Robert B. Parker’s The Devil Wins

21

Jesse was stirring a good-night drink with his index finger, looking out the window and wondering why he’d moved out here, away from town, in the first place. He wasn’t a second-guesser by nature, but since last spring he’d occasionally found himself rethinking past decisions. Not regretting them. Not beating himself up over them, not exactly. But dissecting them, trying to follow how he’d reasoned them out. To see if he had actually reasoned them out at all or whether he had simply reacted.

He’d discussed it with Dix. Sometimes he hated bringing up new subjects with Dix because the man turned everything into a struggle. “What do you think it means?” There were moments when he swore he would strangle Dix if he asked him that again. But such was the nature of their relationship. Whenever a new topic came up, it was nearly impossible to get Dix to talk. Then it was impossible to shut him up. At least, that’s the way it felt. But it had been different when Jesse mentioned his recent bout of introspection. They seemed to have switched roles.

“How does it make you feel, questioning your decisions?” Dix asked.

“Uneasy.”

“Uneasy. Is that all you’ve got?”

“Uh-huh.”

“First you say you don’t know when I ask you what you think it means. Then this? Uneasy. That’s one word, Jesse. That’s terse, even for you.”

Jesse shrugged.

“One word and a shrug.”

“What do you want me to say?”

“C’mon, Jesse, have I ever answered that question?”

“There’s always a first time.”

“Indeed there is, like you walking in here and admitting to mulling over past decisions about something other than alcohol and Jenn.”

Jesse shrugged again.

“You feel uneasy,” Dix said. “Is it the introspection that leads to the unease or is it feeling uneasy that’s making you introspective?”

“I don’t know.”

“Yes you do. You know. There’s only one expert on Jesse Stone in this office and it isn’t me.”

Jesse said, “I think I’m feeling uneasy.”

“Good.”

“Good?”

“Discomfort means something is going on.”

“What?”

“Same answer as before. I can’t know what’s up, but my sense is that you’re changing.”

“Changing?”

“Isn’t that what you’re really talking about, Jesse, changing? Isn’t that why you come here?”

“Maybe.”

“When did you start this new pattern of behavior, this looking at your decisions?”

“Late last spring.”

“And what happened late last—”

But Dix never got to finish his question.

“Suit,” Jesse said.

“What about Suit?”

“You know the answer.” Jesse’s voice changed.

“I do, but I think you need to hear yourself say it.”

“Suit was shot. There.”

“You sound angry, Jesse.”

“Do I?”

“Very. Who are you angry at? At me? At the man who shot Suit?”

Jesse ignored the question. “I’ve had men killed under my command before.”

“But you’re not here talking about before or other men. What is it about Suit?”

Jesse hadn’t answered. He’d sat there in silence for the remainder of the session and he hadn’t gone back to see Dix for weeks. Even now, in the midst of a case where Dix’s insight and perspective would probably have been beneficial, Jesse hadn’t scheduled an appointment. Jesse hadn’t answered Dix that day, not because he didn’t know the answer. He knew the answer. He had known the answer before he ever walked into Dix’s office. He just didn’t want to admit it to himself, let alone say it aloud.

Jesse looked down at his drink and noticed the ice had completely melted. Before he could move to do something about it, his doorbell rang.