Scar Tissue

by Samantha Simard

  Scarlett snorted. You sure he’s a gubernatorial candidate and not a vacuum cleaner salesman?

  Francine “Frogger” Sampson came back from her quest for a champagne flute and sat down next to Scarlett on the bench. Younger than the rest of the wedding party by a few years—she graduated MIT at the ripe old age of eighteen—Frogger had a beautifully structured face with a prominent nose, bowed lips, and rich dark brown skin. Her tightly-curled black hair hung loose down her back, and she wore a pair of overalls with a yellow t-shirt and beat up Converse sneakers. “You talking to Sarge?”

  Scarlett wasn’t sure why Frogger chose to call Wolfe by his rank more often than not, but knowing Frogger, there wasn’t a reason; she probably just liked how it sounded. “Yep. We’re debating who’s suffering more so we can argue about who deserves extra dim sum the next time we order out.”

  “Nice.” Pushing her oversized, clear-framed glasses up her nose, Frogger lowered her voice to ask, “On a scale of one to George Kirk blowing up the Kelvin five minutes into the Trek reboot, how much of a clusterfuck is this wedding gonna be?”

  Wolfe had sent a thumbs-down emoji after Scarlett’s crack about vacuum cleaners, so she changed topics: did you and Bash get up to anything adrenaline-fueled and/or naughty after your adventure last night??

  In response to Frogger’s inquiry, she said, “Not sure yet. I mean, it’s always a little crazy when you get more than five Sullivans in one room, so I’m having a hard time imagining what a hundred of them plus Ryan’s family is going to be like.”

  Frogger leaned her forehead on Scarlett’s shoulder and groaned in despair. “That’s so many people already, plus all the other guests! You’ll be lucky if I don’t pass out cold with that many eyeballs staring at me.”

  Scarlett patted her leg reassuringly. “Don’t worry—with any luck, they’ll all be staring at Caitlin and she’ll pass out cold.”

  Her phone buzzed with another text from Wolfe: no! just talked to the cops, then i dropped him off with Constantin

  Caitlin emerged from the dressing room and suddenly there was a lot of hand-flapping and crying as all the other women jumped up and surrounded the bride-to-be. She glanced up from her phone and saw a lot of white lace and chunks of Cinderella amidst an outpouring of estrogen. She sent back a quick doesn’t mean you didn’t want to! ;) to Wolfe before stowing her phone and going over to get a better look.

  Caitlin was flushed a light pink from all the attention, and once the others backed off she grabbed Scarlett’s arm and said, “Be honest with me—what do you think?”

  Scarlett eyebrow shot up. “Of your dress?” She glanced down at her faded Metallica t-shirt and cutoff shorts. “I’m not exactly a fashion expert.”

  “Neither am I!” Caitlin said, pulling her over to the three-way mirror. “Is it too much, though? I was going for Disney princess, but… now I’m having second thoughts.”

  “Better to have second thoughts about the dress than the man,” Scarlett remarked, smiling when that drew a snort of laughter. She put her hands on her hips and studied Caitlin’s reflection. The dress was pure white, capped-sleeved and full-length, lace flowers of varying sizes making up a pattern broken by a satin belt at the waist. It was tailored to accent Caitlin’s natural curves and fell in a bell-shaped cascade to the floor. “Seriously, what do you expect me to say? You look incredible, babe.”

  Caitlin beamed at her, a shot of pure sunshine that made even Scarlett’s little black heart feel warm. They hugged, and Scarlett was selfishly grateful—not for the first time—that things hadn’t worked out in a romantic sense between Wolfe and Caitlin. If the high school sweethearts had gone on to get married, the chain of events that led to Scarlett basking in her friend’s joy wouldn’t exist. And damn it all, just thinking about that made Scarlett feel as sad and alone as she had as a rookie beat cop in New York.

  The Nordstrom lady came along and shooed Frogger and Scarlett into the fitting room, where their bridesmaids’ dresses waited on hangers. Caitlin graciously allowed them to choose what they wore, so long as they didn’t clash with the groom’s sky-blue tie and pocket square. It had taken a lot of texting back and forth (the private investigator lifestyle didn’t lend itself well to in-person socialization) to settle on something flattering for both of them: knee-length emerald green satin dresses with sweetheart necklines and lacy three-quarter sleeves.

  Scarlett was in the middle of changing when she heard her phone ring from inside her purse. It was a leather satchel precisely big enough to hold her cell, her wallet, and her weapon of choice, a Colt M1911 pistol. “Goddammit, if that’s another telemarketer—”

  “Remember when the Do Not Call list was a thing and everybody thought it was going to work?” Frogger’s tone was wistful as she tried and failed to untangle her bra strap. “Ah, to be young and naïve.”

  Scarlett shimmied into the dress and zipped herself up before traipsing over to inspect her phone. She froze when she saw the caller ID: one missed call from her father. No voicemail.

  “Hey, you okay?” Frogger asked. “You just did that thing Wolfe does when he sees something he doesn’t like—your shoulders went up around your ears.”

  Part of Scarlett wanted to confide in a friend like a normal person, tell Frogger it was her dad who called and explain the myriad number of reasons why that was a bad thing. The words stuck in her throat, barricaded inside by years of repression and not wanting to unleash the ugly, in-your-face anger that came from talking about Peter Vaughn. Today was supposed to be about Caitlin, and if Scarlett started spilling secrets now, she probably wouldn’t stop.

  “I’m fine,” Scarlett replied, tossing the phone back in her bag before turning around to flash Frogger a smile that looked real but didn’t feel it. “I just get pissed off when people call to sell me a warranty on something I don’t even own.”

  A sliver of doubt creased Frogger’s forehead but it disappeared as quickly as it came. “Ain’t that the truth, girl. You ready?”

  Scarlett offered her arm, and this time her smile was genuine when Frogger took her elbow. “Hell yeah.”

  They went back into the store and were greeted in much the same way Caitlin was, complete with hooting and hollering from the bride-to-be herself. The atmosphere was so happy and insular that none of them noticed Laine Parker dressed as a mall custodian, watching them through the storefront window.

  ~***~

  Chapter Eight

  At around eight o’clock that evening Wolfe found himself in the same Nordstrom store that Scarlett and the ladies were at earlier in the day. He was in the men’s section watching Christopher examine himself in a three-way mirror—not Wolfe’s ideal Friday night, but at least he was getting paid. The gubernatorial candidate needed a tuxedo for a charity gala the following night at the Four Seasons; since Sebastian was easily the most fashionable person any of them knew, it’d been a no-brainer for Christopher to ask him to come along on the shopping trip. Sebastian was currently over by the mirrors with Christopher, humming contemplatively and tugging at various parts of the tux like they offended him.

  Sitting beside Wolfe on a bench was Constantin, who looked just as bored as Wolfe felt. “You know,” the bodyguard said, “I’ve been on countless trips like this with Sebastian, and they never get more interesting.”

  “I can believe that,” Wolfe replied. He stretched his scarred arm out along the back of the bench, hiding a wince when the movement popped an adhesion. Luckily it was a small one and didn’t burn too badly, but to distract himself, he allowed his eyes to wander Sebastian’s lean, graceful frame. “I take it you haven’t developed an interest in fashion?”

  Constantin frowned. “I know some things—for example, Christopher’s ass looks terrible in those pants.”

  “Hey, don’t drag me into this!” Christopher exclaimed. Contrary to that statement, he turned to study his body from the side before looking at Sebastian in concern. “My ass looks terrible, doesn’t it?”

  �
��If people at a charity gala are paying that much attention to your ass, you’ve got bigger problems,” Wolfe said. “What charity is this thing for, anyway?”

  “The Delaney Veterans Center,” Christopher said, fiddling with his cuffs. “They do a lot of great work. I cut them a check and they were gracious enough to invite Melissa and me to the event. There’s going to be finger food, obviously, but also a silent auction and some other stuff. They didn’t even mind when I told them I’d need to bring along security.”

  “You’ll need a tuxedo too,” Sebastian said to Wolfe. The look in his eyes was simultaneously wry and fond. “I don’t suppose you own one?”

  Before Wolfe could respond, Christopher snapped his fingers and pointed at him. “Better idea! Can you wear your uniform? The press will eat that up.”

  Wolfe’s mind flashed to his closet at his apartment, where his Army dress uniform hung perfectly pressed under the protective cover of a suit bag, the shoes polished and in their box below it. He knew every ribbon and medal on the jacket in the order they appeared, and his initial reaction to the question was a hearty, visceral no fucking way. The last time he’d worn that uniform was to visit the graves of the Rangers—his Rangers—who died in the ambush that nearly destroyed half his body. The idea of putting on that monkey suit for something as vapid as a gala with finger food and a silent auction felt about as good as taking a bath in battery acid. But Wolfe forced himself to remember that the gala was being held to benefit other vets who were a hell of a lot less fortunate than him, and he knew from firsthand experience that the Delaney Center did in fact do good work in the community.

  For those reasons, even though he knew Christopher would find a way to twist this into a political stunt, he found himself saying, “Sure, okay. I can do that.”

  They wrapped up at Nordstrom a few minutes later, with Christopher arranging to have his manager, Nikki, pick up the suit the following afternoon once it was tailored. It would be a rush job, but Wolfe supposed these things were easy to get done when an election was seen as a formality. The four of them piled into Constantin’s Mercedes and headed back to Christopher and Melissa’s house, a sprawling six-bedroom, beautifully restored Tudor-style manor on Benton Road in Somerville’s Spring Hill neighborhood.

  They ran into the Sullivans’ housekeeper on her way home for the day as they entered the house. She informed Christopher that Melissa had retired to the master bedroom and the children were in bed. He thanked her, but it was Constantin who walked to her to her car and held the door while she got inside; Sebastian waited for his bodyguard on the front porch, lighting up a cigarette at the railing.

  “You guys stay up as long as you want,” Christopher said, keeping his voice low so as not to disturb his kids. He yawned as he turned and headed for the sweeping front staircase. “Beer’s in the fridge, help yourself. I’m going to bed.”

  Wolfe said goodnight and toed off his Wolverines before padding into the marble-floored kitchen to see about those beers. He grabbed one for himself and Constantin, thought for a moment, and swiped one of Melissa’s sparkling wine coolers for Sebastian. When he came back into the living room, he noticed the housekeeper had left him a fresh pillow and blanket on the couch, neatly folded, and made a mental note to thank her in the morning.

  Constantin came inside first, following Wolfe’s lead and taking off his shoes. Sebastian joined them a few seconds later, kicking off his combat-style boots, smelling like Camels and the new cologne he’d started wearing after the Mass Art fiasco. They both sat down on the loveseat opposite Wolfe’s couch and thanked him quietly for the drinks, Sebastian folding his legs underneath himself instead of sprawling them like he would to distract and/or seduce. Constantin was a giant among doll furniture, everything around him seemingly too delicate for this man who was not large in stature but big in intimidation.

  They chatted in soft tones about the job and the gala tomorrow until Constantin glanced at his watch, setting down his empty beer bottle on the glass coffee table. “Sebastian, we should get going. It is late, and if I have to deal with that prost Christopher again tomorrow I need a full eight hours of sleep.”

  Wolfe huffed a laugh. He was trying to learn Romanian in his spare time, and like most languages, the easiest thing to pick up on was swearing. “He may be a dumbass, but he’s also our client.”

  “Which means not shooting him, no matter how sleep-deprived you are,” Sebastian chided, poking Constantin in the ribs and grinning when the bodyguard grumbled and swatted at him. He looked at Wolfe, sharp features softening at the edges in a way that few people got to see. “Are you going to be all right, Jim?”

  Wolfe smiled and raised his own beer in salute. “I’ll be fine. Drive safe.”

  For a moment, Sebastian looked like he was going to say something that had nothing to do with work, or being friendly. But that must’ve been Wolfe’s imagination, because as he headed for the door with Constantin all he said was, “We will. See you tomorrow.”

  Not long after that, Wolfe walked the perimeter of the house to make sure everything was locked up tight. He double-checked that the security alarm was armed and then he took advantage of the blanket and pillow, falling asleep on the couch.

  ~***~

  When Jim Wolfe slept, he didn’t always have the same dream.

  Sometimes he dreamt of his childhood, vague snippets of memories too strong to be bleached away by the white-hot air of the desert. He dreamt of being little Jimmy Wolfe again, small enough to swing between his parents’ hands over puddles and cracks in the sidewalk. He played hide-and-seek with his older brother and only cried a little when Josh scared him into losing his balance and skinning his knee. Jimmy held his baby brother for the first time, a red-faced, screaming creature named Jake that he would swear to always protect and fail miserably.

  And other times, Wolfe had one particular dream.

  It was the one he dreaded the most but couldn’t escape, with him and his guys from the 3rd Batt on the curving road to that village about ten klicks outside Baghdad. He dreamt of the quiet murmur of his men moments before disaster, the young faces of the infantrymen backstopping them, and the dead dog used to disguise an improvised explosive device set off with a single sniper shot.

  Wolfe was thrown fifty feet through the air and landed hard on his back, the breath punched out of his lungs like air escaping a popped balloon. Half deaf and temporarily blinded, he spat out a stream of blood from biting his tongue and wrestled his rifle strap away from his throat. His broken earpiece whined and screeched until he yanked it out, leaving the busted tech discarded in the sand.

  There was another explosion as Wolfe got to his knees, and agony shocked through his left side and rattled into his brain. He looked down, and where camouflaged fabric should’ve been was blood and flayed muscle and bone. Deeper, pulsing things that Wolfe knew intellectually were his organs made him recoil into himself, his gorge rising. The skin around the mess was peeled back like wrapping paper on the most gruesome present, blackened from the heat with shards of metal and Kevlar embedded in the gaping wound.

  Wolfe collapsed backward in a heap, hands clenched around the mess that had once been his torso. The desert around him was silent, save for the crackle of the burning Humvees and the wet sound of his own breathing. With the remainder of his strength he turned his head, noticed a body that was shredded and burned almost beyond recognition. Other corpses were scattered around the area, the overwhelming stench of cooked meat and burning mingled with low-hanging black smoke.

  The world around Wolfe grew darker. Before it faded away completely, he saw two things: a medic’s arm patch, and a curtain of blood red hair.

  ~***~

  Franklin “Frankie” Sullivan let himself in to his brother’s house around five in the morning using the spare key on his keyring. It hung in between the fob for his cruiser and one of those little plastic picture frames that contained a shot of the entire Sullivan family on the flume ride at Canobie Lake Park,
all screaming their heads off in delight as they plunged down the falls. He entered the house as quietly as possible, thumbing in the code for the security system before toeing off his shoes. He was just coming off a ten-hour shift, and wanted to catch a few hours of sleep before he watched Christopher’s back for free on his day off. Ah, the glamourous life of a rookie police officer.

  A noise from the living room caught Frankie’s attention, and it took his brain a moment to figure out what it was: a muffled sob. Tiptoeing in, he wasn’t surprised to find Jim Wolfe’s large frame sprawled out on the couch, but he was disturbed when he realized his friend was caught in the throes of a nasty nightmare. Sweat glistened on Wolfe’s forehead, and he’d thrashed around enough in his sleep to knock his blanket and pillow on to the floor; one leg dangled off the cushions, twitching occasionally like he was trying to run away from something.

  “Jimmy?” Frankie whispered, worry creasing his brow. “C’mon, man, wake up.”

  No response except an awful whimper, Wolfe’s eyes ticking back and forth furiously under closed lids. Not knowing what else to do and fearful that if the dream got much worse Wolfe might hurt himself, Frankie reached out and touched his trembling shoulder.

  That was not Frankie’s best idea.

  Wolfe’s gray-green eyes snapped open and his hand shot up, wrapping around Frankie’s throat like a python’s jaws for one, two, three seconds of crushing airless pain. Frankie made a garbled noise and immediately started clawing at Wolfe’s scarred forearm, which was enough to bring him back to reality. He released Frankie as quickly as he’d grabbed him, but the damage was done.

  Frankie doubled over, wheezing for breath and wondering idly why it was always him on the rough end of somebody else’s problems. “Nice… to see you… too.”

  “Jesus Christ, Frankie!” Wolfe exclaimed, lowering his voice when Frankie pointed upward to remind him of the people sleeping over their heads. “Are you okay? I didn’t—I woke up and I didn’t know—”