The Bitterest Pill

Forty-nine

After his AA meeting that night in Salem, Jesse drove over to Maryglenn’s apartment above the warehouse. Although he was pretty much consumed with the drug dealing in town and finding Chris Grimm, Maryglenn’s reaction to his show at the high school had gnawed at him all day. It didn’t matter that Jesse didn’t see Maryglenn as his next great love. He wasn’t sure what they would ever be. What counted was that Jesse Stone was a changed man.

The old Jesse would have kept it to himself, would have let it fester. Or he would have gone home and polished off half a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black. If he discussed it at all, it wouldn’t have been with Maryglenn, but with his poster of Ozzie Smith. It had been a pattern that had persisted in spite of his years of therapy with Dix, in spite of breaking free of the destructive pas de deux he had done with Jenn, his ex. His relationship with Diana had helped open him up a little, but it was going through rehab and attending the AA meetings that allowed him to see how the old behaviors had been a trap.

He parked the Explorer and walked down Newton Alley. There was no parking on the alley, a narrow street that housed many of Paradise’s art galleries. As Jesse walked down the dimly lit, quiet street, he smelled the salt sea air blowing in off the Atlantic and listened to the wind rattling clapboards and whistling through the gaps between the buildings. He also listened to his thoughts, remembering how the white supremacists’ insane plan for a race war had begun with a murder here in Newton Alley, just a few feet from Maryglenn’s door, and how it had led to him meeting Maryglenn. Before stepping to the door, he stopped on the spot where the murder had occurred. He hesitated for only a moment and then pressed the buzzer.

She paced the motel carpeting again. Though she had done more with her hair and makeup tonight. Instead of wearing the robe, she dressed up for the girl. She wore leather and lace, her black stilettos. Wore the raw perfume that she had been told highlighted her own scent. Yet in spite of all she had done to seduce and manipulate Petra, she somehow knew that it was all going to fall apart. She had already spoken to Arakel Sarkassian and warned him that the girl was a risk.

“And before you start threatening me,” she’d said to Sarkassian, “know that this girl isn’t like Chris. You can’t just be rid of her. Her father is rich and powerful. If she wants out, we have to let her go. I will keep her under control as far as the cops go.”

“What about the cops there?” Sarkassian asked.

“Jesse...” She stopped, catching herself. “Jesse Stone, the chief, is very determined. He was once a homicide detective in L.A. He’s a serious man.”

Sarkassian had been silent for a moment and then said, “Yes, okay, let the girl go if you must, and do whatever it takes to keep her quiet.”

She wasn’t stupid. Even if Arakel hadn’t said it, she understood that if Petra refused to carry on and he decided to cut his losses in Paradise, she would also be cut out of the picture. And if she was no longer important to Sarkassian, her supply would dry up. She heard a car pull into the spot in front of the room. She peeked through the curtains and saw Petra getting out of her BMW.

Jesse pressed the buzzer for a third time, but there was no response. He stepped back and looked up at the one window that faced Newton Alley from Maryglenn’s apartment. It was only a small bathroom window, and it was dark. He was disappointed, not angry. He figured he’d try to call her and see where she was. If he got her on the phone and she was close by, he thought he might be able to join her and they could have that talk. His call went straight to voicemail. He left a message.

She saw the look on Petra’s face and knew she was right. The girl was going to back out. Inside, she was sick, her guts tying themselves into knots, tightening by the second, panicking about how she would stay healthy if Arakel cut her out. When she tried to kiss the girl, Petra turned away. When she reached out for the girl to stroke her hair, the girl pushed her hand away. Tears poured out of Petra’s eyes.

“I... I can’t do this. I’m so scared all the time. I can’t sleep.”

“This?”

“The pills and the heroin. I can’t. Please don’t make me do this anymore. Don’t hate me.”

She stepped in close to the girl and kissed her forehead. “I could never hate you, lover. Never.”

She put her mouth on the girl’s and kissed her with an urgency and intensity that surprised even her. It wasn’t out of love. It wasn’t out of desire, but out of fear for herself. She needed to lose herself for a little while. She dragged the girl over to the bed and let herself go.

“Listen to me, lover,” she said when they were done and reality was setting back in. “You have to give me the stash.”

Petra was crying again. Through her tears she managed to say the stash was in the trunk of her car. Then, using all of her will to hold back the tears, asked, “Does this mean you won’t be with me?”

She knew what she should have said. Knew she should have kissed the girl and said that they could see each other only if Petra promised to never talk to the police about her. But she was getting edgy, the last pill wearing off, and with that came anger and frustration. She reached for her phone and retrieved the photo Arakel had sent to her of Chris Grimm’s brutalized body as a warning.

“If I was you,” she said, her voice cold and nasty, “I would worry less about being with me than what will happen to me if you ever tell the cops about us.” She showed Petra the photo.

At first the girl was startled and couldn’t make sense of what she was seeing, but when she understood, she ran into the bathroom and vomited.