Blood Money for a Ghost

2015

Nic’s handwriting on the outside of the white puffy envelope makes John’s heart beat a little faster. It’s been months since John last heard from him.

He snags the letter from the mail locker and shoves it along with the bills under his arm.

A minute later and he’s through the non-descript apartment door into the small hallway where he dumps his bag on the floor and the mail on the side-table. He shrugs out of his black woollen coat, hanging it up carefully.

He grabs the envelope and heads for the den and the comfort of his leather recliner. He removes the holster and gun strapped to his belt and finally sits.

He opens Nic’s letter and pulls out a small black notebook that John recognises as Nic’s journal.

There’s no letter, no explanation.

John frowns at the weight and flips open the black front to find a key taped there. He ignores it and stares at the neat writing on the first page.

It’s a jumble of letters and words.

Code.

And he’s remembering Nic’s last postcard, the one with ‘Big case. Going under.’ as its only message.

1985

There’s a boy by the shoreline in front of their vacation beach house.

John watches him from the safety of the wooden deck.

He half-remembers the shouts his parents had exchanged about his Mom bringing John to the West coast; he’d heard them through the walls curled up under his airplane sheets.

John thinks the boy looks lonely.

He’s lonely too.

Nothing’s been the same since his younger brother died.

He leaves the deck and steps onto the sandy beach. He stops when he draws level to the other boy, ensuring they’ve got distance between them. He slides a look towards him and freezes.

“You’re new,” the black-haired boy states, green eyes alight with curiosity.

“We’re on vacation,” John replies, brushing a hand through his own dull mop of light brown hair with its many cowlicks. “Do you live here?”

The boy shrugs. “My Dad dumped me here with my Uncle Frankie like months ago.”

“I’m John,” he says hesitantly, “John Scott.” He leaves off ‘the Third.’

“Dominic Oscar Greco,” the boy grins. “But you can call me Nic.”

2015

Code written by Nic is a challenge. But it helps that John knows the key and has known the key since they were fifteen and sneaking out to the movies which are Nic’s obsession. If Nic’s Uncle hadn’t been a cop, John figures Nic would have ended up in the film industry as an actor; he’s always had the talent and the looks. Instead, Nic’s a really good undercover cop; one of the best.

If Nic hadn’t become a cop, John wouldn’t have thought about the FBI after the Army.

By the time the dawn is breaking, he’s got the first message cracked.

It’s Nic’s personal journal of his time undercover.

‘John,

If you’re reading this, things went South.

I’ll be Sam Wheat. You be my Oda Mae.

All my love,

Nic.’

1991

“I think it’s stupid,” Nic grumbles as they walk along the boardwalk back towards the beach house.

John wants to take Nic’s hand, curl his fingers around Nic’s. Just like he wanted to slide his arm along the back of Nic’s chair, kiss Nic in the dark of the movie…

But he doesn’t because Nic’s been talking about Wendy Patterson all year in the letters they exchange when John’s not in town. Blonde, bubbly and female Wendy Patterson.

Nic’s interested in girls, like John’s supposed to be but just isn’t. Maybe there’s something wrong with him, John worries. All he’s interested in is Nic.

John drags his mind back to the topic Nic’s been babbling about since they left the movies. “Sam was right about that money.”

“You’re seriously saying you’d just give it away?” Nic argues, his hands gesturing wildly.

“It was blood money! Sam died because of that money,” John argues back, enjoying the debate. “Are you telling me if it was you, you’d keep it?”

Nic opens his mouth and closes it as John raises a knowing eyebrow. He laughs, carefree and happy, making John’s stomach twist a little funny. “I guess not.” He bumps John’s shoulder with his own. “Just promise me you’d never donate it to nuns.”

John nudges him back, grinning. “You’re the good Catholic boy, not me.”

2015

John tosses back the first whiskey he pours.

Twenty thousand dollars.

It’s a lot of bank notes stacked into neat piles on the floor of John’s hotel room. John had counted them one by one out of the duffle bags he’d liberated from their hiding place in the storage unit in New Jersey.

Blood money.

The sum which according to Nic’s careful notes in his journal had tempted Nic’s handler into betraying him.

John swallows down another mouthful of whiskey.

There’s a USB key tucked into a sheaf of photos; proof of the Mancoli family’s organised crime dealings, enough to put them away. Nic had done his job.

John stands by the window staring out at the bright lights of the city as an audio from a phone recording of Detective Costa’s confession to Nic plays out on his laptop.

There’s a shot and the audio cuts out.

Nic had to have survived. He’s had to have survived to plant the money and the evidence in the locker, to send John the journal.

It doesn’t matter.

The whiskey burns twice as much on the way back up.

1997

It’s their last night of vacation and one minute he and Nic had been laughing about the movie playing out on the TV screen and in the next…

They were kissing.

Kissing.

And then…hands were on skin and they were fumbling through a first time together like it was inevitable.

Nic reaches out across the bed and tangles their fingers together.

“Is this…” John begins to ask but can’t get the question out.

Nic’s thumb strokes over his knuckles. “You’re the one headed into the Army, John. You tell me.”

John grimaces. He wants to choose Nic. He wants to ignore his father’s expectations and his family’s history of service.

Nic leans over and kisses him gently. “Maybe it’s just tonight then.”

John slides his hand behind Nic’s neck, pull him in for another kiss. If they have only one night, John’s going to make it one to remember.

2015

The sirens are flashing, red and blue paints across the tarmac.

Detective Danny Costa looks pathetic and small as he’s guided none too gently into the waiting squad car.

John stays out of the way, but the FBI agent in charge strides over to him. Elizabeth Varret is a thin whippet of a woman.

“Coasta admits he shot Greco point blank in the chest,” Varret sighs, pushing her hands deep into the pockets. Her eyes meet John’s. “Sorry, Agent Scott, I know you were hoping for different news. I don’t know how Greco arranged to get the evidence he did to you, but…” she shrugs.

John nods tersely and turns away, walks back to his own car. He sits staring out blindly for a long moment.

Nic might have said he’d be Sam Wheat but Nic isn’t dead.

He’s not a ghost.

He just isn’t.

2007

John doesn’t so much as sit down on the beach as he descends until he lands with a thump on the sand.

He sets the bottle of whiskey aside and stares at the ocean.

It’s been a hell of a year.

Honourable discharge from the Army after the last mission went FUBAR. He can still hear the explosion in his ear, the way the helicopter lurched…

Divorce.

God.

What was he thinking getting married anyway?

Sophie deserves better.

He hasn’t spoken to his father for months after the fight about the divorce.

He blinks back tears and reaches for the whiskey. He stops as he registers the man lowering himself to the sand beside him.

“Nic?”

They’ve exchanged nothing but mail since the morning after the night before; emails and postcards, letters and gag gifts sent in the post.

“You expecting someone else?” quips Nic. “I got your letter.”

John blinks at Nic, stupefied. “I thought…” he clutches the whiskey close.

Nic smiles sheepishly. “You’re my best friend, John. I mean, if you want…”

“I want,” John says.

And it’s like the last ten years have never happened.

2015

The church is old and showing the signs of wear and tear, inside and outside.

John leaves the money in the confessional. He doesn’t have the same problem as Oda Mae. It’s easy to leave the money behind. He vaguely wonders why Varret has never asked him about it. She’d called him to tell him how Costa flipped for a deal.

The reminder of that makes John feel sour. It’s the way justice works sometimes; the smaller fish give up the bigger fry despite their crimes.

He slumps onto a bench and stares blindly at the altar.

He’s searched everywhere for Nic but there’s no sign of him.

John’s beginning to lose hope.

He just needs a sign.

He gets up with a heavy sigh, runs a hand through his dishevelled hair. A shaft of sunlight suddenly breaks through the cloud, arrowing through the stained glass and sending a cascade of colour across the floor.

And the knowledge of where Nic is sparks across John’s mind in a kaleidoscope of old photos.

2013

“Here,” Nic hands him a neatly wrapped package and sits down on the log they’d dragged over to the bonfire they’d made on the beach.

John unwraps it carefully, his hands smoothing over the fine woollen coat.

Nic grins at him. “If you’re moving to the East coast, you’re going to need a good coat. Assistant Director Scott.”

John rolls his eyes at him. “Not quite yet, but thank you for the coat.” He already loves it.

“I can’t believe we’ll actually be living in the same time-zone,” Nic murmurs. His thumb brushes absently over the bottle label.

John hums, not wanting to admit he’d moved to be closer to Nic. Of course, it also puts him within driving distance of his parents which isn’t so great although his Mom is thrilled.

“Maybe we can see each other more,” John says cautiously.

Nic smiles at him widely. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” John snags the beer and takes a sip, hands it back.

Nic keeps his eyes on John. “I’d like that.”

John tries to keep from blushing but he can feel the tips of his ears go red.

The world seems to freeze and…

Nic leans in to kiss him.

John meets him half-way.

The beer bottle ends up knocked over and spilling into the sand.

2015

The beach house hasn’t changed. His Mom was never interested in updating the décor as though the faded prints and old furniture brought her comfort.

John steps out onto the beach, wind pulling at the white t-shirt and old worn jeans. He makes his way to the shore and stands in the same spot he’d occupied thirty years before.

He reaches into his back pocket and opens the journal to the last page and the final word he’d decoded.

Ditto.

John huffs out a strangled breath, too close to a sob. He walks the steps to the ocean and lets the waves take the journal away.

John closes his eyes, tipping his face to the last of the sun.

A hand slides into his.

Rough and warm and alive.

John opens his eyes and drinks in the sight of Nic.

Not a ghost.

John closes the distance between them and kisses him, hugging him fiercely.

“I love you too,” John whispers as his world finally rights itself.

The sun disappears and the night closes in.

But that’s OK; they’re on their beach, together, and the sun will rise again in the morning.

fin.