Night Passage (A Jesse Stone Novel)

Massachusetts, permits to carry a handgun were issued by the local chief of police. The permits had to be renewed every five years. Fire Arm Identification cards, permitting the holder to keep a gun, but not to carry one, were issued once and good for the holder’s lifetime. All the carry permits currently held therefore had been issued by Tom Carson. Some of the F.I.D.’s were much older. But only two had been issued prior to Carson’s arrival fifteen years before. No one had applied for a gun permit since Jesse had taken the job.
    Jesse got up and walked to his office door and opened it and spoke to Molly Crane, who was the dispatcher and ran the front desk. She was also the jail matron and the only female officer on the force.
    Molly was on the phone.
    “Trash pickup has been delayed a day because of Labor Day,” she said into the phone. “No, ma’am. One day later … When’s your usual pickup? … Then it’ll be Thursday this week … Yes, ma’am. Glad to.”
    She hung up and smiled at Jesse.
    “Suitcase due in this morning?”
    “He’s on shift,” Molly said. “Seven to three. Want me to get him in here?”
    “When it’s convenient,” Jesse said. “Nice job on the trash pickup dates.”
    “Lotta practice,” Molly said. “They call after every holiday.”
    Jesse went back into his office and looked at the list of gun permits some more. He looked at them for a long time with his lips pursed, then he pushed the print button and watched as the sheets came silently from the laser printer. He was still watching them when Simpson knocked on his door and came in. He took off his hat and stood in front of Jesse’s desk a little awkwardly. At twenty-two he was still not entirely comfortable being called into the chief’s office. Even if the chief wasn’t very old himself.
    “Hi, boss.”
    “Close my door, Suit, and then sit down.”
    Simpson did as he was told. His shoulders looked tight.
    “You’re not in trouble,” Jesse said. “I just need some help and you seemed the right guy to give it.”
    Simpson’s shoulders relaxed. He put his hat on the edge of Jesse’s desk and leaned back slightly in his chair.
    “Sure, Jesse.”
    “You know about the militia group in town.”
    “Freedom’s Horsemen, sure. Mr. Hathaway is the commander, I think. I never figured the name out, though, tell you the truth. There isn’t a one of them can ride a damn horse.”
    “And you know most of the people in the group?”
    “Oh sure. I lived here all my life, Jesse. I know about everybody in town.”
    “That’s why I figured you were the right one for this, Suit.”
    Jesse reached into the printer catch basket and took out the permit list and handed it to Simpson.
    “Go through this list,” Jesse said. “Check off the names that are also Freedom’s Horsemen.”
    “Sure. You want me to do it right now?”
    “Yes, please.”
    Simpson took a ballpoint pen from the pocket of his uniform shirt and began to go slowly through the list. Jesse watched quietly. It took Simpson a long time to go through the hundred or so names on the list. When he finished he handed the list over to Jesse and capped his pen and put it carefully back in his shirt pocket. Most of the names were checked.
    “I don’t know who a couple of those people are,” Simpson said. “I put a question mark beside them. And a couple people I’m not sure if they’re in the Horsemen or not. So I put two question marks next to them.”
    Jesse glanced over the list. There were only twelve unmarked names.
    “Most of them are Horsemen,” he said.
    “Sure,” Simpson said. “It’s always the gun guys join a militia.”
    Jesse nodded.
    “Gun is probably a prerequisite,” he said. “What I’m wondering is why so few non-Horsemen have permits.”
    “Most people are scared of guns.”
    Jesse didn’t answer. He stared at the list for a time while Simpson sat and waited.
    “How come you want to know this, Jesse?” Simpson asked finally.
    “Just like to keep track, Suit. Militias have sometimes gotten a little hairy.”
    “Oh hell, Jesse, you take the Horsemen too serious. I known most of them since I been a little kid. They just like to shoot, hang around with each other. Drink beer after the meetings. Hell, Lou’s one of the officers, for crissake.”
    “You’re probably right, Suit. What I would like is if you kept it to yourself, though, be kind of embarrassing if Lou found out, or Mr. Hathaway, that I was checking