Robert B. Parker's Colorblind Read online

  Jesse found a folding chair in the next-to-last row between an old-timer and a twentyish woman with cropped brown hair, piercings, and tattoos covering most of her pale white skin. The old-timer had a resigned look on his face. Jesse could tell he’d been listening to fellow drunks tell their stories for many years and he didn’t find the current saga of alcohol-fueled misjudgments very engaging or original. Been there. Done that. Bought the T-shirt. The woman, on the other hand, was very focused on the guy at the rostrum. Her right leg was shaking like mad and she was doing this thing with her fingers, rubbing them together as fast as she could so that they made a shushing sound.

  When the guy up front was done with his story, he got a scattered round of applause. A very attractive woman in her early forties with expensively coiffed auburn hair, dressed in a well-tailored blue business suit, replaced the guy at the front of the room. She thanked him for sharing. She then invited other people up to share. When no one volunteered, she said she had to make a few announcements.

  “Bill,” the old-timer to Jesse’s left said, offering his right hand. “First time here, huh?”

  Jesse shook Bill’s hand. “First time, period.”

  “This part gets easier. Don’t share if you don’t want to tonight. But sharing helps. You’ll see.”

  “Not your first time?” Jesse asked, knowing the answer.

  Bill laughed. “Nope. I’m an old hand at this. I go to different meetings. It does me good to move around from time to time, to hear new stories.”

  When the room got quiet, Bill stood and walked to the front of the room.

  “Hi, my name is Bill and I’m an alcoholic.”

  “Hi, Bill,” most of the audience answered back.

  Jesse pictured himself up there, saying those words, and his belly knotted for the second time that day.

  10

  Dressed in matte black outfits and like-colored combat hoods, the men knelt down low in the stand of trees on the other side of the footbridge to the house. Up to this point, the trees, the night, and the thick layer of clouds overhead had supplied them with all the cover they’d needed. Their camo-painted 4×4 Jeep was a half-mile back toward Paradise, parked in a nook in the woods, its front end covered in branches and leaves.

  So far, it had all gone off like clockwork, but the older of the two men knew the real challenge would come the second they stepped out of the womb of the trees and crossed to the other side of the thin finger of water separating the woods from their objective. Although this wasn’t like a real combat zone and no one was likely to die unless things got completely out of hand, it was always at this juncture when the fog of battle set in, when you lost your control of circumstance and any outside factor could cause things to blow up in your face.

  He was good with that. As a soldier, he had made his peace with that risk, carrying out operations in Anbar Province and around Mosul, places where kill or be killed wasn’t a hypothetical. Problem was, the kid with him was amped up, too amped up. The soldier recognized the signs. The kid’s breathing was ragged, as if he couldn’t quite catch his breath. And in spite of the raw air, he was sweating through his clothing. Maybe that had been the problem with the woman in Swan Harbor. The kid’s adrenaline had gotten the better of him and he and his team had taken things too far.

  The soldier hated the thought of carrying out an operation with someone he couldn’t trust to keep his cool. He’d wanted to do this thing by himself. It was simple enough, and he liked to operate on his own, made things less complicated. But his orders were crystal clear: The kid had to be a part of this.

  “Let the boy have a taste of glory before the sacrifice” is how the commander had put it to him.

  He wasn’t sure he understood, but he kept his thoughts to himself. He had never questioned orders before, not even when they came down from Heebs, Hajjis, beaners, or niggers, and he wasn’t going to start now. But he knew he had to distract the kid, to turn it down a few notches.

  “That’s funny,” he said in a whisper, gently slapping the kid above the left temple.

  “Hey.” The kid swatted his partner’s hand. “What’s funny?”

  “Nothing,” the older man said. “I just felt like slapping you.”

  The kid was confused, but the soldier didn’t care. It had done the trick. The kid’s breathing was more normal and his eyes less crazed.

  “You know what to do?”

  The kid was annoyed. “Yeah, man, we’ve gone over this like a thousand times.”

  “That’s what you said before you almost killed that woman and ruined everything.”

  “I know. I know. I said I was sorry.”

  “‘Sorry’ doesn’t cut it with me. So let’s go over it again.”

  The kid rolled his eyes and said, “You go across first to check things out. When you’re sure it’s clear, you’ll signal for me to follow and to bring the can. Once I’m across, I keep low to the ground until you give me the sign to pour the kerosene. When I’m done with that, I give you the sign and retreat back to the vehicle. You’ll follow, dropping the lighter as you go. We regroup at the vehicle, which I’ve started.”

  “Good, but what don’t you do?”

  The kid was confused. “Don’t fuck up? I don’t know.”

  “You don’t turn the vehicle’s headlights on and you don’t clear the brush away from it.”

  “Yeah, yeah, right.”

  The soldier checked his watch. He checked the sky, the road, checked the lights that were on in the house. He smiled when the kitchen lights went off and, a few seconds later, the children’s bedroom lights went on upstairs.

  “Now,” he said, and took off. He didn’t use the footbridge or the driveway access from the road. Instead he stepped quietly through the water and climbed up onto the grass. He did a quick but careful circuit of the house. When he was done, he signaled to the kid with his flashlight.

  The kid came out of the woods in a sprint and tripped over his own feet but somehow managed to hold on to the blue plastic container of kerosene. After the longest fifteen seconds of his life, the kid got up and made his way through the water. He hated the way it felt, the cold water soaking through his black pants, socks, and the tops of his boots. But he got across, kept low, and waited.

  In a harsh barked whisper, the soldier said, “Go!” He then removed the .40-caliber from his black nylon holster, aiming it at the front door. He had no intention of shooting anyone, but a few well-placed shots were usually enough to deter even the nosiest SOBs. He swiveled his head back and forth, alternating his gaze between the kid pouring out the kerosene and the front door.

  An acrid petroleum tang filled up the night. The kid waved the empty canister at the soldier, who signaled for the kid to go. This time, the kid kept his footing and disappeared into the woods. The soldier waited to see if anyone in the house reacted to the sight or the sound of the kid. After a ten-count, sure no one in the house was aware of what was going on, he holstered his sidearm and removed a cheap lighter from his pocket. He moved to where the kid had laid down the pattern on the grass, flicked the lighter, and, when the flame came up, touched it to the kerosene.

  A few seconds later, a little girl looked out her bedroom window and said, “Look, Daddy, a pretty fire.”

  11

  They were standing around the coffee-and-refreshments table now: Bill, the tattooed woman with the cropped hair, and the shaved-head guy with the beard who had been sharing his woes when Jesse came in.

  “Jesse,” he said to the woman. He stuck out his hand.

  She seemed taken aback but took his hand. “Anya.”

  “First time?”

  She nodded.

  “Me, too.”

  She smiled, relieved and happy to not feel alone in her newness. In spite of the severe haircut, the piercings, and the tats, Anya had an angelic face and soft features. “This is H
ank,” she said, introducing the bald guy with the beard. “He finally got me to come with him.”

  Hank quickly shook Jesse’s hand but wasn’t particularly friendly and yanked Anya toward the stairwell by her elbow. She turned back and shrugged before they vanished behind the exit door.

  Bill laughed.

  Jesse asked, “Did I miss something funny?”

  “The boyfriend probably thought you were Thirteen Stepping.”

  “What?”

  He laughed again. “You know you’re not supposed to get romantically involved with people in the group, but it happens. I’ve been guilty of it myself. It’s kind of inevitable, all of us with this thing at the center of our lives, sharing so much in common. But there are predators and prey in all groups.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  Bill raised his eyebrow at Jesse’s response. “You a cop? I’ve met a lot of ’em in my time and you sure’ve got the bearing of one.”

  Jesse didn’t answer.

  “So there are guys,” Bill said, ignoring Jesse’s silence, “usually men who’ve been in the program for years, who take advantage of vulnerable women like Anya there, women just getting started, looking for anyone or anything to hold on to besides the booze.” He shook his head in disgust. “Under the guise of befriending or sponsoring them, these guys work them into their beds.” Then he fell silent for a moment. “Sorry, Jesse, that was no way to welcome you.”

  “That’s okay, Bill. It’s good to know what to watch out for.”

  “No, no, I should be telling you all the good this does, how it helped save my life and salvage my relationship with my kids. You know: experience, strength, and hope.”

  “I heard when you were up front,” Jesse said. “Rough.”

  “Oh, that, that’s only a little bit of it. You want to go grab a cup of real coffee?”

  Jesse didn’t get a chance to answer.

  “Hi, Bill. Thanks for sharing.” It was the woman who had led the group. “They were a little reluctant tonight.”

  “I was happy to do it. Callie, this is Jesse.”

  “Welcome,” she said, shaking his hand. “I’m happy to see you here, Jesse.”

  Callie had lovely green eyes that played perfectly to her auburn hair and lightly freckled skin beneath her makeup. But Jesse was acutely aware of the things Bill had just told him, and in spite of her obvious attractiveness, Jesse decided he had to put his recovery ahead of anything else. He had spent too much time over the last year in a semi-drunken haze. And any attraction he had felt to women had been almost devoid of real feeling. Fortunately, he hadn’t acted out and hadn’t added to his list of people to whom he would have to beg forgiveness.

  “We were just going out for real coffee,” Bill said. “Want to join us?”

  Callie looked from Bill to Jesse and back again. “Sorry, Bill, no. Jesse, I hope we see you again.”

  * * *

  —

  JESSE SAT ACROSS FROM BILL at a Starbucks a block from the church. A few of the other people from the meeting were there as well, but there were no group hugs and no one had suggested they all sit together. Jesse was relieved they hadn’t. Togetherness wasn’t his comfort zone. The meetings were one thing. He didn’t like the concept, but he understood the value. He didn’t even like press conferences. But Jesse’s preference was always one-on-one or solitude.

  Bill slid a business card across the table. “That’s my cell number on the back. You don’t know me from Adam, but just in case you need someone to call before you find a regular sponsor . . . Anytime, day or night, weekend or holiday, you need to talk, you call me. We’ll get you through it.”

  Jesse said, “Thanks.”

  “Why don’t you give me your number?” Bill said. “Just so I can check in on you if I don’t see you at a meeting or if I haven’t heard from you. It can be easy to slip early on.”

  Jesse didn’t hesitate and wrote his cell number on the back of a napkin. They exchanged some small talk and both seemed happy to get away from talk of alcohol-induced self-destruction. Then Bill U-turned.

  “Remember what I said about romance between—”

  “I remember. Why do you mention it?”

  “Because Callie is a beautiful woman and . . . Just be careful, is all. Now I’ll shut up about that.”

  But before Jesse could say another word, his cell buzzed in his pocket. Paradise PD flashed on the screen. He excused himself and walked onto the street. A light rain had started to fall and he turned up his collar.

  “Jesse, you there?” It was Gabe Weathers, who was on the desk.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “There’s trouble.”

  “What kind?”

  “Your old house . . . someone burned a cross on the front lawn.”

  “Anybody hurt?”

  “No, but the family’s pretty badly shaken.”

  “I’ll be there in a half-hour.”

  Jesse hung up, signaled to Bill through the window that he had to go, and waved good-bye.

  12

  Nothing but Jesse’s temper was burning by the time he got up to Paradise from Boston, though the charred, cross-shaped spot on the small knoll in front of the house was evident as he parked his SUV between Alisha’s and Peter Perkins’s cruisers. Perkins, using a portable floodlight, was on his hands and knees in the damp grass, collecting samples.

  “Hey, Jesse,” Perkins said, turning over his shoulder.

  “You already get the photos?”

  “Done.”

  Jesse caught an acrid whiff of something lingering in the air. “Smells like burnt jet fuel.”

  Perkins laughed. “Close enough. Probably kerosene. Chemically, it’s a lot like jet fuel. We’ll know soon enough.”

  “Kerosene. That doesn’t tell us anything. Half the people around here have kerosene heaters.”

  “We can still check to see if anyone bought some in town tonight.”

  Jesse liked that idea. “Call Gabe and tell him to have everyone on patrol stop at the gas stations that are still open in town to ask. We’ll check the other places that sell kerosene in the morning. Find anything?”

  Perkins made an unhappy face. “Some foot impressions in the grass, but nothing distinct. Unless someone saw something, I doubt we’re going to come up with any valuable forensics.”

  “Okay, Peter, keep working it.”

  Jesse stepped up to the threshold. He hadn’t been back to the house since returning to town, and these certainly weren’t the circumstances under which he would have chosen to come see the old place. It felt odd to knock at what used to be his own front door. Jesse recognized Alisha’s voice as the one asking who was there.

  “It’s me, Alisha, Jesse.”

  When the door pulled back, Alisha was standing there, right hand near her weapon, just in case. She wasn’t experienced enough to be blasé or to take things for granted. She still had her edge. It would dull a little with time. Jesse hoped she would never lose it completely. Sometimes an edge was all that stood between a cop and a flag-draped coffin and bagpipes. She relaxed when she saw that Jesse was alone.

  Alisha made the introductions. Ron Patel was a handsome man with rich dark skin and jet-black hair. His eyes were dark as well, but he had a kind face. He was clearly stressed, nervously rubbing his lips with his fingers and breathing rapidly. Jesse knew Patel was a doctor and researcher at Brigham and Women’s in Boston. Other than that, he didn’t know much else about the man. His wife, Liza, surprised Jesse. He knew she was an architect. He didn’t know she was blond and blue-eyed. She actually resembled a younger version of Jesse’s ex-wife, Jenn. She wouldn’t have been out of place on Malibu. She saw the look in Jesse’s eyes.

  “I know, Chief, I’m not what you were expecting. We get that a lot,” she said, no snark in her voice. She looked at her husband and they actu
ally both laughed. The laughter didn’t last long.

  “Please call me Jesse. The kids asleep?”

  She nodded. “They’re a little too young to understand. Please sit, Jesse. Would you like some coffee?”

  “No, thanks. I’ve had all the coffee I can bear for one night. Look, I’m not going to make you go over the details with me again tonight. I’m sure you’ve given them to Officer Davis.”

  “Yes, Alisha has been very kind,” said Dr. Patel.

  “I’m going to leave Officer Davis outside all night. No one is likely to bother you again—not tonight, anyway.”

  “Thank you, Jesse,” Liza Patel said. “I’ll feel more secure about the kids, knowing an officer will be here.”

  “Alisha, head out there now. I’ll stop by to talk with you when I leave.”

  Once the front door closed, the room got quiet and Jesse’s expression turned very grave.

  He said, “I’m sure Alisha asked you if you know of anyone who might’ve done this to you or if you know of any reason you were singled out?”

  Liza Patel laughed a joyless laugh and put her face next to her husband’s. “Apparently, skin tone seems reason enough for some. And no, I don’t know of anyone who would do this to us.”