Fool Me Twice (17 page)

Jesse didn’t say anything.

“This is important to you,” she said.

“Apparently, although for the life of me, I can’t figure out why.”

“Strange how a thing grabs you.”

“I’d like for him to find some measure of redemption,” Jesse said. “A feeling that in the end, he had made a difference.”

“Even in the face of LaBrea and the gun?”

“Yes.”

“You’re an odd duck, Jesse Stone.”

He smiled.

They stood.

“Thanks for your consideration, Rita.”

They shook hands.

“It was nice to see you,” she said.

“Ditto.”

  51  

O
n his way back from Boston, Jesse stopped in at Paradise General Hospital. He found Frankie Greenberg’s new room. Her father, Hank, was seated next to her bed. She was still unconscious.

At Jesse’s suggestion, Hank joined him in the hallway.

“Any progress?”

“Dr. Lafferty said she appeared to be inching toward consciousness. He noticed some rapid eye movement, and when he was questioning her, her facial expressions kept changing. He was encouraged.”

“What’s next?”

“Continued progress, hopefully.”

“Do you need anything?”

“Thanks, no. They’re taking very good care of me here.”

“You’ll call me if there’s any change?”

“I will.”

The two men said their good-byes, and Jesse headed home.

—

J
esse found Healy’s car parked in front of the footbridge.

He crossed the bridge and walked around the house to the porch, where he found the captain dozing on the sofa, Mildred Memory asleep on his lap.

Healy’s eyes fluttered open when Jesse arrived.

“I thought I’d stop by on my way home,” he said. “See how you’re doin’.”

Jesse unlocked the porch doors and opened them.

“So how you doin’?”

“Scotch?”

“On the rocks.”

Jesse went inside and fixed two drinks. Healy stayed put, not wishing to disturb the cat.

Jesse returned, handed Healy his scotch, then sat down and took a sip of his own.

“The times, they are a-changin’,” Jesse said.

“Woody Guthrie?”

“Bob Dylan.”

“After my time,” Healy said.

“Most things are.”

“Your favorite person was asking about you.”

“And that would be?”

“Lucas Wellstein, of course. He thinks you might know the whereabouts of a certain Native American gentleman.”

“He’s still a person of interest?”

“To Lucas he is, yes.”

“He’s wrong.”

“Maybe, but he still thinks you may be withholding information.”

Jesse didn’t say anything.

“All that’s preventing him from pouncing on you is the fact that Ryan Rooney has disappeared also.”

“Maybe they’re together,” Jesse said.

“Try not to be cute, okay.”

“It’s hard for me not to be cute.”

“Do you know where he is?”

“Crow?”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Have you tried to find him?”

“No.”

“Would you? In the interests of cooperation with a federal agency.”

“I’ll take it under advisement.”

“You’re one incredible ballbuster.”

“Everyone says that.”

“And it’s no wonder.”

Healy took a sip of his scotch and stood, dislodging Mildred.

“You could at least try to take this a bit more seriously,” he said.

“Crow didn’t do it.”

Healy didn’t say anything.

“Ryan Rooney killed her.”

“I’m not doubting you.”

“Then what’s your point?”

“I’m a big fan of peace in the valley,” Healy said.

“Woody Guthrie?”

Healy stared at him.

“Maybe if you hummed a few bars,” Jesse said.

“I knew this was a mistake.”

“The scotch was good, though.”

“The scotch was excellent,” Healy said.

He took one last pull on his glass, looked around for a few moments, then stepped off the porch and headed for his car.

  52  

J
esse was at the station early the next morning. He flipped on the lights in his office, then poured himself a coffee.

Despite Molly’s critical glare, he grabbed a jelly donut and headed past her desk and back toward his office.

She followed him.

“Do you ever think about the consequences of filling your face with globs of saturated fat and cholesterol,” she said.

“Some day they’ll discover that donuts are actually good for you.”

He took a bite and chewed it slowly enough to gain her attention.

“Swallow it, will you. You’re making me nauseous.”

“You’re the one wandered in here uninvited. It’s my office, and I’ll eat what I choose in it.”

“Why are you doing it?”

“Doing what?”

“Wasting your time with that awful child.”

“You mean Courtney?”

“Yes.”

“I think she’s gotten a bum steer.”

Molly didn’t say anything.

“Her parents,” he said.

“What about them?”

“They’re the cause.”

“So you see her as a victim.”

“I do.”

“Which appeals to your hyperactive sense of responsibility?”

“I think I can help her.”

“Point made.”

“Maybe you’re right. Maybe she’s incorrigible. But just maybe she’s not.”

Molly didn’t say anything.

“She deserves a chance.”

“A chance at what?”

“At seeing the other side of the coin.”

“Which you’re planning to show her.”

“Yes.”

“And if you’re wrong?”

“At least I’ll have tried.”

Molly stared at him.

“Was there something else that you wanted,” he said.

She handed him the messages.

He thumbed through them.

“Dave Muntz called,” he said.

“That’s what the message says.”

Jesse looked at her and then dialed the number.

“This is David,” Muntz said.

“What’s up?”

“Craigslist.”

“What about it?”

“I called Craigslist.”

“And?”

“I asked about all of their real estate listings for this area during the last few months. Turns out that a Boston resident who owns a cabin in South Hamilton had it up for rent.”

“Okay.”

“It caught my attention because it was so close to Paradise, and because it was the only listing for the area. So I figured what the hell, and called the owner.”

“Okay.”

“He told me that he rented the cabin for a month.”

“Okay.”

“It’s rented.”

“Can you help me out a bit more, Dave. What in the fuck are you talking about?”

“According to the owner, the entire transaction was carried out on Craigslist.”

“So?”

“The renter listed his address as Beverly Hills, California. His check was drawn on a Beverly Hills bank. He picked up the keys from a prearranged post office box in Salem.”

Jesse didn’t say anything.

“The renter lists his name as Buddy Fairbanks.”

“Who’s Buddy Fairbanks?”

“Are you ready for this, Jesse?”

“Come on, Dave.”

“Buddy Fairbanks is the name of the character that Ryan Rooney played in
Tomorrow We Love
.”

“How do you know?”

“I looked it up.”

“Where’s the cabin?”

Muntz provided Jesse with the information.

“I’ll check it out,” Jesse said.

“I thought you might.”

“This is very good police work, Dave.”

“Thanks, Jesse.”

He hung up the phone and stared at Molly.

“Good news?”

“Maybe.”

“What are you gonna do?”

“Pay a visit to South Hamilton.”

“You’re not going to inform Agent Wellstein?”

“Not yet.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t like him.”

Molly shrugged.

“Never let it be said that maturity clouded your judgment,” she said.

She returned to her desk.

Jesse picked up the phone and dialed.

“What,” said the voice on the other end of the line.

“Bingo,” Jesse said.

  53  

J
esse dropped Crow off at a clearing in the woods, a mile or so from Ryan Rooney’s rented cabin.

Crow had never left Paradise. Since moving out of Marisol’s hotel, he had been living in a makeshift lean-to that he had carved into the sand dunes at North Beach. The cool fall weather ensured his privacy, and he had always been more comfortable living amidst nature than among people.

Jesse watched as Crow unloaded a few things from the trunk of his car. The only weapon he carried was his bowie knife.

“That’s it? A knife,” Jesse said.

Crow nodded.

“This guy is armed.”

“I’ll take my chances.”

“Cell phone?”

“Shirt pocket.”

“You’ll call me,” Jesse said.

Crow nodded.

“How do you say ‘Good luck’ in Apache,” Jesse said.

“Go get ’em, kemosabe.”

“I knew I shouldn’t have asked.”

The two men looked at each other.

“This means a lot to me, Jesse,” Crow said.

“Then try not to fuck it up,” Jesse said.

Crow smiled, then trotted off into the woods.

—

R
yan Rooney heard the sound of an approaching vehicle. The cabin was hidden deep enough in the woods that it was impossible to hear the highway traffic. Someone was definitely headed his way.

He peeked through the curtains at the front window. A police cruiser was inching its way toward the cabin.

As a preventive measure, Ryan had packed a duffel bag in case he had to make a quick getaway.

He grabbed the duffel, opened the kitchen door, and fled into the woods.

—

J
esse got out of the cruiser and approached the cabin. His Colt Commander automatic pistol was in his hand.

He knocked on the door.

There was no response.

“Police,” he said. “Please exit the premises with your hands in the air.”

Nothing happened.

He turned the doorknob. It was locked.

He walked the perimeter of the cabin. When he reached the back door, he tried the handle. It was unlocked. He went inside.

He carefully checked each room. The cabin was empty. He holstered his Colt and looked around, careful not to disturb anything, so that he wouldn’t leave a trail that might capture the attention of a CSI team.

The occupant was gone. He had left in a hurry.

The bed was unmade. There were unwashed dishes in the sink and uneaten food on the counter. A recently washed pair of Jockey shorts hung over the shower curtain rod.

Satisfied, he left the cabin by way of the kitchen. He wiped the doorknob of prints. He did the same with the front door. He returned to his cruiser.

He leaned back in his seat and settled himself for the wait.

He had brought a Thermos of coffee and a couple of sandwiches from Daisy’s. He lowered the cruiser’s windows, allowing the cool fall air in. He listened to the sounds of the forest and he breathed deeply.

Despite himself, he dozed off, awakening with a start by the intrusion of a strange noise.

Two squirrels were sitting on the hood of the cruiser, absorbing the warmth of the slow-cooling engine. They stared at him through the windshield.

He stared back.

Evidently they didn’t perceive him to be a threat.

The three of them stayed that way for a while.

—

T
he sound of Jesse’s cell phone alarmed the squirrels. They leapt from the hood of the cruiser and disappeared into the woods.

“It’s done,” Crow said.

“How will I find him?”

“The screaming should begin shortly.”

“The screaming?”

“Yes.”

“Where are you?”

“Just outside New Haven.”

“New Haven, Connecticut?”

“Yes.”

“That’s more than an hour from here.”

“It is.”

“How could you be in New Haven?”

“It took me five minutes to find him, ten more to prepare him, and then I left.”

“Prepare him,” Jesse said.

“Yes.”

Jesse didn’t say anything.

“Thanks to the miracle of modern chemistry, he’s sleeping like a baby right now, but he’ll be waking up real soon and real fast.”

“And you can’t tell me where he is?”

“I promise you’ll know within minutes.”

Jesse didn’t say anything.

“Wanishi,”
Crow said.

“Which means?”

“Good wishes to you, my friend,” Crow said, and ended the call.

Jesse stared out at the woods through the windshield.

Then the screaming began.

—

T
he screams led Jesse to a small clearing. Ryan Rooney was lying spread-eagle on the ground, his hands and feet tied to four posts that were firmly hammered into the hardened earth. He was screaming at the top of his lungs.

He was naked, and his body had been smeared with what appeared to be honey. Red ants swarmed all over him, and angry welts were already visible beneath the honey glaze.

When Rooney spotted Jesse, he screamed, “Help me.”

Jesse knelt down beside him.

“Ryan Rooney,” he said.

“Get them off of me,” Ryan screamed.

“You’re Ryan Rooney?”

“Yes. Yes, for crissakes. I’m Ryan Rooney.”

“I’m charging you with the murder of Marisol Hinton.”

Rooney screamed louder.

“Get me out of this.”

Jesse looked at him for several moments. Then he grabbed his cell phone and punched in a number.

“Paradise police,” Molly said.

“I’ve got him. Call out the reserves.”

After telling her how to find him, he hung up.

Jesse released Rooney from his bindings and got him on his feet. Rooney tried to brush the ants away, but they clung to his skin, bound by the honey. He was still screaming when Jesse read him his rights.