Robert B. Parker’s the Hangman’s Sonnet

4

There were probably places Jesse wanted to be even less than here, but he just couldn’t think of any at the moment. When he pulled his new Ford Explorer into the church parking lot and took his hands off the wheel, he noticed they were shaking worse than they had been when Bascom, White, and Bella were in his office, or earlier when he’d been standing before his steam-clouded bathroom mirror. Then he’d been studying the three-day growth of salt-and-pepper stubble along his angular jawline and square chin and the taut skin of his still-handsome face. He ran his fingers through his thick hair, found the gray creeping in there, too. He’d looked everywhere in the mirror except directly into his own eyes, because all he saw there was condemnation.

Stepping out of the black SUV, Jesse ignored the brilliant sun in the flawless, achingly blue skies above Paradise. Somewhere, a part of him recognized it was a perfect day for a wedding, but it was a muted, distant part of him, a part that ached nearly as much as the skies. He shoved his hands into his tuxedo pants pockets as he walked, not because he didn’t want to see them shaking, but because he didn’t want anyone else to see. He had the rings in his right jacket pocket. He’d checked before leaving the station house. Twice since. Jesse Stone had rarely dropped ground balls hit at him a hundred miles an hour on iffy minor-league infields, so he knew he could handle giving the preacher two wedding bands without making an error.

As skilled as Jesse had been at narrowing his focus to a laser point, at shutting out crowd noise or chatter from the opposing catcher, at ignoring competing theories about a crime, he had taken it to a whole new level. For the past several months, since witnessing the love of his life murdered right in front of him, Jesse had pared his existence down to three stark essentials: grief, regret, and Johnnie Walker Black. They had become like a noose around his neck to the exclusion of everything else, including his job as police chief.

He had done this dance once before, in L.A., after Jenn had cheated on him. It had cost him old friendships and the trust and respect of his peers, and, in the end, it cost him his detective’s shield. That inaugural dance with scotch and regret was what landed him in Paradise to begin with. So far, mostly due to goodwill, sympathy, and a fair stretch of crimelessness in town, Jesse had avoided paying a price heavier than a hangover for his behavior. Molly, Suit, Peter, Gabe, Alisha, and just about everyone connected to the PPD had done their fair share of ass-covering for Jesse since Diana’s murder. Yet his recent lack of diligence hadn’t gone unnoticed by the Board of Selectmen or Mayor Walker. He had been warned in no uncertain terms to either clean up his act or be put on forced sick leave.

But it wasn’t the warnings from the selectmen or the mayor that had temporarily shut the Johnnie Walker spigot on him. It was Molly Crane who’d done that. On Thursday night she’d locked Jesse’s office door behind her.

“What is it, Molly?” he’d asked.

Though he didn’t look up at her when she entered his office, Molly knew Jesse was annoyed at her. After more than a decade together, she had learned to read the subtleties in his voice and his body language. She’d had to learn. Jesse wasn’t a man to give much away, not about what he was thinking. Certainly not about what he was feeling. Just lately, though, there wasn’t much mystery to what he was thinking or feeling. And the open bottle of Black Label on Jesse’s desk cleared up any questions anyone might’ve had about his state of mind.

“Look at me, Jesse Stone.”

He didn’t, repeating the question. “What is it, Molly?”

“It’s about Saturday.”

Jesse finally looked up from his glass. “What about Saturday?”

“Listen to me, Jesse. Saturday will be the most important day in Suit’s life and you’re the most important man in his life. Don’t you dare show up at the church drunk and don’t you dare disappoint Suit.”

“Who the hell do you think you’re talking to?”

“That’s a good question. Who am I talking to? It’s hard to know these days.”

He seemed about ready to explode, but said nothing. Molly walked over by his desk, grabbed the smooth rectangular bottle, capped it, and moved back toward the office door.

“Give the wallowing a rest for a few days,” she said. “You owe Suit that much. You want to drink yourself to death or lose your job, fine, but on Saturday you need to act the part of the best man.”

And that was that. Self-control wasn’t usually an issue for Jesse, not even when it came to alcohol. He could go months without it. Had gone months without it. But as Dix had said to him, it was no more than a game he played with himself. It was like holding his breath. No matter how long he held it, he was bound to breathe again. And what did holding your breath ever prove? Problem was, Jesse didn’t care about proving anything to anyone, not anymore. Still, Molly was right, he owed Suit a lot, and Jesse Stone paid his debts.

He walked around to the front of the old white church, its clapboards and pews said to have been cut from the same trees that went into the keels and strapping of the whaling vessels built in New Bedford, Mass. Jesse had always been skeptical of the claims linking Paradise to a whaling past, but he wasn’t thinking about that now. What he was thinking about was a dive into the deep end of a scotch-filled pool. He patted his jacket pocket once again and, feeling the rings, pulled back one of the church doors.