Robert B. Parker's Debt to Pay (10 page)

J
esse Stone stopped and stared into a men's clothing store window as if he was actually interested in the preppy summer closeout clothing displayed on the frozen-smile mannequins. He never understood the appeal of seersucker, never thought it looked anything other than ridiculous. Nor did he get the appeal of most of the clothing in the shop window on Fifth Avenue. Some of the shoes, he supposed, were okay. He liked some of them. The rest of it . . . you wouldn't catch him dead in any of it. And that was why he had stopped. Not to check out the clothing, but rather not to be caught dead. It was an old trick, using a plate-glass window as a mirror to see who walked past you or to see who had stopped behind you. An old trick, yet still an effective one. As best as he could tell, he wasn't being tailed.

He turned away from the seersucker-clad mannequin and headed back up Fifth to the building that housed the offices of Pervil, Kennedy, Neer, the law firm that represented the East Coast interests of Hunsicker & Hunsicker Development LLC. Jesse hadn't made it ten steps when he felt a hand clutch his forearm. His body clenched, his mind racing.
Was this when Peepers would come at him? Was this
where? Was this how?
Had he overthought it?
He had no time to react. Jesse Stone was not a man to feel vulnerable, but he felt awfully vulnerable right at that moment. As Jesse shifted his free hand toward his holstered nine-millimeter, the already noisy street was overwhelmed by the shrill siren, the electronic whoops and barks of a passing ambulance. If this was Peepers, if he was going to use that .22, no one would hear the shots above the din and street commotion. His execution would go unseen. In that mass of bodies, even the street cameras would have trouble picking up what was happening. By the time anyone noticed him slumping to the ground, Peepers would be half a block away.

“Perdón
,
señor,”
a man's voice said to him as the ambulance wailed its way downtown.

Jesse looked first to the hand on his forearm and then to the face of the man to whom it belonged. And when he saw the reddish skin of the hand, the thick wrist and ugly fingers, Jesse breathed again and moved his own hand away from the nine-millimeter. The man peering up at him had a familiar face. It wasn't a face he recognized, per se, but it was familiar nonetheless. He had seen many such faces in L.A., faces that spoke of invading conquistadors and native peoples. The man had jet-black hair, deep brown eyes, high cheekbones, a crooked smile, and a beak of a nose. Jesse noticed, too, that the man wasn't alone. Alongside him was a woman about his age and a teenage boy and girl. The teenagers were too busy with their tablets to pay the rest of the world any mind. Jesse smiled back at the man as if he were an old friend and asked, in Spanish, how he could help. Although Jesse wasn't exactly fluent in Spanish, he managed directions to the United Nations easily enough. The man thanked him. The wife, too. The teenagers looked like they would have rather gone anywhere else.

As the family disappeared into the crowd behind him, so too did Jesse's smile. This innocent encounter was a cruel reminder that Peepers had, in his way, already won. As certain as he was ten minutes ago of how, when, and where the killer would come at him, that was how unsure he was now. And it was a bad day to be unsure. The worst day, because now more than ever, he knew that convincing Hale Hunsicker to go along with his plan would be perhaps the most important thing he'd ever had to do. If he couldn't convince Hunsicker to agree, it would be as good as handing down death sentences to most of the people he loved on this earth. And they likely wouldn't be quick deaths, either.

Jesse got that sick feeling in his gut again, remembering how he'd found Suit all shot up. How he'd had to practically hold Suit's abdomen together until help came. Jesse recalled the state Kayla and Vic Prado were in when they were rescued from the basement of an abandoned house that Peepers had used as his own temporary house of horrors. Vic's teeth had been yanked out of his mouth, one at a time, and many of his bones systematically broken. Vic still wasn't right and never would be. Fortunately, Jesse had gotten to them before Peepers had lost full interest in Vic. Although he'd burned the inside of one of Kayla's thighs to make a point, he'd yet to start on her in earnest. Jesse didn't like thinking about what might have been.

As he passed by the front entrance of the building that housed the offices of the law firm, Jesse was thinking deeper thoughts than he usually troubled himself with. He was thinking about what one of his high school science teachers had said a long, long time ago about how the universe was a mechanism of balance and how it strove for that balance at all costs.
A mechanism of balance.
Jesse hadn't thought about that phrase or old Mr. Farman for years. It was
no mystery why it had come back to him now. By asking Gino Fish to intercede on his behalf in order to save Kayla and what was left of Vic, Jesse had set things in motion that had already condemned Gino Fish and his receptionist to death. As he doubled back to the building entrance, sure again that he wasn't being followed, Jesse wondered what it would take to have balance restored.

P
ervil, Kennedy, Neer was an established firm in a solid old building, so their offices lacked flash and glitz. That worked for Jesse. He didn't have much use for flash and glitz. He'd had his fill of both in L.A. and there was little chance of encountering either in Paradise. Paradise was definitely more seersucker than gold lamé, more boats than feather boas. The reception and waiting area décor of brown leather, brass-tacked chairs, of dark wood and green glass, recalled an old-fashioned bank or a country-club card room. Jesse imagined he could smell the lingering scents of cigars and cherry pipe tobacco. Given all that, it surprised him when the person who came to greet him was a rangy kid who looked like he'd started shaving last week.

“Follow me, Chief Stone. The other party is waiting for you in our conference room.”

Jesse followed him down a hallway of closed office doors and walls lined with portraits. The portraits were of stern-looking white men, old white men, with white hair. Some were portraits of yachts and golf holes.

“Here we are, sir,” said the kid, putting his hand on the oval-shaped doorknob to the conference room. “Would you care for coffee, tea, or bottled water? A Coke or Diet Coke?”

Jesse shook his head, then asked, “Summer associate?”

He smiled at Jesse as he opened the door. “Something like that. Go on in.”

The conference room was a large, windowless space that only enhanced the country-club feel of the office. The walls were paneled in walnut and the forest-green carpeting was springy under Jesse's shoes. The huge rectangular table that dominated the room had twelve black leather swivel chairs around it, but could have easily accommodated a further six. Spaced evenly along the centerline of the table were six banker's lamps, their dark green shades aglow.

“Well, how do, Jesse Stone?” Hale Hunsicker said, all six-foot-five of him rising up out of the big leather chair at the head of the table. Hunsicker offered Jesse his right hand. It was nearly the size of Jesse's old baseball mitt. “I've been waiting to meet you for a long time. Yes, sir, a long time.”

Jesse let the Texan's hand swallow his and waited for Hunsicker's to spit it back out. He'd Googled Hunsicker the day he got the invitation to the wedding, but he was still taken aback by the man's physical presence. Hunsicker had played defensive tackle in the burnt-orange uniform of the Texas Longhorns back in the day, but after making second team all-American, he'd chosen Wharton and the family business over the NFL. He was still a specimen. His body tapered from his broad shoulders to a waist that was probably an inch or two smaller than Jesse's. And his hand-tailored suit made sure to emphasize his build. But size and build weren't even the man's most impressive features. He was a handsome SOB with a square cleft chin, an angular jawline, and a loose mane of prematurely
silver hair. He looked like a cross between the damned Marlboro man and a Greek sculpture.

“So, Jesse, what's all the cloak-and-dagger for?” Hunsicker asked, some of the good-ole-boy charm disappearing from his voice. “We could have just gone out for a friendly meal.”

“Jenn.”

“I kinda figured it was about her. That's why I agreed to go along with all this secrecy hoo-ha. I may be just an ole Texas shitkicker, but—”

Jesse laughed, shaking his head. “Hale, we need to be straight with each other. How many ole Texas shitkickers are Wharton MBAs?”

Now it was Hunsicker laughing. “Probably more than you'd think.” He stopped laughing or smiling. “Listen, Jesse, you're not thinking of trying to put a stop to the wedding, are you? Because if you are, don't waste your breath, son. I know who Jenn is. I know about her vanity and neediness. I knew about them in the first five minutes I spent talking to her. And unlike you, I'm the man for that. I'm the man to feed her vanity and take care of her needs. I also know about how you two are connected. There's nothing I can do about that. Don't want to, but don't tell me you're here to proclaim your everlasting love for her or anything like that. I've got no room for that, son. Not an inch of room for that.”

Jesse waited a few seconds to make sure Hunsicker had said his piece. He'd kept Hunsicker in the dark about the exact nature of their meeting, so it was no surprise to Jesse that the man had prepared some comments just in case.

“Hale, it's not like that. I want Jenn to be happy and everything I see and hear from you says you are what you claim: the man for the job.”

“Then what's going on?”

“For Jenn to be happy, we have to keep her alive.”

All the charm and friendly veneer slid right off Hunsicker's handsome face and in its place was the cold, angry stare opposing offensive linemen must have looked at across the line of scrimmage.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Hale's voice was an icy growl.

“It means I think someone is going to try to kill or abduct Jenn at your wedding.”

Hale tilted his head. “Someone?”

“Mr. Peepers,” Jesse said, feeling ridiculous.

Hunsicker's stare grew icier and meaner. He took a step toward Jesse. “Is this some kind of sick joke? 'Cause if it is, I'm severely unamused.”

“No joke, Hale.” Jesse reached into his sport jacket pocket and retrieved a photocopy of the picture Peepers had sent him. “Here.”

Hunsicker was confused. “This thing about a praying mantis, what's it mean?”

“That's why we're here, so I can explain.”

Hale held up his huge right palm. “Wait a second.” The big man strolled to the door, stuck his head out, and said, “Scott, come on in here a second.”

The kid who'd greeted Jesse in the reception area stepped into the office, a sly smile on his face.

“I don't think we need a lawyer in here,” Jesse said.

Hunsicker nodded. “Far as I'm concerned, I'd be happier without lawyers altogether, but Scott's no lawyer.”

Jesse frowned. “I thought you said you were a summer associate.”

“Sorry, sir,” the kid said, “but that was you.”

Hunsicker broke up the stalemate. “Jesse Stone, chief of the Paradise Police Department, meet Scott Kahan, my head of security.”

“Head of security? He looks about fifteen years old.”

Hale Hunsicker was laughing in spite of himself. Kahan stood ramrod straight, his hands clasped behind him. And in that instant, seeing the kid's pose, remembering the inflection in Kahan's voice when he'd called him
sir
, Jesse thought there was something vaguely military about Kahan . . . but only vaguely. There was something else about him Jesse hadn't seen before, something like what you see when you look into the eyes of a shark.

W
hen he rented the small corrugated-steel building in West Dallas, Jenn Stone was the only woman he had on his mind. Only Jenn. Jenn and how she would help him pay his debt to her ex-husband. That smile spread across his face again as he thought of the photo of Jenn he had sent to Chief Stone and the surprises he had in store for them both. If Jesse Stone only knew how close he had gotten to Jenn, how on any number of occasions he could have taken her or simply snuffed the life out of her. Yet he had developed an odd sort of affection for her.

It wasn't that unusual to know your targets in ways that even their lovers, priests, or parents never could or would want to, but he had never experienced “feelings” for any of his intended prey before this. He knew all sorts of things about Jenn, things he had learned when studying her in L.A. before she met Hunsicker and moved to Dallas. He knew the makeup she wore, the spa she went to for waxing, the dermatologist she used for her Botox treatments, the motels she used for trysts with her Pilates instructor.

He shook his head, thinking about Jenn's foolish insecurities. He knew all about those, too. She didn't love the Pilates instructor.
He was certain, in fact, she didn't even like him, but he was younger, much younger, and very good-looking. Good-looking in the way Jesse Stone was good-looking: dark, athletic, a little sullen. He was fascinated by Jenn's contradictions. She had been dating a wealthy TV producer at the time, not an unattractive man himself. Why, he wondered, would she risk everything for a man she could barely tolerate? She never looked pleased when she left Mr. Pilates and she always left the motel first. He was struck by the expression on her face as she made her way back to her car. He had taken many pictures of that expression, had stared at it for hours, contemplating the feelings behind it. And still, he could never work out its meaning. Was it boredom, guilt, or nausea? Was it all three? He found himself wondering about Jenn quite often.

He went to his duffel bag and fished out some of the photos he'd taken of her. He had hundreds of them. All sorts of photos featuring Jenn in all states of dress and undress, but he wasn't looking for the ones of her nude sunbathing or the ones of her and the TV producer making love poolside at his house in Benedict Canyon. No, he was looking for the motel shots, the ones where she had that jumbled expression on her face. But as he pulled out the stacks of neatly organized photos, there was a noise, a stirring from behind the temporary wall in the old factory building. He shoved the photos back into the duffel bag and went to see about the noise.

When he stepped around the wall, he remembered the other reason this building was perfect. He had rented it mostly to ensure his privacy and anonymity, but now he had even greater motivation to be left alone: the rude blonde. Before going out to apply for those other jobs and to further scout out the locations where Jenn's pre-wedding parties were being held, he'd dosed his victim with more of his special drug cocktail. Nude and gagged, she was strapped down
to an old workbench that had once been used for building furniture. He checked his watch and did the math. She'd be coming out of it soon. Not just yet, though.

He stood over her, watching her. She was perspiring heavily, and he wiped her down with some shop rags he found in a forgotten storage room. The perspiration was one of the side effects of the drugs. He'd seen it many, many times before and had to be alert to keep her hydrated if he wanted to keep her alive long enough to teach her about rudeness. But for now, he stood watching. Her eyeballs were moving furiously behind their lids, rolling, darting from side to side. Muscles twitching, her arms and legs straining against the straps. She was having one of those vivid dreams. What, he wondered, was she dreaming about? No matter what the dreams were inside their heads, their bodies all reacted this way, men and women alike. Some shared their dreams with him in hope of establishing a human bond.
As if.
Some held stubbornly on to their dreams, foolishly thinking that it gave them dignity and a small victory over him. In the end victory was always his. How many had died bargaining with him, offering up their false dignity as barter?

“I'll tell you now. I'll tell you my dreams.”

He wondered if anyone who contemplated their final utterances predicted their last words would be
I'll tell you my dreams.

He sometimes toyed with the idea of injecting himself to see what those dreams were like. He never did. How much more vivid could a dream be than this? The rude blonde's body went slack, her eyes no longer moving beneath their lids, her arms and legs no longer straining against the leather straps. This was the calm before the storm. They went limp for a few minutes before coming out of it. He enjoyed this aspect of things. When their eyes would flutter open and they began to drift away from the dream that had just seemed
so real to them into the reality of their situation. When the horror would come rushing back to them all at once and they would strain furiously against their straps.

He went back into the other room and got a water bottle from the little fridge he'd bought at a secondhand store in West Dallas. But as he headed back to the rude blonde, his eyes drifted over to the duffel bag and he thought of Jenn. He put the water down and retrieved those photos of her. He stared at her face. It was surely a less beautiful face than it had once been, but it had character like the faces of women in French paintings. He could hear the blonde coming out of it. Hear her writhing on the workbench, straining fiercely against her bindings. He heard her muffled screams for help mutate into sobbing. Yet he did not move, pinned in place by Jenn's expression, as the woman in the next room was by leather straps.