Author's Note: No promises of regular updates. I went to a darkish place in the last few months, and fair warning: the story is coming with me.
"Dey're half-dead. Ye c'n stand t'give 'em anudder hour or so, can't ye?"
"I've given them an extra hour and a half already. This conversation has to happen, and the sooner the better. There's already a shitstorm of questions that are getting hard to answer, and we need to figure out where to go from here. I need them awake to do that."
I swim groggily back toward consciousness, my brain resisting every inch of the way. Connor lies still and comatose next to me while Murphy tosses restlessly on the far side of the bed. I reach out a hand for his arm, and he stills a little, but his brow is creased, a deep frown etching shadowed lines into his face.
With both of my human heaters quiet and comforting once more, I drift in and out a few times. The quiet voices continue talking, and the conversation between Noah and who I eventually recognize as Agent Smecker becomes choppy, jumping from comments on the investigation at Yakavetta's house to Noah explaining how he was able to track down the guys. The bits and pieces I get of their talking are disjointed and make very little sense to my scattered, worn out mind.
"Twas fairly easy. Damn near anybody I talked to knew dis Rocco fella an' where he liked t'hang out. Asked a couple more people, an' dey knew generally where his place was. So waited 'til I spotted 'im an' followed him an' Murphy an' th'lass back t'her apartment. Needed th'boys t'separate away from th'girl, so I-"
"Went an' shot my fuckin' finger off," Rocco cuts in from where he's sitting in the chair next to the window. His hands are still bound behind him, and blood drips from his wounds, pooling on the cheap, worn out carpet underneath him. He watches me from his chair with tired, empty eyes, and I can't help but shiver at the sight of him. "Can't say as I blame 'im, he was just doin' his job, I guess, but still, he shot off my fuckin' finger, can ya believe it?"
"Grace." A gentle shake of my shoulder causes me to start violently and jerk away from the contact, coughing and spluttering to catch my breath.
"Calm, girl, it's just us," Connor says, gripping my arm carefully. His eyes are bright with concern and startlingly alert, considering the little sleep we've all had. I look around wildly for Murphy before spotting him on the far edge of the bed. He looks even worse than I feel, his back hunched over and his face buried in his clenched fists.
At my movement, he reflexively turns to face me, and his eyes are haunted and sunken in his exhausted face. He looks so old today, aged years in a span of a few hours, and my already aching heart twinges painfully for him. After just a second, though, his head jerks away, and he nearly leaps to his feet, heading into the bathroom and shutting the door with a hollow thud.
I want to call after him or at least to ask Connor about Murphy's erratic behavior (not that it's too difficult to guess at the cause of his distress, considering the circumstances), but my parched lips and tongue keep any sound from getting out. I swallow convulsively, but I have no moisture to pull down my sandpaper throat. Without me needing to say anything, Connor hands me a cup of water, his hand lingering on mine to keep my nerveless fingers steady as I bring the glass to my lips.
"Drink it slow, lass, no sense makin' yerself sick," he advises, his voice even and soothing. His face holds no trace of concern over his brother's odd behavior, so I do as I'm told, finding the simplicity of following directions strangely soothing. This was not the wake-up I was expecting, and I'm probably going to need a minute or thirty to recover.
I suppose I should expect Rocco to have a starring role in a lot of my nightmares from now on.
The conversation continues next door, albeit a little quieter, as Connor and I drag ourselves out of bed. Murphy comes out of the tiny bathroom looking much more normal, albeit even paler than usual in the wan lighting, and he brushes a quick kiss across my forehead I passing. Most of my unease dissipates, and I follow his example, opting for another shower to wake myself up. I promise that I will alert both of them if I find myself on the floor again before stepping under the frigid spray.
I go for bracingly cold this time, hoping to shock my brain into working order; the results are less than stellar, but at least my eyes are staying open. I can't stand much of the water's arctic temperatures, though, and I'm out in record time, shivering as I dress in the spare clothes I brought with me.
I'm going to need to go home at some point today, at the very least to get a hairbrush. And I need to figure out what to say to Jen. I'd like to have a job after this week, but I know that my position, like most jobs, requires some degree of concentration and attention to the tasks at hand, and after yesterday I honestly don't know if I could focus on anything for a significant length of time.
Especially if Rocco is just going to be popping up in my head like that, throwing random commentary around.
I braid my hair painfully tight, a last-ditch effort to hold my head together as I ignore the washed-out image with shadowed eyes in the mirror who, in turn, ignores me just as diligently. The dim lights in the room are too harsh on my eyes, and I find myself cringing away from the glare. A wave of dizziness sweeps over me, and I stagger a half-step but don't fall. Blinking against the fluorescence, I glance down and realize my hands are clenched hard on the edge of the counter, and for the life of me I can't remember grabbing it. I force my fingers open, puzzled, and flex my aching digits as I reach for my toothbrush.
The boys are faster in their morning ablutions than I am, and they finish dressing silently before stepping next door, leaving me to finish the last of my dazed preparations alone. I don't even notice they've left until I hear the partitioning door close behind them.
It doesn't occur to me until then that I should have taken advantage of the three of us being relatively alone to ask Murphy what was bothering him so much when we first woke up. He seemed better after his shower, but his abrupt exit and the disturbed expression on his face sticks in my mind as I run my toothbrush under the tap.
I take my time, brushing each individual tooth like I haven't since I was a kid about to leave for the dentist's office. If I'm being honest with myself, I am putting off the meeting with the FBI agent for as long as possible. I don't think I like Smecker very much, despite our bonding experience last night, and I have this deep-seated sense of dread when I think about how much leverage he now has over the twins' (and subsequently my) future.
By the time I make it over to the adjoining room, everyone has lit up their preferred poison, and the tobacco smoke is thick in the air. I have to hunt to find a spot that isn't saturated, but I finally find a seat next to the ancient air conditioner. The poor machine is fighting desperately to put out something like airflow and is just able push some of the haze away, so if I take shallow breaths I might be okay.
Rocco and the guys always left my building or stepped out on the balcony to smoke when they were at my place, and their flat was just big enough (with enough holes in the walls) that the smoke never bothered me much. In this tiny room, though, with three cigarette smokers and Noah contributing with his enormous cigar, there's a thick, choking haze in the air that makes me want to squint even though I can see just fine. I might have to step outside, soon, though, just to get some fresh air.
Noah nods a greeting to me from his seat near the door, and I return his nod with a tired smile. Smecker tips his head similarly, and I hope he doesn't notice the extra strain in my expression as I turn my smile in his direction. He looks rather preoccupied this afternoon, so I'm probably safe.
The agent looks surprisingly dapper today, especially after the state I saw him in last night. He's wearing another snazzy three piece suit like the one from his television interview, this one a sophisticated dark blue color. His hair is styled to absolute perfection, and despite his lack of make-up (a distinct antithesis to his appearance last night), he has no signs of the dark smudges that are so prominent under my and the boys' eyes. I swear, I couldn't look that put together if I had three hours to work on myself after having a full night's sleep. I think I'm equal parts impressed, annoyed, and jealous.
He proceeds to fill us in on the details of the morning's investigation at Yakavetta's house, which has ultimately resulted in another stalemate in the on-going hunt for Boston's own home-grown vigilantes.
Surprise, surprise.
"But I can't hold this off of you two forever. We need something to take the spotlight off you guys for a bit, let the clamor die down some. You're going to have to lay low for a little while, hold off on the executions. The good side of last night's massacre is we now have probable cause to search Yakavetta's house, so there's a good chance we can find the evidence we've been looking for to bring him to trial for something, maybe even get him put away," Smecker finishes, taking a drag from his cigarette. He leans back in his chair, the rickety one by the desk that I ate breakfast in, and exhales slowly, waiting for a reaction from his audience.
"An' how long would dat last?" Connor asks from his seat next to Murphy on the bed. He stubs his own cigarette out in the ashtray on the bedside and offers the tray to Murphy, who follows suit. Connor beckons me over to join them, and I willingly crawl between the two of them. I instantly slump over against Connor's side as his arm comes to rest around my waist, and my free hand quests for Murphy's fingers. He takes my hand slowly, almost reluctantly, but when I start to turn towards him, I sense Noah's gaze on us.
He silently watches this exchange among us that's as automatic as breathing to me, and I wonder what lies behind his impassive expression. As my eyes meet his, though, his expression softens into a sad sort of smile before he looks back to Smecker, waiting for his answer.
"There's no telling," the agent admits dejectedly. "If - and that's a big if - we could even get any charges to stick to him, there's no doubt his lawyers would argue the sentence down until it's practically nothing. And then he'd just get out after less than half whatever time he's sentenced to for 'good behavior.'"
I have to admit to a very strong pang of sympathy for Agent Smecker in that moment. That's got to be one of the most frustrating, soul-crushing parts about being law enforcement: you work your ass to the ground to bring someone like Yakavetta to trial and if they even get found guilty, they get out in practically no time at all. There's no telling how many murders someone like Papa Joe is responsible for, and he'll probably be walking free before-
"Or we could just kill 'im," Murphy says, interrupting my train of thought.
"Aye," Connor agrees quietly.
Connor's face is calm but earnest. This isn't just pride or petty revenge for him. As much as he'll take some personal satisfaction from Yakavetta's death (as will I, if I'm being completely honest), he set out with a plan yesterday, and he's going to consider this unfinished business until Yakavetta's in the ground.
Murphy's face, on the other hand, is harder to read. I can see some of Connor's determination, but there's something more hidden behind his exhaustion, something disquieting that sets my stomach roiling and my nerves even further on edge. I stop myself from questioning him in front of everyone and settle instead squeeze his hand intently. He ignores my gesture, his hand still and unresponsive in mine, and continues to stare down the FBI across the small room.
Uneasy silence settles over our little group at this blunt pronouncement. Noah's face is stoic and impassive, impossible to read behind the grave expression. And as much as Smecker was willing to help the boys last night, I can see him struggling mightily within himself to reconcile all of his training and old, personal values with this new world that's presenting itself to him: preventing crimes, preventing hurt and agony to potentially hundreds or even thousands of people by ridding the world of those who would cause all that harm. But he, whose life and career up to this point has been all about upholding the law, must violate his own oath and code of ethics in order to do so.
You couldn't pay me enough to be in that man's shoes.
A thought occurs to me, and since no one else is offering any ideas, I speak up before I lose my nerve.
"Not to be the voice of reason, but how are you guys going to even get at him again?" I ask. All eyes turn to me. My stomach twists at the intensity of the sudden attention, but I force myself to continue. "After last night, Yakavetta's got to be on high alert. You obviously can't go back to his house, and you can't kill him in public if you happen across him. And we lost...our information source, so you have no idea where his hiding places are. He could be anywhere, he could be going anywhere. Didn't somebody say his son is out of the country? He could be leaving Boston as we speak; hell, he could've left last night."
"He's still in town," Smecker replies, eyeing me speculatively. "They brought him in for questioning after all the dead men were found at his house. He, of course, has an airtight alibi, but we have enough evidence to hold him for at least a night or two. I'm sure his lawyer is arguing the whole 'model citizen, pillar of the community' bullshit to get him out on bail, so we might not be able to hold him for any longer than that, but he's definitely been ordered to stay in the city. Good point about leaving the country, though. Could argue he's a flight risk and maybe use that to get the trial moved up once we file the evidence."
Everyone else picks up the conversation from there, and I gladly leave them to it. My contribution cost me what little energy I was able to salvage with my few hours of sleep, and I know I'll need to recharge soon. Time starts to slip away as the men discuss different ways they could go about finding the right time and place to finally get rid of Papa Joe, but I tune out after the first five minutes and just coast.
"You never were good for much when you didn't get enough sleep," Rocco observes from my vacated seat by the air conditioner. His feet are propped up on the sputtering unit, his hands linked behind his head as he reclines in the ancient chair. I feel like I should warn him that his seat is most likely about to collapse, but one look at his grin tells me he knows. He looks better now, more rested than I've seen him since I came home from New York, and there's no gruesome puddles staining the floor beneath him, which is a huge relief.
"Now would be a great time for a nap, though," he continues, eyeing me as I droop against Connor. I don't answer, lulled deeper into my stupor by the rise and fall of the conversation around me. Even Rocco's voice fades into the background as I start to drift off, but before I can get really settled, a gentle hand shakes me awake again.
"Shit, was I snoring?" I mumbled, my bleary eyes wandering randomly around the room. I wipe absently at the corner of my mouth, hoping I haven't drooled on anyone.
"Lass, ye should go lay down fer a bit. Ye don't have t'be here fer dis."
Murphy's voice is distant, but I still respond automatically and turn towards him. His hands on my arms are so steady as he helps me up that I don't even bother leaving my eyes open and simply drape myself across him. I stumble back to the vacated room, relying entirely on his guidance and support.
I try to help as he relieves me of my clothes, but I mostly just get in the way until he has me stripped down. I collapse onto the covers, murmuring contentedly as Murphy draws the scratchy coverlet up to my chin. But I never feel his weight settle onto the bed next to me, and the intensity of his gaze on my face draws me a little out of my stupor.
" 'S wrong?" I ask, one eye half-opening with confusion and worry. There's so much more I'm trying to ask him, but that's the extent of my articulation. He frowns as he surveys me, his hands jammed deep in his pockets. I can't read much more of his expression through my exhaustion-blurred vision, and I struggle to push myself up.
In an instant, Murphy's hands are on my shoulders, urging me back down onto the bed.
"Get some sleep. I gotta hear what Smecker has t'say, gotta work out summat wit' dis plan."
His voice is hollow, emptier than I've ever heard it, even after "The Incident" in December when he was so angry with me, and I start to fret that he's still pissed that I went to Yakavetta's last night.
"Murph, please…can you stay? I need you-"
"Know ye do, lass, but dis has t'happen. I'll be back when we're done. Sleep now."
Curt. Cold. Done.
He starts to reach for me but pulls his hand back abruptly as if I'm going to burn him and leaves without another word. My head spins dizzily, and I let my eye close with defeat. Whatever is going through Murphy's head right now, I am in no way physically capable of dealing with it. I just need to get a little more sleep and a decent meal, and then we can work through this together. I don't blame him for being so torn up.
I mean, we all lost Rocco…so…yeah.
The conversation starts back up next door. In the distance, there's a deep rumbling sound, and as I slip under, I can't tell if it's a truck downshifting or thunder. If I were awake at all, I'd probably be worried about the possibility of a storm on top of everything else, but I'm out before the thought even forms.