The Unsayable Sums
Jul. 20th, 2008 12:43 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
jimmyhkim21Title: The Unsayable Sums - Conclusion
Pairing: JA/JP
Rating: R for language and violence
Word Count: ~10,500
Disclaimer: Slavery's still outlawed so no, I don't own them.
WARNINGS: Second RPF, also AU, so if this is anywhere near the truth, I'm friends with Ambassador Kosh.
Summary: Jared Padalecki has finally realized the American Dream. Fame, fortune, and adoration are at his fingertips: all he has to do is deny who he is. It isn't long before his deception catch up to him, and in one night he, his friends, and complete strangers will pay a bloody price for his choices, and not everyone will survive.
Main Post
The Day After
Boston, Massachusetts
Ben Manzoni drank his third espresso and it wasn’t even ten in the morning. He reread the papers but nothing had miraculously changed between the second and third cup. Contadino was dead, the nigger was MIA, and the FBI, led by Singer, was on the warpath. He knew his association with Contadino was already well known by the Bureau so he fully expected a visit from the Feds before noon. He had called his attorney earlier, ordering the man to clear his calendar for the next two weeks because his services would be required for the foreseeable future. His attorney took the command with an agreeable 'yes', 'of course' and rattled off few things he would need from Manzoni should the FBI drop by for a chat.
The headache that blossomed earlier was steadily growing, forcing him to consider retreating back to his house.
Manzoni noticed his driver's slight pallor when the man entered the kitchen. "What?"
“Sir, I just got a call. They found Russo,” Jason said.
“How?” Manzoni’s voice was barely audible. “How the fuck did that happen?”
“The old caretaker retired and the new one makes a habit of checking out the cemetery, even when he’s not scheduled to. He saw tire tracks, followed them and found the grave.”
Manzoni took the TV remote and started channel surfing. It was Channel 7 that had the story.
“…As you can see over my left shoulder there is more than one coroner’s van parked inside Mather's Rest. From what we’ve gathered so far the police have dug up at least two bodies, one of them a child. However, that might change as confidential sources tell us they have not finished digging.
“Reporting live from Waltham, this is Terry Martins for Channel Seven News.”
The Feds were going to be knocking on his door way before noon, and they won't go away empty-handed. Manzoni barked, “Let’s get out of here.”
They made it to the supply entrance when the bomb went off. Because the blast was concentrated in the back and the café’s picture windows were bulletproof the explosion only cracked them. However, the front door was made from salvaged wood so it exploded out into the street, tearing into the pedestrians who braved the cold weather for some genuine Italian food. Luckily, none of them were seriously injured despite various cuts and bruises. Manzoni and his men weren't so lucky: none of them survived. It would take the bomb crew and the crime unit two days to piece together what had happened inside Lucetta’s pastries. It took them another three to find all the body parts strewn about the place.
Mass General Hospital
Boston Massachusetts
Singer stormed through the hospital's lobby with Lindberg barely keeping pace. His thunderous face discouraged any FBI personnel from approaching him. In fact, they swerved or looked away in order not to draw the supervisor's ire.
“What the fuck happened?” Singer barked at Murray who was chatting with the two police guards stationed right outside Padalecki's room. “Why hasn’t Padalecki been interviewed already?”
“Some nurse gave him medication last night before his transfer and he passed out. And when he woke up the first thing he did was lawyer up,” Murray said, exhaustion lining his face and voice.
“What?” Lindberg asked, incredulous.
“His agent, Mike Rosenbaum, came this morning with Harold Conniver,” Murray answered. “That ended any chance of us getting a word out of Padalecki.”
“Conniver? Who’s he?” Lindberg asked, unfamiliar with the attorney's name.
Singer closed his eyes then took off his glasses, wincing as if he was suddenly sidelined with a headache. “Harold Conniver was an A.D.A. four years ago. Michaels, who was the D.A. at the time, was grooming him to take over when he retired, but there was a changing of the guards at Beacon Hill, and Harry got shafted. They brought in an outsider and totally ignored his record, which was pretty damn stellar. Harry quit, joined up with one of the best legal defense firms in town and pretty much have been giving the D.A.’s office the middle finger since then.”
“How does a sports agent get his hand on such a guy?” Lindberg asked.
“The usual way, I presume: the good old boys network,” Singer answered. He threw a glance at the closed door and snarled, “Son of a bitch!”
“Do you want to take a crack? I’ve made no headway since Padalecki woke up," Murray said.
Singer tossed his coffee cup and said, “Don’t come in unless I say so. And make sure we’re not disturbed.”
“Yes, Sir,” the two agents replied while the police officers gave sharp nods.
Singer knocked on the door before entering. Conniver looked up from his laptop and flashed a warm smile. “Bobby, how are you?”
“Good, could be better, but isn’t that always the case?”
“Just about,” Conniver answered. He turned to Padalecki and a bald man wearing a suit that probably cost more than Singer's entire wardrobe. “This is Field Supervisor Bobby Singer. He’s a legend in the FBI and the Boston Police Department for going after organized crime. A lot of people are curious as to why he’s still in Boston and not knocking them dead in DC.”
“Boston has Brigham.”
Conniver looked at him with genuine contrition. “I’m sorry, I forgot. Is Amy doing all right?”
“She’s doing fine. Her cancer’s been in remission for nearly two years now.”
“That’s good to hear,” Conniver said. “I can still remember her Thanksgiving dinners.”
“She still asks for you,” Bobby said. “She understands why you don’t swing by anymore, but she misses your Yankee wit something fierce. Too many New Yorkers around her dinner table now.”
“They’re importing them, aren’t they?”
“Yep,” Singer said. “Joining the FBI isn’t as glamorous as it used to be for the locals. No more funneling from Boston College for us.”
“Probably for the best,” Conniver said.
“Probably,” Singer said. “Harry, you know why I’m here.”
“I can guess,” Conniver said, taking a glance at his client who looked fascinated by the friendly exchange between them. “Can’t let you do it though. Not if I want my client to keep on breathing.”
“It’s a little late for that, don’t you think?” Bobby said. “We still haven’t located the second and probably the primary shooter. By the way, do you know who was killed up there?”
Padalecki shook his head. “No, but you’re right about him not being the man who killed Patrick.”
“Thought so,” Singer said. “The dead man is Jack Contadino. Low level thug working for or shall I say worked for Ben Manzoni.”
“That son of a bitch?” Conniver said.
“You mean client, don’t you?” Singer said dryly.
“No, I don’t go near organized crime cases. They give me hives.”
“Well, Manzoni’s moved up in the world since your days at Government Center. He reported directly to Barassi who answers to Tomas Lorino. You remember Tommy Boy, don’t you?”
“The bastard’s still alive?” Conniver asked. “He has to be in his nineties by now.”
“Ninety-two and won’t last another year, or at least I’m hoping.”
“Still can’t see why Mr. Padalecki should in any way cooperate with the FBI,” Conniver said.
“Because Lorino hates loose ends, and your client’s one of them. There is also the fact that the shooter still has to finish his job.”
“He’s after Mr. Padalecki because he’s a witness: he was never the primary target,” Conniver reasoned. “You agree with that assessment?”
“I do, but that still doesn’t change the fact that Padalecki saw him and can identify him,” Bobby said with a wry smile. “Doesn’t matter if he’s willing to cooperate with us or not; the bastard won’t take any chances. Last night pretty much proves that.”
“So, what do you want?” Conniver asked. “Let’s face it, Witness Protection Program is impossible for someone like Mr. Padalecki and, according to you, he’s a walking target whether he cooperates with you or not.”
“Because if he works with us we can pull in Lorino. All it takes is one trip and the man’s heart will give. Lorino dies, his son comes to power, and that son of a bitch is nothing like his dad. He’ll fuck up in no time and we’ll be able to put him away for a hundred years. The entire syndicate will collapse and Padalecki will be forgotten in the chaos.”
“What about the killer?” Padalecki asked.
“We’re doing our best. Could you at least help us at least identify the man?”
Padalecki looked at Conniver who gave a single nod. “Okay, I can do that,” he said. “What about Jensen?”
“Mr. Ackles is sedated for now, and we have guards with him at all times,” Singer said. “We're planning to move him to a safer location as soon as his doctors give the go-ahead. His popularity will probably help him. The last thing the Mafia needs is to attract attention by killing someone who is so well-known in the literary circle.”
“Why is that?” Padalecki asked.
“It’s strange; in some ways the pen is mightier than the sword for the Mafia. They’ve always enjoyed a kind of a semi-glamorous limelight due to the many true-crime novels about them. Should anything happen to Mr. Ackles, I suspect the backlash from the literary circles will be severe, as he is their current champion.
“It’s not a guarantee but I think they know better than to stir up that hornet’s nest. Besides, he hasn’t seen anything of significance, right?”
Padalecki quickly shook his head. “No, when we got out it was only Contadino who went after him.”
“Contadino isn’t so valuable a soldier that they would risk a war, but the one who got away – that one’s a different bird altogether.”
“My client tells me he’s black,” Conniver said. “There can’t be that many African-American hitmen.”
“Most we know of are in the drug business, which makes perfect sense if you’re considering Lorino,” Singer said.
“I have to admit I was surprised to hear that,” Conniver said. “Lorino isn’t the type to go PC.”
“I’m just as surprised as you are,” Singer admitted. “But he always was unpredictable.”
“Hopefully not for long,” Conniver said.
“From your lips to God’s ear.” Bobby turned to Padalecki and asked, “Do you know why Patrick wanted to talk to you?”
Padalecki shook his head.
“He was approached by Russo to get the dirt on you.”
“What?” Padalecki said, his voice thick with disbelief. “You’re lying.”
“Easy there,” Conniver said and placed a restraining hand on Padalecki's shoulder. “Don’t give him anything he can use.”
“Russo made threats against Patrick and his father so Patrick caved in. But he couldn’t go through with it; couldn’t put you in danger. So he came to me and we tried to set up a sting.”
“That didn’t go so well, did it, Bobby?” Conniver said. “No witness, no corroborating testimony, no evidence. Face it, you have bupkis.”
“For now,” Singer said patiently. “But we never stay empty-handed for long. Patrick Connor died because he tried to protect you, Mr. Padalecki. Think about that before you do anything.”
Singer was immediately accosted by Lindberg as soon as he left Padalecki’s room.
“Sir, we just got a report from the police over at Waltham. A caretaker for a cemetery reported a break-in early this morning. He spotted fresh tire tracks on the snow, decided to take a look around and found a disturbed grave. He became worried that someone made off with the body so he started digging. He found not just one corpse but five.
“Sir, from the description I think he found Russo and his entire family.”
“Murray, get down there now. See if you can either confirm or dismiss.”
“Yes, Sir,” Murray said. “And if it is Russo?”
“Pull Manzoni in; if you can find him that is. For all we know he’s at the bottom of a hole too. Make sure our forensics team gets the first go-around with the bodies. If anyone bitches, just say the magic word. I’m sure 'the Mafia' is the last thing any locals want to get tangled with.”
“Got it, Sir,” Murray said.
“Is he familiar, Special Agent Murray?” Detective Kemper said staring the children's corpses with red-rimmed eyes.
“Yeah, he’s William Russo. That’s his wife Bella and his two children Madeline and George. Jesus, they cleaned out his kids too.”
“I’m three months from retirement,” Kemper said in a weary voice. “So I have no problem with FBI taking jurisdiction over this.”
“Thanks,” Murray said. "I hope your last weeks at work go a lot smoother than today."
Kemper paused for a moment then said, “Good luck.” He quickly exited the cold room, leaving Murray alone with the bodies.
Murray looked at the opened eyes of the children and closed them. He knew he’d get flack but he really didn’t care. He knew the kids personally and thought them genuinely sweet. How in hell Russo ended up siring two kids as innocent as Georgie and Maddie was a complete mystery to him. And now it will remain as one.
“What do we have here?”
Murray looked at the man standing in the doorway. “Wow, they hauled in the big guns, didn’t they?”
“Shut up,” Dr. Steven Williams said. He looked at the bodies and gave a low whistle. “They took out an entire family?”
“How’d you figure that?” Murray asked.
“The kids got their father’s cleft chin and their mother’s hair. Who are they?”
“The guy’s Will Russo, one of Lorino’s thugs.”
“What the hell did he do?” Dr. Williams said, eyeing the children with sadness and distaste.
“Still trying to figure that out,” Murray answered. “Give me a ring when you’re done. Doesn’t matter when: just call.”
“Will do.” Williams was already drifting away into his work as he neatly laid out his various instruments.
Murray winced when he saw them and wondered who in their right mind possessed the imagination to come up with those hideous tools.
He drove at breakneck speed back to Boston and made a quick detour to pick up lunch before returning to Mass General. He was munching on his Cuban Chicken Special in his car when the call came in.
Ben Manzoni was killed in his café on North End not fifteen minutes ago.
“Fuck!” Murray shouted and slammed the steering wheel a few times out of complete frustration. However, by the time he arrived at the hospital to report to Singer nobody would’ve guessed he had thrown a temper tantrum.
February, 2009
FBI Headquarters, Washington DC
“So, did anyone respond to our inquiry?” Kripke asked.
It had been a solid two weeks since Wallingford but the entire law enforcement community was coming up with nothing save more bodies; the latest being Manzoni and his crew. At least his family was spared unlike Russo's. Barassi and his wife and kids were still MIA; nobody was sure where they had disappeared to after they landed in Nassau International Airport in the Bahamas. Kripke along with most everybody else in the Bureau believed they were shark food.
“I pulled in every favor I know but I got nothing of value. Not from the DEA or the ATF,” Nutter answered.
“Fantastic, so all we’ve got is that the shooter’s a big black guy. That should get us far.”
“What does this look like to you?” Nutter said as he handed over printouts. “I got them from the DEA.”
“Like paper,” Kripke answered, flipping through copies of DEA memos and files, "filled with useless data."
Nutter shook his head, “The color isn’t right. I don’t think the original was printed on white paper.”
“So what?”
“What outfit do we know print regularly on colored paper? Besides Hollywood?”
Kripke paused then his eyes widened dramatically. “Jesus, the CIA.”
Nutter gave a short nod, “Damn straight. This intel probably got channeled to Langley first. In fact, I’m betting they edited the material out before sending it to us. I’m also betting the same thing’s going to happen with ATF.”
“Why the hell would they get involved in something like this?”
“Because they know something we don’t and they don’t want to share.” Nutter said as he took the bundle back from Kripke. “And whatever it is they’re willing to fuck with not just us but the DEA and the ATF to protect their interest.
“Makes you wonder what it is they’re protecting, doesn’t it?”
“How far do you think they’ll go?” Kripke asked.
“As far as they want to, which is something we can’t even hope to contemplate.” Nutter sighed. “We have to get Singer down here so we can talk in person. He’s not going to like this but it’s the fucking CIA. Those bastards will bury him if he doesn’t back off.”
“That’s not going to scare him,” Kripke said grimly. “All it’ll do is piss him off.”
“They’ll threaten more than just his job,” Nutter said. “They’ll also go after his unit in Boston, if necessary.”
“How personal could they make this?”
“Let me put it this way: Amy can never afford to get sick again. Hospitals stays could become very chancy for someone in her condition.”
“I’ll call Singer and get him down here tomorrow,” Kripke said, his voice tight with worry. He had always considered Singer his polar opposite, but, in spite of the differences Kripke liked and respected Singer. And the prospect of the field supervisor being annihilated by the CIA for doing his job was galling.
Boston, Massachusetts
Jared nervously wetted down his hair since brushing it didn’t do any good. He didn't even bother to look at his face. It was a stark study of tension and fear, having no trace of the happy man he was only a month ago.
Rosenbaum looked at him and said, “You don’t have to see him, you know.”
“Mike, please,” Jared said, gripping the sink tightly in order not to slam his agent against the wall. "It was me who requested this, not Jensen.”
“I’m just trying to spare you some pain.”
“I know, and I’m grateful for it but I need to see him. I have to see he's okay.”
Jared wasn’t lying when he said he had to. He needed to see with his own eyes that Jensen was going to survive. That he didn’t fuck it up so bad that the writer would be paying for Jared's stupidity for the rest of his life.
“All right, I’ll wait for you downstairs.” Mike's words were gracious; the hard tone was anything but.
Jared nodded. He exited the bathroom, ignored the two bodyguards assigned to him and knocked on Jensen’s door. A nurse exited and gave him a warm smile.
“You can go in,” she said.
“Thank you,” Jared whispered.
He entered the room alone. Jensen was propped on pillows. Jared was shocked to see how thin he had become. It had only been two weeks since the hellish night but Jensen looked like he’d lost at least ten pounds.
“Oh hey, good to see you,” Jensen said with a genuine smile. “People told me you were okay, but I couldn’t stop worrying, you know?”
“Yeah, I do actually.”
“Sit down, tell me what’s been happening. My friends have given me an edited version of the news.”
Jared turned to the television. “You don’t get CNN?”
“It’s broken. I can’t get anything.” Jensen's frown deepened. "I think Chris actually broke the damn thing while I was asleep so I wouldn't be overwhelmed."
Jared suddenly wanted to bolt out of the room. He'd believed Jensen was aware of the entire situation and had planned their talk around that.
“You okay there?”
Jared looked at the pale man tucked into the hospital bed. “I just … the FBI’s floundering. Did you know that?”
“No, Singer barely told me anything. Steve and Chris had to fill me in,” Jensen said. “It has something to do with the Mob, right?”
“Yeah, the FBI thinks they were trying to set up a point shaving scheme.”
“How? With you?” Jensen asked. “Are you in trouble with them?”
“No, Patrick was, though,” Jared gave a dry, dismal laugh. “They approached him and made an offer he couldn’t refuse.”
“They thought to use him to get to you?”
“No, as it turns out I was the patsy. Patrick set me up, Jensen. The only reason he was with me was because they wanted him to.”
“Fuck no,” Jensen said, sitting up straight. “Are you serious?”
“They wanted him to get enough material on me for blackmail,” Jared explained. “Patrick was scared: they threatened him and his father, which was why he said yes initially, but once the ball started rolling he couldn’t do it.
“Singer also said Patrick contacted him. Told him what had happened and volunteered to wear a wire to help the FBI set the bastards up. And that’s why he died. So I guess I can’t be angry…”
“Of course you can,” Jensen interrupted. “The guy fucked you over, Jared. You can definitely be angry. Hell, I’d be furious. But he also tried to do the right thing and that counts for something too. It’s up to you on how you would want to remember Patrick, but…”
“But?” Jared prompted eagerly when Jensen went quiet.
“But it sounds like the guy was between a rock and a hard place, as trite as that sounds. Given what he had Patrick did something amazing, and he did it for you, so that’s something. Right?”
“I don’t know if I’m angry, disappointed, afraid or confused,” Jared whispered. “I don’t know what I’m suppose to feel or what I’m suppose to do now. Mike, my agent, my teammates – they all expect me to go back to the Jared Padalecki they knew. My family’s so scared for me they’re not even willing to ask directly what the fuck happened in New Hampshire. They just want their son back. But I can’t come back, Jensen. I don’t know how.”
“I heard that so many times,” Jensen said. He looked at Jared with something greater than pity, something akin to understanding. “When I wrote my first book I interviewed a lot of soldiers from the Vietnam War. They said almost the same damn words as you just did. Some of them managed to return to who they were, some never could, some didn’t even want to try: too tired, too scared, I think. There were few though who knew they couldn’t be who they were before the war so they decided to be someone different.”
“Like a new job? New lifestyle?”
“No, they didn’t surrender who they were – just that … you know sunflowers follow the direction of the sun throughout the day, right?”
“Yeah, I read that somewhere,” Jared answered, puzzled by the sudden change in topic.
“Well, if by an act of God, the sun rises north and settles in the south, I don’t think the sunflowers would become extinct like other flowers. It’d just rotate its face until it could follow the sun on its new path. It’d still be a sunflower, with one fundamental change, is all.”
“How do I do that?”
“You have to make peace with yourself, with Patrick, and also with what happened to us. I gotta tell you, I’m scared out of my mind 24-7. For the first time my nightmares are nowhere near as terrifying as my waking hours, so I'm pretty much near my breaking point." Jensen sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. "Every time I see a black man, even an FBI agent, I have to stop myself from screaming for help. Never mind I never saw the killer – it’s just the thought that that guy is out there somewhere, probably angry as hell – well, it’s enough to make me piss in my sweats, you know?”
“Oh yeah, I know,” Jared said. “I might have good news about that. My attorney told me the man who headed the mob family that’s responsible for all this shit died last night. His name was Tomas Lorino if nobody told you.”
“He’s dead?” Jensen asked, his face bright with relief.
“Yeah, so my lawyer thinks this entire mess is going to be forgotten by the new regime. The last thing they need is something like this stinking up their happy new home.”
“But how does that help?”
“Singer is pretty damn sure the person assigned to do the killings was ordered back. Does that make sense?”
“Yeah, it does actually,” Jensen said. “If this guy’s a pro and I think he is, he’s not the type to be controlled by his emotions, so yeah, if he’s been told to leave us alone: he will. If he tries anything stupid he’ll be going off the reservation and that’s pretty much suicide in a profession like his.”
Jared smiled, his first genuine one since they were rescued. “Where did you pick up all this lingo? Off the reservation and all the other stuff you’ve been spouting off since I met you.”
Jensen’s pallor suddenly disappeared. Jared’s smile grew wider. “The truth, dude.”
Jensen sighed and closed his eyes. “When I was about fourteen I thought about being a Navy SEAL, okay? So I subscribed to Soldier of Fortune behind my parents’ back. I still flip through it whenever I’m in Borders.”
“Are you fucking serious?”
“Shut up, it was a phase.”
“Oh my God,” Jared howled with laughter. He had to grip his chair in order not to fall off of it.
“It’s not that funny, you dickwad!” Jensen shouted, his voice full of mock outrage. “I would’ve made a damn good SEAL!”
“Dude, you’re way too pretty to be a SEAL. Hell, you could’ve probably married one…” Jared wheezed out between bouts of laughter.
Jensen nailed him in the face with a pillow. “Jackass!” he growled with smiling eyes.
Jared looked at him, the former tension had melted out of the gangly frame. “You would've made a terrible soldier, Jensen. You can’t hurt people even when they’re actively trying to kill you. Hell, I figured that out an hour after I crashed into your life.”
“And you came to this stunning conclusion how?”
“You could’ve killed Contadino in the kitchen but you didn’t. You wounded him just enough for him to drag his bleeding ass back outside.” Jared tucked the pillow behind Jensen and sank back into his chair. “That makes you a decent person; it also makes you a bad soldier.”
“How can you be sure I didn’t just miss?”
“You didn’t use the rifle. If you did you could’ve taken his head off. Am I right?”
“We were in the kitchen, close quarters and maneuverability and all that.”
Jared shook his head emphatically. “No, if you meant to kill you would’ve. All your guns were well used. I can’t see how someone who can handle that many firearms could miss a target as large as a man from across the kitchen.”
Jensen’s blush deepened. “Maybe I freaked out.”
“Not saying you didn't, but at least you managed to keep your head on your shoulders, which is probably why we’re both alive today.”
“What happens now?”
Jared’s good humor disappeared. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “The FBI wants me to testify in front of a grand jury.”
Jensen frowned. “I’m confused; why bother? The man who set this up is dead. Hell, most everyone involved in this is six feet under, right?”
“They want the grand jury to indict not only Russo but all his bosses. My attorney said one of them is probably still alive and kicking. And the FBI has solid proof I wasn’t the only Celtics member they were trying to hook.”
“Holy shit,” Jensen said, “are you sure?”
“I’m not but they are. And if they’re right it means some of my fellow teammates were, or maybe still are, in the same damn boat.”
“What exactly do they want you to testify about?”
“They’re going to make a causal chain link so I need to testify about my relationship with Patrick.”
“Jesus Christ, don’t they realize what that will do to your career?”
“They don’t really give a fuck about my career,” Jared said sarcastically. “They’re too entrenched with their obsession to even consider what collateral damages could come out of this. Hell, Wallingford is already in the distant past for them.”
“Could it be a closed testimony?”
“They’re guaranteeing it will be but my attorney says that wouldn’t matter one bit. It’ll leak out to the press within forty-eight hours if not sooner.”
“Couldn’t they leave you out? Just use what they’ve got?”
“Not if they want to establish the point shaving scheme as the primary motive for the murders.”
“What will happen if you testify?”
“I’ll probably be benched for the rest of the season. Gaines is really good so the team won’t suffer much even though he’s a rookie. After the season’s over they’ll probably trade me but it won’t be for my benefit. It’ll take another season or two before my career is officially over.”
“If that happens what do you want to do?”
“I don’t know, Jensen,” Jared said desperately. “All I ever wanted to do was play ball.”
“You know, there are gay sports teams. Maybe you could join one of those?”
Jared shook his head. “It’s not the same. I don’t want to be a gay athlete in a gay team. I want to be a pro-baller in the NBA. I know that sounds ugly but it’s the truth. I don’t want my sexuality to define where I play and whom I play with. Me liking guys … that’s private, Jensen. I'm not angling for anything by tell you that, I swear.”
“No, I know what you mean,” Jensen agreed. “I wouldn’t want my writing topics to be limited in scope because of my sexual preferences. But then my homosexuality never interfered with my writing, and I was never forced to choose one over the other.”
“It’ll end my career. I have no doubt about that.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“You’re kidding, right? How many gay pro athletes do you know? Fuck, Jensen, how could you even ask such a question?”
“I know historically nobody’s come out of the closet while they were still playing, but maybe it’s time someone did,” Jensen said. “I’m not saying it’ll be an easy fight or that you’ll win, but the alternative is that you live like this indefinitely. Can you really stand that? I know I couldn’t.”
“What makes you think I can’t? And it won’t be forever. I have maybe seven years ahead of me as a pro before I retire, and that’s if I don’t get injured earlier. After that who gives a fuck?”
“You will, and the people of Wallingford who are still burying their dead. Remember my buddy Steve? The guy who rescued us? He just lost his job. His boss is a fucking prick and couldn’t stand the competition so he used the murders to remove Steve from the force.”
“What? How the hell could he blame Steve?”
“Five people died in one night while he was in charge, and though you and I know better a lot of people don’t. So there goes Steve’s career; but do you know who the real losers are? The people of Wallingford, because now they’re stuck with a shitcan for a police captain and trust me, with Steve gone I figure it’ll only be couple of years before the competent ones in the station either quit or transfer out of town.
“It won’t be long before Wallingford finds out they haven’t hit rock bottom yet. They would've been able to pull through given time with the murders, but no town can survive a corrupt police department.”
“You’re not going to rebuild your home, are you?”
Jensen shook his head. “No, I’m going back to Richardson for a while and get my head straight. Besides, my mom’s having a herd of kittens and I have to see her just to calm her down. How about yours?”
“My mom and dad are camped in my house,” Jared said. “They’re planning to go back home this weekend. Then my brother’s coming for a week; after that my sister, Megan, is dropping by. You get the picture.”
“I most certainly do, which is why I’m going home. That way I get to at least eat home cooked meals while my family has a nervous breakdown around me.”
“You really think I should testify?” Jared asked bluntly.
Jensen didn’t look at all taken back by his defensive tone. “Yes, I do. Legally, your attorney’s probably earning his keep, but I’m not thinking about that. I’m thinking about what your actions or lack of will do to not only to Wallingford but for all the other poor bastards who got hung out to dry by the likes of Russo and his buddies.”
“I’ll get crucified, Jensen,” Jared said hoarsely.
“By whom, Jared? The media? The bigots? The leeches whose only job is to suck the life out of you while kissing your ass? Because if that’s the case then maybe it’s time you stepped back and decide what matters more: your love of the game or your self-respect, hell your self-preservation for that matter.”
Jared didn’t answer and Jensen didn’t expect him to either. The two sat in thoughtful and companionable silence as noises from the hallway drifted into the room.
Singer heard timid knocking and looked up to see his new administrative assistant, Diane Levy, standing at the doorway. She was definitely talented with computers and knew how to multi-task better than anyone on the team, but he still missed his old admin, Maggie. She’d been with him since the Reagan Administration and Singer honestly thought he’d retire before Maggie did.
“Sir, I have a package for you,” Diane said. “It was suppose to have been delivered last week but it got lost between the mailroom and security.”
Singer rolled his eyes. “Don’t worry about it. I remember a next-day FedEx delivery that took three weeks to get to this floor.”
Diane smiled. “Well, this isn’t that bad.”
Singer took the package and nearly dropped it. It was postmarked the day the Wallingford Massacre happened. It also originated from the same town.
“Thank you,” he said absently and waited until he had complete privacy before he opened the package. A folded piece of paper fell out along a small tape recorder.
Singer closed the blinds to his office before listening. Connor was right; it was everything Singer could hope for. Too bad the tape was useless since the evidentiary chain was destroyed by Connor’s death. Singer called the agents assigned to protect Padalecki in order to locate the athlete. It was no surprise to find the basketball player was with Ackles. Singer was well aware Padalecki had made frequent requests to visit the writer and spent time with the man even when he was floating in and out of consciousness or in dead sleep due to heavy medication.
Singer grabbed Murray and Lindberg on his way to Mass General. He understood why Padalecki was reluctant to testify. The career the young man worked so hard for would be laid to ruins if he revealed his relationship with Connor. Lehne promised a closed testimony but even Singer knew that was no guarantee. Sooner or later someone will talk: the only question was to whom and for what price.
How do I ask him to give up everything he fought for? Especially when there's little to gain from it? Russo's dead, Manzoni's dead, Barassi's probably with them and Lorino's gone to hell, finally. So what is it that I want from this kid?
Singer wasn't so sure the answer to his question until he saw Ackles with Padalecki. The truth, he realized. I want the goddamn truth.
Padalecki's smile disappeared when he saw the FBI agents. "This is a private meeting," he snapped. "And I'm still not talking to you."
Singer wordlessly handed over Connor's letter. Padalecki took it with great reluctance and read it with Jensen looking over his shoulder.
"Jesus Christ," Jensen whispered. "How long have you had this?"
"I got it today," Singer answered.
"Did you listen to the recording?" Padalecki asked.
"Yes, I did, and no, you don't want to hear it, Mr. Padalecki, trust me." Singer glanced at Murray. "Russo wasn't just a thug; he did what he did because he loved to inflict pain. Getting paid to hurt people was just a bonus for him."
"I don't understand, if you knew how dangerous Russo was why wasn't there more protection for Patrick?" Padalecki said, his entire frame rattling with barely-controlled rage. "How could you let him go around without somebody looking out for him?"
"And how would we do that?" Murray asked. "Wallingford's pretty small town. Russo would've known the game was up the moment we dropped one of our own in there. He didn't get to living as long as he did by being stupid. The man was a cagey bastard, we all knew it and we couldn't risk exposing Connor."
"So doing nothing was your plan?" Padalecki shot back. "And by helping you he was exposed already, because somebody in your team obviously told Lorino about Patrick. Tell me, does the FBI have a lead yet on who leaked this mess to the Mob? 'Cause it sure as hell wasn't Patrick."
"It's an on-going investigation," Lindberg explained in a gentle tone. "As you can imagine something like this isn't taken lightly by the FBI. We'll find out the leak and trust me there will be hell to pay."
"Sorry, but trusting you guys seem like the fastest way to die." Padalecki looked at Ackles and shook his head. "I got too much to lose, and I'm not just talking about my career here."
Ackles visibly deflated but not before throwing a look of anger towards Singer and his men. It was then Singer realized the writer was probably talking Padalecki into cooperating before he barged in and blew it all to hell.
"I'm not sure how you got in but I'd appreciate it if you left," Ackles said. "Don't make me call hospital security because even with your fancy badges, they have the right to toss you out of here."
"I am sorry about all of this," Singer said. "Like you said it's a fucking mess but looking the other way won't make this go away, Mr. Padalecki. Honestly, it won't." Singer looked down at his shoes, suddenly aging by decades. "I wish I could tell you otherwise but I can't. I never could."
The three FBI agents left the room. Lindberg turned to Singer, "What now, Sir?"
"Go back to square one, I guess," Singer replied. "Why don't you guys get some rest? You have to be running on fumes by now."
Murray shrugged. "I got nothing better to do. Lindberg has the worst taste in movies I've ever seen."
Singer somehow managed a smile. "You're still looking for a new place to live?"
Murray nodded. "I don't think it's safe for me to return to my old apartment, not with Alex Lorino taking his father's throne."
"But you never met him, right?" Singer asked.
"No, but that doesn't mean the boy doesn't know how to hold a grudge. He's going to take what I did personally."
"Still, go get some rest," Singer said. "I'll need you sharp tomorrow."
"Will do, Sir," Lindberg answered for both of them.
Staten Island, New York
"So, this is the son of a bitch who betrayed my family?" Alex Lorino asked his most trusted advisor, Michael Ferrero, while flipping through the black and white pictures of Chad M. Murray.
"Yes, it is," Ferrero answered. He had spent most of his adult life serving Alex's father, but when he heard Alex wanted him to continue in the same capacity Ferrero seriously considered retiring. Unfortunately, he wasn't given a choice as Alex made it plain that his refusal would be considered a betrayal of the worst kind, and his reprisal would reflect that belief.
"Nobody fucks with us and gets away with it, not even the F-B-I," Alex said. "We've got to fix this problem and fix it quick."
"Alex, he's an agent with the FBI. We could set him up for a hard fall but that will take time."
"No, I don't want him to go down for racketeering or drugs; I want him dead, Mikey. Dead as my father, God bless him."
Ferrero gave a slight nod. "I'll look into it."
"Do that," Alex said. "Anything else?"
"No, this is it for today."
"Okay then, I have to make a few phone calls so fuck off."
Ferrero gave another polite nod of understanding and left. It wasn't until he was back in his own house that he felt safe enough to make a call to his oldest ally.
"It's me," Ferrero said, "and before you ask - no, his obsession with the FBI agent hasn't abated. If anything it's worsened."
"What's the worst case scenario if the agent dies?" Daniel Giordani asked.
"You already know the answer. The fool already has the entire NYC Police Department gunning after him. We can't afford to piss off the FBI the same way. I guarantee that if this agent dies, we won't last a year, not with what's been happening in Jersey.
"The vultures are already circling, aren't they?"
"Yeah, they can smell fresh meat from miles away and it's no secret Alex is nothing like his father."
"We need to get a handle on this fast, Danny. Otherwise, we can all kiss our asses goodbye."
"Let me make a few calls; see what's up. I'll get back to you soon, okay?"
"You have a backup plan for handling this?"
"I have backup plans for Armageddon, you dumb fuck. Why else would Tomas have kept me around?"
"Call me soon, Danny."
"I will, Mike, I will."
March, 2009
New York City, New York
Alex Lorino stepped out into the cold night air, glad to leave behind the partying denizens of the most popular nightclub in town. He looked at the New York City skyline and smiled. All this was his for the picking: no more old world laws, no more playing nice with the fucking cops. He would usher the Lorino Family into the twenty-first century, not with lawyers and dummy corporations but with blood and violence. And after he was done it'll be like the 80's again, before cancer struck down his father and sawed off the old man's balls.
Alex Lorino was dead before he hit the bottom step. The long crowd lined up in front of Dusk heard and saw nothing, not even Lorino's bodyguards who were trained to spot anything remotely suspicious within a city block. They swarmed over their charge and watched helplessly as the club-goers screamed and either called 911 or took pictures with their cell phones in hopes of selling the pictures to the Post before the hour was over.
Manners looked down at the chaos from his rifle scope. He left the sniper rifle on the rooftop but took the scope with him as it was specifically tailored to his needs. The weapon on the other hand was disposable, and he knew it was better to leave it than risk being spotted with something bulky right after a shooting. He also knew NYC was wired to the hilt with cameras everywhere. The last thing he needed was a grainy photo of him carrying a suspiciously shaped duffle bag.
He walked down a block and hit 23rd where he was able to successfully flag a taxi in spite of it being Saturday night.
"Where to?" the cabbie asked.
"Port Authority," Manners answered.
"Going on a vacation?"
"Kinda; visiting my sister and her family," Manners lied smoothly. "My niece's sweet sixteen is tomorrow. They live in Poughkeepsie."
"Man, you must love them very much because to travel to the Great White North in winter? Better you than me, pal."
"It's not that bad," Manners said. "Besides, it's sweet sixteen, you know?"
"I do," the cabbie replied.
The rest of the ride was silent, much to Manner's gratitude.
Jared studiously avoided making eye contact with his teammates as they streamed into the locker room. Even Tom couldn't get much out of him as Jared refused to speak with him, but then Tom couldn't get him to talk more than handful of times since Jared had been given a clean bill of health and allowed back on the team.
Jared locked himself in one of the toilets to make sure he was the last one to get in the shower. He didn't have to wait long as all his teammates had busy social schedules. It took him less than five minutes to wash himself but by the time Jared was toweling off the locker room had emptied out completely.
Jared couldn't step out of the stall.
I have to fucking get out, he yelled at himself. I have to get dressed and...
A sound slithered into the shower room. It was so slight Jared would have dismissed it before Wallingford. But not after. No, never after.
Jared focused harder and heard the noise again. Suddenly Jared remembered where he'd heard it before - in Jensen's house when the assassins made their way to the kitchen.
That can't be right, Jared thought desperately. The FBI wouldn't have pulled off surveillance, not without telling me first.
Would they though? He had refused all attempts to talk and Conniver had successfully tied up Singer in the courts. Jared knew he hadn't been subpoenaed because Singer didn't want him as a hostile witness, but he hadn't been cooperating at all, so why would the FBI bother?
They gave up, Jared thought desperately. Oh Jesus, I'm not protected anymore.
Jared clenched at the towel wrapped around him as his vision greyed out from terror. He didn't feel urine trickle down his right leg as he slumped against the wall. The noise approached closer and Jared was suddenly able to focus again.
A large rat ran across the floor, ignoring the human altogether.
Jared took another shower before calling Singer. "It's Padalecki. I'll testify."
April, 2009
Boston, Massachusetts
Frederic Lehne looked at the basketball player with genuine awe. He knew the guy would be tall, but he had no idea how large the basketball player was.
"You look fine," Lehne said. "All you have to do is answer my questions. Remember, there won't be any cross-examinations like you see on television."
Padalecki nodded, tight-lipped. His face was alarmingly pale but there were bright, almost circular rosy spots on his cheeks. Lehne wondered if Padalecki was coming down with a fever. His attention shifted when a light over a door lit up.
Lehne turned to Padalecki and said, "Just tell the jury what you told me. They've been at this for two weeks now so they know not to expect Dennis Lehane. Remember that."
"Okay," Padalecki hissed out. "Let's do this before I chicken out."
Lehne guided the athlete through the heavy wooden doors. Like he thought once Padalecki saw the room was filled with human beings and not cannibalistic monsters, he calmed down considerably. And, Padalecki relaxed even further as he gave testimony. It didn't take long but the jury listened to the athlete with rapt attention, some quietly gasping when he testified about what had happened to him and Jensen Ackles. Lehne saved the love affair for last, as he needed to win over the jury's sympathy before slamming them over their heads with that bit of shocking information.
Again, Padalecki was honest about the details of the affair, which was what Lehne had hoped. He waited until the jury digested Padalecki's confession of being involved with Patrick Connor before continuing. Lehne watched color slowly return to Padalecki's face and inwardly smiled. The hardest part was over for both of them.
"Mr. Padalecki, could you tell us why you're here, today?" he asked.
Padalecki looked genuinely taken back by the question. "Because the FBI ordered me to?"
There were few smiles among the grim visages. "I'm asking what convinced you to testify. I'm well aware of your initial reluctance to do so, even with the FBI's urgings."
Padalecki gave a hard look at him before glancing at the Grand Jury. He took a deep breath and said, "I was afraid, at first because I had so much to lose; my reputation in the NBA, my job, probably my home. I knew my family would stand by my side, but I was so obsessed with all that I forgot."
"Forgot?"
"I forgot someone else already lost his home and his work because of me."
"Who are you talking about, Mr. Padalecki?"
"Jensen Ackles, the writer whose life I sent into hell."
Padalecki looked at his hands and continued in a hoarse voice. "Jensen set fire to his house to save our lives. Somehow he knew what those killers were planning to do, and he kept us one step ahead of them until the very end. I left him alone because we thought we could get them as they come out of the house. I didn't know both men came through the front door. By the time I saw what happened it was almost too late. He was shot in the chest and left to die."
"So you're doing this for him and for Mr. Patrick Connor?"
"No," Jared shook his head. "I'm doing this for me. I can't live like this anymore. It feels like I got something living inside of me, chewing its way out. I can't sleep, all my food tastes like poached chicken. Hell, I stopped caring about what I'm eating since this nightmare started. My game hasn't gone down yet but it'll happen pretty damn soon. I can feel it.
"Everyone's treating me like a ticking bomb and they're right - I'm about three minutes away from exploding and leaving behind nothing but a huge mess and tons of regrets. I was basically driving myself crazy until I realized something."
"And what's that, Mr. Padalecki?"
"This? This testifying in front of the grand jury isn't half as scary as what happened that night. I wasn't afraid to lose my house, my job, my reputation as a member of the NBA. That night I thought I was going to die, Mr. Lehne. I was shot and bleeding to death when I stumbled over Jensen's house.
"I couldn't have been outside for more than thirty, forty minutes top but it felt like hours. That was and is the most terrifying moment in my life. This - this is the truth and my parents taught me never to be afraid of the truth."
"Thank you, Mr. Padalecki, for your honesty and your courage. You may step down."
Singer studied the wealthy patrons loitering about Grill 23's bar. And yet, their wealth would be considered negligible when compared to some currently occupying the best tables, breaking and building empires like children do with Lincoln Logs. He looked at Lehne sitting across from him and once more wondered exactly how powerful a man he really was to have gotten one of the best tables in a restaurant that reserved the most desirable ones for the most powerful in Boston.
"I still don't know what you're going to do with the indictments, but that was something else," Singer said.
"Thank you," Lehne said, pouring red wine into their glasses.
The conversation traveled over safer topics as waiters served dinner. Lehne looked at his steak dinner with great relish.
"Give the Chef my compliments," he said. "This looks amazing."
The waiter smiled prettily and walked away, her hips swinging enticingly. But her efforts were in vain as Lehne's attention was completely focused on his dinner.
"I always wanted to ask: why do you have such a hard-on for the Mob?" Singer asked. "They consider you as a genuine threat because you've been going after them for so long. How many attempts on your life so far?"
Lehne shrugged and continued to cut up his steak. "Four genuine attempts and handful of half-assed ones."
"You still haven't answered my question."
Lehne's attention shifted from his plate to Singer then back again. "I dated an Italian girl when I was in college."
"Italian-Italian or Italian-American?"
"Born in Italy, came to the U.S. when she was five," Lehne answered. "She was a beaut, total knockout. I couldn't believe she said yes when I asked her out."
Singer smiled and said, "Go on."
"She hated the Mafia. Hated them with passion. Said they were the bane of every Italian American because of their notoriety. That no matter how many Italian Americans achieve great success, everyone's going to think 'Mafia' first when an Italian name is mentioned in the news.
"And she's right."
"So you're continuing her crusade?"
"Something like that," Lehne answered after taking a long sip of wine. "The truth is I hate bullies, Bobby. I hate them with a passion. Combine that with what Michela taught me, and I've got a lifetime's worth of grudges to dole out."
Lehne's explanation was just honest enough for Singer to believe half of it. "What happened to her? It sounds like you were serious."
Lehne's face flushed and it wasn't because of the wine. "I got drunk one evening and cheated on her. Michela found out and nearly cut my dick off with her sewing scissors."
"I see," Singer said. "Well, I'm sure your wife would rather sue you before trying that."
Lehne shook his head. "Nope, I'm sure she'll probably pull that stunt also. I like my women fiery. It's an dangerous preference."
Bobby raised his glass for a toast. "Here's to passionate women with solid morals."
"Amen to that."
"What's up, Mike?" Jared asked as his agent sat down.
Mike shook his head and said, "Doc Rivers is benching you."
"Why?" Jared asked, not too surprised by the news.
"The official reason is because they're worried about your health."
"I was given..."
"Your mental health," Mike interrupted.
"What?"
"They're saying you're not up to the strain. Not with the playoffs less than three months away, so they're bringing in Gaines."
"So they're saying I'm crazy because I said I like fucking men, or because I like fucking men I'm crazy?"
"Jesus, Jared, what do you want me to do? I tried, okay? But this excuse of theirs is bulletproof. You did go through hell in January, and you have to admit your behavior hasn't been the best since you got back on the team."
"What did Tom say?"
"Haven't had the chance to speak to him. Honestly? He can't do much, and do you really want to drag him into this?"
Jared closed his eyes. "No, of course not. The team needs him more than me."
"And there's something else," Mike added. "I could shoot the sons of bitches for this, but Ralph Lauren's not going to use your photos for the spring layout."
"I don't understand - how are they going to manage that?"
"CGI you out or something. They're bringing in a replacement from the Lakers is what I heard. You're keeping your salary, of course, but they're dropping out the option of using you for any future shoots. On the brighter side, The Advocate wants to do a piece on you."
"I never cared about modeling," Jared said. "And I don't want to be the next poster boy for The Advocate either. I just want to play basketball, Mike. That's all I ever wanted. I'll go crazy without it."
"Let me see what I can do," Mike said. "I don't like this any more than you, and the way they're dicking us around - it's about time we fucked them back."
"Am I allowed on the bench at least?"
"Yeah, but I don't know if that's going to stay when the playoffs roll around."
"Jesus Christ," Jared whispered.
"By the way, I found out who leaked your testimony to the Herald. Do you want to know?"
Jared shook his head. "It doesn't matter and I don't care. Not anymore."
"You really don't regret doing it, do you?"
Jared looked at Mike. "No, not for a second. It needed to be done. Maybe the one thing I needed to do more than playing ball."
"Okay then," Mike said, pulling out not one but two cell phones from his jacket pocket. "I don't earn my outrageous fees because I have a nice smile. Let me rattle some trees and see what falls out."
Jared managed a wan smile as he waved goodbye. The dogs swarmed him as soon as he sat down so it took him a while to find his cell phone. He scrolled down his now much-abbreviated contact list until he found Jensen. He stared at the name until his eyes blurred but Jared didn't call. He chucked the cell back into his gym bag and buried his face in Sadie's fur.
Jared had to face this alone. He couldn't drag Jensen into his hellhole, not again. Not when it nearly cost the other man his life the first time around. Jared thought about calling his parents but he quickly nixed the idea. The last conversation he had with his parents ended in frustration for both of them. His mother was nearly in tears because she knew instinctively she couldn't give what her son needed though Jared protested otherwise, and Jared was also close to bawling because she was right. There was no one he could speak to about what he had gone through, and he was afraid to see a shrink because he knew if a single word leaked out, he would have less than zero chance of regaining his status with the Celtics.
The abandonment and fear he felt in the New Hampshire woods swamped him again. Without looking he grappled for his cell.
"Hello?" Jensen's calm greeting reached out to him.
Justin Hartley watched Gaines pack his bag and leave the locker room. He followed the young man into the parking lot and watched as the point guard drove away in a brand new Mercedes SL65. So intense was his concentration that he didn't hear Tom walk up behind him.
"What's the rush?" Tom asked.
Justin startled before turning to face him. "I was wondering."
"About what?" Tom asked, worried.
"Probably nothing," Justin quickly answered. "Did you get a hold of Jared yet?"
"No, the asshole's letting his answering machine do the talking."
"Are you sure we shouldn't drop by?" Justin asked. "We hadn't seen or heard from him for over a week now."
"If I don't hear from him by Friday we'll swing by his house."
"Sounds good," Justin said. He looked at the empty spot where Gaines' Mercedes was parked. "Tom, do you remember the name of the FBI agent who swung by when the shit hit the fan?"
"Yeah, Bobby Singer. Why do you ask?"
"I got a bad feeling," Justin said. "And I want to talk to you about it."
"Let's go to my place," Tom said. "You're scaring me, dude."
"If what I'm thinking is right, there's going to be a lot of scared people."
Part VI * Epilogue
Pairing: JA/JP
Rating: R for language and violence
Word Count: ~10,500
Disclaimer: Slavery's still outlawed so no, I don't own them.
WARNINGS: Second RPF, also AU, so if this is anywhere near the truth, I'm friends with Ambassador Kosh.
Summary: Jared Padalecki has finally realized the American Dream. Fame, fortune, and adoration are at his fingertips: all he has to do is deny who he is. It isn't long before his deception catch up to him, and in one night he, his friends, and complete strangers will pay a bloody price for his choices, and not everyone will survive.
Main Post
The Day After
Boston, Massachusetts
Ben Manzoni drank his third espresso and it wasn’t even ten in the morning. He reread the papers but nothing had miraculously changed between the second and third cup. Contadino was dead, the nigger was MIA, and the FBI, led by Singer, was on the warpath. He knew his association with Contadino was already well known by the Bureau so he fully expected a visit from the Feds before noon. He had called his attorney earlier, ordering the man to clear his calendar for the next two weeks because his services would be required for the foreseeable future. His attorney took the command with an agreeable 'yes', 'of course' and rattled off few things he would need from Manzoni should the FBI drop by for a chat.
The headache that blossomed earlier was steadily growing, forcing him to consider retreating back to his house.
Manzoni noticed his driver's slight pallor when the man entered the kitchen. "What?"
“Sir, I just got a call. They found Russo,” Jason said.
“How?” Manzoni’s voice was barely audible. “How the fuck did that happen?”
“The old caretaker retired and the new one makes a habit of checking out the cemetery, even when he’s not scheduled to. He saw tire tracks, followed them and found the grave.”
Manzoni took the TV remote and started channel surfing. It was Channel 7 that had the story.
“…As you can see over my left shoulder there is more than one coroner’s van parked inside Mather's Rest. From what we’ve gathered so far the police have dug up at least two bodies, one of them a child. However, that might change as confidential sources tell us they have not finished digging.
“Reporting live from Waltham, this is Terry Martins for Channel Seven News.”
The Feds were going to be knocking on his door way before noon, and they won't go away empty-handed. Manzoni barked, “Let’s get out of here.”
They made it to the supply entrance when the bomb went off. Because the blast was concentrated in the back and the café’s picture windows were bulletproof the explosion only cracked them. However, the front door was made from salvaged wood so it exploded out into the street, tearing into the pedestrians who braved the cold weather for some genuine Italian food. Luckily, none of them were seriously injured despite various cuts and bruises. Manzoni and his men weren't so lucky: none of them survived. It would take the bomb crew and the crime unit two days to piece together what had happened inside Lucetta’s pastries. It took them another three to find all the body parts strewn about the place.
Mass General Hospital
Boston Massachusetts
Singer stormed through the hospital's lobby with Lindberg barely keeping pace. His thunderous face discouraged any FBI personnel from approaching him. In fact, they swerved or looked away in order not to draw the supervisor's ire.
“What the fuck happened?” Singer barked at Murray who was chatting with the two police guards stationed right outside Padalecki's room. “Why hasn’t Padalecki been interviewed already?”
“Some nurse gave him medication last night before his transfer and he passed out. And when he woke up the first thing he did was lawyer up,” Murray said, exhaustion lining his face and voice.
“What?” Lindberg asked, incredulous.
“His agent, Mike Rosenbaum, came this morning with Harold Conniver,” Murray answered. “That ended any chance of us getting a word out of Padalecki.”
“Conniver? Who’s he?” Lindberg asked, unfamiliar with the attorney's name.
Singer closed his eyes then took off his glasses, wincing as if he was suddenly sidelined with a headache. “Harold Conniver was an A.D.A. four years ago. Michaels, who was the D.A. at the time, was grooming him to take over when he retired, but there was a changing of the guards at Beacon Hill, and Harry got shafted. They brought in an outsider and totally ignored his record, which was pretty damn stellar. Harry quit, joined up with one of the best legal defense firms in town and pretty much have been giving the D.A.’s office the middle finger since then.”
“How does a sports agent get his hand on such a guy?” Lindberg asked.
“The usual way, I presume: the good old boys network,” Singer answered. He threw a glance at the closed door and snarled, “Son of a bitch!”
“Do you want to take a crack? I’ve made no headway since Padalecki woke up," Murray said.
Singer tossed his coffee cup and said, “Don’t come in unless I say so. And make sure we’re not disturbed.”
“Yes, Sir,” the two agents replied while the police officers gave sharp nods.
Singer knocked on the door before entering. Conniver looked up from his laptop and flashed a warm smile. “Bobby, how are you?”
“Good, could be better, but isn’t that always the case?”
“Just about,” Conniver answered. He turned to Padalecki and a bald man wearing a suit that probably cost more than Singer's entire wardrobe. “This is Field Supervisor Bobby Singer. He’s a legend in the FBI and the Boston Police Department for going after organized crime. A lot of people are curious as to why he’s still in Boston and not knocking them dead in DC.”
“Boston has Brigham.”
Conniver looked at him with genuine contrition. “I’m sorry, I forgot. Is Amy doing all right?”
“She’s doing fine. Her cancer’s been in remission for nearly two years now.”
“That’s good to hear,” Conniver said. “I can still remember her Thanksgiving dinners.”
“She still asks for you,” Bobby said. “She understands why you don’t swing by anymore, but she misses your Yankee wit something fierce. Too many New Yorkers around her dinner table now.”
“They’re importing them, aren’t they?”
“Yep,” Singer said. “Joining the FBI isn’t as glamorous as it used to be for the locals. No more funneling from Boston College for us.”
“Probably for the best,” Conniver said.
“Probably,” Singer said. “Harry, you know why I’m here.”
“I can guess,” Conniver said, taking a glance at his client who looked fascinated by the friendly exchange between them. “Can’t let you do it though. Not if I want my client to keep on breathing.”
“It’s a little late for that, don’t you think?” Bobby said. “We still haven’t located the second and probably the primary shooter. By the way, do you know who was killed up there?”
Padalecki shook his head. “No, but you’re right about him not being the man who killed Patrick.”
“Thought so,” Singer said. “The dead man is Jack Contadino. Low level thug working for or shall I say worked for Ben Manzoni.”
“That son of a bitch?” Conniver said.
“You mean client, don’t you?” Singer said dryly.
“No, I don’t go near organized crime cases. They give me hives.”
“Well, Manzoni’s moved up in the world since your days at Government Center. He reported directly to Barassi who answers to Tomas Lorino. You remember Tommy Boy, don’t you?”
“The bastard’s still alive?” Conniver asked. “He has to be in his nineties by now.”
“Ninety-two and won’t last another year, or at least I’m hoping.”
“Still can’t see why Mr. Padalecki should in any way cooperate with the FBI,” Conniver said.
“Because Lorino hates loose ends, and your client’s one of them. There is also the fact that the shooter still has to finish his job.”
“He’s after Mr. Padalecki because he’s a witness: he was never the primary target,” Conniver reasoned. “You agree with that assessment?”
“I do, but that still doesn’t change the fact that Padalecki saw him and can identify him,” Bobby said with a wry smile. “Doesn’t matter if he’s willing to cooperate with us or not; the bastard won’t take any chances. Last night pretty much proves that.”
“So, what do you want?” Conniver asked. “Let’s face it, Witness Protection Program is impossible for someone like Mr. Padalecki and, according to you, he’s a walking target whether he cooperates with you or not.”
“Because if he works with us we can pull in Lorino. All it takes is one trip and the man’s heart will give. Lorino dies, his son comes to power, and that son of a bitch is nothing like his dad. He’ll fuck up in no time and we’ll be able to put him away for a hundred years. The entire syndicate will collapse and Padalecki will be forgotten in the chaos.”
“What about the killer?” Padalecki asked.
“We’re doing our best. Could you at least help us at least identify the man?”
Padalecki looked at Conniver who gave a single nod. “Okay, I can do that,” he said. “What about Jensen?”
“Mr. Ackles is sedated for now, and we have guards with him at all times,” Singer said. “We're planning to move him to a safer location as soon as his doctors give the go-ahead. His popularity will probably help him. The last thing the Mafia needs is to attract attention by killing someone who is so well-known in the literary circle.”
“Why is that?” Padalecki asked.
“It’s strange; in some ways the pen is mightier than the sword for the Mafia. They’ve always enjoyed a kind of a semi-glamorous limelight due to the many true-crime novels about them. Should anything happen to Mr. Ackles, I suspect the backlash from the literary circles will be severe, as he is their current champion.
“It’s not a guarantee but I think they know better than to stir up that hornet’s nest. Besides, he hasn’t seen anything of significance, right?”
Padalecki quickly shook his head. “No, when we got out it was only Contadino who went after him.”
“Contadino isn’t so valuable a soldier that they would risk a war, but the one who got away – that one’s a different bird altogether.”
“My client tells me he’s black,” Conniver said. “There can’t be that many African-American hitmen.”
“Most we know of are in the drug business, which makes perfect sense if you’re considering Lorino,” Singer said.
“I have to admit I was surprised to hear that,” Conniver said. “Lorino isn’t the type to go PC.”
“I’m just as surprised as you are,” Singer admitted. “But he always was unpredictable.”
“Hopefully not for long,” Conniver said.
“From your lips to God’s ear.” Bobby turned to Padalecki and asked, “Do you know why Patrick wanted to talk to you?”
Padalecki shook his head.
“He was approached by Russo to get the dirt on you.”
“What?” Padalecki said, his voice thick with disbelief. “You’re lying.”
“Easy there,” Conniver said and placed a restraining hand on Padalecki's shoulder. “Don’t give him anything he can use.”
“Russo made threats against Patrick and his father so Patrick caved in. But he couldn’t go through with it; couldn’t put you in danger. So he came to me and we tried to set up a sting.”
“That didn’t go so well, did it, Bobby?” Conniver said. “No witness, no corroborating testimony, no evidence. Face it, you have bupkis.”
“For now,” Singer said patiently. “But we never stay empty-handed for long. Patrick Connor died because he tried to protect you, Mr. Padalecki. Think about that before you do anything.”
Singer was immediately accosted by Lindberg as soon as he left Padalecki’s room.
“Sir, we just got a report from the police over at Waltham. A caretaker for a cemetery reported a break-in early this morning. He spotted fresh tire tracks on the snow, decided to take a look around and found a disturbed grave. He became worried that someone made off with the body so he started digging. He found not just one corpse but five.
“Sir, from the description I think he found Russo and his entire family.”
“Murray, get down there now. See if you can either confirm or dismiss.”
“Yes, Sir,” Murray said. “And if it is Russo?”
“Pull Manzoni in; if you can find him that is. For all we know he’s at the bottom of a hole too. Make sure our forensics team gets the first go-around with the bodies. If anyone bitches, just say the magic word. I’m sure 'the Mafia' is the last thing any locals want to get tangled with.”
“Got it, Sir,” Murray said.
“Is he familiar, Special Agent Murray?” Detective Kemper said staring the children's corpses with red-rimmed eyes.
“Yeah, he’s William Russo. That’s his wife Bella and his two children Madeline and George. Jesus, they cleaned out his kids too.”
“I’m three months from retirement,” Kemper said in a weary voice. “So I have no problem with FBI taking jurisdiction over this.”
“Thanks,” Murray said. "I hope your last weeks at work go a lot smoother than today."
Kemper paused for a moment then said, “Good luck.” He quickly exited the cold room, leaving Murray alone with the bodies.
Murray looked at the opened eyes of the children and closed them. He knew he’d get flack but he really didn’t care. He knew the kids personally and thought them genuinely sweet. How in hell Russo ended up siring two kids as innocent as Georgie and Maddie was a complete mystery to him. And now it will remain as one.
“What do we have here?”
Murray looked at the man standing in the doorway. “Wow, they hauled in the big guns, didn’t they?”
“Shut up,” Dr. Steven Williams said. He looked at the bodies and gave a low whistle. “They took out an entire family?”
“How’d you figure that?” Murray asked.
“The kids got their father’s cleft chin and their mother’s hair. Who are they?”
“The guy’s Will Russo, one of Lorino’s thugs.”
“What the hell did he do?” Dr. Williams said, eyeing the children with sadness and distaste.
“Still trying to figure that out,” Murray answered. “Give me a ring when you’re done. Doesn’t matter when: just call.”
“Will do.” Williams was already drifting away into his work as he neatly laid out his various instruments.
Murray winced when he saw them and wondered who in their right mind possessed the imagination to come up with those hideous tools.
He drove at breakneck speed back to Boston and made a quick detour to pick up lunch before returning to Mass General. He was munching on his Cuban Chicken Special in his car when the call came in.
Ben Manzoni was killed in his café on North End not fifteen minutes ago.
“Fuck!” Murray shouted and slammed the steering wheel a few times out of complete frustration. However, by the time he arrived at the hospital to report to Singer nobody would’ve guessed he had thrown a temper tantrum.
February, 2009
FBI Headquarters, Washington DC
“So, did anyone respond to our inquiry?” Kripke asked.
It had been a solid two weeks since Wallingford but the entire law enforcement community was coming up with nothing save more bodies; the latest being Manzoni and his crew. At least his family was spared unlike Russo's. Barassi and his wife and kids were still MIA; nobody was sure where they had disappeared to after they landed in Nassau International Airport in the Bahamas. Kripke along with most everybody else in the Bureau believed they were shark food.
“I pulled in every favor I know but I got nothing of value. Not from the DEA or the ATF,” Nutter answered.
“Fantastic, so all we’ve got is that the shooter’s a big black guy. That should get us far.”
“What does this look like to you?” Nutter said as he handed over printouts. “I got them from the DEA.”
“Like paper,” Kripke answered, flipping through copies of DEA memos and files, "filled with useless data."
Nutter shook his head, “The color isn’t right. I don’t think the original was printed on white paper.”
“So what?”
“What outfit do we know print regularly on colored paper? Besides Hollywood?”
Kripke paused then his eyes widened dramatically. “Jesus, the CIA.”
Nutter gave a short nod, “Damn straight. This intel probably got channeled to Langley first. In fact, I’m betting they edited the material out before sending it to us. I’m also betting the same thing’s going to happen with ATF.”
“Why the hell would they get involved in something like this?”
“Because they know something we don’t and they don’t want to share.” Nutter said as he took the bundle back from Kripke. “And whatever it is they’re willing to fuck with not just us but the DEA and the ATF to protect their interest.
“Makes you wonder what it is they’re protecting, doesn’t it?”
“How far do you think they’ll go?” Kripke asked.
“As far as they want to, which is something we can’t even hope to contemplate.” Nutter sighed. “We have to get Singer down here so we can talk in person. He’s not going to like this but it’s the fucking CIA. Those bastards will bury him if he doesn’t back off.”
“That’s not going to scare him,” Kripke said grimly. “All it’ll do is piss him off.”
“They’ll threaten more than just his job,” Nutter said. “They’ll also go after his unit in Boston, if necessary.”
“How personal could they make this?”
“Let me put it this way: Amy can never afford to get sick again. Hospitals stays could become very chancy for someone in her condition.”
“I’ll call Singer and get him down here tomorrow,” Kripke said, his voice tight with worry. He had always considered Singer his polar opposite, but, in spite of the differences Kripke liked and respected Singer. And the prospect of the field supervisor being annihilated by the CIA for doing his job was galling.
Boston, Massachusetts
Jared nervously wetted down his hair since brushing it didn’t do any good. He didn't even bother to look at his face. It was a stark study of tension and fear, having no trace of the happy man he was only a month ago.
Rosenbaum looked at him and said, “You don’t have to see him, you know.”
“Mike, please,” Jared said, gripping the sink tightly in order not to slam his agent against the wall. "It was me who requested this, not Jensen.”
“I’m just trying to spare you some pain.”
“I know, and I’m grateful for it but I need to see him. I have to see he's okay.”
Jared wasn’t lying when he said he had to. He needed to see with his own eyes that Jensen was going to survive. That he didn’t fuck it up so bad that the writer would be paying for Jared's stupidity for the rest of his life.
“All right, I’ll wait for you downstairs.” Mike's words were gracious; the hard tone was anything but.
Jared nodded. He exited the bathroom, ignored the two bodyguards assigned to him and knocked on Jensen’s door. A nurse exited and gave him a warm smile.
“You can go in,” she said.
“Thank you,” Jared whispered.
He entered the room alone. Jensen was propped on pillows. Jared was shocked to see how thin he had become. It had only been two weeks since the hellish night but Jensen looked like he’d lost at least ten pounds.
“Oh hey, good to see you,” Jensen said with a genuine smile. “People told me you were okay, but I couldn’t stop worrying, you know?”
“Yeah, I do actually.”
“Sit down, tell me what’s been happening. My friends have given me an edited version of the news.”
Jared turned to the television. “You don’t get CNN?”
“It’s broken. I can’t get anything.” Jensen's frown deepened. "I think Chris actually broke the damn thing while I was asleep so I wouldn't be overwhelmed."
Jared suddenly wanted to bolt out of the room. He'd believed Jensen was aware of the entire situation and had planned their talk around that.
“You okay there?”
Jared looked at the pale man tucked into the hospital bed. “I just … the FBI’s floundering. Did you know that?”
“No, Singer barely told me anything. Steve and Chris had to fill me in,” Jensen said. “It has something to do with the Mob, right?”
“Yeah, the FBI thinks they were trying to set up a point shaving scheme.”
“How? With you?” Jensen asked. “Are you in trouble with them?”
“No, Patrick was, though,” Jared gave a dry, dismal laugh. “They approached him and made an offer he couldn’t refuse.”
“They thought to use him to get to you?”
“No, as it turns out I was the patsy. Patrick set me up, Jensen. The only reason he was with me was because they wanted him to.”
“Fuck no,” Jensen said, sitting up straight. “Are you serious?”
“They wanted him to get enough material on me for blackmail,” Jared explained. “Patrick was scared: they threatened him and his father, which was why he said yes initially, but once the ball started rolling he couldn’t do it.
“Singer also said Patrick contacted him. Told him what had happened and volunteered to wear a wire to help the FBI set the bastards up. And that’s why he died. So I guess I can’t be angry…”
“Of course you can,” Jensen interrupted. “The guy fucked you over, Jared. You can definitely be angry. Hell, I’d be furious. But he also tried to do the right thing and that counts for something too. It’s up to you on how you would want to remember Patrick, but…”
“But?” Jared prompted eagerly when Jensen went quiet.
“But it sounds like the guy was between a rock and a hard place, as trite as that sounds. Given what he had Patrick did something amazing, and he did it for you, so that’s something. Right?”
“I don’t know if I’m angry, disappointed, afraid or confused,” Jared whispered. “I don’t know what I’m suppose to feel or what I’m suppose to do now. Mike, my agent, my teammates – they all expect me to go back to the Jared Padalecki they knew. My family’s so scared for me they’re not even willing to ask directly what the fuck happened in New Hampshire. They just want their son back. But I can’t come back, Jensen. I don’t know how.”
“I heard that so many times,” Jensen said. He looked at Jared with something greater than pity, something akin to understanding. “When I wrote my first book I interviewed a lot of soldiers from the Vietnam War. They said almost the same damn words as you just did. Some of them managed to return to who they were, some never could, some didn’t even want to try: too tired, too scared, I think. There were few though who knew they couldn’t be who they were before the war so they decided to be someone different.”
“Like a new job? New lifestyle?”
“No, they didn’t surrender who they were – just that … you know sunflowers follow the direction of the sun throughout the day, right?”
“Yeah, I read that somewhere,” Jared answered, puzzled by the sudden change in topic.
“Well, if by an act of God, the sun rises north and settles in the south, I don’t think the sunflowers would become extinct like other flowers. It’d just rotate its face until it could follow the sun on its new path. It’d still be a sunflower, with one fundamental change, is all.”
“How do I do that?”
“You have to make peace with yourself, with Patrick, and also with what happened to us. I gotta tell you, I’m scared out of my mind 24-7. For the first time my nightmares are nowhere near as terrifying as my waking hours, so I'm pretty much near my breaking point." Jensen sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. "Every time I see a black man, even an FBI agent, I have to stop myself from screaming for help. Never mind I never saw the killer – it’s just the thought that that guy is out there somewhere, probably angry as hell – well, it’s enough to make me piss in my sweats, you know?”
“Oh yeah, I know,” Jared said. “I might have good news about that. My attorney told me the man who headed the mob family that’s responsible for all this shit died last night. His name was Tomas Lorino if nobody told you.”
“He’s dead?” Jensen asked, his face bright with relief.
“Yeah, so my lawyer thinks this entire mess is going to be forgotten by the new regime. The last thing they need is something like this stinking up their happy new home.”
“But how does that help?”
“Singer is pretty damn sure the person assigned to do the killings was ordered back. Does that make sense?”
“Yeah, it does actually,” Jensen said. “If this guy’s a pro and I think he is, he’s not the type to be controlled by his emotions, so yeah, if he’s been told to leave us alone: he will. If he tries anything stupid he’ll be going off the reservation and that’s pretty much suicide in a profession like his.”
Jared smiled, his first genuine one since they were rescued. “Where did you pick up all this lingo? Off the reservation and all the other stuff you’ve been spouting off since I met you.”
Jensen’s pallor suddenly disappeared. Jared’s smile grew wider. “The truth, dude.”
Jensen sighed and closed his eyes. “When I was about fourteen I thought about being a Navy SEAL, okay? So I subscribed to Soldier of Fortune behind my parents’ back. I still flip through it whenever I’m in Borders.”
“Are you fucking serious?”
“Shut up, it was a phase.”
“Oh my God,” Jared howled with laughter. He had to grip his chair in order not to fall off of it.
“It’s not that funny, you dickwad!” Jensen shouted, his voice full of mock outrage. “I would’ve made a damn good SEAL!”
“Dude, you’re way too pretty to be a SEAL. Hell, you could’ve probably married one…” Jared wheezed out between bouts of laughter.
Jensen nailed him in the face with a pillow. “Jackass!” he growled with smiling eyes.
Jared looked at him, the former tension had melted out of the gangly frame. “You would've made a terrible soldier, Jensen. You can’t hurt people even when they’re actively trying to kill you. Hell, I figured that out an hour after I crashed into your life.”
“And you came to this stunning conclusion how?”
“You could’ve killed Contadino in the kitchen but you didn’t. You wounded him just enough for him to drag his bleeding ass back outside.” Jared tucked the pillow behind Jensen and sank back into his chair. “That makes you a decent person; it also makes you a bad soldier.”
“How can you be sure I didn’t just miss?”
“You didn’t use the rifle. If you did you could’ve taken his head off. Am I right?”
“We were in the kitchen, close quarters and maneuverability and all that.”
Jared shook his head emphatically. “No, if you meant to kill you would’ve. All your guns were well used. I can’t see how someone who can handle that many firearms could miss a target as large as a man from across the kitchen.”
Jensen’s blush deepened. “Maybe I freaked out.”
“Not saying you didn't, but at least you managed to keep your head on your shoulders, which is probably why we’re both alive today.”
“What happens now?”
Jared’s good humor disappeared. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “The FBI wants me to testify in front of a grand jury.”
Jensen frowned. “I’m confused; why bother? The man who set this up is dead. Hell, most everyone involved in this is six feet under, right?”
“They want the grand jury to indict not only Russo but all his bosses. My attorney said one of them is probably still alive and kicking. And the FBI has solid proof I wasn’t the only Celtics member they were trying to hook.”
“Holy shit,” Jensen said, “are you sure?”
“I’m not but they are. And if they’re right it means some of my fellow teammates were, or maybe still are, in the same damn boat.”
“What exactly do they want you to testify about?”
“They’re going to make a causal chain link so I need to testify about my relationship with Patrick.”
“Jesus Christ, don’t they realize what that will do to your career?”
“They don’t really give a fuck about my career,” Jared said sarcastically. “They’re too entrenched with their obsession to even consider what collateral damages could come out of this. Hell, Wallingford is already in the distant past for them.”
“Could it be a closed testimony?”
“They’re guaranteeing it will be but my attorney says that wouldn’t matter one bit. It’ll leak out to the press within forty-eight hours if not sooner.”
“Couldn’t they leave you out? Just use what they’ve got?”
“Not if they want to establish the point shaving scheme as the primary motive for the murders.”
“What will happen if you testify?”
“I’ll probably be benched for the rest of the season. Gaines is really good so the team won’t suffer much even though he’s a rookie. After the season’s over they’ll probably trade me but it won’t be for my benefit. It’ll take another season or two before my career is officially over.”
“If that happens what do you want to do?”
“I don’t know, Jensen,” Jared said desperately. “All I ever wanted to do was play ball.”
“You know, there are gay sports teams. Maybe you could join one of those?”
Jared shook his head. “It’s not the same. I don’t want to be a gay athlete in a gay team. I want to be a pro-baller in the NBA. I know that sounds ugly but it’s the truth. I don’t want my sexuality to define where I play and whom I play with. Me liking guys … that’s private, Jensen. I'm not angling for anything by tell you that, I swear.”
“No, I know what you mean,” Jensen agreed. “I wouldn’t want my writing topics to be limited in scope because of my sexual preferences. But then my homosexuality never interfered with my writing, and I was never forced to choose one over the other.”
“It’ll end my career. I have no doubt about that.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“You’re kidding, right? How many gay pro athletes do you know? Fuck, Jensen, how could you even ask such a question?”
“I know historically nobody’s come out of the closet while they were still playing, but maybe it’s time someone did,” Jensen said. “I’m not saying it’ll be an easy fight or that you’ll win, but the alternative is that you live like this indefinitely. Can you really stand that? I know I couldn’t.”
“What makes you think I can’t? And it won’t be forever. I have maybe seven years ahead of me as a pro before I retire, and that’s if I don’t get injured earlier. After that who gives a fuck?”
“You will, and the people of Wallingford who are still burying their dead. Remember my buddy Steve? The guy who rescued us? He just lost his job. His boss is a fucking prick and couldn’t stand the competition so he used the murders to remove Steve from the force.”
“What? How the hell could he blame Steve?”
“Five people died in one night while he was in charge, and though you and I know better a lot of people don’t. So there goes Steve’s career; but do you know who the real losers are? The people of Wallingford, because now they’re stuck with a shitcan for a police captain and trust me, with Steve gone I figure it’ll only be couple of years before the competent ones in the station either quit or transfer out of town.
“It won’t be long before Wallingford finds out they haven’t hit rock bottom yet. They would've been able to pull through given time with the murders, but no town can survive a corrupt police department.”
“You’re not going to rebuild your home, are you?”
Jensen shook his head. “No, I’m going back to Richardson for a while and get my head straight. Besides, my mom’s having a herd of kittens and I have to see her just to calm her down. How about yours?”
“My mom and dad are camped in my house,” Jared said. “They’re planning to go back home this weekend. Then my brother’s coming for a week; after that my sister, Megan, is dropping by. You get the picture.”
“I most certainly do, which is why I’m going home. That way I get to at least eat home cooked meals while my family has a nervous breakdown around me.”
“You really think I should testify?” Jared asked bluntly.
Jensen didn’t look at all taken back by his defensive tone. “Yes, I do. Legally, your attorney’s probably earning his keep, but I’m not thinking about that. I’m thinking about what your actions or lack of will do to not only to Wallingford but for all the other poor bastards who got hung out to dry by the likes of Russo and his buddies.”
“I’ll get crucified, Jensen,” Jared said hoarsely.
“By whom, Jared? The media? The bigots? The leeches whose only job is to suck the life out of you while kissing your ass? Because if that’s the case then maybe it’s time you stepped back and decide what matters more: your love of the game or your self-respect, hell your self-preservation for that matter.”
Jared didn’t answer and Jensen didn’t expect him to either. The two sat in thoughtful and companionable silence as noises from the hallway drifted into the room.
Singer heard timid knocking and looked up to see his new administrative assistant, Diane Levy, standing at the doorway. She was definitely talented with computers and knew how to multi-task better than anyone on the team, but he still missed his old admin, Maggie. She’d been with him since the Reagan Administration and Singer honestly thought he’d retire before Maggie did.
“Sir, I have a package for you,” Diane said. “It was suppose to have been delivered last week but it got lost between the mailroom and security.”
Singer rolled his eyes. “Don’t worry about it. I remember a next-day FedEx delivery that took three weeks to get to this floor.”
Diane smiled. “Well, this isn’t that bad.”
Singer took the package and nearly dropped it. It was postmarked the day the Wallingford Massacre happened. It also originated from the same town.
“Thank you,” he said absently and waited until he had complete privacy before he opened the package. A folded piece of paper fell out along a small tape recorder.
Bobby,
Russo scheduled a meeting early this morning without telling me about it. I had no time to contact you guys, so I had to improvise. I got to the place early and managed to set up a recording device under the table.
It’s all here, everything. Russo was so angry I was scared he was going to shoot me right then and there at the restaurant. I know the guy’s got a temper but something felt off this time around. I think he’s scared and, on first glance that should make me happy, but I’m not because if it’s bad news for him, odds are it’s bad news for me too.
Anyway, here’s the tape. I’m mailing it to you just in case Russo does make good on his threats before I could see you. I hope it’s what you’re looking for.
Please call me as soon as you finish listening. I really want my dad out of harm’s way ASAP. His health is deteriorating and if we’re to set up some kind of decent medical care for him I have to arrange it in advance.
Sincerely,
Patrick
Singer closed the blinds to his office before listening. Connor was right; it was everything Singer could hope for. Too bad the tape was useless since the evidentiary chain was destroyed by Connor’s death. Singer called the agents assigned to protect Padalecki in order to locate the athlete. It was no surprise to find the basketball player was with Ackles. Singer was well aware Padalecki had made frequent requests to visit the writer and spent time with the man even when he was floating in and out of consciousness or in dead sleep due to heavy medication.
Singer grabbed Murray and Lindberg on his way to Mass General. He understood why Padalecki was reluctant to testify. The career the young man worked so hard for would be laid to ruins if he revealed his relationship with Connor. Lehne promised a closed testimony but even Singer knew that was no guarantee. Sooner or later someone will talk: the only question was to whom and for what price.
How do I ask him to give up everything he fought for? Especially when there's little to gain from it? Russo's dead, Manzoni's dead, Barassi's probably with them and Lorino's gone to hell, finally. So what is it that I want from this kid?
Singer wasn't so sure the answer to his question until he saw Ackles with Padalecki. The truth, he realized. I want the goddamn truth.
Padalecki's smile disappeared when he saw the FBI agents. "This is a private meeting," he snapped. "And I'm still not talking to you."
Singer wordlessly handed over Connor's letter. Padalecki took it with great reluctance and read it with Jensen looking over his shoulder.
"Jesus Christ," Jensen whispered. "How long have you had this?"
"I got it today," Singer answered.
"Did you listen to the recording?" Padalecki asked.
"Yes, I did, and no, you don't want to hear it, Mr. Padalecki, trust me." Singer glanced at Murray. "Russo wasn't just a thug; he did what he did because he loved to inflict pain. Getting paid to hurt people was just a bonus for him."
"I don't understand, if you knew how dangerous Russo was why wasn't there more protection for Patrick?" Padalecki said, his entire frame rattling with barely-controlled rage. "How could you let him go around without somebody looking out for him?"
"And how would we do that?" Murray asked. "Wallingford's pretty small town. Russo would've known the game was up the moment we dropped one of our own in there. He didn't get to living as long as he did by being stupid. The man was a cagey bastard, we all knew it and we couldn't risk exposing Connor."
"So doing nothing was your plan?" Padalecki shot back. "And by helping you he was exposed already, because somebody in your team obviously told Lorino about Patrick. Tell me, does the FBI have a lead yet on who leaked this mess to the Mob? 'Cause it sure as hell wasn't Patrick."
"It's an on-going investigation," Lindberg explained in a gentle tone. "As you can imagine something like this isn't taken lightly by the FBI. We'll find out the leak and trust me there will be hell to pay."
"Sorry, but trusting you guys seem like the fastest way to die." Padalecki looked at Ackles and shook his head. "I got too much to lose, and I'm not just talking about my career here."
Ackles visibly deflated but not before throwing a look of anger towards Singer and his men. It was then Singer realized the writer was probably talking Padalecki into cooperating before he barged in and blew it all to hell.
"I'm not sure how you got in but I'd appreciate it if you left," Ackles said. "Don't make me call hospital security because even with your fancy badges, they have the right to toss you out of here."
"I am sorry about all of this," Singer said. "Like you said it's a fucking mess but looking the other way won't make this go away, Mr. Padalecki. Honestly, it won't." Singer looked down at his shoes, suddenly aging by decades. "I wish I could tell you otherwise but I can't. I never could."
The three FBI agents left the room. Lindberg turned to Singer, "What now, Sir?"
"Go back to square one, I guess," Singer replied. "Why don't you guys get some rest? You have to be running on fumes by now."
Murray shrugged. "I got nothing better to do. Lindberg has the worst taste in movies I've ever seen."
Singer somehow managed a smile. "You're still looking for a new place to live?"
Murray nodded. "I don't think it's safe for me to return to my old apartment, not with Alex Lorino taking his father's throne."
"But you never met him, right?" Singer asked.
"No, but that doesn't mean the boy doesn't know how to hold a grudge. He's going to take what I did personally."
"Still, go get some rest," Singer said. "I'll need you sharp tomorrow."
"Will do, Sir," Lindberg answered for both of them.
Staten Island, New York
"So, this is the son of a bitch who betrayed my family?" Alex Lorino asked his most trusted advisor, Michael Ferrero, while flipping through the black and white pictures of Chad M. Murray.
"Yes, it is," Ferrero answered. He had spent most of his adult life serving Alex's father, but when he heard Alex wanted him to continue in the same capacity Ferrero seriously considered retiring. Unfortunately, he wasn't given a choice as Alex made it plain that his refusal would be considered a betrayal of the worst kind, and his reprisal would reflect that belief.
"Nobody fucks with us and gets away with it, not even the F-B-I," Alex said. "We've got to fix this problem and fix it quick."
"Alex, he's an agent with the FBI. We could set him up for a hard fall but that will take time."
"No, I don't want him to go down for racketeering or drugs; I want him dead, Mikey. Dead as my father, God bless him."
Ferrero gave a slight nod. "I'll look into it."
"Do that," Alex said. "Anything else?"
"No, this is it for today."
"Okay then, I have to make a few phone calls so fuck off."
Ferrero gave another polite nod of understanding and left. It wasn't until he was back in his own house that he felt safe enough to make a call to his oldest ally.
"It's me," Ferrero said, "and before you ask - no, his obsession with the FBI agent hasn't abated. If anything it's worsened."
"What's the worst case scenario if the agent dies?" Daniel Giordani asked.
"You already know the answer. The fool already has the entire NYC Police Department gunning after him. We can't afford to piss off the FBI the same way. I guarantee that if this agent dies, we won't last a year, not with what's been happening in Jersey.
"The vultures are already circling, aren't they?"
"Yeah, they can smell fresh meat from miles away and it's no secret Alex is nothing like his father."
"We need to get a handle on this fast, Danny. Otherwise, we can all kiss our asses goodbye."
"Let me make a few calls; see what's up. I'll get back to you soon, okay?"
"You have a backup plan for handling this?"
"I have backup plans for Armageddon, you dumb fuck. Why else would Tomas have kept me around?"
"Call me soon, Danny."
"I will, Mike, I will."
March, 2009
New York City, New York
Alex Lorino stepped out into the cold night air, glad to leave behind the partying denizens of the most popular nightclub in town. He looked at the New York City skyline and smiled. All this was his for the picking: no more old world laws, no more playing nice with the fucking cops. He would usher the Lorino Family into the twenty-first century, not with lawyers and dummy corporations but with blood and violence. And after he was done it'll be like the 80's again, before cancer struck down his father and sawed off the old man's balls.
Alex Lorino was dead before he hit the bottom step. The long crowd lined up in front of Dusk heard and saw nothing, not even Lorino's bodyguards who were trained to spot anything remotely suspicious within a city block. They swarmed over their charge and watched helplessly as the club-goers screamed and either called 911 or took pictures with their cell phones in hopes of selling the pictures to the Post before the hour was over.
Manners looked down at the chaos from his rifle scope. He left the sniper rifle on the rooftop but took the scope with him as it was specifically tailored to his needs. The weapon on the other hand was disposable, and he knew it was better to leave it than risk being spotted with something bulky right after a shooting. He also knew NYC was wired to the hilt with cameras everywhere. The last thing he needed was a grainy photo of him carrying a suspiciously shaped duffle bag.
He walked down a block and hit 23rd where he was able to successfully flag a taxi in spite of it being Saturday night.
"Where to?" the cabbie asked.
"Port Authority," Manners answered.
"Going on a vacation?"
"Kinda; visiting my sister and her family," Manners lied smoothly. "My niece's sweet sixteen is tomorrow. They live in Poughkeepsie."
"Man, you must love them very much because to travel to the Great White North in winter? Better you than me, pal."
"It's not that bad," Manners said. "Besides, it's sweet sixteen, you know?"
"I do," the cabbie replied.
The rest of the ride was silent, much to Manner's gratitude.
Jared studiously avoided making eye contact with his teammates as they streamed into the locker room. Even Tom couldn't get much out of him as Jared refused to speak with him, but then Tom couldn't get him to talk more than handful of times since Jared had been given a clean bill of health and allowed back on the team.
Jared locked himself in one of the toilets to make sure he was the last one to get in the shower. He didn't have to wait long as all his teammates had busy social schedules. It took him less than five minutes to wash himself but by the time Jared was toweling off the locker room had emptied out completely.
Jared couldn't step out of the stall.
I have to fucking get out, he yelled at himself. I have to get dressed and...
A sound slithered into the shower room. It was so slight Jared would have dismissed it before Wallingford. But not after. No, never after.
Jared focused harder and heard the noise again. Suddenly Jared remembered where he'd heard it before - in Jensen's house when the assassins made their way to the kitchen.
That can't be right, Jared thought desperately. The FBI wouldn't have pulled off surveillance, not without telling me first.
Would they though? He had refused all attempts to talk and Conniver had successfully tied up Singer in the courts. Jared knew he hadn't been subpoenaed because Singer didn't want him as a hostile witness, but he hadn't been cooperating at all, so why would the FBI bother?
They gave up, Jared thought desperately. Oh Jesus, I'm not protected anymore.
Jared clenched at the towel wrapped around him as his vision greyed out from terror. He didn't feel urine trickle down his right leg as he slumped against the wall. The noise approached closer and Jared was suddenly able to focus again.
A large rat ran across the floor, ignoring the human altogether.
Jared took another shower before calling Singer. "It's Padalecki. I'll testify."
April, 2009
Boston, Massachusetts
Frederic Lehne looked at the basketball player with genuine awe. He knew the guy would be tall, but he had no idea how large the basketball player was.
"You look fine," Lehne said. "All you have to do is answer my questions. Remember, there won't be any cross-examinations like you see on television."
Padalecki nodded, tight-lipped. His face was alarmingly pale but there were bright, almost circular rosy spots on his cheeks. Lehne wondered if Padalecki was coming down with a fever. His attention shifted when a light over a door lit up.
Lehne turned to Padalecki and said, "Just tell the jury what you told me. They've been at this for two weeks now so they know not to expect Dennis Lehane. Remember that."
"Okay," Padalecki hissed out. "Let's do this before I chicken out."
Lehne guided the athlete through the heavy wooden doors. Like he thought once Padalecki saw the room was filled with human beings and not cannibalistic monsters, he calmed down considerably. And, Padalecki relaxed even further as he gave testimony. It didn't take long but the jury listened to the athlete with rapt attention, some quietly gasping when he testified about what had happened to him and Jensen Ackles. Lehne saved the love affair for last, as he needed to win over the jury's sympathy before slamming them over their heads with that bit of shocking information.
Again, Padalecki was honest about the details of the affair, which was what Lehne had hoped. He waited until the jury digested Padalecki's confession of being involved with Patrick Connor before continuing. Lehne watched color slowly return to Padalecki's face and inwardly smiled. The hardest part was over for both of them.
"Mr. Padalecki, could you tell us why you're here, today?" he asked.
Padalecki looked genuinely taken back by the question. "Because the FBI ordered me to?"
There were few smiles among the grim visages. "I'm asking what convinced you to testify. I'm well aware of your initial reluctance to do so, even with the FBI's urgings."
Padalecki gave a hard look at him before glancing at the Grand Jury. He took a deep breath and said, "I was afraid, at first because I had so much to lose; my reputation in the NBA, my job, probably my home. I knew my family would stand by my side, but I was so obsessed with all that I forgot."
"Forgot?"
"I forgot someone else already lost his home and his work because of me."
"Who are you talking about, Mr. Padalecki?"
"Jensen Ackles, the writer whose life I sent into hell."
Padalecki looked at his hands and continued in a hoarse voice. "Jensen set fire to his house to save our lives. Somehow he knew what those killers were planning to do, and he kept us one step ahead of them until the very end. I left him alone because we thought we could get them as they come out of the house. I didn't know both men came through the front door. By the time I saw what happened it was almost too late. He was shot in the chest and left to die."
"So you're doing this for him and for Mr. Patrick Connor?"
"No," Jared shook his head. "I'm doing this for me. I can't live like this anymore. It feels like I got something living inside of me, chewing its way out. I can't sleep, all my food tastes like poached chicken. Hell, I stopped caring about what I'm eating since this nightmare started. My game hasn't gone down yet but it'll happen pretty damn soon. I can feel it.
"Everyone's treating me like a ticking bomb and they're right - I'm about three minutes away from exploding and leaving behind nothing but a huge mess and tons of regrets. I was basically driving myself crazy until I realized something."
"And what's that, Mr. Padalecki?"
"This? This testifying in front of the grand jury isn't half as scary as what happened that night. I wasn't afraid to lose my house, my job, my reputation as a member of the NBA. That night I thought I was going to die, Mr. Lehne. I was shot and bleeding to death when I stumbled over Jensen's house.
"I couldn't have been outside for more than thirty, forty minutes top but it felt like hours. That was and is the most terrifying moment in my life. This - this is the truth and my parents taught me never to be afraid of the truth."
"Thank you, Mr. Padalecki, for your honesty and your courage. You may step down."
Singer studied the wealthy patrons loitering about Grill 23's bar. And yet, their wealth would be considered negligible when compared to some currently occupying the best tables, breaking and building empires like children do with Lincoln Logs. He looked at Lehne sitting across from him and once more wondered exactly how powerful a man he really was to have gotten one of the best tables in a restaurant that reserved the most desirable ones for the most powerful in Boston.
"I still don't know what you're going to do with the indictments, but that was something else," Singer said.
"Thank you," Lehne said, pouring red wine into their glasses.
The conversation traveled over safer topics as waiters served dinner. Lehne looked at his steak dinner with great relish.
"Give the Chef my compliments," he said. "This looks amazing."
The waiter smiled prettily and walked away, her hips swinging enticingly. But her efforts were in vain as Lehne's attention was completely focused on his dinner.
"I always wanted to ask: why do you have such a hard-on for the Mob?" Singer asked. "They consider you as a genuine threat because you've been going after them for so long. How many attempts on your life so far?"
Lehne shrugged and continued to cut up his steak. "Four genuine attempts and handful of half-assed ones."
"You still haven't answered my question."
Lehne's attention shifted from his plate to Singer then back again. "I dated an Italian girl when I was in college."
"Italian-Italian or Italian-American?"
"Born in Italy, came to the U.S. when she was five," Lehne answered. "She was a beaut, total knockout. I couldn't believe she said yes when I asked her out."
Singer smiled and said, "Go on."
"She hated the Mafia. Hated them with passion. Said they were the bane of every Italian American because of their notoriety. That no matter how many Italian Americans achieve great success, everyone's going to think 'Mafia' first when an Italian name is mentioned in the news.
"And she's right."
"So you're continuing her crusade?"
"Something like that," Lehne answered after taking a long sip of wine. "The truth is I hate bullies, Bobby. I hate them with a passion. Combine that with what Michela taught me, and I've got a lifetime's worth of grudges to dole out."
Lehne's explanation was just honest enough for Singer to believe half of it. "What happened to her? It sounds like you were serious."
Lehne's face flushed and it wasn't because of the wine. "I got drunk one evening and cheated on her. Michela found out and nearly cut my dick off with her sewing scissors."
"I see," Singer said. "Well, I'm sure your wife would rather sue you before trying that."
Lehne shook his head. "Nope, I'm sure she'll probably pull that stunt also. I like my women fiery. It's an dangerous preference."
Bobby raised his glass for a toast. "Here's to passionate women with solid morals."
"Amen to that."
"What's up, Mike?" Jared asked as his agent sat down.
Mike shook his head and said, "Doc Rivers is benching you."
"Why?" Jared asked, not too surprised by the news.
"The official reason is because they're worried about your health."
"I was given..."
"Your mental health," Mike interrupted.
"What?"
"They're saying you're not up to the strain. Not with the playoffs less than three months away, so they're bringing in Gaines."
"So they're saying I'm crazy because I said I like fucking men, or because I like fucking men I'm crazy?"
"Jesus, Jared, what do you want me to do? I tried, okay? But this excuse of theirs is bulletproof. You did go through hell in January, and you have to admit your behavior hasn't been the best since you got back on the team."
"What did Tom say?"
"Haven't had the chance to speak to him. Honestly? He can't do much, and do you really want to drag him into this?"
Jared closed his eyes. "No, of course not. The team needs him more than me."
"And there's something else," Mike added. "I could shoot the sons of bitches for this, but Ralph Lauren's not going to use your photos for the spring layout."
"I don't understand - how are they going to manage that?"
"CGI you out or something. They're bringing in a replacement from the Lakers is what I heard. You're keeping your salary, of course, but they're dropping out the option of using you for any future shoots. On the brighter side, The Advocate wants to do a piece on you."
"I never cared about modeling," Jared said. "And I don't want to be the next poster boy for The Advocate either. I just want to play basketball, Mike. That's all I ever wanted. I'll go crazy without it."
"Let me see what I can do," Mike said. "I don't like this any more than you, and the way they're dicking us around - it's about time we fucked them back."
"Am I allowed on the bench at least?"
"Yeah, but I don't know if that's going to stay when the playoffs roll around."
"Jesus Christ," Jared whispered.
"By the way, I found out who leaked your testimony to the Herald. Do you want to know?"
Jared shook his head. "It doesn't matter and I don't care. Not anymore."
"You really don't regret doing it, do you?"
Jared looked at Mike. "No, not for a second. It needed to be done. Maybe the one thing I needed to do more than playing ball."
"Okay then," Mike said, pulling out not one but two cell phones from his jacket pocket. "I don't earn my outrageous fees because I have a nice smile. Let me rattle some trees and see what falls out."
Jared managed a wan smile as he waved goodbye. The dogs swarmed him as soon as he sat down so it took him a while to find his cell phone. He scrolled down his now much-abbreviated contact list until he found Jensen. He stared at the name until his eyes blurred but Jared didn't call. He chucked the cell back into his gym bag and buried his face in Sadie's fur.
Jared had to face this alone. He couldn't drag Jensen into his hellhole, not again. Not when it nearly cost the other man his life the first time around. Jared thought about calling his parents but he quickly nixed the idea. The last conversation he had with his parents ended in frustration for both of them. His mother was nearly in tears because she knew instinctively she couldn't give what her son needed though Jared protested otherwise, and Jared was also close to bawling because she was right. There was no one he could speak to about what he had gone through, and he was afraid to see a shrink because he knew if a single word leaked out, he would have less than zero chance of regaining his status with the Celtics.
The abandonment and fear he felt in the New Hampshire woods swamped him again. Without looking he grappled for his cell.
"Hello?" Jensen's calm greeting reached out to him.
Justin Hartley watched Gaines pack his bag and leave the locker room. He followed the young man into the parking lot and watched as the point guard drove away in a brand new Mercedes SL65. So intense was his concentration that he didn't hear Tom walk up behind him.
"What's the rush?" Tom asked.
Justin startled before turning to face him. "I was wondering."
"About what?" Tom asked, worried.
"Probably nothing," Justin quickly answered. "Did you get a hold of Jared yet?"
"No, the asshole's letting his answering machine do the talking."
"Are you sure we shouldn't drop by?" Justin asked. "We hadn't seen or heard from him for over a week now."
"If I don't hear from him by Friday we'll swing by his house."
"Sounds good," Justin said. He looked at the empty spot where Gaines' Mercedes was parked. "Tom, do you remember the name of the FBI agent who swung by when the shit hit the fan?"
"Yeah, Bobby Singer. Why do you ask?"
"I got a bad feeling," Justin said. "And I want to talk to you about it."
"Let's go to my place," Tom said. "You're scaring me, dude."
"If what I'm thinking is right, there's going to be a lot of scared people."
Walk the Talk
Padalecki beating impossible odds
by Lauren Cohan, May 19, 2009
It was just one week ago that the captain of the Boston Celtics posed the hard question:
How badly does beantown want to win? Bad enough not to care about Padalecki's sexual preference?
The nightmarish saga began during one cold winter night in New Hampshire, and it played out like a Frankenheimer movie: two hitmen courtesy of the mob, a witness, and a wheelchair-bound hero. The four men collided in the middle of a blizzard and the outcome was something no one could've imagined. And we didn't have to. Every private detail would be laid bare to the public eye, the end result being Padalecki yanked off the play roster.
Of course, the powers that be have a list of excuses for this decision, but they all mysteriously appeared after the Herald revealed Padalecki's preference for men. Until then they were only too happy to let him play in spite of the many emotional and mental stress they claimed he was suffering. Maybe we Bostonians are too cynical but this columnist has to wonder why the sudden switcheroo. And, if the cost of losing Padalecki is worth whatever benefits they silently received under the table.
However, if you ask Jared Padalecki, he has no such questions hounding him. He's too busy training for the playoffs. Looking like his old self in spite of being shot, threatened, benched, and harassed, our resident Texan is so busy he barely has enough time to take care of his dogs much less ponder about his treatment by the management and the general public.
And yet, on the court, Padalecki looks actually relaxed. In fact, you could say that living under the pressure of expectations from millions of Celtics fans and fellow Bostonians is a natural state of being for him.
"Some people just thrive under pressure and Jared's one of them." Tom Welling admits with a cheerful smile. And he has every right to be happy. The entire Celtics team was thrown into chaos when Jamie Gaines, the rookie point guard, was arrested by the FBI for various conspiracy charges, including point shaving. After that, it seemed like an impossible task for the Celtics to recreate 2008.
Step in Tom Welling. Mild-mannered and soft-spoken, the team captain publicly ripped the management company and the city of Boston for what he calls their "collusion" to drive out his fellow teammate and friend, Jared Padalecki, from the Celtics. He didn't mince words as he pointed out the many dismal choices that led his team to where they are - minus an experienced point guard and nowhere near the level necessary to win the championship. Even the party boy, Justin Hartley, had a few heated comments regarding the management's choice to replace Padalecki with Gaines, especially since it has recently come to light that they didn't bother to do a thorough background check on Gaines before drafting him - a background check that would've revealed a long-standing gambling addiction.
So, what does Padalecki have to say about all this?
"I hate drama. I just want to play ball. That's all I want."
Got to admit, there's been more than enough of that for Boston in the last six months to last us another year. Or, at least, until June starts and the Celtics face off San Antonio's Spurs. By the way, San Antonio is Padalecki's hometown.
Let the drama begin.
Part VI * Epilogue
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Date: 2009-01-18 01:59 pm (UTC)