Night Passage (A Jesse Stone Novel)

Tom, and it was just a sad accident that you learned things. But you did, and you were right to come first to me. I’ve been able to save you so far from the consequences of your knowledge.”
    “What if I went to the FBI with this?”
    “This is what I’m trying to forestall,” Hathaway said. “Other people, people like Jo Jo, would prevail. And your family …” Hathaway shrugged and held the shrug for a moment, and sighed as if to himself, before he continued.
    “But we both know, Tom, you are not made of that kind of stuff. The better choice for you, and I’m sure you recognize this, is to take our rather generous severance package. We’ve found you a house, and we’ve contributed some cash to help you in relocation costs. The details are in here.”
    “What if I promise not to say a word about anything, Hasty. Why can’t I just stay here. You’d have a chief of police that won’t give you any trouble.”
    Hathaway shook his head slowly as Carson spoke. He smiled sadly.
    “I mean, you know, the next chief,” Carson said, “might be harder to deal with.”
    Hathaway continued his sad smile and slow head shake.
    “I am trying to help you, Tom,” Hathaway said. “I can’t help you if you won’t help yourself.”
    “I’m no troublemaker,” Carson said. “How can you be sure you won’t just get a troublemaker?”
    “We have already chosen your successor,” Hathaway said. “He should be just right.”
    He held the envelope out toward Tom Carson and, after a moment of empty hesitation, Carson reached out and took it.

3
     
    Jesse drove out Route 10 past upland, where he picked up Route 15 and followed it north to Barstow, where he went east on Route 40. He didn’t turn on the radio. He liked quiet. He set the cruise control to seventy and kept a hand lightly on the steering wheel and slowly settled into himself and allowed his feelings to seep out of the compacted center of himself. He no longer had a badge. He’d turned it in with his service pistol. There was no wedding ring on his left hand. He smiled without pleasure. Turned that in too. It made him feel sort of scared to be without a badge or a wedding ring. Not quite thirty-five and no official status anymore. With his right hand he fished in the gym bag on the front seat beside him until he found his off-duty gun, a short-barreled Smith & Wesson .38. He arranged it near the top of the bag, where it would be easy to reach, and he let his hand rest on it for a time. It made him feel less insubstantial. He stopped at a truck stop outside of Needles, sat at the counter and had orange juice, ham, eggs, potatoes, wheat toast, and three cups of coffee with cream and sugar. It made him feel good. The place was full of truckers and tourists, and he was alone among them. No one paid any attention to him. They were going where they would and he was on his way east. He went to the men’s room and washed his hands and face. Back in the car, cruise control set, he felt a small freshet of excitement. It was afternoon now, the sun was behind him. Shining on what he had left. The road spooled out ahead of him, straight to the horizon, nearly empty. Freedom, he thought, and smiled again, no badge, no ring, no problem. You look at it the right way and that’s freedom. He nursed the excitement as long as he could, trying to build on it.
    He stayed the night in Flagstaff, 250 miles north of where he had been born, and went to the motel bar for supper. He ordered scotch on the rocks and a chicken breast sandwich on a croissant. There were a couple of guys in plaid shirts and those little string ties they wore in places like Arizona, the kind with the silver hasp where a knot should be. Both bartenders were women wearing white shirts and black ties and short red jackets. One was a fat blond woman, the other a more slender dark-haired Hispanic girl who would be fat in five more years. Beyond the bar was a room with tables and a dance floor, and the setup for a disc jockey. No one was in the room yet. An unlit piece of neon script over the disc jockey stand spelled out “Coyote Lounge.” He sipped a little scotch, felt the cold heat spread from his esophagus. A tall well-built man in his thirties came into the bar wearing a big Stetson hat and earphones. He seemed to be bouncing slightly to music that only he heard. He had on a plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up and tight jeans and two-toned lizard-skin cowboy boots. The tiny tape player was