Robert B. Parker’s The Devil Wins

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Jesse had always been the wild card, the one person in this mess whom he had worried about from the start. Now, as he worked his way through the woods that covered the northern approach to Jesse’s property, he knew he had been right to worry. Everything he’d done since Zevon had shown back up in Paradise was to throw suspicion away from himself and aim it squarely at Alexio and John. Yet in spite of the hoops he’d jumped through and the incredible risks he’d taken to throw Jesse off his scent, Jesse had almost gotten it right. Almost. He’d just picked the wrong suspect.

Kneeling at the edge of the woods to collect himself before he had to cross the little clearing between the woods and the footbridge that led to Jesse’s house, he laughed to himself. To think that idiot Hasty Hathaway had hired Jesse because he thought Jesse was an easily manipulated, incompetent drunk. As he took deep, slow breaths to calm himself, he went back over the steps he’d taken since he’d left the station house. He wanted to make sure he hadn’t done anything to give himself away, because once he crossed the footbridge and killed Jameson, there would be no going back.

No, he thought, he had been careful, even more careful than usual. He had hurried back to the office and borrowed one of his junior agents’ cars so that Molly wouldn’t spot his big white Infiniti in her rearview mirror. The agent was only too happy to swap her ten-year-old Chevy Malibu for the boss’s SUV for the night. He had hung far back, following Molly as she went from the sandwich shop to the market. And then when she left the market, he kept so far behind her that he nearly lost her a few times in the falling darkness. Then, when it was obvious to him Molly was headed to Jesse’s house, he turned himself around. He’d gone back to the office and made noises about having a late appointment with a client in Boston. After that, he’d gone home, told his family the same story about a late appointment in Boston, and sent them out for dinner.

When he was sure they were gone, he went down to the basement and got his classic Mauser K98 bolt-action with scope from the gun safe. If he got lucky, he’d be able to get a clean shot at Jameson through one of Jesse’s windows at a reasonable distance. But because of how Jesse’s house was situated with all the woods and water, he couldn’t count on it. So he took out his cheap Cobra 32 that he’d picked up in the parking lot of a gun show in Tennessee years back. It was basically untraceable. He ejected the clip and thumbed the ammo out of the clip. He put on a pair of latex gloves, reloaded the clip with fresh ammo, wiped down the clip, and wiped down the gun. He loaded the Malibu with the rifle, the pistol, a knife, his hunting camo, and boots. When he was sure he had everything he might need, he took off.

He hadn’t headed directly over to Jesse’s place. That would have been careless, even reckless. No, first he rode back into town, past the police station, to make sure Jesse’s Explorer was gone. He’d dropped by the firehouse to see if Robbie Wilson was around. Wilson’s silly red Jeep was nowhere in sight, but that didn’t mean he was headed to Helton.

“Sorry, Mr. Marchand,” said the young volunteer on duty. “Chief said he wouldn’t be available at all tonight.”

It was only then that the selectman headed out to Jesse’s place.

Just as he anticipated, he couldn’t get a clear rifle shot at Jameson. Although he could see lights on in two rooms in the house, all the shades and blinds were drawn. Fucking Jesse! He’d made Jameson take precautions, just in case. He could make out flickering from the TV and Jameson’s shadow in the living room, but not clearly enough to risk a shot. If he missed, Jameson would be on the phone and the cops would be there before he could get back to the Malibu, which was hidden in some brush about a quarter-mile back up the road where he’d changed into his camo and boots. Unfortunately, he was going to have to get in close for this. Maybe as close as he had been all those years ago on Stiles Island.

He checked his watch. Laid the Mauser up against a tree. No sense lugging the rifle around with him. It would only slow him down and get in the way. He’d just pick it up on his way back to the car. One thing was working in his favor. Jameson liked the TV volume turned up high. It was so loud that Marchand could almost make out what show Jameson was watching. Still, Marchand was careful as he crossed the little footbridge across the pond. There were no cars in the driveway. Good. He went to the opposite side of the house, away from the living room, away from where Jameson was watching TV, and moved along the gravel path so as not to leave boot prints. There were no cars around back. Better.

Marchand was sweating pretty intensely and his mouth was dry. It seemed his heart was nearly as loud as the TV, but he didn’t mind this feeling. He was at his best when stressed to the max. It was that way on the basketball court, in business, in politics, and in murder. He had killed three times now and, though he didn’t like admitting it, it got easier each time. If it were only Alexio and John who had killed the girls, Marchand thought, they would have been caught before they got off the island. Without him they would have been lost. It was his quick thinking that had saved their asses. Now the time had come to finish saving his own.

He had decided to do it quickly. To break the back door’s glass, open the lock, and charge into the living room before Jameson could react. He’d empty his clip into Jameson, ransack the place, steal something of value, and get out. Poor Jameson. Wrong place, wrong time. If only the thief had known this was the police chief’s house... Marchand removed his boots, slipped on his shooting gloves, and racked the Cobra’s slide. He put in his ear protection and took one last deep breath before elbowing through the little glass pane nearest the door handle. Then it all came in a rush. The glass was broken. His hand was undoing the lock. He was through the door, out of the kitchen, past the dining room, and into the living room.

Perfect. The TV was blaring and Jameson was buried under covers, asleep on the couch.

Marchand aimed and fired. He kept firing until the clip was empty and the Cobra’s slide locked. The room stank of hot metal and gunpowder. Smoke hung in the air like Jameson’s ghost. With his work done, Marchand removed his earplugs and yanked the TV’s plug out of the socket. The room was deadly quiet. Marchand turned to go upstairs to see what valuables of Jesse’s he could take, but he got the sense that something wasn’t right. He stood dead still and listened. When he heard the hammer click back, he knew what it was.