Chapter Twenty-Eight
Finn
The Fire Chief, the Corruption, the Drugs, and the Illegal Dog Fighting.
I balanced my laptop on my lap on my own nice, private couch. I wasn’t supposed to be looking at the screen, but fuck it. This was too important. The top story for the Mission City Gazette.
Ulysses’s byline.
I scanned the article, noting Marlon, Giancarlo, Selah, Meyer, and Debra’s names.
Jesus.
Then I forced myself to read the story from beginning to end.
Marlon was at the center of all this. What had started out as harmless gambling had grown into an addiction beyond his control.
He’d started a dog-fighting ring as a way to get other gamblers to pony up their money.
The brutality of the fighting made my stomach churn.
I’d known some of those dogs, walked them, cheered when they went off to “homes.” I wanted to puke.
Then he’d turned to drug dealing as a way to bring in more money. At that point he’d gotten Giancarlo addicted. And yes, he’d sold the bad drugs to David—so the boy’s death could be laid at his feet as well.
Then the total shit needed a place to launder the drug money—so he used the restaurant. And the dog fighting took place behind Tully’s after hours with Debra’s help. And yes, Meyer and Selah were involved in faking paperwork and disappearing the dogs.
Jesus.
Finally, Ulysses analyzed the fires.
Turned out, all the buildings were insured by the same company. That company was raking in money—and suddenly all Chief Gerard’s money woes, including delinquent mortgage payments, were all neatly paid off. Marlon ran up the debt, and his daddy found a way to pay it all off.
Half a dozen photographs. The fighting ring behind the restaurant. A drug dealer selling to kids. Kids I fucking knew.
My head ached and I rubbed my eyes. This was all just too damn much to absorb.
Improbable. Impossible. And yet clearly laid out in meticulous detail.
Including an interview with the top RCMP officer in Mission City.
Sergeant Gregory Wilder said they’d been close to making arrests, but now most of the arrests were in progress and the perpetrators were in jail.
Yeah, but if he’d gone public before the perpetrators get arrested, wouldn’t they run?
That thought churned in my gut. That Marlon, Gerard, Selah, Meyer, Debra, and everyone else involved might actually get away with all this. But Gregory said arrests had been made. Was it too soon for Ulysses to list them?
Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.
And where did that leave me? I’d told investigators what I remembered about the fire.
But I hadn’t told them about Marlon’s wave.
Did I imagine it? Or did he really leave me to die?
I’d never had a sense of the time between him walking out of the building with the victim, and Miriam coming to rescue me.
The neurologist who examined me said I might never get those memories back. That basically I’d been knocked in the head and she was surprised I remembered as much as I did.
I hadn’t mentioned the wave—just that I had a clear memory of the beam falling and Marlon leaving with the woman. He’d been hailed a hero. If what Ulysses had just revealed was true—and I had no reason to doubt it—that hero’s cap was coming off damn fast.
My phone rang.
Mom.
“Hi, Mom. How—”
“Finnegan O’Sullivan, my hard-headed child, what the actual fuck?”
I sighed. “I can explain. Uh, where are you?”
“I just got off the cruise ship in Vancouver Harbor. And I saw an article in the Vancouver Sun, written by your boyfriend, about all these shenanigans in Mission City, and when I check that out, I see you were injured by falling debris in a fire—and were in the hospital for several days—and I didn’t know anything about it.
Did you break your fucking fingers as well? ”
“Huh?” I rubbed my temple. Valerie O’Sullivan did not use the f-word.
Ever.
“I assume you broke all your fingers and that’s why you were unable to call me. Is that correct?”
“No?”
“Finnegan.”
“Yes, Mom?”
“Was that a question or a statement?”
“Uh…both?”
“Finnegan.” Laced with disappointment.
“You were on the cruise of a lifetime. Your bucket list. There’s nothing you could’ve done for me. Miriam drove me home. Iris has checked in. Toby brought soup.”
“And Ulysses? Your boyfriend?”
“See article published in the paper.” I rubbed my temple. “When do you get home? Do you need me to pick you up? Did I say I would?”
“Oh, Finnegan, my love. I can hear your pain. Head?”
“Yeah, Mom.” Part of me just wanted to get a mom cuddle and sink into the comfort.
“I’m good, my dear son. A couple from Hope were on the cruise, and they offered to drive me to Mission City.”
“Mission City’s not entirely on the way.”
“They don’t like driving the big highway, so they would’ve been driving through Mission City anyway. Truthfully, they would’ve driven me regardless. Charming couple. I’ve made new friends, I think.”
“Well, I’d love to meet them.” I liked the idea Mom had made new friends. She attracted people—but making enduring friendships could be tough. Especially with her hours at the hospital.
“You know, I might arrange that. Actually, they have a friend they want to introduce me to.”
“Oh?”
“A widower.”
“In Hope?” You want your mom to be happy. Hope is just an hour away. And who’s to say your mother is going to fall in love with some random stranger?
“Abbotsford. They were all professors together at the university. The couple were a few years older and have retired.”
“So this guy’s a prof?”
“Yes.” Mom chuckled. “A mismatch if I’ve ever seen one.”
“Hey.” I said that sharply. “You’re brilliant, vivacious, and any man would be lucky to meet you.”
“Oh my dear boy.” The smile was evident in her voice. “It’s just dinner.”
“Well, I want to meet him, okay? Promise?”
“How about I meet him first? Oh, they’re waving at me. I’ll be home in an hour. Should I have them drop me off at your house?”
The laptop display indicated it almost six. “Go home, Mom. Put your feet up. We can touch base tomorrow—if you’re not working.”
“I’m not. I planned for a day to resettle. I’ll worry, though.”
“I’m truly fine. Tomorrow, then?” Another day for me to get closer to healing—whatever that looked like.
“You’re tired?”
“Yeah, I really am. I might have an early night.” Totally hadn’t been the plan—but she didn’t need to know that.”
“I love you.”
“I love you too. I’m glad you had a good time.”
She huffed. Then cut the line.
I smiled to myself. I did the right thing in not calling. She’ll get over her pique eventually. She always does. Not that I went out of my way to piss her off. But I was a stubborn O’Sullivan—so it was bound to happen now and again.
My phone buzzed with an incoming text.
Ulysses.
—Up for company? Understandable if you’re not. —
I hesitated. I wasn’t truly up for a guest. Still, I didn’t want him to worry. Sure, shovel some shit while you’re at it—of course you want to see him. At least here, I could be honest with myself.
—Sure. I’m…not great company. —
A long pause.
—What can I bring? —
—Yourself. —
Another pause.
—And a burger? Soup? Chili? —
—Sure. —
—Which? —
—Any. —
—Or all. Be there soon. —
—You don’t need to bring all. —
I waited.
No response and the message went un-replied to. Stubborn cuss.
Yeah. Except I’d do the same damn thing. Had when Giancarlo had been laid up with that bad ankle.
Giancarlo.
For the umpteenth time, I hit speed dial.
For the umpteenth-and-first time, the call went straight to voice mail.
Fucking asshole. I would stand by you. Or I think I would.
I’m not such a boy scout myself. I know shit happens.
Would I forgive him for driving high? Probably not for a while.
But I’d encourage him to get help. Stand by him if he went for rehab. Just…I needed to fucking talk to him.
I closed my laptop and put it on the end table. Then I chose to be nearly horizontal in the recliner—less pressure in my head. Less pressure equaled less pain. Or so I told myself. I really should’ve gone to lie down, but Ulysses was on his way over.
My boyfriend? Fuck buddy? Partner? What is the label for what we have? I just didn’t have an answer for that.