Robert B. Parker’s The Devil Wins

80

Jameson had been moved out of ICU and was in a private room on the second floor. Jesse got the room number easily enough. He didn’t bother getting the doctor’s permission. When Jesse knocked and walked into the room, Jameson was in bed, his head turned to the right, eyes transfixed by the big, lazy snowflakes falling outside the window.

“Haven’t seen snowfall since Afghanistan,” Jameson said, not turning to look at Jesse. “I’ve seen snow. Seen a lot of it up in the mountains and a lot of snow on my way here, but none of it falling.”

“That where you got wounded, Afghanistan?”

“Yes, sir. IED exploded right under our vehicle. Blew Bobby G’s legs clean off. I was the lucky one. Only sometimes I guess I don’t feel so lucky, sir.”

Jesse walked to the bed and pulled up a chair. He didn’t want to loom over Jameson. Jameson turned finally to look at his visitor.

Jesse offered his hand. “I’m Jesse Stone, the police chief. I’d like it if you could call me Jesse.”

Jameson reached across his body and shook Jesse’s hand. “Corporal Drew Allen Jameson, sir.”

Jesse didn’t correct him. “How you feeling, Corporal?”

“Headache that won’t quit, but otherwise intact, sir. How is that fella that drove me here? I don’t recall what happened but the doctor told me he saved my life. Will you thank him for me, sir?”

“Officer Simpson is fine. Just a little banged up. And you can thank him in person in a day or two.”

Jameson had already moved on. “Is this really Warren Z’s hometown?”

“It is. Paradise, Mass.”

“Warren was real torn up about this place. Said he left his heart and soul here. Said he wanted to come back to get a piece of both of them back if he could.”

“Do you know what he meant by that, Drew?”

“Been a long time since someone called me by my first name, sir.” Jameson turned back to watch the snowflakes. “Warren said he wanted to come home to see Molly again, not to talk to her or nothing like that. He just wanted to see her again. He left her picture with me for safekeeping. I could understand why he would want to come back to see her. Warren used to talk about her all the time. Said she was pretty, but that wasn’t it. She was special. She was his heart.”

“Yes, she is special,” Jesse said involuntarily. “What about his soul?”

“Said that he lost it at nineteen and didn’t find it again till God found him in the desert.”

Jesse didn’t want to push Jameson, so he just let him talk.

“We met back in Arizona, Warren and me. We was both working for an adobe brick and clay tile company outside of Tucson. You know what adobe is, sir?”

“I grew up in Tucson.”

Jameson smiled at hearing that.

“It’s hard work out in the sun for not much money. Warren and me, though, we liked it. We weren’t neither of us much for other people’s company, but we had things that held us together.”

“Like heroin?”

“Yes, sir,” Jameson said in a whisper. “That and pain. That’s what the two-headed rattler is for on our tats, sir, our two demons: drugs and pain. But when God found Warren and when Warren helped me find God, we fought those demons off together. That’s what the cross is for, for Our Savior’s grace. Warren drew the design out on a piece of paper and we went down to this Mexican gal in Nogales and she did them up perfectly on Warren and me. Cost us each three days’ pay, but we didn’t care.”

“You said Warren came back to reclaim a part of his soul. How was he going to do that?”

“By introducing his friend to Our Savior and by confession of their sins.”

“Did Warren say who that friend was or why his friend needed saving?”

“Wouldn’t never tell me who, sir. Not that I didn’t ask. I did, but Warren said that would be another betrayal and that too many folks had already been betrayed and too much blood spilled.”

“But he did tell you why?”

Jameson nodded. “He did. Said this friend had done a terrible thing and confessed it to him one summer when they was drunk. Keeping that confidence had ruined Warren’s life. It was a cross too heavy for him to bear, tore him all up inside. I know how that is, sir, getting all torn up inside and out.”

“Did he ever get more specific than that?”

“Said this friend told him that he and two other friends had done murder and—”

Jesse kept his voice and demeanor calm, but his mind was racing. “Drew, are you sure that this guy told Warren that there were three of them?”

“I may be half the man I once was, sir, but I recollect that perfectly. This friend had told Warren that it was him and two friends.”

“There were three of them, but he never used names.”

“No, sir. No names. Warren always said his sin of omission, that’s what he called it, was his alone to suffer. Warren didn’t talk much, but when he did his words said a lot. He said that sharing details would infect me with the sin and he wouldn’t do that.”

“Did he ever give you any details of the murders? Maybe who the victims were?”

“No, sir. Warren said it was for my own protection, but after we talked about it we would always pray on it.”

“And when you saw the pictures of the tattoo on TV, you came east?”

“It was the least I could do, sir.”

Jesse was about to reach out his hand to say good-bye to Jameson, when it struck him that Javier Baez had never been more right. The answer was right in front of him. “You up for getting out of here, Drew?”

Jameson’s face lit up. “You bet.”

“Your head ache?”

“I’ve handled worse, sir. Much worse.”

“I don’t doubt it, Corporal,” Jesse said, handing Jameson his ratty clothes. “I’ve got some calls to make.”