South End, Boston

Monday, 8:50 PM

Ethan

Ethan crossed Huntington Avenue, shoulders heaving. The Mayflower Gallery had been a total bust. Even worse, Ella Farnsworth – the grandmotherly gallery owner – had recognized his face from the news. Then she’d kicked him out, but not before calling him some brutal names.

Lowlife. Liar. Con artist. Parasite.

Guess I’m infamous now.

Worst of all, he deserved the old woman’s scorn. He hadn’t sold Callie’s personal information, but he’d let her down all the same. What she’d needed was a friend. Someone her age with similar baggage who would listen and understand. That’s why Grieves had handpicked him. To help the team. To make a positive difference in Callie’s life.

Instead, he’d fallen in love with her and ruined everything.

He paused in front of a CVS, grimacing as a fresh burst of pain shot up his leg. This time it kept going, rippling through his body like waves of acid. What did he expect to find inside the pharmacy? More ibuprofen? An ice pack or knee brace? He thought of all the prescriptions he’d tried the last time it got this bad, all the physical therapy, acupuncture, hypnotherapy, cortisone shots. Useless, everything.

You know what’ll work. Just enough to get you through the next few days.

A siren wailed, receding in the direction of Boston Medical Center. He turned and followed the sound down Massachusetts Avenue, crossing Tremont Street and leaving the high-end brownstones and office buildings of the Back Bay behind him. With each block, the neighborhood grew sketchier, with trendy restaurants and boutiques giving way to bodegas and seedy bars. He peered down an alleyway, gaze settling on a homeless man curled up against a dumpster.

Turn around!

His brain screamed for him to return to Larry’s car and drive home, but his knee kept nudging him deeper into the South End. He hadn’t planned to walk more than half a block to the CVS, but it felt like he was sleepwalking. The pain had taken control.

Up ahead, a crowd shuffled in front of an old brick warehouse with barred windows. A green neon caduceus – the symbol of healing with a winged staff entwined by two serpents – identified the building as a methadone clinic. Above the flat rooftop, a sickle moon cut through the clouds like a shattered bone through skin.

Ethan waited half a block away, noticing how two men seemed to be working the crowd. One wore a green Celtic Pride jacket and Red Sox cap, while the other blended into the night with a black hoodie and sweats.

Dealers. They circled like a pair of sharks, taking turns darting into the school of druggies in search of easy prey.

Someone jostled him from behind. He spun around with his fists clenched, but it was only a young woman in a Boston University sweatshirt. She raised her hands in apology, looking as skittish as he felt as she hurried to the other side of the street.

That’s what normal people do. They run away from places like this.

So then why was he drifting closer?

Celtic Pride stepped away from the crowd, head cocked like he’d just caught the scent of blood in the water. Then he looked straight at Ethan and ambled in his direction.

Shit. Run!

But Ethan’s legs refused to move. His cell buzzed in his pocket, but he ignored it. The dealer was too close now. His shifty eyes and twitching hands warned Ethan not to make any sudden movements.

Celtic Pride sized him up from top to bottom. “Hey, man,” he drawled, apparently satisfied he wasn’t dealing with an undercover narc. “You lookin’?”

Ethan nodded as the stranger’s gaze dropped to his knee.

He must’ve been watching me. Noticed my limp.

“I got what you need. H. China Girl. Vike. Demmies. Take that pain right away, bro.”

“Got any Oxy?” Ethan croaked in a voice he didn’t recognize.

“I got better, pretty boy.” The dealer flashed him a smile of crooked, yellow teeth. That, along with his pale skin and sunken cheeks gave away meth as his drug of choice. “I’m your Candyman. Got some Percs.”

Ethan’s cell buzzed, the vibrations momentarily dulling the pain radiating up his hip before it flared again. His head was getting in on the act too, with both temples now throbbing.

I need this for Callie. Can’t think straight until I get this pain under control.

He cleared his throat. “How much for a dozen?”

“Three hundred.” The dealer shrugged when he noticed Ethan’s shocked expression. “Shit’s hard to get. I’m givin’ you a good price, bro.”

“Fine.” Ethan gritted his teeth and reached for his pocket, but the dealer grabbed his arm.

“Not here, asshole!” he hissed, his bony hand twitching. “Clinic’s got cameras outside. Walk up a block.” He tilted his chin toward the distant glow of Boston Medical Center. “First alley to your right after Shawmut.”

“No way.” Ethan shook his head. “I’m not meeting you in some alley.”

The dealer puffed out his chest. “You sayin’ you don’t trust me?”

“No. It’s just… I’m trying to stay clean.”

“Yeah, right!” Celtic Pride snorted. “That’s why you’re here, motherfucka. Tell you what…” He held up a hand and the dealer in the black hoodie walked toward them. “My boy over there is carrying. You give me the money. He gives you the Percs.”

“That’s okay.” Ethan backed away. “I’ll just come back later.”

Something in the dealer’s eyes told him to get the hell out of there. Fortunately, a pack of college kids chose that moment to walk past. He jogged after them, firing the chainsaw back up in his knee.

“Fuck you, asshole!” Celtic Pride shouted after him.

He kept jogging for another block, until it felt like he had ground his knee joint down to bone on bone. Then he stopped and doubled over, tears welling in his eyes. The pain was so intense he couldn’t think straight. Couldn’t –

Something darted in the alleyway to his left. A rat?

No. Much bigger.

Before he could get away, a shadow barreled toward him.

Shit! Black Hoodie. He tried to deflect the attack, but his assailant hooked an arm around his waist and tackled him into the alleyway. When he looked up, Celtic Pride was waiting in the shadows.

The meth head pounded a fist into his open palm. “Let’s try this again, asshole.”

Ethan jumped to his feet and pivoted to run, but Black Hoodie blocked his escape route. Before he could shout for help, Celtic Pride sucker punched him in the stomach. He dropped to his knees, gasping for air.

“Think you can waste our time?”

“I’m –”

The dealer grabbed his shirt collar and slammed him up against a brick wall. “Just give me the money you owe me!"

Black Hoodie rushed forward to frisk Ethan. He snatched the iPhone from his pocket, then patted him down again, frowning. “No wallet,” he reported in a gravelly voice.

“What the fuck?” Celtic pushed Ethan up against the wall again. “What game you playin’?”

Ethan reached into his pockets, feeling only air. Shit. The girl in the BU sweatshirt.

“Someone picked my pocket,” he croaked. “I swear –”

“Bullshit!” Celtic pulled out a knife and flicked it open, showing Ethan the blade. “I won’t ask you again.” He leaned in close, his breath reeking of alcohol and rotten fruit. “Where’s the money?”

“Stolen,” Ethan hissed through gritted teeth.

A siren wailed in the distance, getting closer.

“Maybe he’s tellin’ the truth,” Black Hoodie muttered. “Take his shit and let’s go.”

“Nah. Let’s have some fun first.”

“He’s already bleedin’, bro. You busted him up good.”

Celtic took a step back to admire his handiwork. “Whaddaya think, pretty boy? Give me one reason not to waste you right now.”

Ethan touched his swollen bottom lip, tasting blood. When he coughed, his ribs now ached too. “You already know the answer,” he said. “Since the marathon bombing, there are street cameras everywhere. They caught me walking here. They caught you talking to me outside the clinic. You really want to do time for murder?”

Celtic’s face twitched with rage. “Don’t tell me what I want, bitch.”

Ethan held up his hands, glaring at the dealer but saying nothing.

“Yo, check out his watch.” Black Hoodie pointed to the Brietling Chronoliner on Ethan’s left wrist. “That’s gotta be worth two Gs.”

Celtic’s grin returned. “Toss that shit over, pretty boy,” he ordered, holding out his hand.

Ethan surrendered the watch, which had been a graduation present from his parents. As Celtic Pride dropped it into his pocket, the alleyway suddenly flashed red and blue, followed by the high-low yelp of a police siren.

Before Ethan could blink, the two dealers had disappeared down the alleyway, like rats scurrying into the darkness. A flashlight beam chased after them, then circled back to find Ethan slumped against the wall.

He squinted into the light, at the silhouette of the cop now stalking toward him, and slowly put his hands behind his head.

The way things were going, he wasn’t taking any more chances.

***

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