“That’s....?”
Nick’s.
“Yes,” said John.
“I’d like to see you try to justify yourself now, Fed. Nick - you practically own him and he was nauseatingly okay with that because he trusts you, and where did it get him? In a - a death center which is probably just going to finish the job the prison-industrial complex started, because once we label someone a felon suddenly -”
Theo’s rant was starting to catch the attention of the desk clerk. John grabbed Theo’s arm, hard, and spoke with a fierce warning.
“Shut it, Theo.”
“Police brutality,” Theo shouted, struggling in typical Theo fashion. But there was shock on his face when he looked up at John, a telling confusion.
Why are you hurting me?
Not exactly the reaction of someone who considered him pure evil.
Now that he had Theo’s attention, John softened his grip and spoke in a low voice that wouldn’t be overheard. “I pulled his anklet.”
John let Theo’s arm go, and Theo jerked it away with a lethal glare. John didn’t let him get a word in edgewise.
“I pulled his anklet. Told the cops and the doctors he was my partner, and conned the desk into thinking he’s a deep cover agent. I am not an idiot, and whether you believe it or not, I care about Nick.”
Theo studied the floor for a minute. “I’m sorry, Fed,” he said shortly.
“I am not going to let Nick, my Nick, your Nick, be treated as anything less than the man that he is,” said John with a sort of angry passion that startled him. “They beat him, Theo. They threw him to wolves who kicked and punched and stabbed him, then they locked him up alone in chains.”
John knew suddenly and with absolute certainty that he was going to hit something, and turned away so that Theo wouldn’t think it was going to be him. Then he punched a cushion on the nearest couch with all his strength, rocking it back. He kicked it, over and over again.
“I am not letting one single person so much as look at Nick as anything but the brilliant, loyal, brave -”
John hammered the couch again.
“FUCK THEM. He - he looked at me, Theo. I’d just pulled handcuffs off raw wounds, he was beaten and bleeding and it turns out he was fucking dying from being stabbed, and he just looked at me and trusted me and - damn it, he’s a thinking, feeling, loving human being and how anyone who isn’t a sadist or a psychopath can fail to see that -”
“Fed. Fed.”
John reluctantly left the broken and bleeding proxy for humanity that was the hospital couch and faced Theo.
“Come here, Fed.” Theo had a strange look on his face, and John couldn’t help wondering if he was walking into a stabbing. He and Nick could compare matching scars.
Theo hugged him.
“He’s my best friend, Theo,” said John, feeling like he was gasping for air. “I had to pull his anklet so my best friend would be treated as valuable. He’s - not just a name. He’s not just a criminal. He’s Nick.”
“Welcome to the real world, Fed.”
John drew up a deep breath. “I’m part of that real world. Please don’t write off those of us who care when you’re handing out what’s real and what’s not. Don’t tell me my friendship isn’t real.”
Theo actually looked at John, really looked at him, as a person and not an extension of the government. It was possibly the first time he’d ever done so.
“Can I trust you?”
John sat on the couch he’d just brutalized, patting the seat for Theo to join him. Theo did, without even shrinking away from John like he carried a viral infection that caused wrongful convictions.
“You already trust me, you just don’t know it,” said John.
“Okay, fine.” Theo sighed. “You may not believe it, but Nick is a very nice person. He’s like the anti-bully.”
John smiled. Theo had probably needed someone the opposite of a bully in his life. “I believe you.”
“I need to tell you a story.”
“Okay,” said John, curious. Anything he didn’t already know about Aster was like catnip.
“Once upon a time, an Italian mafioso had a son with a respectable woman,” said Theo. “She insisted on raising the little mafiello in a world far away from his, and so he paid for the child’s upbringing and education, and watched from afar as his son grew up. He was happy that his son wasn’t a part of his own dark and violent world. The son grew up and married, and gave the mafioso a grand-mafista.”
John blinked, trying to follow Theo’s inexplicable cultural-linguistic mashup.
“Well, our mafioso couldn’t resist spending time with his granddaughter, and that led to very bad things. Our young and naive mafiello ended up having to defend his family against some very bad people, and did a little bit more than stand his ground. His wife was killed, but the grand-mafista survived. Our mafiello was sent to Sing Sing, where he became so despondent with the loss of his wife and his freedom, and so heartbroken over being separated from his daughter and terrified by prison, that he tried to kill himself. Repeatedly. And then he met a more experienced and very sweet inmate named Nick Aster, who comforted and supported the young man.”
John smiled. So this was the point where Theo’s verbal avalanche became relevant.
“This Nick Aster was an artist, and an art teacher. He worked for months with the mafiello and together they painted a beautiful portrait of his family to give his daughter. Nick helped our mafiello create something to make sure his daughter never forgot her mother’s face, and gave her a happy image of her father holding her and her mother to look at while he was....away. All this time, Nick was a shoulder to cry on as painting this portrait helped process this young man’s grief. When it was over, he never again tried to kill himself. And that is how Nick Aster came to be beloved to our very powerful mafioso and his secret son.”
John blinked, and set his jaw hard to hide the fact that he was way more moved by the tale than any self-respecting FBI agent should be. “Wow.”
“And the survivors will live happily ever after as soon as daddy completes a six-year prison sentence,” said Theo.
John chuckled. “So that’s how a fairy tale sounds in the criminal world.”
“Hey, it’s a great deal less grisly than most of Grimm’s so-called ‘fairy’ tales of horror,” said Theo.
It took John a little while to process that information. If he were to admit it to himself, he saw Nick either as predator or prey, depending on the situation. He’d been worried about Nick being a target of violence in prison, and worried about the targets of his misdeeds out here in the free world.
He’d never imagined Nick spending his time in prison helping others. It made sense, given how beloved he seemed to be to both guards and inmates. It just - was clear he’d under-estimated Nick and stereotyped the whole situation. John saw glimmerings of trauma in him, ghosts of captivity whispering from dark corners.
But perhaps Nick really did find happiness in there. He hadn’t cast himself as a victim, he’d cast himself as a rock others could turn to. It was easy to imagine Nick, nonthreatening and gentle but strong and capable, helping people cope with prison.
“I underestimate Nick,” said John softly.
“At your peril, Fed. More importantly, at the peril of the foolish soul that ordered a hit on him.”
“Nick wouldn’t-”
“The Sicilian Mob would. Will. Nick will probably never know about it.”
JOHN
Special Agent in Charge Daniel Curry glanced sideways at John. “This shows Aster....”
“It’s okay,” said John. He watched the screen while Nick was grabbed, and held by a small group. Restrained at the mercy of multiple assailants, he had no way to defend himself. A beefy skinhead type punched Nick in the gut, and Curry paused the playback, pointing at the screen.
“This is where he was stabbed,” said Curry. “Weapon was held between the fingers so it’d stick out from a clenched fist. Aster l
ikely thought he was just being punched.”
John grimaced. “Makes sense.”
Nick’s attacker struck him again in the stomach, then again.
Nick used the men holding him as leverage, raised both legs in the air, and used the powerful muscles in his legs to kick his assailant in the groin. The impact was so hard that both the skinhead and the guys restraining Nick were thrown backwards, off balance.
Nick landed on the ground, hard, unable to break his fall. Curry stopped the playback.
“Aster just saved his own life,” said Curry.
John let out a low whistle. “Phew. He did that with three holes in his stomach?”
Daniel’s mouth twisted. “He was severely beaten by the guards before this happened. He shouldn’t even be able to stand by that point.”
John stared at him. “Why?”
“He stole a cell phone from one of them.”
John buried his face in his hands. “Damn it, Nick. Why - does - he - do - these things?”
Curry gave him a moment. “I share your frustration. But when he wakes up....don’t give him the impression his lifeline thinks what was done to him is just.”
“I don’t!” John snapped. “Nothing justifies this. Nothing.”
“Make sure Aster knows that’s how you feel. I don’t have tape yet, but from what I’m hearing - he’s going to have a lot to recover from when it comes to that alone.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Wake Up
JOHN
Curry looked at John with an expression even grimmer than usual. “We need to talk, alone.”
John followed his boss to an empty elevator lobby, his jaw set. That particular blend of words could only be bad.
“I don’t know how to be delicate about it,” said Curry. “So I’ll just say this. We blew the response.”
Curry looked at the floor. “Aster should have been evacuated by ambulance immediately. I made the same decisions you did, and I was the senior agent on scene, so I take responsibility. But we need to acknowledge that in failing to get him immediate, professional care, we could have killed a man who’s not only our colleague, but our ward.”
John nodded, his stomach twisting. He hadn’t just endangered Nick, he’d been a lousy FBI agent.
“I shouldn’t have let myself be locked in that cell,” admitted John. “I should’ve examined Aster more - unflinchingly. I never should have kicked out that paramedic, and I sure as hell shouldn’t have let Aster just walk out.”
Curry was silent in agreement for a few moments. “What were you thinking, Langley?” It was a genuine question, not an attack.
“I was thinking - my friend had been through a horrible trauma. There was nothing I could change, or do to relieve his physical pain besides removing the restraints. But I could comfort him mentally and emotionally. I must‘ve blocked out that the incident itself wasn’t resolved.”
Curry leaned back against the wall and sighed. “I’ve seen too much for the scene in that cell to throw me off my game. But I saw the blood, and instead of viewing it as an active emergency, I read it as a crime scene.”
Curry’s boss hit the down button on one of the elevator banks. “Hopefully he’ll live with our mistakes. Let’s not make them again. If you can't think clearly where Aster is concerned, we'll have to look at pulling one or both of you from field work.”
Theo and John’s wife Mari were there when John returned, side by side, the loyal friends. John’s stomach was in a knot, and his head was buzzing. He wanted to punch himself and hide and scream, and he was desperate to justify his actions at the jail. But he was a trained emergency responder and the best person in the world to tell himself he’d screwed up.
He’d thought like a civilian, driven by emotion and instinct. Effective emergency response was and had to be ruthless and factual, just like the paramedic in the cell.
My job isn’t to be compassionate, it’s to make sure he isn’t dying and save his life if he is.
That was John’s job too. And he’d failed.
“Fed?” Theo looked almost genuinely worried about him.
“I screwed up! I should’ve let the paramedic treat him and drag him out on his ass on a stretcher. I made a stupid damn set of emotional decisions and it almost cost him his life.”
John looked around with his fists clenched, willing himself not to scream in rage and self-hate and fear and everything a grown man who also happened to be an FBI agent wasn’t supposed to give in to.
He thought of Nick, sitting in his office with an impertinent grin, feet up on the desk, judging the coffee and scheming. Coming up with absurdly ambitious and elaborate plans that somehow actually worked, and bouncing out of the office at John’s side giving him a hard time about his suit.
John’s breathing started to return to normal. As much as he would never admit it out loud, Nick was good for him. He’d always gotten wound too tight on his own, trying to control everything including himself and stressing to the point of anger over it. As much as Nick needed John to keep him on a tight leash, John needed Nick to poke at him and tease him and remind him that even very serious things didn’t need to be - well, taken so seriously.
He needed Nick now.
“It had to cause him - agonizing pain to walk out of there,” said Mari after John had recounted the whole story.
“It did,” said John, grim.
“That says to me it was really, really important to him,” said Mari. “Think about it, hon. This wasn’t just painful and traumatic, it was humiliating. He needed to stand up for himself, literally.”
“I know that!” snapped John. “It was my sympathy for his mental and emotional state, and my own grief for it, that almost cost his life. I acted as a friend, not an emergency responder.”
Mari rested a hand on John’s back. “My point is, he was willing to endure physical hell to walk out of there. Don’t discount how important it was to him.”
John sighed. There were things a civilian could never quite grasp. That he’d lost sight of today. Psychological impact simply had to play second fiddle to the realities of keeping someone alive. If it meant looking his best friend in the eyes, asking if he was raped, and when he said no, yanking off his clothing and finding where the blood was coming from and having him hauled out in an ambulance, well, that was more his duty to Nick than being sensitive and comforting.
Mari had come bearing clean clothes, and food John couldn’t stomach eating. Gradually their little corner of the waiting area turned into a community. Theo. Alice. Kelly. Wash. Even Gary Wills, the US Marshal, stopped by to ask if Nick was going to be all right.
“John Langley?” called a nurse after what seemed like an eternity. They all stood and looked at him anxiously. “You waiting for Agent Aster to come out of surgery?”
“Yeah.”
“He’s in recovery right now, about to come out of anesthesia.”
John asked what they were all wondering. “He gonna be okay?”
“Surgery was successful and barring any complications, we expect him to make a full recovery. Come with me, John.”
He was unconscious, but he looked like Nick again. His split lip, a cut on his forehead, and smaller gashes on his cheek and chin had been cleaned and glued so they wouldn’t leave scars. The blood coating his face and arms was gone, and his hair was clean. The one wrist John could see was neatly bandaged.
Nick was being monitored intently by what John thought were a doctor and her nurse.
“Thank you - for cleaning him up,” said John. “It’ll mean a lot to him.”
The doctor smiled. “We flushed the pepper spray out of his eyes and cleaned all the wounds, washed off all the pepper spray and blood while he was out so it wouldn’t hurt. One of our reconstructive surgeons stopped in and did his face and wrists. He should be comfortable, and the scarring will be minimal.”
“Thank you,” repeated John. Never had those two words been so heartfelt. These doctors had just given him Nick Aster b
ack. And John was there when Nick opened his eyes, just like he promised.
“Welcome back,” he greeted a pale, confused-looking Nick. “You’re fine, you’re safe.”
Nick blinked. “Why didn’t they operate?”
“They did,” said John.
“It’s - over?”
The doctor took over. “You were in surgery for three hours. No internal organs were damaged, and we were able to do most of the procedure laparoscopically, so your recovery should be easy.”
Nick closed his eyes to process that. “Felt like - a minute.”
Broken Blue Lines: Love. Hate. Criminal Justice.: An FBI Crime Drama / LGBT+ Love Story Page 6
