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“I am full of rage I can’t put anywhere.” That made the other man stop, but not turn to face Jack. “I want to hurt someone. I want them to hurt me. I’m already hurt. I gave everything I had to give and it wasn’t enough. I don’t have a place in the world anymore. I’m numb, paralyzed. I want to be fury, let it burn through me so I can feel something again.”
Barney didn’t walk away. Derelie only walked away because he gave her no choice. She’d stood by him till he failed her by insulting her generosity, cutting her out, rejecting a chance with her to be a bystander in his own crumbling life. He couldn’t be at the church without thinking about her, look into the pit without remembering what they’d done together there—laughed, learned each other, loved.
“I should never have told her to go. I should’ve been more careful with her. I love her. I can barely function without thinking of her. She taught me to want a life outside of the one I’ve been living, but I know I’ve done the best thing for her. I want her back and I can’t have her, I miss her when I breathe and I’m dead inside.”
“You keep talking, Haley.” Barney turned, yanked on the towel around his neck. “Because finally you’re making sense.”
“She is not in the gray. She is the light and she’s bright enough for both of us, but I didn’t understand that. I thought it was a trick with mirrors, a party favor, bad freaking science, not something that was real enough to last. I didn’t believe enough in her, in us, so I quit on her. I quit. The only mystery I’ve ever quit on was the one person who saw through me.”
“What’s your lesson, Jack?”
It was a confession and a prayer. “Accepting love.”
He got his fight, with an opponent bigger, meaner, and owning his anger, when it was too late to have discovered it wasn’t what he wanted. And he got hurt—a cut cheek, a smashed nose that was close enough to broken to call it that, both his eyes would be black. He hurt back, wildly, brutally, and the fight didn’t end till he was on his knees unable to stand without help. He wouldn’t make this mistake again. He’d fight for what was most important.
Barney came to him as he was cleaning up. “I want to talk to you about work.”
He popped a couple of ibuprofen and washed them down with water. “Go ahead.”
“Freelance. How does that go?”
“I come up with a story—” dear God, his face hurt “—and try to sell it into a newsroom.”
“They buy it, so that’s how you get paid.”
“That’s right. The issue is writing something they want to buy.”
“What if someone else was willing to pay you for writing stories the papers didn’t want to publish? What if you were the publisher?”
“You’re talking about a sponsor.”
“More like a benefactor.”
Privately funded journalism. He’d heard of it. There weren’t a lot of writers doing it. “What are you thinking?”
“That there’s a way to keep you in Chicago and pay you to do what you do.”
Jack worked his jaw. “The work I do is risky, complex, and not even the big media companies have an appetite for the trouble it can cause, legal trouble.”
“Yeah, but I got that covered too.”
“You’ve got it covered? A broke-down old priest who runs a shady fight club?”
Barney laughed. “A broke-down old priest who’s fucking well enough connected in this city to front a high-profile group of concerned citizens, men and women in business and the law, in government and industry, who know the value of the truth, believe in social justice and are prepared to pay for it. We never forgot what you did for the church, shined a light on the foulness and forced things to change. This city needs what you do, Jack, and there are enough of us who think so to put you back to work and keep you there.”
Jack manipulated his jaw again and one ear cleared. “You tell me this now.”
“Been waiting for you to ask for help, Jack. You’re a stubborn bastard. Figured you’d walk through my door weeks ago. Figured when you didn’t, maybe you’d decided to give up the fight.”
“You can find a way to fund me to keep reporting?” He was having trouble piecing this together. Private funding would allow him to chase story leads. He could freelance and publish on his own website, use his other media contacts to drive readers to his stories, build a list of subscribers. It could work. It could fail miserably, but it was worth a shot.
“I’m only a broke-down old priest who runs a shady fight club, but you had to wonder how I keep managing to do that. First thing we do is get you clear of any legal trouble.”
They talked the details out. Barney’s lawyer—another man Jack had met in the ring, Abdullah Khan—would remind the Courier about their obligations. It felt remarkable to know he had people in his corner.
“And Derelie?”
He should’ve guessed Barney would remember her name. She’d been in Jack’s corner too. He just had to come up with a way to ask her to come back and be there again.
