“She lied,” he said. “She does that.”
“Noticed.”
Jesse had spent a lot of lunch telling Kevin what Dix had told him, and how being a self-loathing gay man had made a violent man even more violent, especially someone as obsessed with power and appearances as Liam Roarke was. A few days after Monument Square a badly beaten and horribly bloated body, Tayshawn Leonard’s, had been found floating in the water near Castle Rock, in Marblehead.
One more body in the water because of Liam Roarke.
“There was no way the guy was going to kill his own kid,” Jesse told Kevin, repeating what Dix had said to him. “He wasn’t going to kill himself. But somehow in that moment, without knowing what went on that night, the object of his anger, and his self-loathing, became his son’s lover.
“We’ll never know whether he went there to kill Jack or tell him to stay away from you,” Jesse said. “But something must have snapped.”
“I’m just relieved Jack didn’t kill himself because of us,” Kevin said.
“From my reading of that play,” Jesse said, “he sounded like somebody who couldn’t wait to get on with his life. Openly.”
After a pause, Jesse said, “Molly wanted me to ask you if you had any idea who that Pepsquad1234 was on social media.”
“It was Scott Ford,” Kevin said. He grinned. “I think Scott may have had more feelings for Jack than he did for Ainsley, if you want to know the truth.”
“I’ll take any I can get.”
“Why did Matt Loes beat him up?” Jesse said. “Scott, I mean.”
“Because Scott wanted to tell,” Kevin said. “He said Jack had nothing to be ashamed of and so we shouldn’t be ashamed of him even though he was gone. Pretty much what he told Jack before their fight. They were both drunk. Matt was drunker. And bigger.”
Kevin had told Jesse he wasn’t sticking around for graduation, the school would mail him his diploma. He was on his way this afternoon to another of his father’s houses, one that really was a safe house, on Martha’s Vineyard. He said he was going to stay there awhile, probably look for a summer job coaching tennis.
When they were outside the Gull, Kevin said, “Thank you for everything.”
“Not sure what I did, other than be too goddamn slow on the uptake, all over town.”
Kevin smiled. “But in the end you didn’t just find out about my truth, and Jack’s. You pretty much found everybody else’s, too.”
“How old were you when you found out who your father was?”
“It was only a few years ago.”
“And you were able to have a relationship with him after that?”
“I knew he existed in a violent world.” He exhaled loudly, shook his head. “But he was my dad. I never got to know the man who I thought was my dad. For better or worse, I thought I’d gotten a second chance.”
“And he was good to you.”
“And to mom. Until he wasn’t, with either one of us.”
They walked down Main Street, past where More Chocolate used to be, the cleanup of the remains almost complete.
“What do you think happened to Steve Marin?” Kevin More asked.
“Another gangster, this one named Tony Marcus, happened,” Jesse said.
“You think Marin is still alive somewhere?”
“Not so anybody would notice,” Jesse said. “Tony settles grudges. And sometimes not just his own.”
“You okay with that?”
“Charlie Farrell might not have been okay with it,” Jesse said. “But he was a better man than I am.”
Eighty-Four
In the late afternoon, Jesse met Crow at O’Hara Field, where there was a Babe Ruth League game going on. Twelve-year-olds and up. Jesse remembered what it was like when he was that age, the first year he got to play on the big field.
But then he remembered just about all of it.
“Game goes faster when kids are playing it,” Crow said.
“No shit,” Jesse said.
The game was in the second inning when they got there, tied 2−2. It looked to Jesse like the happiest place in the world.
“You think Hillary More might have been in on more than she let on?” Crow said. “And was just lying that tight ass of hers off?”
“Bet your ass.”
“So she gets away with it.”
“Think about what her life is going to be like going forward,” Jesse said. “And then tell me just exactly what she got away with.”
“You think Tony took out Marin for himself, or for you?”
“I keep asking myself the same question about Kevin shooting his father.”
“Only difference,” Crow says, “is that Tony gets away with murder all the time.”
Jesse turned as he heard the crack of the aluminum bat, knowing before he picked up the flight of the ball that it was going to be splitting the outfielders. It wasn’t the same sweet sound as wood. But he still knew what a solid hit sounded like.
They watched in silence for a full inning. It was the beauty of bringing Crow to a game. He didn’t think he was there to provide commentary.
Eventually, eyes on the action in front of them, Crow said, “Fixing to head back to the Cape tonight.”
“Figured, now that your work here’s done,” Jesse said. “You tell Molly?”
“She bravely hid her disappointment,” Crow said.
He turned to face Jesse. “You break it off with Nellie like you told me you were going to?”
“I let her think it was her idea,” Jesse said. “And she’s probably on her way to The New York Times or The Washington Post after her big scoop.”
Jesse grinned. “She was too old for me, anyway.”
The blue team finally beat the red team, 6−4. The kids in blue celebrated on the field as if they were the ones who’d now won the championship of the world.
Jesse and Crow started walking back toward town.
As they did, Jesse felt his phone buzzing in his pocket. He took it out and looked at the screen:
Spam Risk.
Acknowledgments
Once again, my gratitude to David and Daniel Parker for allowing me to continue characters created by their giant of a father.
The same goes for Ivan Held, the boss of all bosses at Putnam, and my wonderful editor, Danielle Dieterich.
Big thanks, as always, to Esther Newberg, who treats the literary estate of Robert B. Parker like the trust that it is.
And finally, a shout-out to the members of the band — David Koepp, Peter Gethers, Ziggy and Nancy Alderman, Capt. John Fisher — who are never too busy to spitball.