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Dignam took off his helmet, and glanced around the darkened parking lot. He hadn't been followed—borrowing his brother's motorcycle and spending an extra fifteen minutes tooling around the quieter parts of Boston's industrial section had made certain of that. Still, though, this was a part of town where the wrong person could spot him. It was time to get inside.
He pulled out his cell phone, and dialed. “You ready?”
“Yes. Room 213.” Tense, but sure. That would do.
“On my way.” Dignam grabbed the insulated lunch box out of the saddlebag before heading towards the cheap motel's side entrance. He took the stairs at a quick trot, and found the room easily.
Before he went in, he stood silently in the hallway for a moment, taking one last breath. He had to do this right. If he screwed up—in any of a thousand ways—people would die for it. And that would be on his head.
Dignam looked down at his wedding ring for a moment, and thanked God, yet again, for Sarah. Then he knocked.
The door opened instantly, and Billy Costigan let him in.
*
They'd only done it this way twice before, but they had the rhythm nailed. Costigan opened the door for him, and then backed up into the room and watched as Dignam closed the door again and shut each lock in turn. (This motel had three—classier joint than usual.) When Dignam turned to face him, he was all business.
“The rooms on either side are empty.” Not that they'd likely need to be, but it wouldn't hurt.
“Yes.” Dignam noted the jittery eye movements, but Costigan was otherwise steady, as usual.
“And you want this to happen like before.” It wasn't a exactly question. Here, in this place, he rarely needed to ask questions. (Nevermind that it was never the same motel twice, let alone the same room—he and Costigan had been here before.)
“Yes.”
“Your safeword, Trainee.” He let a little command slip into his voice.
“Jackie.” Just like before. Seemed a little weird to Dignam, but it was the kid's choice—and he'd actually used it once, so it worked.
“Boxers. Now.” He waited until Costigan started to shrug off his sweatshirt, and then went over to the desk, to remove his own coat and put down the helmet and lunchbox.
These nights had a distinctly different feel to them than his early days, when he'd been learning how to do this. According to the Staties, he'd been a bartender for Lady Anna's place for a few years before joining the Academy—but according to the Staties, Lady Anna's place was just a bar. The dungeon in the basement was members-only, and maintained it's anonymity through catering to the law enforcement community. By keeping the confidentiality of, presumably, several dozen cops, staties, and feds—not to mention giving them a nice discount on the cover charge—Lady Anna made sure that the only Boston-area law enforcement types who knew she existed were ones who wanted her secret kept.
Back then, doing her leather maintenance and whatever else seemed useful, he'd learned more about power dynamics, and owning a room the second he walked into it, and knowing what buttons to push, than the Academy had ever taught him. Shit--that time of his life was the only reason he'd ever gotten control over his mouth. You did not work at Lady Anna's unless you always knew exactly what you were saying, even if you weren't running a scene. Now he only swore when he wanted to, and he'd learned he didn't need to in a scene. All that work had come in useful over the years—even if he hadn't exactly expected this kind of useful.
Dignam turned and watched Costigan, now shirtless, kneel to remove his boots. What they did here had only the essentials in common with what he'd picked up at Lady Anna's, and what few rules were the same, had different rationales. Costigan had a special title for him—but it was Bryce, the first name that only his Grandpa Dignam ever used for him, instead of “Sir” or “Boss” or anything else he might actually get called at work. Dignam could not afford the kind of slip-up that could lead to. And he had certain names for Costigan—but “Trainee” and “sweetheart” were chosen only because they were names that no one else was going to use for him—as Costigan could afford that kind of slip-up even less than Dignam could.
Dignam almost grinned at the thought of Costello calling Costigan “sweetheart.” Almost.
They had stumbled onto this almost by accident, but it seemed to be working. Working with Costello, Costigan's self-control had to be perfect, every fucking second, because it would only take one slip up to get him killed. So now and then, he needed to lose control. Now and then, Costigan needed someone to drop him into that place in his head where he didn't have to worry about anything, because control was someone else's job, and bring him safely out again after.
He had other coping mechanisms, but they tended towards the self-destructive.
Dignam knew the ropes, and he wasn't any kind of danger to the kid when he lost his usual masks after he dropped into that place. Besides, Costigan's reports tended to be a little heavier on the relevant details and a little lighter on the high-pitched whining, when they did them this way. And that suited Dignam fine.
Dignam rubbed his wedding ring again as Costigan began unzipping his jeans. This wasn't about sex, for either of them, though he occasionally caught Costigan glancing at him in ways that made him wonder. But Dignam was married, and he had no interest in cheating on Sarah, especially when she trusted him enough to do his job—even when that meant doing this. So Costigan kept his boxers on, and Dignam was careful to not blur the lines between affection and what this really was—a survival mechanism.
Which also probably explained why he didn't bother with the usual—what had Queenan called it—“style of his own” on these nights. Costigan didn't need to be verbally smacked around when they were here. He just needed someone to give him a safe place to get out of his own brain for awhile. And Dignam could do that.
Finally, Costigan stood, still facing the door and clad only in his boxers. Dignam let him stand there for a moment, then walked around in front of him, and spoke quietly. “Inspection.”
Costigan let his eyes flutter shut, and raised his arms to a T position. Dignam turned over each arm, checking for track marks, and checked his index fingernails for deterioration. He did a quick visual inspection of his torso, noting that he seemed to be eating okay. He checked for bruises and then walked around to check his back. During all this, Costigan stayed still and silent, and Dignam kept his touch deft and as professional as it could be in a situation like this.
Satisfied that the kid didn't have any physical problems to worry about, Dignam tapped him on the head. “Present, Trainee.” Costigan knelt in a fluid movement, knees together, palms face-up and vulnerable on his thighs, as Dignam had instructed him the first night they'd done this. Knowing Costigan's eyes were still closed, Dignam dropped to a crouch next to him, and started to poke through the pile of clothes he'd left on the floor.
Jeans, keys, phone, wallet; shirt, cigarettes, lighter; jacket—“What the fuck are these, Trainee?” He shook the two pill bottles, so Costigan would be sure what he was talking about. Costigan flinched, but didn't open his eyes—he wanted to drop control pretty badly tonight.
“They're prescription, Bryce. You know I've been seeing the shrink like I'm supposed to.” He seemed pretty rattled—he must have forgotten the bottles were in his pocket at all.
Dignam looked at the bottles a little closer, then stood and stepped behind Costigan as he dropped one bottle back on the bed. He placed his right leg close behind Costigan's back, and when he spoke, he knew his voice was a little quieter and a little more dangerous than it usually got when he was in this role. “Eyes up, Trainee. Now.”
Costigan leaned back a little against his leg, tilted his head up far enough so that it almost rested on Dignam's knee, and finally opened his eyes. He didn't try to speak—but while his face was vulnerable, he hadn't dropped far enough for the conversation Dignam needed them to have.
“Trainee, why are we here?” So sometimes he did have to ask questions here. But only when it was Costigan who needed to hear the answers.
“Because you said yes, Bryce.”
Deflection, of course. Costigan's damned personal bullshit getting in the way again, right on cue. “And why did I say I'd do this for you?”
“Because I'm an asset to the department and 'losing me to my own worst impulses' would be a nasty setback, Bryce.” And the punk wasn't even being sarcastic. Would have been easier if he was, actually.
“No, Trainee. That isn't why.” Shit. He had really hoped Costigan would say at least some part of this for him. “I wouldn't do this for any asset of the department. I said yes to this because you are my responsibility, and I will keep you safe. And if this is what it takes, then it's a small price to pay.” He tapped Costigan's forehead. “I will do what it takes to keep you safe. You're one of mine. Got that?”
“Yes, Bryce.” And his shoulders relaxed a little. He had slipped a few notches further away from his control, now. Good.
“And the rules are part of what it takes to keep you safe. What are the rules, Trainee?”
“Only talk to you and Captain Queenan, and don't leave anything out.”
“And how is letting me find these in your jacket following rule number two?”
Costigan's eyes widened. “I forgot they were there. I was going to tell you about the prescription in my report, Bryce, but we haven't gotten that far yet.”
“It isn't your prescription I'm talking about. Tell me, Trainee, when did your mom die, again?”
And yeah, there was the 'Oh shit' look on Costigan's face. About time he wised up. “I—I'm sorry, Bryce—I stopped—”
“Answer the question, Trainee. When?” Dignam was not about to listen to whatever excuses Costigan could whip up in no time—that was his job with Costello, not him.
“Six months ago, Bryce.”
“Six months ago. And you just happen to have a bottle of leftover Oxycontin with her name on it in your jacket?” A thought occurred to him, and he checked the bottle again. “Trainee, this was refilled last month. What the hell have you been up to?”
“I'm sorry, Bryce.” Costigan dropped his head back to rest entirely on Dignam's knee, dropping a little further. Almost there, but not quite.
Dignam wasn't particularly a sadist, too much of the wrong kind of family history for that, but he could fake it on occasion. He'd had to find other tricks for Costigan, however, as his pain tolerance was high enough that Costello would have noticed bruises from anything strong enough to get a standard masochist's submission from him.
As it turned out, Costigan always folded for the soft touch.
So he dropped his voice a bit. “Answer the question, sweetheart.”
And the kid folded, just like that. “I was taking them, before we started this, until the shrink gave me my Lorazepam. I haven't taken any since, for a few weeks, now. The panic attacks—they were just too much, Bryce. I'm sorry.” His back was completely relaxed against Dignam's leg, now, which was both a good and a bad sign—he no longer had to worry that Costigan was hiding something from him—but Costigan hadn't figured out how bad this was, yet.
“You broke rule number two, Trainee.” The soft touch was gone now.
“Yes, Bryce.”
“Tell me why the rules exist, again.”
“To keep me safe, Bryce.”
“Yes. If I let you get hooked on this shit, I wouldn't be keeping you safe, now would I? And I keep you safe because you're my responsibility, but you're my responsibility because you're an asset to the department. Tell me, Trainee, how do you think a jury trying to convict Costello would react to discovering that the prosecution's star witness is an addict?”
Costigan was practically slack-jawed, now. “I—uh, badly?”
“You're damned right, badly! It would ruin our case, and then Costello would go free, again, and all this effort of ours would go right down the drain. All your time undercover would be pointless. Got it?” And God, just thinking about how this could have gone down had him shaking.
“Yes, Bryce.”
“So you are going to get rid of your mother's fucking pills.”
Costigan shuddered slightly. “Yes, Bryce.”
Dignam tapped him on the forehead again. “Stand up, Trainee.” Once he was standing, Dignam walked him into the bathroom, and handed him the open bottle of pills. “Now flush.” Costigan hesitated. “That was an order, Trainee.” Dignam didn't have to raise his voice much to get it to ring in the tiny bathroom—Costigan started, and dumped the pills in the toilet. All the muscles that had been slowly uncoiling for the last fifteen minutes tensed up again, and he pushed the handle almost violently.
Dignam had him stand there and watch every last one of the pills disappear in the swirling water. When they were gone, Dignam wrapped his hand around the back of Costigan's neck, and pulled him down until they were face to face. It wasn't easy, intimidating a guy who spent hours a day with Frank Costello, but with Costigan this willing to drop, he could do it. “No more Oxycontin.” It wasn't an order; it was a prediction.
“Yes, Bryce.” Costigan's voice was soft, and he dropped his head to look at his feet.
“Eyes here, Trainee.” Dignam pointed to his face with his free hand, and Costigan looked back up. “Never again do you take drugs that aren't prescribed to you. Got it?”
“Yes, Bryce.”
“If you need help, if you need to meet more often, like this, you tell me. Because I cannot protect you if I don't know what's going on in that fucked-up, Hawthorn-quoting, astronaut brain of yours. Got it?”
“Yes, Bryce.” Costigan took a deep breath, and Dignam echoed it. He'd gotten so angry he'd almost slipped into the bad-cop role he usually did with Queenan, and as tempting as it was, that was not what the kid needed, in this place.
“I have to tell Queenan about your prescription.” Costigan's eyes widened. “He has to know. We'll put it in your report.”
“And—what about...?” He couldn't seem to pick a question.
“What about what, Trainee?”
“What about... my mom's pills?”
Dignam honestly hadn't decided about that until that very second. But Costigan's ability to hide things from him was gone, now. “You had one, exactly one, get out of jail free card, Trainee. You've used it. I won't let anything else pass, now. You fuck up again, you face the full consequences—and I will bring them down on you myself, should you turn out to be that painfully stupid. Got it?”
“Yes, Bryce.” Some invisible string inside Costigan snapped as he spoke, and even though tension was still obvious in the lines of his body, Dignam could tell he'd bottomed out—Costigan had finally handed over complete control.
If this had been another kind of scene, Dignam would have grabbed him and held him up through that moment. But it wasn't. So he squeezed the back of Costigan's neck, and led him back into the room.
Dignam walked him over to the desk, and had him kneel again while he opened the lunchbox. Giving his report always stressed Costigan past his limits, unless he was prepped beforehand in Dignam's (admittedly unorthodox) way. Ordinarily, Dignam wouldn't feed him until afterwards—to bring him down from the stress—but this time, after that little showdown, it had to come first.
The food was Sarah's gift to the kid's sanity; not that she knew who he was. The Tupperware inside held a large serving of her homemade lasagna, next to a bottle of water. Dignam pulled them both out, and began to hand-feed it to Costigan as he knelt at his side.
Costigan's shoulders were still coiled Swiss-clock tight at first, despite his having finally given up all pretenses of control. Flushing the pills hadn't brought him out of that place in his head, but it had raised his anxiety, which was astronomical on any ordinary day. As the meal went on, though, the tension in his shoulders spooled out slowly, bite by bite. Dignam could see him loosen up, as he accepted each bite from the fork Dignam's hand held steady, careful not to spill red sauce on the cheap-ass motel carpet.
Every so often, Dignam let him have a sip of water. On the third-to-last bite, he let the fork quiver a bit and smeared a little tomato sauce on Costigan's cheek, to see if he'd take care of it himself.
He didn't. Costigan left it there for the next two bites. He was ready. Dignam gently wiped his face, put away the lasagna dish, and gave Costigan one more sip of water. “Report, Trainee.”
Costigan spoke in a low monotone—starting with the incident with the bookie and Jimmy Bags, and Frank giving him the phone. When he said, “You ask for Mikey because there is no Mikey” it was all Dignam could do not to flinch—Mikey Lorne had been their rat before Billy, and they were still hoping his left leg would float up in the river one day so they could finish burying the poor son of a bitch.
Fucking Delahunt.
Costigan went on, describing how French torched an apartment after getting tipped off, shooting a guy with a pop-bottle silencer, outlined some of their carefully-chosen anti-cop bullshit he'd fed to the shrink and how he got her to get him the Lorazepam. Dignam took intentionally cryptic notes in his book—no way was he letting this hit the department servers, not now—and gave Costigan a sip of water each time his voice started to get rough. Finally, Costigan finished, and dropped his head.
Dignam put away his book and the water, and carefully got out of the chair so as not to disturb Costigan where he knelt. He stood just behind him again, and gently tilted his head back. “Eyes up, sweetheart.” And Costigan dropped his head onto Dignam's knee, without hesitating, and stared up at him, eyes limpid and tired.
“You're going to watch your back. You're going to follow your prescription to the letter. And you are going to follow the rules like they're your own personal re-write of the Ten Commandments. Am I right?”
“Yes, Bryce.”
“What are the rules, Trainee?”
“Talk only to you and Captain Queenan, and don't leave anything out.”
“Good work. Next time you need this—next time you're about to take a pill you shouldn't—you're going to call me. Because you tell me everything. Right, Trainee?”
“Yes, Bryce.”
“Stand up, Trainee.” Costigan slowly leaned forward, and came to his feet. Dignam pulled him around to face him, hand at the back of his neck like before, and looked him straight in the eye. “I will do whatever it takes to keep you safe. Got it?”
“Yes, Bryce.” Costigan's reply was a little sharper than they had been for awhile—he was coming out of it.
“Get dressed.” Dignam turned the television on low and grabbed his coat as Costigan pulled his clothes back on. Dignam showed him the pill bottle from his mother's pills. “I'm going to toss this in the river on my way home tonight. You believe me?”
“Yeah.” Costigan hadn't really taken time to think about it, which Dignam chose to see as a good sign. He dropped the bottle into his coat pocket.
“So what's next up for you, tonight?” Dignam's voice was casual, no edge—ordinary conversation helped get Costigan safely back in control of himself so he could re-enter the world. The noise from the TV helped too. They chatted for a several minutes, about a new Chinese joint on L Street and the latest Jack Nicholson movie, while Dignam watched him regain control.
Costigan's body language was always the first sign. He tensed up again quickly, during a brief difference of opinion over the best places to park on L Street to avoid getting your car keyed. He went from the relaxed sprawl he had when he knew he was safe, into the apparently casual slouch of one of Costello's men. They never felt safe, they just needed everyone else to think they did, which was a whole different thing.
The hands were next, going from loose and open to curled and twitchy, slowly, while the two of them wondered why a badass like Nicholson had decided to take a script like As Good As It Gets. The eyes were last, like always; Dignam watched the masks and the walls build back up, like the kid was some kind of fucking architect or something.
Finally, Dignam grabbed his stuff and asked, “You ready?”
Costigan nodded. “Yeah. Thanks, Sergeant.”
Dignam had to give him credit—the kid never showed any shame over what they did, or what he needed. That took balls. “Good. I'll see you next time. Call me.” He unlocked the door and darted though the hallway to the nearest staircase. Costigan would wait fifteen minutes, and then leave. God knew how—Dignam hadn't noticed his car, but then he wasn't supposed to.
Once he was out of the motel, he took a second to breathe before he put the helmet back on. That mention of Mikey had rattled him, as had Costigan's comment about the tip off French had gotten. Costello had to have a rat in the department—it was the only way any of this made sense.
It was time for Queenan to tell him. He had to listen to Dignam now. Or else the kid would die—and Dignam was not about to let that happen.
One Mikey on a guy's head was enough for anybody.