curve of her hips in jeans that fit her like a glove.
He didn’t even mind when she slid in next to Will. Now she was across from him, allowing him to look at her for however long he could make their meeting last.
It was a luxury after the last month working for Seamus: a month avoiding a show of even passing interest in her, a month of clenching his jaw when the other guys made comments about her body, of resisting the urge to put a bullet through Seamus’s head for what he was doing to her, for letting her get in so deep that he had to know she’d never be able to get out.
His leave of absence at Glassman and Weld had taken effect immediately and he’d quickly gone to work knocking people around for Seamus. He should have felt guiltier than he did, but he’d started to consider the beatings a public service. If someone was getting beaten up by Nolan, it was the least of that person’s worries. Bigger and badder things would come next. He hoped they’d get out while they could.
He enjoyed it more than he wanted to admit. The satisfaction of using his fists had quickly come back to him, the meaty thwack when he hit a man’s face, the thud of his body falling to the ground. Little by little the sterility of his life as a lawyer was receding in the rearview mirror. He was almost surprised by how quickly he forgot who he was supposed to be.
“What the fuck happened with Casey?” Will said to Bridget.
“He started a fight at Centerfolds. Someone called the cops.”
“What the feck was he doing at Centerfolds?” Will asked.
She shrugged. “Probably thought Seamus wouldn’t find out.”
“Then he shouldn’t have started belting the other customers.”
“Agreed.” Bridget looked around. “Do they have waiters?”
“Not this time of night,” Will said.
She stood, her eyes passing over Nolan on their way to Will. “You guys want anything?”
Nolan shook his head.
“I’ll take another beer,” Will said. “Nolan’s driving.”
She grabbed her wallet out of her bag and started for the bar.
“You going to sulk all night?” Will asked when she was out of earshot.
Nolan took a drink of his beer. “I’m not sulking. Just don’t have anything to say yet.”
“You’re probably going to have to talk to her if we’re going to work together on this Seamus thing.”
“We’re not working together,” Nolan said. “I’m telling you both the bare minimum of what you need to know to help me solve the problem.”
Will laughed. “Is that how it is then?”
“It is.”
“Look, I just want Mommy and Daddy to stop fighting,” Will said.
“Fuck you.”
“Back at you.”
Bridget came back to the table with her wallet tucked under her arm and a beer in each hand. She set one of them in front of Will and sat down.
He took a drink and looked at her approvingly. “Aw, Guinness Draught. You remembered.”
“Sorry to bring you both out to Cambridge,” Nolan said. Watching them settle into their old routines was painful, a reminder of everything they’d once had, everything they’d lost. “Figure it’s better if we’re not seen cozying up in the neighborhood.”
“Is that what we’re doing?” Will asked. “I had no idea you felt that way about me.”
Nolan sighed. “I need to make a move.”
Will rested his cheek on his hand and batted his eyes at Nolan. “Well, make it lover boy.”
Nolan glared at him. “Will you be serious for five minutes?”
“Fine.” Will sat back in his seat. “What kind of move are we talking about?”
“I need the names of the BPD officers on Seamus’s payroll.”
Bridget shook her head. “That’s no walk in the park.”
“I know.” Nolan kept his voice even, trying not to betray the fact that his body was on fire for her, that his heart felt like it was being turned to coal under the weight of her eyes. “It’s been almost a month and I still have no idea where he keeps his records.”
“Seamus doesn’t have records,” Bridget said.
“He has to have some way of keeping track of all the money coming in and going out, all the debts people owe him, the interest.”
“I’ve never seen so much as a notebook,” Bridget said. “I think he might be paranoid about writing things down. I don’t even think he owns a computer. I always assumed he kept it in his head.”
“Wouldn’t be surprised,” Will said. “He’s part of the old guard.”
He’s also IRA, Nolan thought.
“But he’s paying the cops somehow, probably in cash,” Nolan said.
“That’s how he pays the rest of us.” Bridget’s cheeks turned pink and Nolan had to resist the urge to reach across the table for her hand, to tell her she had nothing to be ashamed of.
“Exactly. Which is why I’ve started thinking about the envelopes,” Nolan said.
Will looked at him. “The envelopes?”
“He counts the money on the table at the Cat, puts each person’s share into envelopes. Mine always has my name on it, doesn’t yours?” Nolan asked.
“Yeah, but he keeps them with him on the table,” Bridget says.
“And the whole thing doesn’t take long,” Will added. “They bring in the money on Mondays, dump it on the table, count it, split it, and off it goes.”
“In the envelopes,” Nolan said.
Will nodded.
“How is it distributed?” Nolan asked.
“If you’re at the Cat on a Monday, he hands it to you,” Will said.
“And if you’re not?”
“He sends it out with the guys in Operations,” Bridget said.
Nolan wondered if she’d ever put together the official hierarchy of Seamus’s operation with that of the IRA. Nolan hadn’t—not until Marchand had told him about Seamus�
�s background. Like a lot of second-generation Irish immigrants, the IRA was as foreign to Nolan as Hamas or ETA. Nolan heard about them on the news, but he never gave much thought to them beyond his father grumbling from time to time about the “savages” who’d spent decades blowing up Ireland.
After the Syndicate clued him into Seamus’s background, Nolan had done some research and had been surprised to find obvious correlations between Seamus’s structure and that of the IRA.
Like the IRA, Seamus divided the territories surrounding Boston into areas he called Commands. Soldiers assigned to day-to-day operations were grouped into Companies which were part of a larger brigade. The people charged with managing the day-to-day runnings of the organization were said to be in Operations. It was loose, smaller than an organization designed to take back a country, but Nolan had been able to see the influence.
“So the guys in Operations hand out the money,” Nolan said, getting back to the conversation at hand.
“That’s how it happens,” Will said.
Nolan had a lot of questions. Where did the profit go? How was it set aside for Seamus and for the organization’s expenses? An envelope wouldn’t be big enough to hold all that cash.
They were questions that would have to be answered by the Syndicate. All Nolan needed were the names of the BPD officers on the take. He had no desire to get sucked further into Seamus’s operation or into the Syndicate’s plans to overthrow him.
“I need the envelopes,” Nolan said.
Will shook his head and leaned over the table. “Are you gone in the head? If you steal from Seamus, you’ll be dead inside twenty-four hours.”
“Who said I’m going to steal? I don’t want the money. I just want the envelopes, or more specifically, the names on the envelopes.”
He was reasonably sure if he could get the names, the Syndicate could run them against those of known officers on the BPD payroll, courtesy of a private cyber lab that, according to Marchand, was every bit as sophisticated as the ones funded by the NSA.
“But to get the names, you need the envelopes, and they have money in them,” Bridget said.
“Not at first.”
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“I don’t know about you, but I’ve been there on a Monday when Seamus is handing out cash. I’ve watched him put my money into an envelope already marked with my name,” Nolan said.
“You want to get a look at the envelopes before he fills them,” Will said.
“I don’t know yet,” Nolan said. “But it’s an option, and right now, it looks like the best one I’ve got.”
Will shook his head. “There’s nothing safe about any of this.”
“Will’s right,” Bridget said. “You’re going to get yourself killed. And for what?”
Nolan hadn’t told them he was working on the Syndicate’s behalf. As far as they knew, he was looking to disrupt Seamus’s operation on his own as a way to protect them from the fallout of Seamus’s newfound interest in the historical practice of robbing Boston’s banks. He was obviously going to have to throw them a bone.
“I think Seamus is going to pull a bank job—a big one. If that happens, you and Will will be implicated if Seamus is caught.”
“What does the bank job have to do with dirty cops?” Bridget asked.
“The dirty cops are providing Seamus cover. If we remove his cover, he might bail on the job, and if those cops rat him out to save themselves, he might even bail on the whole operation.”
“That’s not exactly good news for me,” Will said. “Given the whole rent and food thing.”
Nolan hesitated. “What if I told you the whole organization would survive, but under new leadership, better leadership? And that you’d have a place in that organization, a place that paid better and made you feel like less of an asshole?”
“Who said I didn’t like feeling like an asshole?” Will said.
Nolan sighed and shook his head. “The point is, Seamus would be out of the picture.” Nolan looked at Bridget. “Everyone would have a clean slate, and a clean slate means—”
“No more debt to Seamus,” she finished.
He nodded. “No more debt to Seamus.
She sighed. “This is risky, Nolan.” He wanted to pause the recording of his life and replay her saying his name, saying it without coldness after four long years. “I don’t understand why you’re doing this.”
He considered his words, wanting to come up with an explanation that wouldn’t sound melodramatic, that would satisfy her without having to tell her everything the Syndicate had told him.
“I care about what happens to you and Will, and I got wind of something that could hurt you both. I’m in a position to head it off. It’s that simple.”
She looked down at the table. “And I’m guessing there’s nothing we can say to get you to call the whole thing off? Go back to your job and let it play out?”
“Is that what you would do if the roles were reversed?” Nolan asked. “If Will and I were in trouble and you had a chance to help?”
For a split second he wondered if she would say yes, that’s exactly what she would do. That she would never be stupid enough to risk her life to help him when she didn’t love him anymore.
She raised her head and looked in his eyes. “If you get caught, Seamus will kill you.”
It was all the answer he needed.
He smiled. “So I won’t get caught.”
Chapter Thirteen
Bridget closed her laptop and dropped her head in her hands, fighting the exhaustion that threatened to push her into sleep in BRIC’s dingy offices. She’d barely slept the night before, the meeting with Nolan and Will running through her mind along with the look on Nolan’s face when he’d said he cared about her and Will.
She should have fought him harder, was still kicking herself even though she knew it wouldn’t have done any good. She’d recognized the look in his eyes, the one that said he’d made up his mind, that it didn’t matter how dumb or ill-advised anyone thought he was, he was going to do what he was going to do. Attempting to change his mind would have been a waste of breath.
Still, she should have tried.
She got up and walked through the darkened offices to Sheridan’s cubicle. Bending to the bottom drawer of her desk, she pulled out the bottle of vodka and a glass, poured herself a drink, and replaced the bottle before walking back to her own desk. Sheridan wouldn’t mind, but Bridget would offer to buy the next bottle.
She sat back in her chair and took a long drink of the vodka, relishing the burn of it in the back of her throat.
She was being stupid. Her work was finished for the night. She should be on her way home. She’d avoided being alone with her mother since their conversation earlier in the week. She wasn’t ready to answer the question about her work with Seamus, about whether it was fair to herself, and she definitely wasn’t ready to talk about the brochure her mother had found in Owen’s room.
The thought of it was a sucker punch, one that vacuumed all the air out of Bridget’s lungs.
Her brother wanted to die. Maybe not now, but eventually. He wanted to go to a clinic in Switzerland where they would give him medicine that would put him to sleep, take him away from them forever.
Intellectually, she knew her mother was right: it was Owen’s decision. As hard as they tried, they would never really know what he was going through, what it felt like to be trapped inside his failing body.
And it would get worse. Eventually he wouldn’t be able to swallow or breathe, machines would have to do that work for him while his mind stayed sharp and aware. He would know what was happening to him, he just wouldn’t be able to do anything about it.
She couldn’t stand it. Couldn’t stand any of it. There was no right answer. No answer that didn’t leave her hollowed out.
She finished the drink and tucked the glass in her top drawer. She would wash it tomorrow. She suddenly wanted to be outside, to feel the pavement under feet,
see the lights of the city, more festive than usual because of the approaching holidays, twinkling against the blackness of night.
She gathered her things and picked up her bag, then headed for the exit.
Walking helped, and she kept going when she hit her car two blocks away, letting her feet carry her onto the next block and the next. She passed through the rundown area housing BRIC’s offices and continued downtown, past shop windows decorated with falling leaves and snow, the mannequins wearing coats and boots.
She’d forgotten her scarf, but the cold air cleared her head. She felt awake.
Next week she would sit down with her family and have Thanksgiving. There would be turkey and all the usual food. Her dad would try to help, but her mother would eventually say he was underfoot and kick him out of the kitchen. He’d end up in the living room, watching TV with Owen while she and her mom finished the food.
Would it be the last Thanksgiving they would spend with Owen? She tried to imagine it. Tried to see them all in the little house without her brother’s lopsided smile and wicked sense of humor that was still in evidence.
She couldn’t. Didn’t want to.
She pushed the thought of it away and wondered instead how Nolan would spend the holiday. Did he have a girlfriend? Would they dress up and eat dinner with her family in an old house in Back Bay? Or would they go to his mother’s house on Beacon Hill where Moira Adams would smile approvingly at the woman Nolan had chosen?
Bridget suddenly missed him with a fierceness that threatened to double her over. She didn’t want him to look at someone else the way he’d always looked at her, didn’t want him to stroke someone else’s hair as she went to sleep or kiss someone else’s head when they watched movies on the sofa.
She blinked and realized the ground was covered in a fine sheen of white glitter. When she looked up, a flurry of shimmery snow was falling from the sky. She kept her face turned up, watched the flurries fall from the inky blackness above the city like a gift from the god she thought had forsaken them.
She felt all alone in the world, the city hushed and vacant, abandoned and condemned.
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