Robert B. Parker's Debt to Pay (13 page)

B
elinda June Yankton's blue eyes snapped wide open, but she knew where she was. She was long over wishing or hoping that the next time would be different, that she would wake up in her bed, the sheets cool against her brown skin, happily sore from sex, the smell of eggs, frying bacon, and fresh-ground coffee beans filling up her head. She did sometimes find herself hoping her dreams would never end. Her dreams had never meant so much to her before, nor had they seemed so very real. Dreams had come to be where she did her real living these days.

Just before opening her eyes, she had been snorkeling above a coral reef. The water was so clear that if she turned to look up at the surface she could make out individual flames on the face of the sun. Its warmth reached through the light teal tint of the world, surrounding her like her daddy's arms. But it had been the fishes that captured her attention. There were thousands of them, millions of them in all shapes and sizes. And their eyes were not passive fish eyes, cold and unfeeling. Some of them, the little silvery ones with the iridescent skins and rainbow speckles, had black eyelashes, long and fluttery. Some, the big blue-skinned tunas, had lips and spoke
to her, not in words but in thoughts. They asked a lot of questions, tunas did. She had answered them as best she could. Then she was out of the teal water and in the world of her own foul-smelling sweat.

She had come to accept that whatever remained of her life would be lived out strapped to a workbench, suffering through bouts of the chills as she came out of her dreams. The first few weeks when she'd awaken like this, the horror of her situation would come rushing back in so that it took her breath away and she'd break down. That had passed: the crying and choking into her gag, the begging and bargaining. He had told her he would teach her things about herself that she didn't know she was capable of. He was right about that. About a week ago, after he'd washed her down and loosened her gag, she had offered herself to him.

He just snickered and said, “They always do that, offer themselves to me.”

He said that phrase a lot, not the last part. The first part.
They always say that. They always do that.
She didn't like thinking about how many times he had done this sort of thing before.

Then he re-fixed her gag and stroked her hair. She hated herself for it, but she had come to like it when he stroked her hair. It made her feel human. It was something to hang on to. It gave her hope that he connected to her somehow. She might as well have wished for the talking tuna to be real. The only time he seemed even vaguely human was when she'd said she was sorry for spilling his beer in his lap. That opaque look in his eyes cleared and the perpetual smirk vanished from his face.

“You know,” he said, “I think you actually mean it.”

She did.

That was last week. Maybe not. It might've been yesterday. She had lost track of time. When you're strapped to a table like she was
and likely to be tortured to death, losing time is a way to keep the little bits of sanity left to you. She knew she had been there for many weeks, at least. That was all she was sure of. He had been drugging her constantly of late, which was fine with her, but it completely discombobulated her and sometimes she felt she had lost whole days to unconsciousness.

She lifted her head off the table and reflexively tried to stretch the weariness out of her arms. It was ridiculous, of course, restrained as she was. But it was easier for her to accept her plight than for her reflexes. Only this time there was some give when she pulled her right arm toward her chest. At first, after feeling the give in the strap, she lay absolutely still, listening for signs of him. Nothing. Only the buzz of traffic, which had become the droning soundtrack to her captivity. Then she yanked her right arm again. More give. She girded herself, focused every ounce of strength and energy she had left into her right hand and arm. She counted to herself.
One. Two. Three.

Her right arm was free, snapping forward so hard her hand slammed into her chest. She held her hand up and studied the frayed end of the leather strap. It must have torn from her weeks and weeks of pulling against it and it rubbing against a sharp edge. She gathered herself, then twisted her body so she could use her right hand to undo the left-hand restraint. After about an hour, she was free, but spent. He had kept her hydrated and fed her a protein bar or two a day, but she was weak and she collapsed to the concrete floor when she tried standing. She could not afford to wait and gather herself again. She had to get out of there before he got back.

By the time she rolled out the front door, her knees, forearms, shins, and elbows were raw and bloodied, but she barely felt the pain. It was bright and kiln-hot. The street she was on was deserted
and dimly lit. She crawled across the burning-hot pavement to the opposite side of the street, then pulled herself to her feet. She needed to get her bearings, to get some sense of where she was and where she could go. And when she steadied herself as best she could on legs wobbly as a newborn calf's, she recognized a landmark in the near distance. It was hard to miss its huge, white tubular arch jutting up four hundred feet into the pale blue Texas sky and its splayed mass of taut cables giving the impression of an otherworldly stringed instrument. The Margaret Hunt Hill Bridge or, as everyone in town called it, Large Marge. It was no more than a mile away. She'd always thought it a hideous-looking thing, but at just that moment it was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. She fell to her knees and wept.

W
hen Jesse Stone got back to the station, he stopped at the desk to ask Alisha if he'd missed anything. As she opened her mouth to answer, Jesse interrupted, pointing at the large brown envelope in front of her.

“Is that for me?”

“It is. How did you—”

“Who delivered it?”

She shrugged. “A messenger.”

“Did he make you sign something? Did he give you a receipt?”

“No. He just said this was for you and to make sure you got it.”

“What did he look like?”

“I'm sorry, Jesse, I was taking a call and I really wasn't paying attention.”

“White, African American, Asian, Hisp—”

“White,” she said, “late thirties, I think. On the small side, but I couldn't swear to it. Glasses, maybe. That's all I can remember. I was paying more attention to the woman on the phone. I guess he was kind of nondescript.”

Jesse's throat went dry. “That's okay. Did you hear a car pull up in front before he came in?”

“Come to think of it, I did. I heard brakes squeal, like they needed new pads. He left it running.”

“Could you tell anything about it, from the sound of the engine?”

“Small car. A Honda, maybe.” She shrugged again. “I don't know. I can't be sure.”

“How long ago?”

“I'm surprised you didn't run into him outside.”

“Okay,” Jesse said, about-facing, “get on the horn to everyone on patrol and give them as much of a description of him and the car as you can. I want him picked up for questioning. He may be armed and dangerous, but maybe not. He may be what you said he was, a messenger. Emphasize nonlethal force and firing only if fired upon. I want to know if anyone spots him. And treat that envelope like evidence. Bag it and put it in the locker until I get back.”

Jesse was out of the station and in his Explorer. He wasn't sure where he was going, but at least he had some idea of who and what he was looking for. This was all so reminiscent of how Peepers had had the photo of Jenn delivered after their first confrontation. That time Molly was at the desk when the messenger delivered the envelope and it was Molly who'd handed it to Jesse. He remembered going cold inside when he saw the message written on the back:
Do you ask a praying mantis why?
It was a reference to the one conversation Jesse had had with Peepers. It was just before Suit got shot. Jesse had asked Peepers why he enjoyed inflicting pain.

“Do you ask a praying mantis why?” was what he'd said.

That response alone was enough to put a scare into most people. It had certainly given Jesse pause. And when Jesse saw it written on
the back of the photo of Jenn, he didn't hesitate before calling Jenn's phone. But when she picked up, he hadn't known what to say.
Watch out, there's a psycho killer following you around and it's my fault. Lock yourself in a room and don't come out until I tell you. Hire a bodyguard.
In the end, he figured the best way to keep his ex-wife safe was to keep his distance from her.

Since Jesse assumed the messenger, whether it was really Peepers or not, wanted to get out of town as fast as he could, he drove the most direct route away from the station to the highway. He didn't speed more than a little and didn't use his portable cherry top. He couldn't afford to spook the man he was looking for. He didn't want to give him a reason to run. After he listened to Alisha alert the patrol cars as he'd ordered her to, he got on the mic and told them to ride along the most traveled routes out of town.

“No lights and sirens unless he runs,” he said. “We don't want any citizens caught up in this. First thing you do if he runs is get on the horn and report your position and where he's headed.”

It didn't take long before someone was on the radio. It was Suit.

“I've got eyes on,” he said. “White, 1991 Nissan Sentra, Mass tag number: four two one, X-ray one tango. He's proceeding north along Old Main Street, turning west onto Dock Road. I'm far enough back that I don't think he sees me.”

“I'm close,” Jesse said. “He's heading to the Swap and then—”

Then Suit shouted, “He's running. Just hit his gas and turned the wrong way north on Amherst.”

Jesse heard Suit's siren pierce the late-morning quiet.

“Stay in pursuit, but don't try to overtake him,” Jesse said. “I will head him off at Whaler and force him down Trench Alley. All other cars, block off access to the highway.”

Jesse reached around behind him to the backseat and retrieved
his seldom-used cherry top. He stuck it on the roof of his Explorer and hit the siren. With the tourists gone and the kids back in school, traffic was light. He floored the SUV and raced up past where Suit was chasing the suspect. Jesse wasn't sure whether his engine was revving higher than his heart rate. All he could think about was putting an end to it here, stopping Peepers before he got a chance to get at Jenn. If they could capture him now, everyone would be safe: Suit, Healy, Molly, Diana. They would all be able to breathe again. The last several weeks had been a hellish limbo for them all.

“Where is he now, Suit?”

“On Welby, heading toward Millstone.”

Jesse swung a hard left onto Millstone. Just as he hit the intersection of Welby and Millstone, he saw the white Sentra heading right at his driver's-side door, Suit's cruiser four car lengths behind it. The little Nissan swerved left into Trench Alley, its tires smoking and rear end fishtailing as it went. The acrid stink of burning rubber came up through the Explorer's air vents, but Jesse smiled. They had him penned in now. Trench Alley dead-ended at Sawtooth Creek. Jesse looked in his rearview, and when he saw Suit fall in behind him, he gave the thumbs-up sign in the rearview. Then things went sideways.

W
hile Jesse was still looking in his rearview mirror, something hit his front windshield and sent bits of safety glass flying into the cabin. After reflexively turning away, Jesse saw the hole in the glass and the spiderweb of cracks spreading out from it.

“Suit,” he said into his mic, “he just fired at me. He put one through my windshield, but we want him alive.”

“Are you sure about that, Jesse?”

“No, but it's what we're going to—”

Jesse didn't finish the sentence because a second bullet went through his sideview mirror. He was tempted to return fire, but he knew that it was much easier in the movies than it was in real life. It was difficult enough to hit a stationary target when you yourself were stationary. Hitting a moving target from a moving vehicle while your arm was bouncing and you were full of adrenaline was a scenario unlikely to produce the desired result. Jesse didn't want bullets ricocheting off brick or concrete. He didn't want stray bullets going through windows or doors or through the bodies of innocent pedestrians.

Instead of returning fire, Jesse hit the gas pedal harder, surging
forward, coming right up on the Sentra's bumper and ramming it. But if Jesse thought the Sentra would slow up or that the guy behind the wheel would stop shooting and surrender, he was wrong. The Sentra's back window blew out and a storm of buckshot pellets tore into the Explorer's front grille. Steam poured out of the front of the old SUV. The Sentra sped up, the driver yanking left on his steering wheel, trying to make an impossible turn into a narrow alley between a body shop and the two gas pumps used by the local cab companies and limo services to fuel up their fleets. The Sentra didn't make it.

When the front driver's-side tire hit the curb, the little Nissan wobbled, tipped onto two wheels, then flipped over, skidding on its roof toward the gas pumps. Jesse jammed on his brakes. Suit jammed on his in turn. They both watched helplessly as the Sentra slammed into the pumps, one of which was being used to fill up an airport shuttle van. When the van driver saw what was happening he took off, just clearing the pumps when the Sentra hit. At first the fire was small, but intense. Jesse and Suit were out of their vehicles, running, their sidearms drawn.

“I called it in,” Suit said.

“You get everybody out of there and then the body shop. I'll get the suspect.”

“But it's—”

“That's an order! And don't approach the car unless I give you the go-ahead. He's heavily armed. Fired a handgun and a shotgun at me.”

Suit did as he was told and detoured into the garage area. Jesse went straight to the Sentra. He put his nine-millimeter at his side, because even at thirty feet, he could see this would end badly for whoever was at the wheel of the Sentra. How badly depended on how quickly the fire spread. The roof of the car had withstood the
impact pretty well, crushing down only slightly after flipping over. The driver was a bloody, twisted mess. He hadn't worn his seat belt and the airbag hadn't deployed. And because the car was upside down, the driver's body slumped on top of his head, his neck at an angle that most living humans could never have achieved.

Jesse had seen a lot of dead bodies in his time, enough to know that the driver was no longer among the living. It was still important to get to his body, to retrieve as much evidence as possible, and to discover who this guy was. Jesse wasn't big on prayer, but as he approached the car he found himself quietly muttering the outlines of a deal between himself and the Almighty. The heat was already nearly unbearable. Jesse tugged on the door handle, to no avail. He tried it again, harder, with the same result. Then he got as firm a grip on the door as he could, pressed his feet against the rear door, and pulled with all of his might. No good. With the weight of the car pressing down on the door, it was locked in place. He tried the back door. Same thing.

He became aware that his lungs were burning and that the air surrounding him was oven hot. The chemical stench of burning synthetics, melting plastic, and spilled gasoline filled his nose. Sirens, which only a second before seemed as distant as his ruined baseball career, now screamed in his ears so that he could hear nothing else. He became aware of people streaming out of the garage, running for cover. He turned toward the body shop and saw a blur of blue-coveralled men spilling out onto the street, one of them tripping as he went. Jesse stood and ran, too.

As he did, he spotted something on the ground near where the Sentra had hit the curb by the body shop. It had a familiar shape, the shape of a gun, an automatic. Jesse didn't want to pick it up with an ungloved hand, but there weren't many options and there was even
less time. He kicked it forward, hopefully not hard enough to flip over. He needed to keep at least one side of the grip unscratched. It slid beneath the rear end of his Explorer just as a fire truck screeched to a halt behind it. Even as he ran he cringed at the thought of the pistol crushed under the weight of the fire truck.

Then there was a second of stillness and quiet the likes of which Jesse had never experienced before. It wasn't that the world slowed down or turned on its side, not exactly. It was more like a brief moment of clarity. There was the chaos before him, the fire behind him, and a piece of the world that was his and his alone. Suddenly, that piece of the world exploded in a roar and blast of heat that blew his blue PPD baseball cap off his head and knocked him completely off his feet.

The next thing he knew, Suit and Robbie Wilson were dragging him by the arms, the toes of his shoes and the knees of his pants scraping along the pavement. Then he was sitting on the back bumper of an ambulance, an oxygen mask on his face. Robbie Wilson was gone, but Suit was there, as was an EMT. He was a big kid, Tommy Simonetti, whom Jesse had known since he was in junior high.

“You'll be all right, Chief,” Tommy said. “You're not burned and you don't check out as having a concussion.”

But Jesse was barely paying attention to Simonetti. He was paying far more attention to the question in Suit Simpson's eyes. It was the same question going round and round in his own head: Was that Peepers in there? He hoped for everyone's sake that it was and that there'd be enough of him left so they could be sure.