Thomas L. Scott

Voodoo Daddy

Prologue

October, 1987

Indianapolis, Indiana

Nine people have less than sixty seconds to live. They are strangers to each other, but death will unite them in a way life never did. From the time it becomes apparent that they are among the helpless and doomed, a span of only a few seconds, some will hunch their backs and cover their faces with their hands as if to shield their eyes from a sight that must surely belong to someone else. Some will not utter a sound as they remain defiant of their immediate fate, while others will remain oblivious to the end, their bodies turned away from death in ignorance as their clocks come to an end on a final tick or a tock they otherwise would have never bothered to notice, much less count.

Some will scream.

Together they will die in what the media will later call, among other things, a ‘horrific and largely unavoidable tragedy.’ In the aftermath investigations will take place, witnesses will be interviewed, evidence will be examined, blame will be assigned, lawsuits will be filed, stories will be written, and groundless accusations will fly. All of that will follow what happens less than a minute from now.

Nine people have fifty seconds to live.

Eight of the nine people stand in the lobby of the Airport Ramada Inn at the Indianapolis International Airport. Six are guests waiting to settle their account and check out of the hotel. Two are hotel employees. The remaining victim is a taxi driver dispatched to the hotel to take one of the waiting guests across the street to the departure area. Were it not for the weather this October morning-patchy fog and a persistent mist-the hotel guest could have easily walked to the departure area instead of taking a cab. Had the weather cooperated and the passenger decided to walk, the record would show only eight deaths this October morning and the cabbie might still be alive today. But weather rarely cooperates, bitch that she often is, and so the cabbie makes nine.

Nine people now have thirty seconds to live.

One of the hotel guests at the front of the line is disputing a charge on his itemized bill. The hotel clerk tries to reverse the charge but fails in her efforts to do so. The computer tells her she needs authorization from the manager to complete this task. She tucks a lock of red hair behind her ear and smiles at the man on the guest side of the counter and informs him the manager is on the way. The man consults his watch and smiles back at the pretty red-headed woman. He wonders how old she is. He notices the name badge on her jacket. Sara. He also notices the plain silver wedding band on her finger and feels his face flush just a bit as she catches his silent inquiry of her marital status. He clears his throat and then glances at his watch once again. He tells her it’s alright. He has plenty of time.

He is, of course, mistaken.

Nine people now have only twenty seconds to live. Somewhere overhead, the sound of an aircraft’s jet engine can be heard. But the sound is ignored by the people in the lobby the way one learns to ignore such sounds. It is an airport, after all.

The hotel manager appears from her office around the corner from the reception area, greets the guest at the front of the line by name, then offers her apologies at the delay as she inputs her approval code into the computer. From the time she comes around the corner, inputs the code and reverses the charge, a mere eighteen seconds have elapsed.

It has already started. The cabbie sees it.

In two seconds nine people are going to die.

Captain Hewitt McConnell, USAF, needs his three and three. Three take-offs and three landings within thirty days to stay current. He isn’t due to fly this day, except one of the pilots in the rotation has called off sick, so that bumps McConnell up one spot in the line. He sits on the corner of the desk in the ready room, the way pilots do, and listens to his commander’s final instructions before heading out to the flight line at Grissom Air Force Base, in Peru, Indiana.

“We’ve been having a little trouble with some of the new fuel control units, Captain. Be sure you’ve got a steady state of fuel flow before you depart. I don’t want anything going wrong on a simple three and three.”

“Don’t worry, Major,” says Captain McConnell. “I’ll keep it right side up.”

“See that you do, Captain. You’re loaded with two five-hundred pounders. They’re dummies, but try not to lose them.” He smiles at his own joke. “Call sign today is ‘Voodoo.’ Designation is Solo, flight of one. Report back to me upon return.” The Major tosses a casual salute to Captain McConnell who returns it in kind. He walks away to leave the pilot to his pre-flight routine.

Captain McConnell files his flight plan, then walks out across the tarmac at Grissom Air Force Base and climbs aboard the A-7D Corsair jet. The ground crew members remove the ladder and un-chock the wheels as Captain McConnell starts the jet’s massive engine and runs through his pre-taxi checklist. He pays special attention to the fuel flow meter but sees nothing out of the ordinary. He pulls the canopy shut, checks that the latch is secure and then keys the microphone button on the joystick, his voice calm, detached. “Grissom Clearance, Voodoo Solo, how copy?”

“Five by five, Voodoo Solo. Clearance when ready.”

“Go.”

“Voodoo Solo, you are cleared back to Grissom AFB via direct Indianapolis, direct Fort Wayne, then direct. Contact ground and have a safe flight.”

“Roger that clearance, Grissom AFB via direct Indy, direct Fort Wayne, then direct. So long.” Captain McConnell reaches down and twists a dial to switch frequencies then keys the microphone again. “Grissom Ground Control, Voodoo Solo, ready for taxi.”

“Good morning Voodoo Solo, this is Grissom Ground Control. Taxi to runway 23 via Gulf, then Alpha. Hold short and contact the tower when ready.”

“23 via Gulf then Alpha. Hold short, tower at the end. Voodoo solo.”

Captain McConnell bumps the power lever forward just enough to get the big jet rolling along the apron. He performs his pre-flight checks on the roll and when he approaches the end of the runway he stops short of the hold line as instructed by the ground controller and switches over to the tower frequency. “Grissom Tower, Voodoo Solo, holding short of runway 23 at Alpha, ready for departure.”

“Voodoo Solo, Grissom Tower, good morning, sir. Winds are one-eight-zero at one four, gusting to two three. Fly runway heading, climb and maintain three thousand feet. Cleared for take off.”

Captain McConnell bumps the throttle again and gets the plane rolling. “Roger Grissom Tower. Any chance for an unrestricted to ten?” McConnell knew the after-burners would eat through the fuel, but with both tanks filled to capacity he could afford a little fun, and there was nothing quite like pouring on the power and pointing the nose straight up.

“Voodoo Solo, disregard previous clearance, taxi into position and hold. I’ll check with departure. Repeat, position and hold.”

“Position and hold. Voodoo Solo.” Captain McConnell positions his A-7D Corsair along the center line of the runway and runs the engine up to fifty percent power while he waits for the tower controller. The fuel flow holds steady. He pushes the throttle to one-hundred percent and feels the aircraft strain against its brakes, but the fuel flow looks fine. Maintenance might be having trouble with the flow control units, but this one appears to be operating just as it should. When the jet starts to slide a bit against the power output, Captain McConnell backs the throttle down to twenty-five percent. As he does the radio chirps in his ear. It distracts him from the fuel flow meter and he misses the waggle the needle makes as the engine spools down.

“Voodoo Solo, Grissom Tower.”

“Voodoo Solo, go.”

“Voodoo Solo, Grissom Tower, winds are one-eight-zero at one five now, still gusting to two three. Fly runway heading, climb and maintain ten thousand feet. Cleared for take off. Enjoy.”

“Runway heading to ten, cleared to go. Voodoo Solo.” Captain McConnell pushes the power lever forward and holds the brakes. When the engine spins up to full power, he lets go the brakes and begins his take off roll. Seconds later he is airborne. He raises the gear and levels off at fifty feet of altitude. Once he has the proper speed, he pulls back on the stick and points the nose of his aircraft straight up. He is level at ten thousand feet before he reaches the opposite end of the runway.

“Voodoo Solo, Grissom Tower. Nicely done, sir. Contact Departure and have a nice day.”

Captain McConnell clicks the microphone button twice in rapid succession as an acknowledgement, something that is generally frowned upon but often done anyway, then switches to the departure frequency. “Voodoo Tracker, this is Voodoo Solo, flight of one, with you level ten, requesting direct Indianapolis.”

“Voodoo Solo, Voodoo Tracker, good morning, Sir. Radar contact. Maintain ten thousand feet, fly heading one eight zero, radar vectors direct Indianapolis.”

“Level ten, one eight zero on the vector, Voodoo Solo.” Captain McConnell banks his aircraft to the left until the HSI reads 180 degrees, then runs through his after take-off and cruise checklists. His speed is four hundred knots and he will be ready for descent at Indy in no time at all. Because of this, he completes his descent checklist as well. Things happen fast in an A-7D.

As if on cue, the radio chirps in his ear. “Voodoo Solo, Voodoo Tracker, slow to 250 knots, descend and maintain five thousand feet, contact Indianapolis Approach Control on one-one-nine point three. Good day, Sir.”

“Two-fifty speed, down to five, approach on one-nineteen three. Voodoo Solo.” Captain McConnell pulls the power back to ten percent and drops the nose, then calls Indianapolis Approach. Approach Control gives him a heading direct to the airport and tells him to expect a visual approach once he is beneath the cloud cover. He turns to the assigned heading and when he is five miles out he contacts the tower to get clearance for his touch and go. He will not stop. Instead, he will just set the wheels down then power up and take off toward Fort Wayne and repeat the procedure

there before heading back to Grissom AFB.

Still slightly high on the approach, he pulls the power back to idle for just a moment to slow the aircraft before dropping the landing gear. Once he has the proper speed he pushes the power lever back up to maintain his desired rate of descent. Traffic is light this morning and the tower clears him to circle in close to land on the active runway.

He has less than half a mile to go on his approach to the end of the runway when the fuel control unit fails and the jet’s engine spools down, then dies.

Nine people have less than sixty seconds to live.

Days later, after dozens of post accident investigative interviews, Captain Hewitt McConnell will tell his story for the final time to his commanding officer. He will tell him how, while on final approach to land, the fuel flow dropped off and the engine cut out. He will tell him that there just wasn’t enough time or altitude to attempt a restart. He will tell him that the only thing he could do was to point the aircraft away from the airport and toward the empty fields. He will tell him how it felt to reach down between his legs and pull the yellow loop that would fire the ejection seat and jettison himself from his crippled craft, something his commanding officer had never done. He will tell him he did everything he could, all by the book, to ensure his safety and the lives of anyone in the vicinity of his aircraft. He will tell him how his training kicked in, how he did not panic, and how he acted with professionalism and conduct becoming a flight officer of the United States Air Force during his emergency.

But mostly he will tell him again and again how it was just dumb luck that his knee knocked the stick sideways and sent the aircraft along the path it flew after he fired the ejection seat and punched out. Then in a voice so soft and quiet the commander would have to lean in close, the way a lover might as they listen to their mate’s most intimate desire, Captain McConnell tells him how relieved he was when he heard the pop and felt the chute inflate above his head even as he watched the horror unfold below him.

Watch now as the cab driver, the very first to die, exits his cab to open the trunk for the bags he’ll carry from the lobby. Watch as he unlocks the trunk then happens to look upward, across the street at the bank building. Imagine what thoughts must run through his mind as he tries to process what he sees. Watch the way his jaw unhinges and his mouth forms a perfect O so large you could fit three fingers in there and pull him away from the danger of the approaching aircraft if only there were enough time.

The jet is no longer flying-it is falling. It falls on top of the bank building and bounces upward slightly after this initial impact. It is this upward movement which causes our cab driver to make the O with his mouth. He turns his head toward the hotel, not in denial of what will come, but out of curiosity of what is about to happen. His life does not flash before his eyes, nor does he think with regret of the things not yet accomplished in his life so short. The last thought his brain processes is no more complicated than the shape his mouth has formed. It is simply “Oh.”

See the jet now, it’s fuel tanks ruptured from the impact with the roof of the bank building. Watch if you dare as it crosses the street and its kinetic energy seeks out the victims in its path. Observe the jagged edge of its broken wing as it decapitates our cab driver with such efficiency that for an instant, even while his head flies back toward the lobby his body remains standing erect as his heart refuses to go where the head knows it must. Feel the heat as the fire ball erupts and follows the twisted hulk of the aircraft into the lobby of the hotel as if the jet’s auto pilot and navigation systems were set to home in on a free continental breakfast. See the looks upon the faces of the victims as their clocks come to an end on a final tick or a tock. See it, and feel the flash of pain the way the victim’s family members will feel it most every waking moment for the rest of their lives.

Watch the news stories as the days turn to weeks, then watch as the story, sensational as it may have been in the moment, is all but forgotten. It is, off the radar you might say.

But you would be mistaken.

CHAPTER ONE

Present Day

As far as the Sids were concerned, there really was no other way they could do it. Their target, Franklin Dugan, CEO of Sunrise National Bank in Indianapolis, Indiana was just too private, too protected, and too damn stubborn to vary from his routine. So in the end they said fuck it and did it the hard way.

At forty-two years old, Sidney Wells Sr. had planned, waited, prepared, and dreamed of this moment for half his life. He raised Sid Jr. in the same manner, which is to say he raised her to hate. Worse still, he raised her to hide her hatred from those with whom she sought her revenge. “Raised her right,” he’d say, if anyone ever asked him. No one ever did.

Morning came, and the light of a cloudless dawn filtered through the windshield of the Sid’s van. They were parked about a block and a half away on a side street that cornered the property line of the Governor’s mansion. Sid Jr. was checking the time on the dashboard clock while alternately looking through binoculars at the State Police cruiser parked across the street from the mansion. Junior made sure the time on the dash matched the wrist watch Senior had bought just yesterday. It did. They had twelve minutes to go.

“You ready?” Senior said.

“Yep. Pull around the corner so I can get out without Barney Fife up there seeing me. You sure you’re up for what you have to do?”

“I’ve been waiting for this for almost twenty-five years,” Senior said. “I’m more than ready. Just make sure you do your part.”

“Don’t worry, Daddy-O. I’ve got the easy part, remember?”

“Yeah, I remember,” Senior said. He dropped the transmission into gear and they turned the corner and stopped the van again so Sid Jr. could get out. “You sure the timing’s right?”

Junior shut the car door then leaned down into the open window on the passenger side. “Never more than a minute off. If I come in from the south, which I will, I’ll be able to adjust my pace and time it just right. Don’t worry about a thing. Just make sure you’ve got the angle on Barney over there. And try not to miss. Missing would be bad.”

“I won’t miss, for Christ sake. I never miss,” Senior said. Then he said something that both surprised and shamed him, though he couldn’t explain why. “I love you, Sidney.”

Sidney Jr. smiled and tucked a lock of red hair behind her ear and when she did, Senior thought for a moment he was back in time and looking at his wife more than twenty years ago. Neither one said anything else after that. Junior just turned and jogged away, her fanny pack bouncing lightly on her hip.

Indiana State Trooper Barney Burns sat in his police cruiser, his radio turned down low, his windows open. He yawned and took the last sip of cold coffee from his thermos and checked his watch. This was the best part of the day for him. It had been a long and boring night, but at just before seven, he’d be off shift in less than thirty minutes. Better still, in less than five minutes or so, he’d get a gander at the eye candy jogging up the street. She wore the same thing every day…tight black shorts made of spandex or something like that, though he didn’t think they called it spandex anymore, a black sports bra, and white Nikes with ankle socks. Her red hair was cut short and fell against her jaw line and every time Trooper Barney Burns watched her jog by he wished he was thirty years younger. Her stomach was flat and firm, her ass was high and tight, and her tits had just the right amount of bounce when she ran. She looked so good in fact, that Trooper Barney Burns had on more than one occasion stopped at a fast food restaurant and used the men’s bathroom to whip his skippy before going home to his dog. And his cow of a wife.

He checked his watch again, then looked out the window. He saw her come around the corner and jog in place for a minute, checking the time on her own watch. It looked like she was checking her pulse, trying to get a read on her heart rate or something. Trooper Burns didn’t know much about physical fitness anymore, but he knew about heart rates. Age and all.

He watched as she jogged in place for a few minutes, and then she did something she’d not ever done before. She waved at him. Barney sat up a little straighter in his seat and gave her a casual wave back, cool, a little detached. A fucking-A State Trooper, no matter his age.

Then he watched as she tucked a lock of hair behind her ear and started running again. Trooper Burns was so preoccupied with bouncing boobs, tight ass cheeks, board-flat stomach muscles, (not to mention his growing Johnson) he never saw the cargo van brake to a stop and park at the intersection a half block behind him.

He did see the Governor’s neighbor walking down the drive in his robe and slippers though to fetch the morning paper. Right on time, Trooper Burns thought. Like maybe Red and the neighbor had a little sumpin-sumpin going on behind someone’s back.

The thought of it sort of pissed him off.

Right on time, Sidney thought. She picked up the pace just a bit. Had to time it perfectly. And she did. She got to the end of the drive just as Franklin Dugan did. They smiled at each other and Sidney stopped and bent over to retie her shoe.

“Good morning” Sidney said.

“It certainly is,” Dugan replied. “You’ll forgive me for saying so, but I’ve noticed you’ve become somewhat of a regular, jogging around here in the morning.”

“I hope that doesn’t bother you,” Sidney said, looking up from her shoes.

“No, no, not at all,” Dugan said. “Just making conversation with a beautiful young woman.” He smiled at her. “Kind of a nice way to start the day.”

Sidney finished her shoe and picked up the paper for Dugan. When she stood up she wobbled slightly on her feet, dropped the paper back on the ground and said, “Whoa.” She stumbled away from Dugan as if she were about to fall, and when she did he stepped in close and grabbed her by the arms. “Hey, easy there. I think you stood up to fast.”

Sidney smiled and stayed close. “Yeah, you’re probably right. But I’m okay. I think I just need a drink of water.”

“I’d be happy to get you a glass if you’d like to come up to the house,” Dugan said.

“Oh, no, but thanks. I’ve got a bottle right here in my pack.”

Dugan smiled at her. It was the sort of smile that said, well, I’m not putting the moves on you or anything like that, even though under the right set of circumstances I might. Sid Jr. smiled right back with her best, bullshit, you are too and we both know it, circumstances or not smile. Dugan’s face reddened a bit. He bent down to get his paper and when he did, Sid Jr. took half a step sideways and slid her hand into her fanny pack like she was getting a bottle of water.

Trooper Burns watched the entire exchange. The whole thing made him sick. Sure, she was just a fantasy, but she was his fantasy. But now the fat cat across the street was ruining everything.

Fuckin’ with his mojo.

Barney thought the guy was a banker or something like that. Fucking bankers. Getting rich while the rest of the country starved to death. Barney was no bleeding heart leftie, but Jesus Christ, enough was enough already with the economy and all. How much steak could one guy eat anyway?

He saw the fat cat bend over to collect his newspaper-it had sort of scattered when the redheaded babe dropped it. Barney was secretly hoping she’d bend over and get it. Maybe give him a little ass shot or something. Didn’t happen though. Instead, the babe reached into her fanny pack. But she didn’t unzip it from the top. She pulled a Velcro flap from the side. Had sort of a stance going too. Feet planted firmly, knees slightly bent, shoulders square. If Barney didn’t know better, it looked sort of like a shooter’s stance. He thought, huh.

Then when he saw the redheaded babe pull out a gun, he thought Holy Shit.

It was the last thought of his career.

And his life.

Sid Sr. had a perfect angle. He was in the back of the van, a small tinted slider window open just enough for the barrel of his scoped and silenced bolt-action rifle. He kept the cross hairs of the scope tight on the spot just behind the left ear of the cop. But he could also see Junior talking to the banker across the street. Their plan was to fire as close together as possible. Didn’t want to hit the cop first and have to chase the banker around in a panic, and didn’t want to hit the banker first and deal with a trained cop and worse still, his radio.

But those type of plans rarely worked out, and Senior knew it. When Junior reached into her fanny pack, Senior tightened up on the cop. When she had the gun almost all the way clear of her pack Senior saw the cop start to wiggle, his door coming open. It was going to be close, but he had to do it. The cop saw what was happening.

Sid Sr. pulled the trigger.

Dugan had his paper all bunched back together and started to stand up and when he did he just happened to be looking across the street. He started to wave at the cop in the squad car, but before Franklin Dugan was even half way straightened up he saw Trooper Barney Burns’ head come apart. The bullet struck with such force and accuracy that Trooper Burns’ arm, the same fucking-A State Trooper arm he had used to wave at the beautiful young woman only moments ago raised up as if he were waving once again. Then his body slumped sideways and out of sight into the passenger side of his squad, his age and heart rate no longer an issue to him or anyone else.

That was the last thing Franklin Dugan saw before Junior flipped his switch.

She popped him right in the side of his head from about a foot and a half with a silenced twenty-two caliber semi-auto. Dugan dropped on the spot, dead before he hit the ground, his brains scrambled like a morning omelet. She put two into his chest just to be sure, then bent over to grab her brass. They were hot, but not overly so. Still, when she picked up the third casing-the last one fired-it burned her finger and thumb and she lost her grasp. It hit the pavement just right, did a little flip and a half moon roll then tinkled down the storm drain between the curb and the street.

The van was rolling up close. She swore silently, took a quick peek into the drain, didn’t see anything, swore again, then jumped into the van. She pulled the door shut and Senior drove them away going no faster than the posted limit, like maybe they were going to church or something. He zigzagged through a few side streets just to be safe and a few minutes later they were on the loop, lost to the world.

Gone, just like that.

CHAPTER TWO

Outside of the two years I served in Iraq One, I have worked in law enforcement my entire adult life. My father, Mason Jones had been the Marion County sheriff until he retired a few years ago, but I chose the state route and ended up as an Indiana State Trooper. Over the years I worked my way up the state ladder, putting in the time, getting the job done, and when the Governor of Indiana appointed a black female cop by the name of Cora LaRue as administrator of his newly formed Major Crimes Unit, she hired me as her lead cop. End result? From a political perspective, Cora LaRue was one of the most powerful women in the state and I, Virgil F. Jones wound up as her go-to cop.

I like Cora. Not only that, I respect her, as both an administrator and a cop. And, as a political appointee, I technically even outrank the superintendant of the state police. In theory, I can go anywhere in the state, anytime I need, to investigate and arrest criminals who fall under the state’s loosely defined rules of Cora’s Major Crimes Unit. In other words, there is scant little oversight, and for a guy like me, well, that was just about perfect. As long as I produced and made a reasonable effort to stay between the lines-blurry that they may be-no one gets in my way.

Usually.

The morning was clear, the sun was out, the temperature was warm and I was just about to turn into my parking spot at the State Police building behind the courthouse when my cell phone started to buzz from the cup holder in the center console. The caller I.D. showed the cell phone number of one of my team members, Sandy Small. I grabbed the phone, fumbled it, then caught it in the tips of my fingers, upside down, but almost clipped a parked car in the process. I stopped in the middle of the street, threw the truck in park, turned the phone over-which by now was on its last ring before it kicked to voice mail-hit the little green talk button and said “This is Jonesy.”

I thought for a moment I missed it. It didn’t sound like Sandy was there. Just the empty background noise you get over a bad connection. But then, just like that, she was there. I could hear her in the background, and then there was a noise so sharp I winced and pulled the phone away from my ear. She wasn’t talking to me though. I could just barely hear her. It sounded like she was panting, breathing hard, and swearing all at the same time. She kept counting, one through five, over and over.

As a new team member, I had assigned Sandy to the Governor’s protection detail for the past week. My thinking was, it was a way to get to know the Governor on a more personal level. A better understanding of who you’re working for and all that. Today was Sandy’s last day with the Governor before she started catching cases.

I got that pit of your stomach feeling that something was really, really wrong. I dropped my truck into gear, hit the lights and burped the siren through the intersection. It was just past seven in the morning. She’d still be at the Governor’s mansion. I put the phone on speaker so I could have both hands on the wheel. “Sandy? Sandy, can you hear me?” I shouted into the phone but Sandy didn’t, or couldn’t answer me. I heard her grunt with effort, heard her swear again. I couldn’t quite make it out, but it sounded like she was swearing. Saying ‘shit’, over and over.

A few seconds later as I screeched through a corner and turned north on Meridian Avenue I heard her loud and clear. Her voice was coming through on the Motorola police radio under the dash of my truck. “Officer down. Shots fired. Officer needs assistance. Governor’s Mansion. Repeat… Officer… Down. Officer…needs…” Then that was all.

I dropped the hammer on the truck and blew the intersection. Didn’t think about, just went and went hard. I figured I was eight minutes out if I didn’t kill myself on the way there.

Sandy Small had a Bachelor’s degree in education, a Master’s degree in psychology, and was ranked as an expert in marksmanship on the shooting range. Translation: She could out think and out shoot just about every cop in the state and could also teach anyone how to do it if they wanted to put their bullshit on the back burner. Most didn’t, but that wasn’t on her.

She was on the last day of her protection rotation, covering the overnights at the Governor’s mansion. Her new boss, Virgil, had told her that they’d all had to do it, part of some getting to know the big guy routine, or something. As far as Sandy was concerned, protection was protection, simple as that. Getting to know someone in the process was neither a pro or a con. It was more of an inconvenience than anything. But no matter… this was the last day and she was almost done.

At seven in the morning Sandy stepped outside from the back door of the Governor’s mansion, walked across the deck, down the steps and headed out. Monday morning, last time of the last day to walk the wall. The Governor’s mansion was situated on a full acre of property at the northern edge of the city of Indianapolis. An entire acre, Sandy had discovered, covered 43,650 square feet, and in this case, said acre was surrounded by a nine foot high brick wall on all four sides. At about three feet per walking step around the perimeter, it was safe to say that doing one circuit per hour every eight hours over the last week had been a lot of walking. Good for the thighs.

Not to mention the ass.

She varied her routine-sometimes clockwise, sometimes counter-clockwise. She always paused at the gate at the front of the drive though, stepped out and waved to whomever had the uniformed duty street-side and then continued on back to the house. This last trip was no different. Barney Burns, that old coot, whistled at her every time she went by.

Sandy was about fifteen steps from the front entrance-in the middle of pulling her long blond hair into a pony tail-when she heard the sounds, three in all. Or was it four?. First a loud pop, like a car backfiring. She stopped and listened. Heard another noise, then a short pause, before two more. The sound was distinct, especially if you knew what you were listening for-a ratcheting sound almost like the cycling action of a semi-auto. Then she thought, no, exactly like the cycling action of a semi-auto. Muffled pops after the ratcheting sound. It took her a few seconds to process, but when she did, Sandy took off full tilt toward the gate.

By the time she got there it was over. She tried to push the gate open, then remembered she had to input a code into the box, which she did, then waited as the gate swung open with a slowness that made her blood boil. She ran to the street and tried to process what she saw: A white panel van as it turned the corner a half block away. Couldn’t get the plate. No more than a glimpse of the vehicle itself. A man across the street on his back, his limbs jutted outward at difficult angles, his paisley robe askew, a leather slipper missing from his foot, a pool of blood that seemed to grow darker the closer she got, glassy eyes staring at nothing. Gone.

A banker, she thought? Where did that come from? She let it go.

A look to her left. The squad car. Windows down. Engine off. Seat empty. Reddish tint on the front windshield.

She ran to the car. Pulled her cell out along the way, and hit Virgil’s number from the speed dial. At the first ring she was almost there. At the second ring she looked inside the squad. At the third ring she had the phone pinched between her shoulder and her ear. At the fourth ring she had the door open and pulled the trooper out of his vehicle, her hands wrapped under his armpits. She lost the phone then as it clattered to the ground, but she thought she heard Virgil answer.

Sandy pulled hard until she got Barney clear of the vehicle and flat on his back. No pulse. Not breathing. She began CPR, counting with each chest compression, then pausing to breathe her air into his lungs. Her hair hung in a pony tail over the front of her shoulder and every time she bent forward to give Burns mouth-to-mouth the ends of her hair landed in the pool of blood next to Barney’s head, like a paint brush. Eventually she gave up on the counting and began to swear as she compressed his chest…“shit shit shit.” Five shits then a breath. Every time she compressed his chest a few drops of blood seeped out of the hole in the side of his head.

When that didn’t work, she crawled to the cruiser and grabbed the microphone and started transmitting. “Officer down. Shots fired. Officer needs assistance. Governor’s Mansion. Repeat… Officer… Down. Officer…needs…” Out of breath. She dropped the microphone and started back in on Barney. She tried to remember something personal about him. Wife? Kids? She didn’t know. Couldn’t think. The microphone she’d just used dangled from Barney’s squad car, hung out over the edge of the bottom of the door jamb, smeared with blood. Sandy watched it sway back and forth as she worked on Barney. Somewhere in the back of her mind it registered as one of the saddest things she’d ever seen-Barney’s microphone hanging upside down from the door of his car.

He was gone-she knew it-but she kept at it anyway. Didn’t know what else to do. Heard the sirens. They sounded far away. The blood from her hair painted her chest as she worked on Barney.

Five shits, then a breath.

CHAPTER THREE

I am not a believer in God. Except, well, that isn’t quite right. I am not an atheist, not by any stretch. I do believe in something bigger than life…something bigger than myself, I just can’t quite define it. As a child, I was raised catholic, but it didn’t stick, and by the time I’d turned eighteen-a full twenty-two years ago-I’d never gone back to church at all except for weddings and funerals. And, I am hitting the age where I have begun to notice there are fewer of the former and more of the latter. Well… life. Can’t live without it.

It seemed almost everyone wanted to believe that all they had to do was talk to God, ask for their prayers to be answered-which really, I think, amounts to nothing more than asking for stuff — and then God, in His wisdom, will either grant your request or not. The whole concept seems kind of selfish. A little too….feel good. Like comfort food. The idea that a group of people get together once or twice a week and listen while someone stands on the stage and waves a book at them and tells them how to live their lives seems all very….republican. Like it doesn’t matter if you wave the book or wave the flag, in the end it is all very much the same. Praise the Lord and pass the ammunition.

So. I am a believer of something. What that something might be is just a little hard to pin down. But truth be told, believer or not, over the last eight minutes since I’d heard Sandy on the radio, I was talking to someone, asking…okay, praying, that she wasn’t hurt.

When I finally rolled up to the scene and saw her working on Barney Burns, saw her physically okay, I felt like my prayers had been answered.

And isn’t that, I thought, just a kick in the nut sack of belief.

I slid my truck to a stop at the south intersection, almost a half block away. It was as close as I could get. It looked like every cop car in the city had converged on the Governor’s mansion. I flashed my ID to the city cop and ran through. Sandy had moved over and sat down on the curb across the street from the trooper, her head down, her hands in her hair. I didn’t know who had the overnight duty so I didn’t know who the trooper was, but even as I ran, I could tell it wasn’t good. I detoured around the other cops already on scene and walked over to victim who lay at the end of the driveway. There was a pool of blood under the man’s head, and two entry wounds to his chest. Gone. I looked up and saw two news helicopters circling overhead, and when I crossed the street I saw the fallen Trooper was Barney Burns. That made something click in my chest with an instant heaviness. Barney had been my training officer when I joined the State Police.

I walked over to Sandy and squatted in front of her and saw the blood on her shirt and in her hair. “Jesus, Sandy, are you hurt? Are you hit?”

Sandy shook her head, then leaned into me, her arms around my neck. I felt her shake and sob into my chest. “I’m…I’m all right. Not hit.” She pulled back and rubbed her eyes, then started to try to wipe the blood out of her hair. “It’s Barney’s blood. It’s in my hair. I was trying…I was trying to do CPR.”

I looked at her and for a moment just wanted to scoop her up and take her home. Get her cleaned up. Wanted to take care of her. She was covered in blood. It was in her hair, on her shirt, her hands, her face. I tried to wipe some of it from her cheek, but it was useless. I turned toward the EMTs on the scene and motioned them over, then turned back to Sandy. “Where’s the Governor, Sandy?”

She didn’t answer right away and I had to ask her again. She pulled her hair away from her face streaking it with more blood in the process. “He’s, uh, still inside, I guess. Hasn’t left yet.”

“Stay here. Do not move. Understand?”

She nodded and I went over and grabbed one of the city cops. I looked at his name tag: Cauliffer. “Officer Cauliffer, my name is Detective Virgil Jones, with the State Police.”

“Yeah,” Cauliffer said. I know who you are. “You’re the guy-“

I cut him off. “Listen, Cauliffer, go secure the Governor. He’s inside his house. Keep him there.”

Cauliffer let his face form a question. “Sir?”

“Go, Cauliffer. Keep the Governor inside. Stay right by his side. I don’t care what he’s doing, you stay right with him. If he’s in there taking his morning dump, I want you standing ready with a roll of toilet paper. You got me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Go. Now.”

Cauliffer took off toward the Governor’s mansion and I went back to Sandy. “What the hell happened?” Then before she could answer, I yelled to the EMTs: “Can I get a fucking medic over here?”

Sandy shook her head. “The hell if I know.”

“Are you sure you’re not hurt?”

“I don’t know. I hit my head getting Burns out of the car.” She blew a deep breath out of her mouth. “Jesus, Jonesy, half his head is gone. I mean it’s Barney. Who’d have ever thought something like this could happen to Barney?”

“I know, I know, but listen, it’s alright, okay? You did good. Did everything you could. Do you have anything? Anything at all?”

“Nothing really. I saw a white cargo van just turning west bound from the south corner as I came out of the gate. Couldn’t get the plate. Couldn’t even tell you the make of the van. Chevy, maybe? Or GMC. It had the tall taillights at the top. It was just a glimpse. They were already gone, you know?”

“Okay. But it was a van? You’re sure of that?”

“Yeah. White cargo van. Like a delivery van or something.”

“Okay. Sit still. I’m going to get the medics to look you over.”

“Aw, jeez, I don’t need that. Let me work this with you.”

“It’s not a request, Sandy. They’re going to look at you.” I stood up. “I’ll be right back.”

I went to grab my phone from my pocket but realized it was still in the truck. I jogged back down to where I’d parked a few minutes ago and the phone was ringing when I got there. The caller ID showed a blocked number. I hit the button. “Jonesy.”

“Uh, Detective Jones? This is Cauliffer, up at the house? The Governor’s? He gave me your number.”

“Yeah, Cauliffer, what is it?”

“Well, you think you could come up here for a minute?”

“Why?”

“It’s, um, the Governor. He’s pretty pissed that I won’t let him out of the house.”

I could hear the Governor in the background. Cauliffer was right. He sounded pissed. “Alright. Just sit on him for a minute. I’ll be right there.” I pressed the end button then hit the speed dial for my boss, Cora.

She answered immediately. “What the hell’s happening, Jonesy?”

“Aw, we’ve got a hell of a mess is what’s happening. You better get out here. Be nice if you could handle the politics for me.”

“Turn around, Slick.”

I turned and saw Cora walking toward me. I hit the end button and stuck the phone in my pocket. At fifty-two years old, Cora stands little more than five feet tall, carries about twenty extra pounds, is dark skinned, and keeps her salt and pepper hair high and tight like a man. She began her career as an Indianapolis Metro patrol cop, and the stories of her days on a foot beat are legendary. She once found herself cornered by three gangbangers jacked on meth in an abandoned warehouse. When they closed ranks to take her down, she left her gun in its holster and instead took her nightstick from the chrome loop on her belt and proceeded to offer a free demonstration on the quality of hand to hand combat training offered by the Indiana Police Academy. When it was over she shook a cigarette out of her pack, lit up, and stood over them, the ashes from her cigarette scattered around their broken limbs and bloodied faces. She finished her smoke before she called for EMS on the radio. No one messed with Cora LaRue more than once, and only then at their own peril.

She walked up and put her hands on her hips. “Jesus Christ. I heard it’s Barney Burns.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I don’t believe it.”

“Alright, I’m going to go up and talk to the Governor. Get this scene locked down, then come up and join me, will you?”

“You bet.”

“Jesus Christ,” Cora said again. “Barney Burns. Who’d have ever thought…”

CHAPTER FOUR

The Sids sat across from each other at their kitchen table, Senior lost in thought, Junior amped from the adrenaline rush.

“I still think we could do them all,” Junior said. “I want to do them all.”

“We’ve been over this before. It’s too risky.”

Junior’s hand slapped the table. Hard. “Then what the fuck did I drive all the way up there for? Answer that for me, will you? Jesus, an entire week of surveillance in that God forsaken shithole of a town and now you want to just let it go? Who retires to Osceola anyway?”

Senior sucked in his cheeks and exhaled through his nose. Maybe he’d trained his child too well. Or too hard. Sid Jr. could be a handful, that was for sure. Junior wanted it all, and anything less than that would be considered a failure. Sid Sr. shook his head then pointed at the map on the table. “Look, everyone else is either right here in Indy or within fifty miles. He’s the only one that’s out of the area. You want to blow the whole deal over one guy?”

Junior didn’t answer. Asked a question instead. “You’re turning chicken shit on me, aren’t you?”

Senior pointed a finger at Sid Jr. “Don’t you talk to me that way. Did it look chicken shit to you when that Trooper’s melon popped? Chicken shit my ass.”

“It was pretty good shootin’, I’ll give you that,” Junior said. “But listen, we may have a little problem.”

“What?”

“I lost some brass.”

This time it was Senior that slapped the table. “God damn, girl. That could be a problem, right there.”

“No, no, listen. I think it’s okay. It’s not good, but I’m not printed anywhere and neither are you, so if they find it, and they probably won’t, what good can it do them?”

“Aw, they’ll find it,” Senior said. “We killed a cop. There’s no way they won’t find it.”

Junior wasn’t so sure. “I still think it’s okay. They don’t know to look for it. We fired four shots total, right? Yours, and my three. I picked up two, but the third was hot. That’s how I lost it. Slipped out of my hand and rolled right down the storm drain. Unless they pull the grate and look in there-and why would they-they’ll just think we took them all. Besides, you know the cops aren’t all that smart to begin with. Hell, half the time they can’t find their own ass with a GPS unit and a how-to video.”

“It’s not the cops, though, don’t you get it? If the cops don’t catch us in the act, we’re probably okay. But those fucking crime scene techs? They scare me. They can figure some shit out.”

“Aw, that’s a bunch of TV bullshit.”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, like I said, we’re not printed anywhere, so all they could do is hang us after the fact anyway, and if it comes to that, it won’t make much difference. It’ll be fuck you very much and good-bye, know what I mean?”

They bantered back and forth like that for a bit before they got back to work, checking their gear, loading their supplies for the next run, but all the while, somewhere in the recesses of Senior’s mind, he heard himself say it wasn’t too late to back it down, to toss the whole thing in the shitter and flush it away like a bad memory. Live and let live and all that jazz. But he wasn’t really listening to himself and so in the end he never really heard. It was too bad for that cop, no doubt about it, but it really was the only way-the banker had to go.

They still had another one to do later today. By tonight the city would be shocked. By tomorrow they’d be worried. By the end of the week they’d be shit-faced with panic.

And this was just the beginning.

CHAPTER FIVE

I walked into the side entrance of the Governor’s mansion without knocking, stepped through a short hallway, around a corner, and into the kitchen. The Governor’s chief of staff, Bradley Pearson was already there along with the Governor, and Officer Cauliffer. I pulled out a chair and sat down. “Morning Governor,” I said by way of a greeting.

“Jonesy,” the Governor said. “What do we know so far?” Then, without waiting for an answer, “And perhaps we should excuse Officer Cauliflower here.”

Cauliffer reddened. “It’s, uh, Cauliffer sir.”

The Governor tipped his head sideways and closed one eye. “Yes, of course. Sorry. Cauliffer. Got it.”

I caught Cauliffer’s eyes and gave him a nod that said, ‘you’re done in here.’ Cauliffer gave me a look back that said all at once, ‘got it’ and ‘thank God’ and went back outside.

The Governor looked at Cora. “Is Sandy out there? Is she hurt?”

I thought, hmm. Cora looked at me but spoke to the Governor. “She’s fine Governor. But Trooper Burns is dead, along with your neighbor directly across the street.”

I could see the Governor’s jaw muscles clench tight. “Yes, I know. It’s all over my Blackberry already.” He held his phone up and wiggled it in the air, then tossed it on the counter. Governor Hewitt McConnell was ex-military and looked it. Tall, hard and lean with a military buzz cut, slightly gray at the temples, clear blue eyes and a salt and pepper goatee he wore off and on. Today it was on. The gray in his hair and beard contrasted perfectly against his black over black three-piece suit. Pearson, his Chief of Staff, was the polar opposite. Narrow shoulders, a soft stomach that strained the buttons on his wrinkled shirt, and a polyester suit that looked capable of surviving nuclear devastation. His hair was drug store bottle black but left gray along the sides. The common consensus was he was trying for Mitt Romney, but the reality was he looked more like Pauley Walnuts from the Sopranos.

It was Pearson who spoke next. “Jonesy, ever hear of a guy named Samuel Pate?”

“Sermon Sam, the Preacher Man? Sure, who hasn’t,” I said. Samuel Pate was something of a minor celebrity in our state, a televangelist who somehow managed to attain an impressive measure of financial success over a very short period of time despite of his lack of education, verifiable credentials, and physical shortcomings. Or perhaps because of them. “Why do you ask?”

Bradley Pearson looked at me and asked a question of his own as if mine were of little importance. “What do you know about Sunrise Bank? Do you have an account there, or know anyone who works at their institution?”

“That’s three questions in a row. Which would you like me to answer,” I said. “And why does it suddenly feel like I’m the only one in the room who doesn’t know what’s going on here?”

The Governor caught the frustration in my tone and held up his hand in a peaceful manner before speaking. “You’ll have to forgive Bradley, Detective. At times I think he wishes he would have chosen a career in law enforcement. Or maybe it’s my fault. I often let him ask the difficult questions for me.”

“Maybe if we started at the beginning,” Cora said.

Pearson let out a heavy sigh, then started over. “We don’t think this attack, these murders…we don’t think the Governor was targeted. At all. We want to be clear on that. There may be political implications, and we’d like it handled in a manner befitting the office of the Governor of the State of Indiana.”

I don’t like Bradley Pearson. I know of no one who does. “I’m not sure what that means, Bradley. And who exactly is Franklin Dugan?” I asked. “The name rings a bell, but I can’t quite place it.”

“He is, I mean was, the President of Sunrise Bank,” the Governor said. “He was also one of my closest friends.” I saw Pearson look at the Governor with an expression on his face that indicated there was more. The Governor seemed to notice too, because he puffed out his cheeks, exhaled loudly through his mouth and said, “He was also one of my biggest campaign contributors.

“I want you to catch this son of a bitch, Jonesy,” the Governor said. “Or kill him. Sooner the better. Elections are only nine months away, and voters have a memory for this kind of thing.”

“Especially if your platform was a reduction in capitol crime,” Cora added. Sort of dry.

I winced when she said it, but the governor just pointed a finger at her and said, “Exactly.” He stood, shot his cuffs and made a circular motion with his hand at Pearson. “Cora will fill you in on the details, Jonesy. I appreciate your efforts. You’re sure Sandy’s okay?”

“Yes, sir,” I said. Thought, hmm, again.

The governor shook his head and looked at no one. “Jesus, Barney Burns. Who’d have ever thought…” Then to Pearson. “Where’s officer Cauliflower? Perhaps he can clear us a path out of here so we can get downtown.”

I looked at Cora and was about to say something when Pearson stuck his head back in. “Uh, I just want to be sure we’re clear on something. The Governor, when he said ‘catch him or kill him’….what he was really saying was ‘catch him.’ Just so we’re clear on that, okay?”

Once Pearson was finally gone, I looked at Cora and said, “What aren’t they saying?”

“You never answered Pearson’s question. What do you know about Sunrise Bank?”

“What’s to know? They’re a bank, just like any other, aren’t they?”

Cora pursed her lips. “In many ways, they are. But did you know that there’s a bank up in the northern part of the state-I can’t remember the name-but they’re based out of South Bend. Strictly local, people walk in and out all day and deposit their checks, take out loans, the whole thing. Just a regular local bank, but, they also happen to be the third largest specialty financer in the entire country. Garbage trucks, rental cars, aircraft for regional air carriers, the works. If it runs or flies, they’ve got their hand in it.”

“Fascinating stuff, Cora, really. But what does that have to do with Sunrise or Dugan?”

“Care to guess where Pate’s ministry does their banking?”

“So like the bank up in South Bend, Sunrise does specialty financing, right?”

“You got it, Jones man. And it’s big business, at least according to the Governor. We’re talking billions of dollars in outstanding loans to religious institutions all across the country. Big, big stuff.”

I thought about that for a few minutes. “If they’re doing that much business, what’s the tie-in with Pate? He’s regional at best. Why has his name come up?”

“Pate just borrowed over five million dollars from Dugan’s bank to buy a run down church in Broad Ripple.”

“Maybe I’m not quite the detective I think I am, because I still don’t see how that would make Pate a suspect.”

“Maybe you should go over to Dugan’s office and look things over. You’ll probably revise your last statement after you do. I’ve attached his office as part of the crime scene and I sent Rosencrantz and Donatti over there as soon as I heard what happened out here. They’ve got his office locked down and are personally standing guard outside until you get there. There are only two things on Dugan’s desk. One is a copy of Pate’s financials and the other is a copy of a Texas Department of Insurance investigator’s report. They have an open file on him. He started his ministry there five years ago with the proceeds from an insurance claim that paid out over a million bucks when his Houston church turned to a pile of ash one night. He brought the money here and set up shop all over again. He calls it Grace Community Church, and it’s mortgaged to the hilt.

“And the church over in Broad Ripple? The one he just bought? It looks like it’s being held together with baling twine. I think they have a congregation of about thirty people, all dirt poor. The building is about to be condemned by the city, the lot can’t be worth more than about fifty grand and the victim, Franklin Dugan is the one who approved the loan to Pate. He’s also the guy who financed the vast majority of the Governor’s campaign when he ran for office. Word on the street is ol’ Sermon Sam is thinking about making a run at the Governor’s chair. A quick five million would make a nice campaign starter fund, don’t you think?”

Then, as if she hadn’t quite made her point clear to me, she added, “Politics. It’s good stuff, huh? By the way, Rosencrantz says the bank is calling an emergency board meeting. Should be starting anytime now. You might want to stop by at some point. When you get there, ask for Margery Brennan. She’s Dugan’s secretary, or personal assistant or whatever they’re called these days. Keep me in the loop, will you?”

I walked outside and back down to the street and saw Sandy at the back of an EMS van getting her blood pressure taken. The two news helicopters still circled overhead, their news feeds probably streaming live video of the scene direct to anyone who had their television set turned on, though there wasn’t much to be seen from the air. The crime scene technicians had erected two tents with side flaps, one covering Dugan’s body at the end of his drive, the other over the top of Trooper Burns and his squad car. I estimated a total of about fifty uniformed officers on the scene from all three jurisdictions, City, County, and State. Metro Homicide would be in charge of the scene, and my team, while technically over the Metro Homicide Task Force, would do what we do best: work the fringes, the areas outside of normal investigative procedures.

I got to Sandy just as the paramedics were finishing up. “How you doin?”

“I’m okay. Jesus, what a mess, huh?”

“That about says it. So, you’ve had a little while to think about it. Give me something I can use,” I said.

The paramedic interrupted. “If it can wait, I’d like to get her downtown. Her blood pressure is off the charts. I mean way up, and so is her pulse. You said you bumped your head, Miss?”

Sandy shot the medic a look. “It’s Detective. And yes, I bumped my head, but it’s no big deal. It doesn’t even hurt.”

“Nevertheless, we’ve got to have you looked at. You may be concussed. The docs will know for sure.”

Sandy turned to me. “Jonesy, can you do something about this?”

“I sure can. See you at the hospital.”

“Jonesy.”

“No way, Sandy. You’re going. That’s a direct order.”

“Okay, okay. But listen, before I do, you said you wanted something you could use. I think we’ve got two shooters, both with silenced weapons. The shots were muffled, like a quiet backfire from a car engine. Not even that loud really. The loudest thing I heard was the ratcheting cycle after the shots. If it wasn’t for that, I might not have even thought they were shots at all, you know?”

“Why two shooters?”

“Well, it’s the sequence. I’ve been going over it in my head. First I heard a pop, then another pop before I heard the cycle action. Then there were two more pops closer together and two fast ratcheting sounds. So that means one shot from something, a rifle maybe, that doesn’t cycle. Something with a bolt action? I’ll tell you something else too, the more I think about it, the more I’m convinced that the first pop sounded different-quieter-than the rest. So, two victims, two guns, two shooters, right?”

“Sounds right. But, you know, if you heard it wrong, missed the first ratchet because you weren’t listening for it…”

“No, I wondered about that. But I didn’t miss it. It was quiet this morning. I was quiet. And I was close.”

“Okay. You can write it up later. Right now you’re going in to get checked out.”

She raised her eyebrow at him, then let it go. “You think this is about the Governor?”

“Have you met Pearson yet?” I said.

“The Governor’s snake? Yeah, we met a few days ago. Hell of a guy.”

“Isn’t he though? Anyway, they-the Governor and Pearson-made it clear this had nothing to do with them, or at least they don’t want it to look like it did.”

“And you think different?”

“I like to keep an open mind. The Governor asked about you, by the way.”

“Yeah?” Sandy said.

“Yeah. Twice. Say, I didn’t see Mrs. McConnell up at the house. Where’s she?”

Sandy let her eyelids droop a quarter inch. “She’s been out of town for the last few days. Sister in Oregon or something like that.”

“I see.”

“I don’t think you do, Jonesy.”

I bit the inside of my lower lip. “Get checked out, Sandy. You did good. Really.”

Sandy just stared at me.

I looked around until I saw Metro’s lead detective, Ron Miles, speaking with one of the crime scene techs just outside the tent next to Dugan’s body. Ron’s white hair was mussed out of place and he kept running his hand over it, trying to flatten it to the top of his head. The knees on his pants were covered in dirt and grime.

“Sorry about Burns, Jonesy. Somebody told me he was your training officer?”

“Yeah, he was.”

“So, the State getting in on this?”

“Yeah, something like that,” I said. “The Governor wants us to take a peek. See if we can get in front of it sort of quick. We’ll probably just shadow you guys. See what we can see.”

“In other words, we do all the work and you guys get all the credit.”

“Naw, you can have the credit. Like I said, we just want to try to get in front of it, if we can.”

“Doesn’t look like it’s going to be easy. We don’t have jack-shit on this one.”

“Tell me what you’ve got so far,” I said.

“You spoke with Sandy?”

“Just now.”

“Okay,” Miles said. “Well, there’s that, and not much else. Not yet anyway, and most of it’s speculation at this point. One of the techs found the slug, or I guess I should say what was left of the slug that took Burns out. It cracked the front window, but didn’t penetrate. It ricocheted off the window and imbedded in the top of the dash. He says it looks like it was probably from a. 223, but he says he can’t be sure until they get it back to the lab for tests.”

“What about Dugan?”

“One to the head, two in the chest. Coroner says he’ll get what’s left of the slug fragments when he does the post. There’s some tattooing on his skull from the powder burns, so it was up close and personal.” Miles pulled the tent flap back and they stepped inside. As bad as Burns looked, Dugan was somehow worse. He ended up flat on his back, his arms out at his sides like a kid ready to make an angel in the snow. One of his slippers had fallen off his foot and lay next to his hip. I looked for a full minute then stepped back outside the tent and let the flap close after Ron stepped out. “Jesus,” I said to no one in particular.

“Yeah,” Miles said.

“So, what do you think about Sandy’s take? Two shooters?”

“I think it works. Dugan was close… foot, foot and a half. Burns wasn’t. So, if Sandy’s got the timing right-and why wouldn’t she-there must have been two. I mean, how do you shoot from a distance with one weapon and then take another weapon and run over and pop someone up close? Or better yet, why? Just doesn’t add up.”

“What if she heard it wrong?”

Miles flattened his hair with his palm. “Well, I just don’t think she did. Plus, I’ll tell you something, even if she did hear it wrong and there was only one shooter, what’s he gonna do? Take out Dugan up close and then run away with Burns just sitting there? That doesn’t work. And neither does taking out Burns first from a distance and then walking up and popping Dugan. So I think she’s on the money. Two shooters, two weapons, all at the same time.”

We talked it over for a few more minutes running through different variations on the theme, but in the end I thought the scenario held up.

“Alright, keep doing what you’re doing here,” I said. “I’m going to work a specific angle, but I want you to run this by the numbers. Let’s not let anything fall through the cracks.”

“Like I ever do. You know who’s got the best closure rate in Metro, right?”

“Yeah, I know. So do what you do.”

“I intend to. So, what’s the angle?”

I looked at him for a second. “Uh, it’s sort of complicated. Cora’s got us looking at something.”

Miles looked away for a moment, as if studying something off in the distance. “Well, I’ll keep you updated with whatever we find,” he said.

“That’ll do,” I said. I took one last look around. “Alright, I’m heading out. Find us something, Ron. I need a thread to pull on.”

“Don’t hold your breath, Jonesy. This one has that ‘might kick our ass’ sort of feel. Is this about the Governor, you think?”

“Ever met Bradley Pearson?” I said.

“Isn’t that the Governor’s chief weenie? I heard he’s sort of a snake…”

CHAPTER SIX

I drove over to the hospital and walked into the Emergency Department and when I did my gun set off the metal detector at the doorway. I was about to badge the security guard headed my way until I noticed it was a friend of mine from the Sherriff’s Department. “Hey Kev. Double dipping these days?” I said, as we shook hands.

“Are you kidding me? My oldest daughter is getting married this spring, and the twins start college in a year and a half. If I didn’t have to sleep, I’d be triple dipping.”

“Amber is getting married? Jesus, I used to bounce her on my knee.”

Kevin scratched the back of his head. “Yep, my baby’s getting married.”

“Getting old, Kev.”

“Huh, tell me. I don’t have much time to think about it though. Too busy trying to make enough money to pay for the wedding.”

“Who’s the lucky guy?”

The deputy’s face lit up. “Aw, she hit the jackpot, man. One of the Docs here. Hell of a good kid, just out of med school. Matter of fact, that’s how I got this gig.”

Sandy came around the corner and walked over to where Kevin and I were standing.

“All done?” I said.

“Haven’t even started yet,” Sandy said. “There was a some sort of big wreck out on 465. They’re backed up, so I’m just waiting. Supposed to be next.” She looked at Kevin and stuck her hand out. “Hi. I’m Sandy Small, the best thing that’s ever happened to Virgil and his team.”

The deputy laughed and shook her hand. “I’ll bet you are. I’m Kevin Campbell. It’s a pleasure.” Kevin lowered his voice and leaned in toward Sandy. “You know, I wanted a spot on Virgil’s team, but they wouldn’t have me.”

Sandy looked at me. “Why not?”

“Not mean enough,” I said.

“Fuck you, not mean enough,” Kevin said to me. “I’ve forgotten more about mean than you’ll ever know.” Then to Sandy: “Pardon my French, little lady.”

“Fuck your French,” Sandy said.

“See,” I said. “Mean like that.”

Sandy made a pfftt noise with her lips. “You don’t know the half of it.” I wasn’t sure who she was talking to, but before I could say anything a nurse came through the doorway and spoke to Sandy. “The doctor will see you now.”

The nurse escorted us down the hall and into one of the curtained areas she identified as bed eight. Inside the curtain area was a wheeled hospital bed with the back raised to a forty-five degree angle, a chair, a stand-up closet and a small stainless steel sink and counter. The nurse reached into the thin closet next to the bed, handed Sandy a gown, and told her she could leave her underwear on, smiled at me, and said the doctor would be right in. She pulled the curtain closed, and left us standing there, Sandy holding the gown, looking at me with an evil grin on her face.

Oh boy.

Sandy gave her index finger a little twirl and said, “No sneaking a look, Mister. I mean it.”

“How about I just go back out to the waiting room?” I said.

Sandy ignored my question and started to undress. I turned around, but didn’t leave. “That guard was something else, huh?” she said.

“Yeah, he was,” I was studying the pattern on the curtain, listening to the sounds of the emergency room, watching the feet of the hospital staff and other patients shuffle by the bottom of the curtain. I also listened to Sandy undress. I heard her shoes as she kicked them off, a little static electricity from her shirt as she pulled it over her head, and finally the zipper being lowered on her jeans and the sound of the denim as it slid against her skin as she wriggled out of her pants.

“Okay, I’m decent. You can turn around now.”

I turned and looked at her. She stood in front of me, the thread-bare hospital gown pulled tight across her front, and I could see the fullness of her breasts, her nipples pressing against the thin fabric.

Sandy turned her back toward me and faced the bed. She held the back of the gown closed with her hand. She looked over her shoulder and said, “Help a girl out, will you? I couldn’t get the ties.” She looked forward while letting go of the back of the gown. I watched it fall open, and felt myself swallow. I could hear my own heartbeat in my head.

She wasn’t wearing a bra, but I already knew that. I let my eyes follow the shape of her shoulder blades inward toward her spine, then down to her waistline. A small tribal tattoo peeked out of the top of a black thong that rode high on her thin waist, covering almost nothing of what was, it looked to me, at least the second best ass I’d ever seen in my life.

“Come on, Jonesy. Tie me up. I’m feeling a draft here.”

I cleared my throat without meaning to. “Uh, yeah, sure. Sorry.” I stepped up close to her, and tied the top tie first. The front of her thighs were against the side of the bed and part of the gown was trapped so I had to actually open the bottom part and tug on it a little to release the material. The back of my hand brushed up against her ass and when it did I felt like a school boy trying to cop a cheap feel. I am at least a foot taller than Sandy, and I fumbled the knot on the first try, the angle awkward. “Uh, sorry.”

“Come on Cowboy, you can do it. Just make two bunny ears and wrap one around and through the other.”

“No, no it’s not that. It’s the angle. I’m taller.”

Sandy placed her palms on the edge of the bed and stood on her tip toes and arched the small of her back. “Better?”

You’ve got no idea, I said to myself.

“What was that?” Sandy said.

When she went up on her toes, I immediately upgraded my assessment from second best to all time best. Without question. I finished the knot. “Nothing. There you go.” But neither of us moved. I thought how easy it would be to just place my hand between those beautiful shoulder blades and bend her over the hospital bed, and as I did I noticed for the first time that her legs were spread beneath the gown. Were they like that a minute ago? I wasn’t sure. She reached over with her left hand and grabbed the pillow from the front of the bed and brought it in front of her. I noticed my hand come to rest at the top of her back.

I had just started to push, or thought I had when Sandy turned around. “Jonesy, what do you think the doctor would say if he caught us?”

I felt a little dizzy. Before I could answer, the curtain was yanked back and a tall, good looking doctor stepped in the room and smiled. His hair was pure white, but there were no lines on his face. His solid black eye glasses were a sharp contrast to his hair color, giving him a dramatic flair I associate with a television actor or movie star. He wore traditional green scrubs under a white knee-length lab coat. His clog-style shoes looked like they were made of wood and cork with suede tops. The doctor looked at me, then at Sandy and said, “Looks like I got here just in time.” He took his pen out of his pocket, tapped it on the clipboard he was holding, then pointed to the ceiling at the corner of the room. We all looked up and saw the security camera. “Two of my nurses just went on break. One of them is getting married in a month. I’m the groom’s best man. They said something about it was getting hot in here. So, how can I help you, young lady?”

I left the room so the doctor could examine Sandy. I’d been walking up and down the corridor for half an hour, thinking about what might have just happened with Sandy when I heard her voice behind me. She was talking with the doctor who had just examined her. The doctor pulled a card from his breast pocket and wrote something on the back and then handed it to Sandy, shaking her hand in both of his before walking away. It looked to me like he held her hand a little longer than necessary.

A few minutes later we were in my truck. I started the engine and looked over at Sandy. “What’d the Doc say?”

“He said I was fine. And he meant it, too. He gave me his number. Seemed like a nice guy.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out his card, placing it on the console between us. “He said if you don’t have enough sense to see what you’re missing, I should give him a call. What do you think?”

“He was a pretty good looking guy,” I said. “He definitely had that distinguished doctor thing going for him.” I dropped the truck into gear and pulled out of the lot and onto the street. “Probably makes about a million a year, you know, if that kind of thing matters to you.”

“You think I should call him? Or would that be too forward?”

“I should probably get you home” I said, ignoring her question. “You know, doctor’s orders, and all.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right. You didn’t answer my question though. What do you think? Should I call him?”

I picked up the card looked at it for a second, tore it in half and tossed it out the window. “You must have hit your head harder than you thought. You’re clearly not thinking straight.”

Sandy laughed and watched the card slip away into the wind. It was the best laugh I’d ever heard.

“I memorized the number,” Sandy said.

“My ass, you did.”

“Already entered it into my cell phone.”

“Uh huh.”

“I did. Want to see?”

“Want to hand me your phone before I roll the window back up?”

Like that, all the way back to Sandy’s. Twenty minutes later we were at her place. I walked her to the door and by the time we got there I could see the adrenaline wearing off. There was an awkward moment at the door, then Sandy stood on her toes and kissed me-quick-on the lips. “I’ll get with you after I rest for a while, okay?” Sandy said.

“How about tomorrow?” I said. Then I pulled her close and hugged her for just a moment before I turned around and headed for my truck. When I looked back she was already inside.

I was in love.

She worked for me.

It would be trouble.

I didn’t care.

CHAPTER SEVEN

The older I become the more I have begun to notice not only the evolutionary changes taking place in our society, but the ebb and flow of resistance that comes with those changes, particularly in middle aged men such as myself. Usually, just when I have convinced myself that I am still of the age of a younger and smarter generation, something happens to remind me that time is not just something we measure but something that exists with an unending and ubiquitous rhythm. No matter how badly you would like to slow the clock, you have no more control of such universal mechanisms than you do the beat of your own heart.

When I got back in my truck I had a message waiting for me on my cell. It was Rosencrantz, telling me that he had Dugan’s office sealed and his computer was already on the way back to the lab for processing. Rosencrantz and Donatti were the other two members of my team. I hired both away from the city, Rosencrantz from Sex, and Doantti from Homicide. They are my unofficial leg breakers. If I need muscle, I went to Rosencrantz and Donatti. Rosencrantz answered on the third ring. He sounded bored.

“Uh, listen, you guys haven’t beaten anyone up or anything, have you?” I said.

“Hey, boss, come on,” Rosie said. “Give us a little credit. We’re highly trained investigators. Besides, I haven’t beaten anyone up for over a week.”

“Uh huh.”

“If you were thinking about getting something to eat before coming over here I wouldn’t bother. When they heard the boss was dead someone made an executive decision and catered in about ten grand worth of food. We’ve interviewed Dugan’s secretary, the entire executive team and their secretaries as well. Everybody except the executive committee is walking around here bumping into each other like a bunch of zombies or something. Nobody has any useful information for us at all and there’s a ton of food here that’s going to go bad if someone doesn’t start eating it. I’m thinking maybe I should take some home with me. In fact, you know that Crime Scene tech, big Al, the one that weighs in around two eighty or so? I saw him fill four or five evidence bags with Swedish meatballs and bacon-wrapped shrimp before he left. The bottom line is the only real thing I’ve learned so far is that no one uses the word ‘secretary’ anymore. They prefer ‘executive assistant.’ Who knew?”

I thought for a moment then said, “Didn’t you go to New Orleans last year?”

“Two years ago, but yeah. Went for Mardi-Gras. I got you that Ragin’ Cajun T-shirt, remember?”

“Sure. You flew down, right? How were the stewardesses?

“Fine I guess. I don’t really remember. Why do you ask?”

“Never mind,” I said.

See what I mean?

I pulled away from Sandy’s and after about a block I realized I didn’t know where the Sunrise Bank headquarters were located. I pulled over to the curb and tried to Google the name from my phone, but the signal wasn’t strong enough and I didn’t have the patience to wait. I called Rosencrantz back. He was still eating.

“What’s the address over there. I tried the Google and it wouldn’t come up. I don’t know where I’m going.”

“You know,” Rosie said, “I’m not exactly sure. Donatti drove. I was sleeping.”

“Well, find someone and ask will you?”

“Don’t need to. I’m standing right next to his secretary.” Then obviously to someone else I heard him say “Ouch, hey, that’s assault on a police officer. Okay, okay.” Then, back to me he said, “What I meant to say was, I’m standing right next to his executive assistant. Then a few seconds later: “Okay, Jonesy, got a pen?”

City traffic. A slow drive to the bank. I spoke with my dad on the drive over. Together my father and I own a downtown Jamaican bar called Jonesy’s. “Listen pops, I’m going to be tied up tonight, if you’ve been watching the news.”

“Can’t miss it,” Mason said. “Nothing else on.”

I try to work as many hours as possible at the bar, but when I’m on a case, it falls to my dad to pick up the slack. “That gonna be okay?”

“Yeah, don’t worry about it, son. I’ll see you when I see you.”

“I’ll probably be in later if I get the chance, if you’re still there. Guy’s gotta eat.”

“A guy does,” Mason said. Watch your back now.”

“No worries, Pop. No worries at all.”

A half hour later, I consulted the lobby directory, took an elevator to the fourteenth floor, and found Rosencrantz chatting up an attractive mid-forty-something woman with cat-eye glasses and big hair. She wore a conservative dark gray business suit over a thin white blouse. Doantti was across the hall and stood in front of what must have been Dugan’s office, arms crossed, a bored expression on his face. I walked up and after Rosencrantz made the introductions, he walked over and stood next to Donatti.

“So,” I said, “Ms. Brennan, on behalf of the state of Indiana, let me express my condolences regarding Mr. Dugan.

“Please, call me Margery. And thank you. Why don’t we sit.” She didn’t wait for an answer, just walked around the corner to a small conference room. I followed her into the room and discovered Rosie was right. Someone had ordered catering, and quite a lot of it at that. I pulled out a chair, popped a shrimp in my mouth and sat down. The shrimp was good.

Great, in fact…

Once we were settled: “So, Margery, about Mr. Dugan. I’d like to get a little background on him and I’m thinking you’re probably the best place to start.”

Margery gave a little snort. “I don’t think it matters where you start, Detective, as I’m quite sure you’ll get the same sort of background information from anyone you speak with.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning Franklin Dugan was a son of a bitch.”

Well, that was something, I thought.

“Let me guess…not really what you expected to hear, right?”

“Well, I guess not, to tell you the truth.”

Margery took a moment before her next statement. “Look, don’t get me wrong, Detective. I just don’t know how else to put it. He really was. A son of a bitch, I mean. But everyone knew it. He even referred to himself that way. It’s just a business thing. We’re in a tough business here. People think banks, and then, you know, they think friendly tellers, warm smiles, free toasters with a new account and all that-or maybe not so much anymore, with the economy the way it’s been-but our business isn’t like that. We’re not a regular bank. We deal exclusively with religious institutions. And let me tell you something,” Margery bit into a shrimp and shook the tail at me, “These religious guys? I don’t care who they are…” She started ticking them off her fingers. “You’ve got your Catholics, your Protestants, your Methodists, your Baptists, your Lutherans, not to mention the Scientology nuts and the Mormons-who in my opinion are a whole class of nuts all by their damn self-they’re all some very tough hombres when it comes to their money. So if you’re going to lend them money-and that’s what we do-you’d better be a son of a bitch when you’re dealing with these guys or they’ll take you straight to the cleaners.” Margery dropped her chin and looked out over the top of her glasses. “All in the name of Jesus Christ, mind you.”

I couldn’t help but smile. I liked her immediately. I ate a few more shrimp and thought about what she’d said for a minute. I said, “Huh,” which made Margery giggle, which made her look about ten years younger. “What?”

“When you said ‘huh,’ you sounded just like a cop.”

“I am a cop.”

“You don’t look much like a cop. Your hair’s pretty long. You look like you should be running a bar, or something.”

I felt my mouth fall open a little, and Margery smiled. “I’m just messing with you a little. I Googled you before you got here. Your bar is sort of famous, you know. I’ve never been myself, but now I’m thinking I might have to stop by.”

“You should. We are sort of famous, in the city, anyway. So, listen-“

“It’s Google, by the way. Not the Google.

“Excuse me?”

“I could hear you on the phone when you called for the address. You called it the Google. There’s no the in there.”

“It kind of feels like we’re getting a little side-tracked, Margery.”

“That’s only because I’ve already told you everything I know. The people you really want to talk to are in the board room. The Executive Committee. They’re in an emergency session right now.”

“Well, gee, Margery, I haven’t even asked you any of the tough questions yet.”

“Like what?”

“Well, for starters, why’d you kill Dugan?”

Didn’t even phase her. “Oh, honey, I didn’t kill Franklin. He might have been a son of a bitch, but he’s been my meal ticket for over twenty years.”

“Well what are you going to do now?”

“You know, to tell you the truth, I think I’m gonna retire and lay on the beach. I’ve got a fair amount of stock, a 401K, and a husband that died and left me with a pretty fat life insurance settlement. Life’s to short to punch someone else’s clock, you know? Especially when you get to be my age.”

I popped another shrimp in my mouth. “Well, okay, lets go talk to the Board.”

“Take me to your leaders, huh?”

“Yeah, something like that.” As we walked down the hallway, I said, “Hey listen, about those shrimp. Where do you get them? They’re fantastic…

“They are fantastic, aren’t they?” Margery said. “Well, believe it or not, they’re farm raised by a couple of guys up in Elkhart. They took over on a foreclosed RV plant a year or so back, over a hundred thousand square feet of it in all, put in a bunch of tanks and heaters and whatnot and started growing shrimp. Or is it raising? Anyway, they’re doing something right because they’re the best damn shrimp I’ve ever had. You should get some for your bar.”

“I think I might… if you could get me the number. Do they deliver all the way down here?”

“Oh, honey, are you kidding me? They’re shipping these little buggers all over the country. I don’t know what the growth rate of farm raised shrimp are, but they’ve got a three month waiting list last time I checked.”

“Well, shoot. I was hoping to get some sort of quick. I’ve got a Jamaican chef who works for me. You wouldn’t believe what he can do with fresh seafood.”

“Get with me before you leave, then. I’ll see what I can do about that waiting list for you. I’m sort of friendly with one of the owners…”

CHAPTER EIGHT

We got to the end of the hall and Margery gave a single knock on a set of Mahogany double doors and stepped inside. I followed. There were four people at the far end of the room-three men and a woman-all seated in high-backed leather swivel chairs at the end of an enormous, well-polished conference table. The room was windowless and the lights were set at a low level. The man at the head of the table, a tall balding guy with bushy eyebrows and a Jay Leno chin spoke without looking up. “Margery. I was certain I made my position clear. This is an emergency session of the executive committee and we are not to be disturbed. Close the door on the way out, if you please, and leave it closed. I would prefer not to have to lock it, but if you can not or will not follow my direction, you will leave me with no other choice.”

The room was long, forty feet or so by my estimation, so I thought I could get away with it. I pulled Margery close by the elbow, lowered my voice a little and said, “I thought you said Dugan was the son of a bitch.”

Margery spoke from the side of her mouth. “I did. And he was. That’s James Marriott, absolutely no relation to the hotel Marriott’s even though that’s what he likes everyone to believe. He’s an asshole, but just the regular sort. Whatever you do, don’t call him Jim. It’s James. I’ll leave you to introduce yourself.” She gave me a pat on the shoulder. “Have fun.”

Great. I stood still for a moment to let my eyes adjust to the lighting then I walked the length of the room, pulled out a chair one spot removed from one of the men and sat down. Didn’t say a word. Just stared at the people at the table.

“Who the hell are you?” Marriott said.

They were all well dressed. Expensive suits, gold watches, sparkling jewelry, cuff links for the men, diamond earrings for the woman. In front of each of them was a leather-bound note pad with an embossed golden cross overlaid atop of a more subtle-but still visible-shining sun, with the words, Sunrise Bank at the top. Somewhere in the back of my mind I heard myself say, oh brother.

“I asked you a question, young man. I don’t like to repeat myself. Who the hell are you?”

“My name is Detective Jones, with the Indiana State Police. I’m here to speak with-“

“Well Detective,” Marriott said, “We know why you’re here, and believe me, we are happy to oblige you in any way we can, but at the moment, given every thing that has happened this morning, tragic as it is, we hope you will understand that in the immediate we are extremely busy. So thank you very much for stopping by and, I think I speak for everyone here when I say that we will be in touch at our earliest convenience.”

Wow. It was a fine effort, I had to give him that. I thought of what Margery told me…. What ever you do, don’t call him Jim. “I understand, and I can even appreciate your position, Jim. But here’s the thing-”

“It’s James,” Marriott said through his teeth. Not, Jim. James.

“Yes, well, that’s fine. James, then. So, as I was saying, the thing is, time is sort of critical for us. The quicker we can-“

“Detective, you’re not listening. The loss of Franklin this morning is going to have devastating effects on our company unless we take immediate action. Our stock is already off over fifteen percent since the opening bell an hour ago and our investors need to know-need to be assured-that our company is solid. That is what we are doing now, or rather, that is what we are trying to do. So, once again, thank you for your interest in this matter. A representative of our organization will be in touch with you and your people as soon as possible. Please close the door on your way out, and take your two thugs out there with you. I have notified our security personnel to assist you and your associates to the door. Last time I checked, this is still private property on United States soil and at the moment, you are not welcome here. That will be all, Detective. Good day.”

Thank you for your interest? “Just out of curiosity, Jimbo, how many of your security staff did you call?”

Marriott’s jaw was clenched, and he hissed through his teeth. “I will not tolerate your blatant disrespect of me and this organiza-”

“How many?” I asked again.

“Six,” Marriott said, his voice smug. “Two for each of you.”

I reached into my pocket and pulled out the papers that Rosencrantz had given me and slid them across the table to Marriott. “That’s a search warrant. It allows us access to this building, your offices, your computers, files, and just about anything else we want or need to look at. Your offices are now part of a crime scene in an on-going investigation. I suggest you forget about your stock for a few minutes, Jim, and start assisting us with our job.”

Marriott ignored the warrant I’d slid across the table. “Who is your supervisor, young man? I want to speak with them immediately.”

“I work for the state, Jim. I already told you that. My boss is Cora LaRue. You’ve probably never heard of her. A lot of people haven’t. But her boss is Governor Hewitt McConnell. I know you’ve heard of him. In fact, if I’m not mistaken, the Governor is a past board member of your institution and currently serves as the lead member of your Council of Advisors. As I understand it, the council is there to advise the board. Do I have that right, Jim?”

“Well-”

“In other words, the Governor is going to be advising the board as to who might make the short list for Chairman and CEO to replace Franklin Dugan. I’m guessing you’d like to think you’re going to make that list. Maybe even top it. I mean, look at you, you’re sitting at the head of the table already. How am I doing so far, Jim?”

Marriott held up his hands in a placating gesture. “Alright, alright. So you’ve got some stones and you’re tough enough to stand toe to toe with me. I admire that. So ask your questions. No one here in this room, or in our entire organization for that matter has anything to hide, I assure you.”

Before I could respond, the double doors at the far end of the room burst open and Donatti and Rosencrantz marched six uniformed security guards into the room, their hands cuffed behind their backs. Donatti smiled and said, “It’s a good thing they all had their own cuffs. I only carry two pair myself…”

It took a few moments to get everyone calmed down, but in the end I got Marriott’s assurance that they’d all cooperate. I told Rosencrantz and Donatti to take the guards out and un-cuff them, and once that was all done, I looked Marriott in the eye and said, “How about we start over?”

The woman seated directly across from me looked at Marriott. “Perhaps we should bring Bob Brighton in, James. Don’t you think?”

Marriott snarled at her. “We don’t need Bob for Christ sake.”

“Who’s Bob Brighton?” I said.

“He’s our in-house council,” the woman said. “My name is Gloria Birchmier, by the way.” She nodded in turn to the other two men at the table. “Dick Hawthorne and Thomas Fallbrook,” she said by way of introductions.

I nodded at everyone. “Alright, so, lay it out for me. Your organization, I mean. The four of you are the executive committee?”

Gloria answered for the group. “Yes. There are normally five of us. Franklin was the fifth. We have a total of eleven board members. All from within the state, except that the others are all from out of town. Two live in Fort Wayne, one in South Bend, and the other three in Evansville. They are all on their way here of course, but it will be a few hours I imagine.”

“Who notified them of Mr. Dugan’s murder?” I said.

“We all did,” Gloria said. “We have a disaster plan in place. Each of us have assigned duties and responsibilities as defined in the plan. One of those responsibilities in the event of a disaster is immediate notification of the company’s Board of Directors.”

“What qualifies as a disaster?”

Hawthorne spoke for the first time. “Well, it’s pretty broad. Just about anything from any sort of natural disaster that would affect our operations, like structural damage to our facilities from fire, flood, tornados, things of that sort-to the sudden death or incapacitation of anyone on the executive committee.”

“Were any of you unable to reach the other members of the board?”

Fallbrook raised his hand. “I had a little trouble with one of my assigns. Bill Acker. But eventually I got him.”

“Home or office?” I said.

“Oh, it was at home. He was just in the shower.”

“So to the best of everyone’s knowledge, the board members who were in town this morning are all in this room, and everyone else, everyone who lives out of town were all…well, out of town?” Everyone nodded.

“Yes, I believe that’s correct,” Gloria said. “Why?”

“Because I’m trying to figure out who killed your boss, Ms. Birchmier.”

Gloria put a hand to her throat. “And you think one of us did it?”

Marriott swore under his breath. “Aw, Jesus Christ.” He picked up the phone and punched one of the buttons. Margery…get Bob Brighton in here. Now.”

Sunrise Bank’s lead council, Bob Brighton entered the conference room a few minutes later. Brighton was short, not much over five feet tall, and gone to fat. His hair was gray and kinky, he wore a yellow bow tie and his pants were about an inch too short.

“How do you do, Detective?”

“I’m well, thank you Mr. Brighton. Your executive committee thought it might be best if you sat in for a few of my questions.”

“Indeed. Please, proceed.”

“He thinks one of us killed Franklin,” Gloria said.

Brighton raised his eyebrows at me, and a small grin formed at the corner of his mouth.

“That’s not exactly accurate,” I said.

Gloria pointed a finger at me. “It is too accurate. You said so yourself.”

“No, Ms. Birchmier, what I said was that I am trying to figure out who killed Mr. Dugan. You were the one who asked if I thought any of you did it, not me.”

“Well, the implication was quite clear, Detective.”

Brighton cut in. “Correct me if I’m wrong, Detective, but these types of investigations are usually conducted, um, what’s the best way to put it? By process of elimination, isn’t that correct?”

I nodded. “That’s often true. But, keep in mind, we also look at the question of ‘who benefits?’ So let me ask all of you this: with Franklin Dugan now deceased, who gets the big chair? Who is going to be Chairman of the Board and CEO of Sunrise Bank?”

“The Board will have to vote on that,” Hawthorne said. “But undoubtedly, it would be one of us.”

“Okay, so what happens if there’s a tie? In the vote?”

“Then we would revert to the question of who holds the most stock. It’s in the charter.”

“So who holds the most stock?” I said.

Marriott rubbed his forehead with the fingertips of both hands. “I do.”

I had everyone except Marriott and Brighton leave the room. When they were gone, Marriott shook his head. “I didn’t kill him. Hell, I was up at six and gone by six-thirty at the latest. I went to the club, worked out, then ate a light breakfast in the dining room. Gloria called me on my cell and told me the news. Plus, there must have been about ten or twenty people who saw me from the time I walked in the club until I left.”

Nothing’s easy.

I had a few more follow up questions for Marriott, none of which went anywhere at all, so I pulled at another thread. “I’d like to ask you about Samuel Pate.”

Marriott snuffed at the mention of Pate’s name. “So ask.”

“Well,” I said, “What I’d really like is your general, overall impression of the man.”

Marriott leaned in, his forearms on the edge of the table. “Detective, we have a rather unique business model here at Sunrise. No other financial institution in the country does what we do. Now, don’t misunderstand what I’m saying-there are plenty of banks out there that lend money to churches and religious institutions all across the U.S. But we are the only one that does it exclusively.”

“If you have a point, Mr. Marriott, so far it’s lost on me.”

“My point is simple, Detective. We are as close as you could come to being called a private bank. We vigorously protect our assets and those of our clients. Confidentiality at our institution is held at the highest regard. I’m quite sure you understand.”

“I’m not asking for his financials, Mr. Marriott. I’m asking for your general impression of the man.”

Marriott looked at me for a full minute before he spoke. “He doesn’t let much get in his way, I’ll say that about the man. But that’s all I’ll say.”

When I was finished with Marriott I stepped out of the conference room and found Rosencrantz and Donatti seated in the reception area waiting for me, two empty plates of shrimp tails on the coffee table by their knees.

“Get what we needed?” I said.

“Right here boss,” Donatti said, and handed me a file folder. Pate’s financial history with the bank.

“Alright, I want you guys out at the scene to help with the canvass. Ron should still be there. Widen it out as far as possible. All we’ve got so far is Sandy’s report of a white panel van of some kind. If we can get a plate, or even a partial, we’d have something solid.”

The two men stood up and Donatti picked up their plates, looked around for a trash can, didn’t see one, shrugged, and set them back down on the table.

“You know,” Rosencrantz said, “If you let that Jamaican chef of yours, what’s his name, again?”

“Robert,” I said.

“Right, right, Robert. If you get Robert some of this shrimp, and he put some of that jerk sauce on them and sort of sizzled ‘em up in a pan, you’d have something right there.”

Donatti was nodding. “He’s right. That sauce of his is something. You’d pretty much have the crack cocaine of shrimp.”

I nodded right along with them. “Yeah, I know. I’m already on it.”

Before I left, I found Margery at her desk. “Margery, listen. I’ve got something I want to run by you.”

“Sure,” Margery said. “But wait, before I forget, here’s the number of the seafood place in Elkhart. They’re expecting your call.” She handed me a slip of paper with the info. “They said, and I quote, ‘as a favor to me and because you’re a new customer, they’ll move you to the front of the line.’ They’ve got a truck coming to Indy today. If you could call them soon enough, you’d be all set.”

“Aw, jeez, Margery, that’s great. But, uh, I probably won’t have time to call them.” I pulled one of my cards out of my wallet and handed it to her. “Do me a favor? Call the number on this card and ask for Robert. He’s my chef. Tell him I said to order whatever he needs, okay?”

“Sure. That’s no problem. You said you wanted to run something by me?”

“I do. Look, I usually don’t ask this, but you seem to sort of have your ear to the ground around here, so I was sort of hoping you could let me know if you hear of anything that might be, uh, let’s say, out of the ordinary.”

Margery looked around, like someone might be listening. “Like what?”

“Anything really. Something out of place, someone acting strange, uptight, saying something out of character, something they wouldn’t normally do or say. Don’t do anything about it, but call me and let me know, will you?”

“Sure, sounds a lot like what I do already.” She gave me a little eyebrow wiggle. “And, as long as we’re trading favors, how about you do a little something for me?”

“Uh, maybe,” I said, a little skeptical. “What is it?”

“Oh don’t get all coppish on me.”

“No, no. I’m not. What is it?”

“Well, earlier I told you I was thinking about retiring and spending some time on the beach.”

“Yeah? Boy I could tell you about some great places in Jamaica. I go every February for a month.”

“No, no. I was wondering…your two guys?

“Yeah?”

“Well, you know… the cute one. Is he attached or anything? I was hoping you could put a word in for me.”

I sort of puffed out my cheeks. “Margery, I’ll be the first to admit I’m not very religious, and I mean not at all. But with God as my witness, I don’t know which one qualifies as the cute one.”

Margery huffed a little. “You know… the tall one. What’d you call him? Rosie?”

“He’s the cute one?”

Margery gave me a slow blink. Twice. “Oh, honey, are you kidding me? I’d like to buy him a few of those rum punches and get him into a man thong on the beach. You might not ever see him again.”

“Aw jeez, Margery.”

“What?”

“I’ve got to work with the guy pretty much every day. Now every time I look at him…”

CHAPTER NINE

I could feel the day starting to slip away. I had a court appearance scheduled from a previous case in a little over two hours. I thought about calling Sandy-even picked up my phone to do it-but then tossed it back on the passenger seat of my truck. The doctor had told her to get some rest. No sense in bugging her if she was actually doing what she’d been told her. My thoughts of Sandy made me think about what she’d said about the Governor’s wife being out of town…how she’d been there with the Governor at his home, at night, just the two of them…

But those thoughts were nothing more than basic jealousy.

So, Sandy. People say that there is no such thing as love at first sight, and on the whole I used to be one of them, but when I met Sandy everything changed. I’m not sure I can adequately explain the connection between us, but there is something more to her, to us, than a physical lust or even an emotional bond. I am drawn to her in ways that are foreign to me. In truth, I felt a little like a dopey school boy. A middle-aged dopey school boy. The politics of it could get complicated. We are on the same unit, I’m her boss. There are rules about these sorts of things.

But… maybe fuck the politics.

I had never seen Samuel Pate’s residence, but I had a rough idea where his house was located. One of the television stations in town did a feature story on his home a few months ago and I remembered the story mostly because I was amazed at the grandiosity on display from someone who had made their fortune by instilling the fear of God into people who probably could not afford to buy a second-hand bible.

I had not yet looked at the documents I collected from Franklin Dugan’s office and wondered if maybe I should at least glance at them before trying to talk to Pate about a murder he might know more about than I did. I turned into a gas station just off the highway, picked up the papers from the passenger seat and began to read. I spent the better part of an hour trying to make sense of what I saw in the documents, but after reading through them three times, I had no more detailed information than what Cora had given me earlier. The bottom line was Samuel Pate was under investigation for insurance fraud out of Texas, he was talking publicly about running for the office of Governor of the state of Indiana, and he apparently had a banker who’d been either very generous or foolhardy. Maybe both.

When I turned into Pate’s drive I realized the story I had seen on television a few months back did not do justice to the level of extravagance and excess to which this man lived his life. On T.V. he preached the way to heaven was to give most, if not all of your earthly belongings to God through his ministry, yet it appeared he lived his life as if the very rules he preached somehow did not apply to himself.

The driveway was almost a quarter mile in length and at the far end it split into two lanes, one which led around the side of the house to a five car garage, the other to a circular turn-about in front of the three story red-bricked mansion. I parked my truck just past the front door then walked up and rang the bell. When the front door opened I felt a surge of cool, conditioned air brush past me but when I saw the woman on the other side of the threshold who smiled at me and said my name aloud I was left off balance and suddenly at a loss for words.

“Well, Virgil Jones, as I live and breathe. What on earth are you doing here? Come in, won’t you please?”

Her accent was manufactured, or if that is not fair of me to say, then perhaps it was simply acquired from her time spent in Texas, the way a person’s skin will darken after weeks or months spent outdoors in the summer sun. But she had always spoken with a Midwestern twang the way the rest of us do and I somehow found the sound of the words that came from her mouth as contrived as any meaning or sincerity they might have held.

Her name when I knew her in high school had been Amanda Habern, but her married name now was Pate. I heard a number of years ago she and Sermon Sam had married, but at the time Pate was not yet famous in our part of the country, and Amanda was just a girl I knew a long time ago for a very short while. Under any other circumstance I might have been surprised that she recognized or even remembered me, but Amanda and I have a history of a single shared encounter, one which could have been beautiful, or at least just plain old fashion fun, but in the end was neither of those.

I accepted her invitation and crossed the threshold of the front door and when I did, I felt suddenly conflicted about the nature of my visit and her eagerness to so willingly invite me into her home. I was in her house as an investigative officer of the state of Indiana and not a casual visitor or long lost lover from decades ago, and I wondered if the warmth in her eyes and the look of fondness upon her face were as manufactured as the accent of her sing-song voice. Regardless of the purpose of my visit, I had to admit she was still as easy to look at now as she was twenty years ago. She wore tennis whites, and her shirt was damp with perspiration. When she closed the door the two of us endured one of those clumsy moments old lovers are often faced with when an unexpected chance encounter brings them together. She stepped forward, her arms open to hug me at the same time I put my right arm out to shake her hand. It was awkward, but I thought she laughed a little too quickly and perhaps a touch too long. In the end, we went with the handshake.

We looked at each other for a moment, and I was the one who broke the silence. “It’s been a long time, Amanda.”

“It has been a long time, hasn’t it?” she said. “I just put some coffee on. Why don’t you come join me and we can catch up a little.”

She placed her hand in the crook of my arm in an effort to lead me through the house, but I held myself steady and refused to go along with her. When she felt my resistance she turned her head, and I saw her smile falter. “I’m here in an official capacity, Amanda. I need to speak with Samuel. Perhaps yourself as well, but I’d like to have a word with your husband first.”

“Is this about Franklin?” she asked. “Why would you want to talk to Samuel about that?”

I made note of her referral of the victim by his first name, then answered her question. “Yes, it is about Franklin Dugan’s murder. I’m investigating on behalf of the state. It’s what I do, Amanda. Is your husband home?”

“No, I’m afraid he is not home, Detective.”

“Where is he?”

“He’s at the church. They always tape Sunday’s broadcast a few days ahead of time then edit it down for time. I know a lot of people think it’s live, but it’s not. It’s taped. We make no secret about that, you know.”

I suspected the defensiveness she displayed might be a large part of her life in general so I drew no conclusions from the words she spoke or the manner in which they were delivered. “I wouldn’t know, Amanda.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“It doesn’t mean anything other than I am not a member of your church, and I don’t watch your televised broadcasts. How well did you know Franklin Dugan?”

“Are you asking me that question in an official capacity? Aren’t you supposed to read me my rights or something?”

“We only read you your rights if you are under arrest, which you are not. Could you please just answer the question?”

“I could, but I choose not to. My rights are the same whether I’m under arrest or not and in this particular instance, I choose to remain silent. If you have any questions for me or my husband, I suggest you contact our attorney. Better yet, I’m sure he’ll be in touch with you. And your boss.” She opened the front door. “It was great seeing you, Jonesy,” she said, her manufactured east Texas accent suddenly gone, but her voice still thick with sarcasm. “Maybe next time we see each other it won’t be in an official capacity.”

“I seriously doubt it, Amanda. Have your husband call me as soon as he gets home.” I tried to hand her my business card and when she refused to take it I laid it on the small receiving table next to the door. As soon as I set it down a gust of wind swirled through the doorway and blew the card onto the floor as if the table were no more willing to accept my contact information than the woman who stood at my side. I stepped out into the sunlight and the sound of the brass door knocker tapping against itself as the door slammed shut behind me.

I had no misconceptions as to whether or not Amanda Pate would tell her husband to call me, so I drove over to the Pate Ministry complex located on the outer edges of a shopping center on the city’s west side. The massive brick building situated in the center of the property was so non-descript it looked more like a small hospital or office building than a church. Most of the property had been paved with blacktop and dedicated to parking, and when I turned into the entrance of the complex the parking lot was completely full. I parked next to the yellow-curbed sidewalk in front of the building then set a laminated placard on the dash identifying my truck as an official state vehicle.

A landscaper was spreading fertilizer on the grass. Parts of the sidewalk were covered with the chemical granules and they crunched under my boots as if I were walking across a crushed shell parking lot, the kind you find in ocean side towns of the deep south. Four sets of double glass doors with reflective tint separated by square brick pillars fronted the building, and when I was less than ten feet away they all opened at once as a throng of people exited the building and made their way to the parking lot. The scene reminded me of quitting time at the factory where my grandfather had worked his entire life. My mom or my grandmother would sometimes take me along to pick him up and we’d sit at the curb or on the trunk of the car and then the steam whistle would blow and the men would pour out of the factory like the inside of the building was on fire and about to explode.

I had to stand aside and wait for the first wave of people to pass before I could get inside the building. The lobby area of the church was bigger than I expected. Hundreds of people clustered about in small groups, talking or laughing, and some even held hands in a circle, their eyes closed, their heads bowed in prayer as if they had to put in one more request to God before they left the building. There was a cafe of some sort along the eastern wall of the lobby serving coffee, tea and croissants, and the aroma of the prepared treats washed over me and made my stomach rumble. Small tables with open umbrellas in their center holes lined a vertical railed enclosure where people sat and talked with one another, their faces full of hope and joy as if perhaps they were the chosen few who were lucky enough to have found their heaven on earth. Next to the cafe was a bookstore where still more people browsed the aisles while others waited in line to pay for their literary selections. Across the lobby on the opposite wall a large area separated by red-roped stanchions contained a maze of multi-colored tube slides, the kind you see in the children’s section of fast food restaurants. Dozens of children ran and happily climbed the ladders then slid down through the tubes, their hair full of static electricity when they popped out the bottom. I turned back around and looked at the doors through which I had just entered feeling a little like Alice must have felt when she followed the rabbit down a hole and ended up in a mystical place that made no sense to her at all.

A number of the children and younger adults wore beaded bracelets on their wrists, the ones with WWJD on them and even I knew the letters stood for ‘What Would Jesus Do?’ Though I am not religious by nature, I thought if Jesus were here, he would in all likelihood wait until everyone had safely left the building and then burn it to the ground.

I turned in a slow circle, looking for the office area or an information kiosk and that’s when I noticed two men as they approached me. They both were very large and very ugly. Well, Jesus loves us all. Their biceps bulged hard against their matching sport coats. Though one was slightly taller than the other, they looked almost exactly the same. Shaved heads, thick necks, bulging muscles, and arms that seemed just a bit too long. Mouth breathers.

The shorter one spoke, like maybe the taller one didn’t know how. “Reverend Pate is in his office and is expecting you. Follow us please.” The smaller of the two men took two steps forward and motioned me to follow, but the larger man, the one who spoke, positioned himself behind me. I glanced up at the ceiling and for the first time noticed the cameras mounted inside tinted plastic domes, the kind you would see in a casino or a bank. I was sure we were being watched, but by whom or how many remained a mystery to me. The three of us walked through the lobby area and then down a short corridor and into the administrative office area of the complex.

Pate was seated at his desk and on the phone when we walked in. He motioned me in with an exaggerated circular arm movement then pointed to a chair in front of his desk and into the phone he said, “Yes, yes he’s here now. I’ll call you later.”

After seeing the size of the lobby and its carnival-like atmosphere I suspected Pate’s office would be large and extravagant but I was wrong. The room was no bigger than my office downtown and it was modestly decorated in muted tones, a contrast so stark from the rest of the building I was almost more amazed by its utilitarian form and function than I was of the lobby just down the hall.

Samuel Pate looked like a televangelist, the way some people will carry a look of the profession they practice, like an airline pilot or a doctor. His hair was pure white and he wore it combed straight back, each strand held perfectly in place by some type of product that left a reflective sheen so thick it almost looked like a translucent helmet. When he hung up the phone and smiled at me, I noticed his eyes held a certain light which felt both welcoming and mischievous at the same time, as if perhaps the way to heaven might just be through a lesser known back door. He wore a starched pink shirt with a white collar and tie, and I noticed both arm pits of his shirt were soaked through and damp from perspiration, although the size and shape of the stains were so uniform I suspected they may have come from a make-up artist’s spray bottle instead of his own sweat glands.

Pate stood to greet me, but before he did he affixed the metal bands of his arm crutches around his forearms, grasped the handles, then pulled himself out of his chair. He came around to the front of his desk, pointed to the chair with the end of one of the crutches and said, “Welcome Detective. Please, have a seat.”

We shook hands and when Pate squeezed my fingers harder and longer than necessary, I said, “That’s an impressive grip, Mr. Pate. Please release my hand.”

He chuckled as if caught in a polite fib, the kind one might tell to save another of an unnecessary embarrassment. “I prefer Reverend, if you please,” he said. “And I hope you’ll forgive me. I’ve spent years moving around with the aid of these crutches. It tends to build up one’s musculature, wouldn’t you agree? I often forget my own strength. How exactly may I help you, Detective? My wife said you wanted to speak with me about Franklin’s unfortunate passing.”

I noticed two things right away: Like his wife, Pate had referred to the victim by his first name, which is indicative of a certain level of familiarity beyond a business relationship, and two, he had referred to Dugan’s murder as a ‘unfortunate passing.’ I decided to go for some shock value.

“The victim was shot to death in his own driveway, Reverend. The top of his head was blown off and you could use what’s left of his skull for a gravy boat. I’d hardly call that an unfortunate passing.”

Pate seemed to ignore my statement in its entirety and said, “There is a war going on out there, Detective. I witness it every day. The book of Revelation speaks of what is to come and the fate that will befall those who choose to ignore the word of God. The script is already written, the players already cast. The outcome for those who follow the teachings of the bible is a foregone conclusion. The only real question left to ponder, the only real way to fight the war, is to ask yourself, where do you stand in the eyes of the Lord, Detective? Do you stand in the light of God, or in the darkness like those who would murder a man in his own home? You come to my office with intentions of questioning me over something I know nothing about regarding I man I knew as a professional, a friend, and a member of this church. I find your behavior and your demeanor not only questionable but repulsive.”

I pointed my finger at him. “Save the shuck for the misinformed you preach to on TV, Reverend. I’m not here to be your witness. When was the last time you saw Franklin Dugan?”

I did not think Pate would answer, and when he did, the fire had gone out of his voice and his eyes seemed to dull a bit. “I saw him last week, at the taping of the show. He was here, as he always was.”

“When was the last time you were at his home?” I asked.

“I have never been to his home, Detective. Ever. Let me ask you something, if I may. Franklin was one of our biggest benefactors. Why in the world would I or anyone from this church for that matter want to see him harmed?”

“That’s a fine question, sir. It’s also one that I don’t have the answer to. But here’s an even better one; Why is it, do you think, Reverend, that the man who was personally responsible for the approval of a five million dollar loan to your church was murdered just days after you got the money? Better yet, how is it sir, that you were able to obtain that kind of credit using an all but condemned building as collateral? Is any of this starting to make sense to you, Reverend? Would you care to enlighten me as to the nature of the investigation currently being conducted by the Texas Department of Insurance regarding your former ministry in Houston?”

I thought he might try to defend himself, but he surprised me with his next statement and left me unable to speak. “My wife tells me of her past relationship with you when you were schoolmates. She’s an interesting woman, is she not? We’re having a viewing party this Saturday, here at our facility. We watch the broadcast with a select few members of the congregation to try and get a feel for how well our message will be received the next day. She’s asked me to invite you to attend. Would ten a.m. work for you, Detective?”

I left the Pate Ministry with more questions than answers. As I headed downtown for a court appearance on a previous case I spoke with both Rosencrantz and Donatti to get a feel for any information they might have gathered from their canvass of the double murder. Rosie’s voice crackled in my ear on a bad cell signal. “Found a paperboy who says he might have seen the van. He’s just a kid. Sort of a punk, little bit of smartass in him, but just a kid nonetheless. Or hell, maybe he’s completely normal and I’m just getting old. Either way, he didn’t see anything of value. No plate, no make. Says he forgot one of the houses along his route and had to double back. That’s when he saw the van. But there’s nothing there.”

“You sure?” I said.

“Positive, Jones man. On the plus side, techs found some brass.”

“No shit?”

“I shit you not, oh wise one.”

“Prints?”

“Yep. Probably a thumb from pressing a shell into the clip.”

“Alright, that’s something. Let’s get it going through NCIS.”

“Already on it.”

“Okay. What else?”

“Just spec if you want it.”

“Let’s have it,” I said.

“Alright, if you go with the theory that the banker, uh, Dugan, was the target, they probably shot Burns first then Dugan.”

“What makes you say that?”

“I talked with Becky back at the shop and she pulled everything, and I mean everything that Burns had been involved with for the past three years. It’s all basic, no bullshit kind of stuff. Hell Jonesy, he’s been on third shift protection for the last two years and there’s been nothing going on there. He hasn’t even written a traffic ticket in over thirty-six months. No one’s got any reason to be pissed at Barney, so that leaves the banker, right?”

“Yeah, maybe.”

“Plus,” Rosencrantz went on, “Somebody’s always pissed at their banker about something. I mean hell, just last week I was at my bank-”

“Stay with me here, Rosie.”

“Yeah, yeah, sorry. Anyway, I know Barney was close to retirement, but he was still sharp, you know? Well, I don’t know if you noticed or not, but crime scene said his weapon was still holstered.”

I thought about this for a few seconds. Rosie’s theory could fit. So too could about ten others. “Alright, stay on the canvass and let me know what you get.”

“You got it Jonesy. Are you headed over here?”

“No, I’ve got this fucking court thing. Probably the rest of the day. Meet me tonight at the bar and we’ll cover everything there.”

“You got it, Chief.”

I killed the phone, parked my truck and headed into court. I was fifteen minutes late. If the court was running on time, the Judge would not be pleased.

CHAPTER TEN

From the moment of birth, the hunger of death feeds from an army of life. Day by day it creeps ever closer, a silent, merciless hunter, its endurance without end, its clemency non-existent. It chews on the mind, feeds on the body, digests the spirit, and regurgitates the soul. It is the single, inescapable, inevitable end of everyone, and no one knew that better than Rhonda Rhodes.

Rhonda worked six days a week as a home Hospice nurse where she currently served nineteen patients, all of them in their final battle with the Big C. It was a gut-wrenching way to make a living, but Rhonda knew, just knew, down to what she called her ever-lasting soul, that what she did for a living was the reason she was ever set down on God’s green earth.

Rhonda and her ever-lasting husband, Tom, had been married for twenty-seven good years. Tom, a career fireman for the city of Indianapolis had retired only three months ago, and already the spare time was all but eating him alive. He wanted Rhonda to retire as well, but Rhonda was a Hospice nurse when they met, and, as she so often told anyone who might ask, ‘probably will be till the day I die.’

Her days tended to start late and run later, a sore spot for Tom that just didn’t want to heal. “The Big C works on its own schedule,” she always told him, just as she did now. Tom was on his hands and knees in the middle of their driveway, pulling the weeds out of the cracks in the aging cement, the sleeves of his t-shirt damp from the sweat he wiped from his forehead.

“Won’t be long and we’re gonna have to replace the drive,” he said to her without turning around. She stood just behind him in the driveway, ready to leave for work. Rhonda still wore the traditional nurse’s uniform-white skirt and blouse, white hose, and white leather shoes. It may have been a throwback from years past, but she refused to dress in those silly scrubs everyone else was wearing these days. It seemed every week one of the other nurses was going on about this new print or that new design. It was as if somewhere along the way nursing had become secondary to making a fashion statement, and a bad one at that. Rhonda would keep her whites, thank you very much. Besides, she thought the patients always seemed to appreciated her attire. More than a few had told her so over the years, and if it worked for them, bless their ever-lasting hearts, it worked for her.

“The Wimberley’s down the street had theirs done a couple of weeks ago,” Tom said. Rhonda realized she’d drifted a bit. Tom was talking about something the Wimberley’s had bought. A new car? “Got a deal from Bill. You remember Bill? From over at the three-two?”

“I’m sorry dear, what was that? The Wimberley’s bought a car from Bill?”

Tom dug at a particularly stout weed that did not want to give its ground, and when it did finally let loose, he scraped his knuckles across the jagged edge of a crack in the cement and tore the skin off the tops of three fingers. He yelled loud enough that the next door neighbor’s dog began to bark. Tom stuck the back of his fingers in his mouth, sucked off the blood, then pressed them into the side of his jeans. “No, they didn’t buy a car from Bill. He poured their new drive for them.”

“Let me see your hand,” she said.

“Are you listening to me?” Tom said. “I’m trying to tell you we need a new driveway.” His knees popped when he stood.

“Tom, you’re bleeding. Let me see.”

“I’m fine. It’s nothing. You going to work?”

“Yes. I’ve got four patients today. One of them is new, that little girl I was telling you about last night, God bless her. She’s first, and I’ll probably be there for most of the ever-lasting day, then I’ve got follow-ups on the other three. We can have left over’s or I can stop and get us something on the way home.”

Tom pulled his hand from the side of his pants and inspected his knuckles. “Either way,” he said. Then he softened his voice. “It wasn’t so bad when we were both working, but I miss you not being here with me.”

“I miss you too darling, I do. But my patients need me.” Rhonda watched the blood fill the cracks in the broken skin of Tom’s fingers and saw that her husband needed her too. “Tom, really, let me see your hand. I’ve got bandages in the trunk. Let me patch that up for you.”

“Go on to work, Rhonda,” he said. “I’m fine. I think I’ll live.”

Tom was right.

He lived.

The Sids batted the idea back and forth-this was a week ago-right before what they called ‘Go Time.’ Junior wanted to be creative. Senior wanted to be practical. Junior argued that creativity could be useful and work to their advantage. If they varied their methods enough, the fucking cops would be running around chasing their tails and probably wouldn’t put two and two together right away, if ever. It would give them all the cover they’d need.

Senior argued that creativity could, and probably would lead to mistakes and missed opportunities. “Besides,” he had said in the end, “With this many killings, you’re talking about a lot of creativity. Be better if we keep it simple. We’ve got the guns and the silencers, and the van is ready. Let’s just take our shots and be done with it.”

“Those fucking silencers are pretty cool,” Junior said. “Gotta love Indiana…legal silencers and all.”

“That might end up changing,” Senior said.

“Yeah, probably will,” Junior said. “Too late now though.”

So they settled on practical. That was a week ago. But now, they sat in the van across the street from Beans Coffee shop, Junior at the wheel, Senior at the trigger, and they watched as Rhonda Rhodes pulled to the curb and walked inside. The glare of Rhonda’s stark white nurse’s uniform was almost too bright for the scope. Senior had to squint to keep from being temporarily blinded by the whiteness of the damned thing. He followed her track into the store, but did not pull the trigger. He’d catch her on the way out. That was the plan.

Go time.

Rhonda Rhodes parked her car in front of her favorite stop off, Beans Coffee Shop, gathered her paperwork, then walked inside and took a seat at a table by the window. Beans was usually busy during the morning rush, but later in the day slowed just enough that Rhonda could sit in peace for thirty minutes or so and tend to her paperwork. The dying, bless their ever-lasting hearts, created a lot of paper.

Beans was unique not for their quaint name, but because instead of counter service, they employed actual wait staff who would come to your table and take your order. Plus, their prices were right-two bucks a cup with free refills-unlike those newer fancy-schmancy places that were popping up on every blessed corner that made you wait in line for a paper cup with different sizes, the names of which no one ever really understood. Her favorite waiter approached the table with his usual smile in place.

“Good morning, Rhonda,” the waiter said. “Get you your usual?”

“Yes, please,” she said as she spread her paperwork across the table. “I’ve got quite the schedule today.”

“I’ll bet you do a lot of good for a lot of people,” he said, and when he did, Rhonda felt like he meant it.

“I do what I can. I’ll probably be doing this until the day I die.”

“Well, our coffee will keep you going until then, that’s for sure. Be right back.”

The waiter returned a few minutes later with a large mug full of brew and a muffin wrapped in cellophane. “Muffin’s on the house today, Rhonda. Enjoy.”

Rhonda smiled and said thank you, but the waiter remained in place. “Mind if I ask you something, Rhonda?”

“Sure.”

“How do you do it? I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m glad you do, you and others like you, but to serve the dying like that, day after day, I just don’t think I could do it, you know?”

Rhonda set her pen down, took a sip of coffee and looked the young man in the eyes. “Everyone in here is dying. The difference is, some know it, and others don’t. The ones I serve, the ones with the Big C, they know it. I just help them during the final part of their lives. I’ll tell you this though, the suffering I’ve seen. My land, sometimes it’s almost too much. I pray to the lord every night that when my time comes I go quick. I sometimes think I’d rather take a bullet than to suffer through even half of what I’ve seen.”

The waiter glanced at his other tables. One of his other customers held a cup in the air, eyebrows raised. “Hey, I better get back to work. I wouldn’t worry, Rhonda. The work you’re doing, you’ll probably live forever.”

“Well, I hope you’re right,” she said.

Thirty minutes later, when Rhonda Rhodes stepped out of the coffee shop, the Sids got busy. Junior had the engine running already-nothing screamed get-away vehicle like an engine start after a gunshot, silenced or not. Senior had been lying on his back on the floor of the van, the rifle held at port arms. When Junior said “Good to go,” Senior sat up and put the business end of the barrel through the custom hole in the side of the van, just under the windows in the back. He squinted through the scope, drew a bead on his target, exhaled, and squeezed the trigger. When he did, the silenced bullet smashed through Rhonda Rhodes’ sternum and chewed through her chest organs like the Big C on speed.

The waiter had gone behind the counter to put Rhonda’s cash in the till and brew another pot of their house blend. As he turned back around he saw Rhonda walk out the door and down the sidewalk toward her car. When the bullet hit her chest it lifted her from the pavement and tossed her back, her arms and legs flying forward. The waiter would later tell the police it looked like-at least for a moment-that her body hung in the air in the shape of a big C, and wasn’t that ironic because that what she always called it, the big C. But the cops didn’t care about irony so the waiter decided he would not tell them of his comment to Rhonda about her living forever, because as anyone will tell you, with the cops, you just never really know.

So, as it went, the waiter was wrong, but Rhonda’s prayers were answered. She went quick, dead before she hit the ever-lasting pavement. The hole in her chest left a red stain on her throwback whites that looked like a rose petal on a blanket of snow in the middle of an otherwise fine summer day.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The court was not on schedule and I ended up waiting at the courthouse for just shy of three hours for testimony in a previous case. My cell phone was set on silent but I felt the vibration and pulled the phone out and checked the screen. A text from Ron Miles. After I read the message I leaned forward across the bar and tapped the prosecutor on the shoulder. “I’ve got a situation,” I said. “I need to leave.”

“You’re joking, right? We’ve got a situation right here. It’s your testimony that’s gonna keep this prick locked up. You want to blow that?”

“It can’t be helped. I’m in the middle of this thing and I’ve got to go.”

The prosecutor turned in his chair and looked at me. “Look, I know we’re behind schedule here, but the defense is just about to wrap it up, then we’ll be able to get you on the stand and out of here. If you’ll just wait for a little-”

The judge tapped her gavel, leaned forward from the bench and spoke into her microphone. She sort of whispered into the device, and it sounded like she was either mocking my attempt not to disturb the proceedings, or trying to be funny. Most likely it was the former. “Gentlemen, is there something you’d like to share with the court?”

The prosecutor turned his attention forward. “No, your Honor. I’m sorry for the-”

I stood from my seat and looked at the Judge. “Your Honor, may I approach the bench?”

The prosecutor turned back to me and spoke through his teeth. “What the hell are you doing? Do you want to be held in contempt? Sit down.” The judge raised her eyebrows at me.

“Urgent matter, your Honor.”

She seemed to consider this for a moment, then said, “Step up. This better be good Detective.”

I crossed the bar with the prosecutor on my heels and walked up to the bench. “I appreciate the Court’s indulgence your Honor.” The judge made a circular motion with her hand in a ‘get on with it’ sort of way. The prosecutor, I noticed, had taken a sudden interest in the tops of his shoes. “Judge, a somewhat urgent situation has come to my attention. I’m sure your Honor has heard about the murders earlier today of one of our State Troopers, along with one of our city’s more prominent citizens, Mr. Franklin Dugan, at his home.”

The judge leaned forward and looked at me over the top of her glasses. Judge Andrea Moore was the senior judge in the superior court system and was not known for her leniency.

“Yes, Detective. I have heard. But what does that have to do with me, my court, or this case?”

“Nothing at all your Honor.”

“Then why are we speaking, Detective?”

This wasn’t going exactly as I had hoped. “Your Honor, it has just come to my attention that there has been another murder, just a few blocks away from here as a matter of fact. My-”

“Are you psychic, Detective?”

“Uh, beg your pardon, your Honor?”

“I said are you psychic? You as well as anyone should know we do not allow electronic devices of any kind in the courtroom. So, either you’re psychic, or you’re breaking the law in my courtroom. Which is it, Detective?”

I opened my mouth to answer, then thought better of what I wanted to say and chewed on the inside of my cheek for a moment instead.

The judge leaned back, smacked her gavel against the sound block and said, “The court will be in recess for five minutes. Detective, I’ll see you in chambers. Now.”

Thirty seconds later Judge Moore sat at her desk while I stood on the other side. “You’re killing me here, Jonesy. I’m already over three hours behind. What the hell is going on?”

“I need to leave, Andrea. There’s been another shooting, and that makes three today.”

“Oh come on, Jonesy. This is Indy. We have shootings almost everyday. What makes this such an emergency?” She reached for a pitcher of water and poured two glasses. “Water?”

“No, thanks. Listen, we’re not sure, at least completely sure that is, that this latest one is connected. But the crimes scene techs are saying, and initial witness statements seem to back it up, that it was a high powered sniper rifle. And it was silenced. Broad daylight, lady goes down right on the sidewalk, shot in the chest, and no one heard a thing. What are the chances?”

“It sounds to me like you’ve got plenty of people on the scene right now.”

I took a deep breath. “Judge…” He paused, then started over. “Andrea, do you remember last year when you came to me about that little high speed chase your son was involved in?”

“It was hardly a high speed chase, Detective. He was a passenger in the vehicle, and he says, and I believe him by the way, that he did everything in his power to convince the driver to stop the car.”

“Uh huh. Took him over four miles to do it though.”

“Make your point, Jonesy.”

“My point is, you brought that to me, and I took care of it for you, did I not?”

“Really? You’ve got this one bit of juice with me and this is how you want to spend it?”

No, I don’t. “I guess I’ll have to,” I said.

“Alright, take off then. Use the side door. I’ll handle the lawyers.”

“Are you going to reschedule for a later date on the docket?”

“Are you kidding? No way. The prosecutor doesn’t need you, and the ink isn’t even dry on the public defender’s Bar exam. The defendant isn’t going anywhere except back to a cell.”

“So I wasted my, uh, ‘juice’, as you called it?”

“Yep. Ain’t it fun though? I hate it when someone has something on me. Anyway, we’re square now. Go catch your shooter, sharp stuff. I don’t like it when people shoot up my city.”

“It may be your courtroom, Andrea, but it’s my city,” I said as I reached for the door handle. “Stop in at the bar sometime, I’ll buy you a beer.” The judge made a go away motion with the back of her hand, so I went away.

Ten minutes later I rolled up to the scene and found Ron Miles speaking with two uniforms from the city. “Jonesy, Jesus Christ. What a cluster fuck. I’m trying not to get ahead of myself here, but this is too coincidental, don’t you think?” He pressed on before I could answer. “First Burns, and that banker guy, Dugan, and now this.” He turned and pointed at the victim laying on the sidewalk. I followed his motion and then looked inside the plate glass windows of the coffee shop. Three uniforms and two plain clothes were inside talking to the patrons.

“Tell me what’s what, Ron.”

“Okay. Victim’s name is Rhonda Rhodes. I.D. on her person confirms. Looks like she was a Hospice nurse according to documents in her possession and initial statements from the coffee shop’s employees. She’s a regular here. Five or six days a weeks, again according to the employees. Married, husband is a retired fireman.”

“He have an alibi?”

“Yeah, a good one too. He was just down the street from his residence speaking with one of his neighbors, guy named Wimberley about replacing their driveway.”

“Has he been notified yet?”

“Yep. He’s here now,” Miles said, then pointed to the back of the EMS van. “Getting his vitals checked by the EMS guys. He’s wrecked, man.”

“Alright, go on.”

Miles took his notebook out, flipped through a few pages for a second, then continued. “Victim pulls up, parks along the curb, over there, then goes inside, sits down to have a cup of joe and do her paperwork. Guy that waited on her says she was here for about twenty, twenty-five minutes tops, drank her coffee while working on her paper, then gathers her shit, pays her bill and leaves. Waiter says he was putting her money in the register as she walked out. Says he saw her get hit. Said the impact of the round lifted her up and sent her flying backwards. Didn’t hear a thing. He said it was like watching a movie scene with the sound turned off or something.”

“Okay, keep him here. I’m going to want to talk to him.”

“You got it, Jonesy.”

“Any other witnesses?”

“Nope. At least not yet.”

“All right. Keep the uniforms talking to people. Let’s go speak to the husband.”

Tom Rhodes sat in the back of the EMS unit on one of the side benches, his forearms resting across his thighs, his head down, hangdog. I nodded at the paramedics and asked them to give us a few minutes. They climbed out and Ron Miles and I sat on the opposite bench across from Rhodes. Miles spoke first. “Mr. Rhodes, this is Detective Jones. He’d like to speak with you for a moment, ask a few questions if you’re up for it.”

Tom Rhodes did not look up for it, I thought, but the loved ones of the victims rarely do. “Mr. Rhodes, as Detective Miles just said, I’m Detective Virgil Jones. I’m sorry for your loss, sir. I know you’re going to think the timing is lousy, but the sooner we can get the information we need, the better our chances are of catching who ever did this.”

Tom Rhodes looked up at us, at me, and shook his head. “You don’t look like a cop. You damn sure don’t look like a detective.”

I gave him a sympathetic grin. “Yeah, I get that a lot. Sometimes that’s the whole point though. Not to look like a cop.”

“I guess. I really wouldn’t know.”

“I understand you’re a retired fireman?”

“That’s right.”

“I want you to know that I have a tremendous amount of respect for guys like you and what you do.”

He nodded, looked at nothing. “It’s been my experience that people who make that kind of statement are people who have had a traumatic experience with fire.”

“You’re absolutely right. I was just a child, but it changed me. Tell you the truth, I always sort of thought I might end up in your line of work.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Aw, you know, my dad was a cop. Marion County Sherriff until he retired.”

He seemed to process this information for a minute. “Jones. You said your name was Jones? Is Mason Jones your old man?”

“That’s right. Did you know him?”

“No, not really. Just enough to recognize him if we were on scene together. Hey, always voted for him though.”

“I’m sure he appreciated that, sir. Listen, I’ve got some questions, but tell me about your day so far, with your wife.”

He put a little gravel in his voice. “Well it’s been just fucking splendid, Detective.” Then he caught himself and raised a hand in apology.

“What I mean, Mr. Rhodes-“

“Call me Tom, okay.”

“Okay. What I mean, Tom, is could you tell me about your day with your wife up to the point she left for work?”

He shook his head and chewed the bottom of his lip. “There’s nothing to tell. It was a normal day. We got up, had breakfast and went about our day. Then a little later, hell just a little while ago, she left for work. I know she likes to stop off here for coffee before getting to it. I think it helps her-or helped her I guess I should say-to clear her head, know what I mean?”

“I think I do. Anything out of the ordinary, today in particular?”

“No, nothing.”

“Was she acting strange, like maybe something was bothering her?”

“No, absolutely not. If anything it was the other way around.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean it was me. I was the one who was acting strange. Well, hell, that’s not right. I wasn’t acting strange. I was sort of pissed off if you want to know the truth of it.”

“Pissed off how? Why? Were you two arguing?”

“No. Probably would have turned into one though. If she hadn’t left for work, I mean. It’s been a bit of a sore spot lately, ever since I retired. I’m stuck at home with nothing to do except busy work, while she’s out doing real work. We’d talked about retiring together, you know? Maybe do a little traveling, but that never worked out.”

“Why not?” I said.

“Well, I guess because she just couldn’t give it up. Her work, I mean.”

“And she was a Hospice nurse?”

“That’s right.”

“Okay. So you two had an argument right before she left?”

“That’s not what I said, Detective. You’re putting words into my mouth. I said it probably would have turned into one. An argument.”

I looked at the bandage on his hand. “What happened to your hand, Mr. Rhodes?”

“I scraped the ever lasting shit out of my knuckles pulling weeds from the driveway cracks. That’s what I was doing when she left.”

“What about her patients, Tom?”

“What about them?”

“She was in a difficult line of work,” I said. “She cares for people at a time when there’s nothing left for them to do but try and die with a little dignity.”

“Sounds like you’ve had some experience with that too, detective.”

He was right. I did have some experience with that. Very personal experience.

“Well, I’m sorry for your loss, Detective, whenever it may have been. But to tell you the truth, I never knew much about her patients.”

“Why’s that?”

“Aw, it was those damn hippo laws.”

“You mean HIPPA,” Miles added. “With an a at the end.”

Rhodes waved his hand. “Yeah, I guess. Whatever. Rhonda took her job very seriously. She never spoke about individual patients with anything more than very vague generalities. And even then, never by name. And if I’m being honest with you, and I am by the way, I didn’t want to hear it. The whole fucking thing depressed the ever lasting shit out of me. I guess that says something about me, huh?”

“Is there any chance, Tom, that this could be one of her patient’s family members? Someone mad at Rhonda because their loved one died?”

“I don’t know. Doesn’t sound right to me. Doesn’t feel right. Everyone I’ve ever talked with think these people, these Hospice workers walk on water, you know? I guess it could be possible, hell, anything’s possible, right? But I don’t think so.”

I scratched the back of my head, and thought, what the hell. “Where do you bank, Tom?”

“Firefighter’s Credit Union. Why?”

“What about church? Did you or your wife attend anywhere?”

“I was raised Catholic, but I let it slip. Same with Rhonda. Does that mean anything?”

I didn’t answer him and instead looked at Ron with an ‘anything else?’ look on his face. Miles shook his head. I was about to excuse himself when Tom Rhodes spoke. “She’s really gone?” he said, his voice all at once small, like a child.

“Tom, look,” said Miles. Why don’t you go on home. You’ve got a tough few days ahead of you. Gather your family around you and let them help you. You don’t want to be here right now. When they move her body, it’s, well…it’s just something you don’t want to see.”

“Where are they going to take her?”

“They’ll take her to the hospital, Tom,” I said. “There will be an autopsy, and after that they’ll send her to the funeral home of your choice. But Detective Miles is right. Go home. Let us do our job. We’ll figure this thing out.”

“All she wanted to do was help people. Why would someone do this?”

How do you answer a question like that?

I followed Miles into the coffee shop and was introduced to the waiter who served Rhonda just before she was shot.

“How about we sit down for a few minutes? I’ve got a few questions.”

“I’ve already answered just about every cop in the city, so far,” he said.

“Well, not everyone,” I said. “It looks like you were the last one to speak with her before she died. I just want to ask you a few things. Sometimes witnesses know something they don’t even think they know, and it can be something little that might not mean anything to you but can make all the difference in the world to us. Here, have a seat,” I said and pointed him to a table in the corner. No other patrons were in the cafe. The smell of burnt coffee hung in the air.

After the three of us were seated Ron and I stayed quiet for a minute or two. Sometimes one of the best things you can do when you want answers from someone is to just be quiet. Sure enough, after another minute or so the waiter began to talk. “You know what’s weird?” he said. “I don’t really feel anything. I mean, I’ve known Rhonda for a long time. Well, that’s not quite right. I don’t really know her at all. What I mean is, I’ve been serving her for a long time. We’d talk, you know? Nothing substantial, not really. Just the casual ‘how you doing’ kind of chit chat bullshit that customers and waiters have. Jesus. I’ve never seen anyone get shot before. Aren’t I supposed to feel something? I feel like I should be upset. I mean more upset than I am. Is something wrong with me? Am I in shock or something? Is this what shock feels like?”

The waiter sat with his elbows on the table, the heels of his hands pressed into his forehead. His fingers worked their way into his hairline and pulled his hair back taught. It gave him a haunted, almost effeminate appearance. “You may very well be in shock,” I said. “Do you feel like you require medical attention?”

He let go of his hair and forehead. “No, no, I’m fucking good. Besides, I don’t have any insurance.”

“Just take us through it, from the time she walked in the door until you saw her get hit. Take your time. Don’t leave anything out.”

“I don’t know what to tell you,” the waiter said. “I mean, there just isn’t anything to say. She came in, same time as she always did, sat at the same table she always sits at, unless someone else is sitting there, except they weren’t, so she did.” He pointed to the table in the opposite corner of the establishment. “That table right there.”

“Alright, that’s good,” I said. “Go on.”

“Well, like I said, there just isn’t anything to say, really. She sat down, spread out her paperwork and started doing whatever it is she did with it. The paperwork, I mean. I asked her if she wanted her usual. She said yes, so I brought her a cup of our house blend and a muffin. The muffin was on me. It wasn’t part of her usual. I just wanted to give her a fucking muffin, you know? We made nice for a few minutes and I got back to work. Before she left I asked her if she wanted anything else. She says ‘no I’ve got to run. See you tomorrow though.’ I said something like ‘you bet’ or whatever and then she walked out and I just happened to glance up from behind the counter and I saw her flying backward through the air. She hung there for a second, hell not even that long I guess, ‘cause you know how everything seems like it’s going in slow-mo? Well, anyway she hung there for a sec in the shape of a big C, you know with her arms and legs flying forward and her body going backwards. Anyways, that’s what it looked like to me. A big C. It’s kinda ironic if you think about it, because that’s what she always called cancer. The big C. Just like that series they’ve got on Showtime. It’s called The Big C. Anyways…”

“And you didn’t hear any gunfire?” I said.

The waiter shook his head. “Nope. Hell, it looked like she got hit by a huge gust of wind or something. It was unreal. I didn’t know what the fuck was happening.”

“What about a car backfiring? Did you hear anything like that? Some kind of noise that may have been a gunshot but in the moment it just didn’t register?”

The waiter shook his head. “Huh uh.”

“What did you do next?”

“What do you mean?”

I tried not to let my impatience show. “I mean, what was the very next thing you did. Did you call 911?”

“No.”

“Did you run outside to help the victim?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I guess, I…well, what I mean is, I just sort of froze. Besides, we’re not supposed to leave the cash drawer unattended.”

“I see,” I said, even though I didn’t. “How much money was in the drawer?”

“I don’t keep an exact accounting.”

“If you had to guess,” I said, the impatience in my voice now obvious.

“Well if I had to guess, there might be, I don’t know, seventy or eighty bucks in there or something like that.”

I leaned across the table. “So a woman, a Hospice nurse, comes into your coffee shop damn near every day of the week, sits at the same table, orders the same thing, then one day leaves and gets shot to death right in front of your eyes and the only thing you could think to do was guard the seventy or eighty bucks in the cash drawer?”

“Hey, man, come on. That’s a little harsh. I didn’t shoot her.”

“No, I guess you didn’t, but you sure didn’t do much to help her after she was shot.”

“Look, guys, I’m sorry about Rhonda. I really am. She seemed nice. She did good work. She was a consistent tipper. But that’s all I know. Maybe I didn’t do the right thing. Maybe I panicked, or froze or whatthefuckever. But I didn’t do anything wrong. There were about ten other people in here who were already dialing 911 and I know about as much emergency first aid as a Cocker Spaniel. Besides, even from behind the counter you could tell she was dead before she hit the pavement. You could just see it. So, what, I’m supposed to lose my job over something I couldn’t do anything about?” He stood up and started to walk away, then turned back. “Hey, you guys ever ask yourselves why no one ever wants to talk to the cops?”

CHAPTER TWELVE

My house is on one of the last remaining gravel roads in the county just off of highway 37 south of 465, the loop that circles Indy. I have ten acres of land, the back third wooded with a pond between the edge of the woods and the house. While I do not welcome the suburban sprawl as it grows ever closer, my privacy is reasonably assured by the long drive at the front and the woods at the back.

I tossed my mail on the table next to the door, checked the answering machine-no messages-and turned the shower on to steam the bathroom. Thirty minutes later I was back in the truck, headed downtown to the bar.

The bar my father and I own is very popular and draws a great crowd. I turned into the back lot, parked my truck at the far end and walked in through the back door where the kitchen area is located. The aroma of burgers and chicken halves that sizzled over an open broiler caused my stomach to gurgle and I suddenly realized I had not yet eaten today.

Robert, our Jamaican cook, looked over at me, flipped a burger on a bun then brushed the surface with his homemade jerk sauce, tossed on a slice of red onion, and held it out at arms length as I walked by. He gave me a skeptical look. “Dat shrimp, mon, it be comin’ by later tomorrow.”

“Was supposed to be today,” I said.

“Yeah, mon. But the truck already left. So tomorrow. Hope it good. Day say day raise it in a swimmin’ pool or some ting like dat. But it’s your money, no?” I took the plate, clapped him on the back and walked into the darkened atmosphere of the bar area.

The patron area of our establishment is long and narrow with high-back mahogany booths along one wall and the bar itself along the opposite wall with an aisle-way between the two sides. A large mirror runs the entire length behind the bar and gives the illusion of extra space when in fact there is none. Hand made stained-glass light fixtures hang low over the booths creating an intimate atmosphere that often conflicts with the mood of our customers. A blue neon sign displayed above the bar mirror advertises ‘Warm Beer amp; Lousy Food.’ Robert, our cook, still can not seem to grasp the meaning of the sign and has on more than one occasion pulled me aside and said “Dat sign has got to go, mon.” A small elevated stage at the back between the kitchen entrance and the restrooms provide just enough room for our Reggae house band that plays from midweek through the weekend. The lunch hour during the week is usually busy with downtown suits, and the weekend nights have been standing room only since opening day over three years ago.

The city of Indianapolis offers hundreds of small bars where you can eat and drink your fill, but to my knowledge our little bar is the only one that offers the true taste and atmosphere of a small island nation that has held a place in my heart most of my adult life. A few years ago on my last visit to Jamaica, while driving through the Hanover Parish, I experienced one of those rare moments which can change your life for the better if you are not too preoccupied to notice and let it happen. One of the tires of the rental car I was driving picked up a nail and I pulled to a stop in front of a ramshackle, multi-colored hut fashioned from scrap metal and drift wood at the edge of a town called Lucea which sits at the approximate half way point between the resort towns of Montego Bay and Negril. A handsome and well dressed bald man approached me and asked if he could help. His voice carried across the gravel lot with the musical lilt of his native land. “What you do, you?” he said. “Dat tire no good now, mon. Come inside. Have a drink and someting to eat. We fix you right up.” He held out his balled hand and we bumped fists and when we did, he said, “Respect, mon, respect.”

I shrugged, said ‘respect’ back to him and he smiled and led me inside the hut, his arm around my shoulder like we were old friends reunited after years of separation. Three and a half hours later I was full from too much Jerk chicken, slightly drunk from too many Red Stripes, but my tire was fixed and I had made two new friends.

But the story doesn’t end there. The owner of the establishment, the man who came out to greet me was named Delroy. He served the drinks and befriended his customers while his partner, Robert, handled the cooking, and apparently, tire changing. During the course of our conversation I learned they both longed to live in the United States. I listened politely to their stories, gave them my business card and got back in my car. Three weeks later after cutting through the red tape, Delroy helped me and my father set up the bar and Robert took over the kitchen. They both fly back to Jamaica twice a year for a week at a time to visit with their family and friends, and every time they do I panic just a little at the thought of losing them.

I took a stool at the mid-point of the bar and sat down with my burger and watched my father at the far end laughing with an attractive, middle-aged female customer. A row of clean beer mugs lined the drip trough on the tended side of the bar and when Delroy saw me he turned one over, set it under the tap and pulled a Red Stripe draft then placed it in front of me. My father walked down to greet me, looking back over his shoulder at the woman he’d been laughing with.

“Hey Pops. How’s it going?”

“Going just fine, son. Just fine.” He glanced back down the bar at the woman who was watching them in the mirror. “How’s the Governor’s main man?”

I sipped my beer and watched my father as he pulled two shot glasses from under the bar, and filled each with an ounce of over-proof rum. “I’m squeakin’ by,” I said, my eyes following his to the woman in the mirror. “Who’s that?”

“That’s Carol, you know, from over at County Dispatch. She’s going to help wait tables around here, mostly on the weekends. She answered the ad. Starts tomorrow.”

I felt a kernel of anger pop inside my chest and while I fought to contain it, in the end I put some teeth into my next question without really intending to. “Known her long?” I regretted the words as soon as I had spoken, but to my father’s credit he did not take the bait. Instead, he thought for a moment while wiping the bar between us. “You’re a grown man, son.”

“Point being?”

“Point being,” Mason said, “I was a grown man before you were ever born. I live my life, my way. Might not be your way, and that’s alright. But it’s mine.”

I looked at myself in the mirror and when I did, I saw my father’s face in my own, and sometimes wondered about who I saw staring back at me. I have always been comfortable with myself, but at forty-one years old I’ve noticed my hair already starting to turn gray at the temples, the lines in my face around my eyes growing more prevalent with the passage of time. I have a faint scar that runs the length of my jaw line on the left side of my face and it runs from under my ear then curves slightly upward to meet the corner of my mouth, a result of a boyhood injury I sustained many years ago. It is not nearly as noticeable as I sometimes think it is, but it flashes with white whenever I smile. I try not to smile, unless I want to scare someone.

I looked back at my father. “I just miss her, is all.”

“Jesus, Virgil. You think I don’t?” he replied, some teeth of his own. “One year, today. Not a day goes by, hell, not a minute goes by, I don’t think of her.” He was quiet for a moment, and when he spoke again, his voice was softer. “I can remember walking in the park with her. We’d see an old couple, not old like me, hell, I’m only sixty-eight, but I mean old, eighties, nineties even, holding hands. Your mom, she’d smile and say ‘see that, Mason? That’ll be us some day.’ Well, that day isn’t ever going to come for me, Virgil. Not ever. That part of my life is over now. I don’t know what you’d have me do, but I know what your mother would want. She’d have me honor the time we did have together by getting up and getting on with my life. So that’s what I’m doing.”

He picked up the shot glasses and held one out for me. We had toasted my mother once a month for the last eleven months. “She’s gone Virgil, but she’s not forgotten. Not for a minute. I love her and I always will. But I’m done toasting the past. So here’s to you and me, Son, and whatever waits down the line.” My father drained his shot glass and set it down hard on the bar then walked away, leaving me sitting there alone, staring at myself in the mirror.

I suppose my father grieves his loss in ways I do not yet and hope never to understand. But I also grieve in my own way and not a day will pass that when I think of my mother I do not also think of her father, my grandpa. He died long ago, and when he passed, to say that things were never quite the same with our family would be a gross misrepresentation of our ancestral history. He was quite simply the center of our universe and we circled happily around him like planets around the sun, as if when immersed in his shining love there was nothing ever to fear, no darkness that could not be illuminated and laid bare for what it really was.

I have a picture of my grandfather that sits on the mantle of my fireplace at home. In it, he is sitting in his finished basement, facing the camera, his arms stretched just so while speaking with someone out of frame of the photograph. His back faces the descending stairway that was lined with light colored natural pine panels, and hung at eye level on the walls in a diagonal fashion are pictures of his grandchildren and a few other people I do not recognize. But one picture in particular hanging on the wall behind him always gets my attention. It is a picture of my father as a young man, perhaps taken even before he and my mother were married. It is black and white, and I think it is the most handsome picture of my father I have ever seen. There is a look of quiet confidence on his face and the way it hangs just over my grandfather’s shoulder in the photo tells me the love he showered on me was not exclusive. If you were a part of his life, you were a part of his love.

But when he died and we were forced to carry on without him, without his guiding influence in our lives, things slowly began to change. We began to drift apart, our exaggerated steps taking us further away from each other instead of closer together. Earlier when I spoke of the influence he had in our lives I used the analogy of the sun and the planets, and after he died if felt as if we no longer had his gravitational force around us to hold us together. Everyday we were together I remember a sense of anticipation and wonderment at what lay ahead, but after his death those hopeful days began to diminish as if our world had stopped turning and we were now stuck on the edge of an eternal night, locked in a phased elliptical orbit on the dark side of a place I thought I might never escape.

Eventually I learned a lesson from what happened to our family after my grandfather died, a lesson that clearly my father had learned along the way as well. I would honor his life and the lessons he tried to teach me by living my life to the fullest, the way he did.

Bottom line, if my father wanted to date another woman, who was I to judge?

A few minutes later I got up and put my rum behind the bar, and moved down next to Carol. We watched each other in the mirror for a few seconds, and then I turned on my stool so I could face her and said, “I’m Mason’s son, Virgil. Everyone calls me Jonesy. You must be Carol.” I smiled when I said it though I really didn’t intend to.

As the night went on I worked the bar with my dad but neither one of us had much to say to the other about a shared loss we continue to grieve in very different ways, which is, as I suspect, the way it should be. We had a decent crowd, and our band brought the house down with their original and covered Reggae. With two hours to go until closing my father took off his apron and walked over to where I stood and ruffled the hair on top of my head like I was still a little boy. “See you tomorrow, Son.”

I watched him and Carol as they walked out the door, then took my shot glass of Rum from the drip tray where I had left it earlier in the evening, held it up for a second and then drank it down. “See you tomorrow, Dad.”

Delroy walked over and put his arm around my shoulder and said, “Your father…he loves you, no?” He patted me twice on the chest then went back to work, singing along with the band, his voice carrying across the bar. A few minutes later he looked over at me and smiled, still singing, and just for a moment I could have sworn I was looking at my grandfather.

Half an hour later Miles, Donatti, and Rosencrantz came in and took a table in the back. I drew two pitchers of Red Stripe, placed them on a tray with four frosted mugs and joined them at the table.

“Alright,” I said. What have we got so far? Ron?”

“Well,” Ron said as he took a long pull of beer, then let a small belch escape his mouth, “to put it as professionally as possible, we ain’t got dick.”

We all sat with that for a moment. “He’s right,” Donatti said. “We got nothing on the canvass from this morning out at Dugan’s. The houses are all too isolated, and well, hell, Jonesy, you know that crowd. They’re good people and all, but when you’ve got that kind of jack, unless you’re at one of those fancy social functions, everyone keeps to themselves. And besides, it was just early enough that most of the husbands were gone, the wives weren’t up and the help hadn’t arrived. All in all, I’d say that whoever did this had it pretty well planned out.”

“What about the print off of the shell casing?”

“Blank. Who ever it was, they’ve never been printed.”

“So,” Miles said. “I stand by my original statement. We ain’t got shit.”

“You said ‘dick’ the first time,” Rosencrantz said.

Miles looked out over the top of his glasses. “I’m pretty sure I said ‘shit.’

“No, no,” Donatti said. “He’s right, you said ‘dick.’ I heard it.”

“Yep,” Rosie said. “I think you’ve got dick on the brain. Is there something you’d like to talk about?” He wiggled his eyebrows at Miles.

Put four cops around a pitcher of beer, I thought, and this is what you get. “Maybe we could stick to what’s important here?” I said. “Rosie, do you have anything at all?”

“Yeah, your sign’s wrong. The food’s good. And the beer is ice cold too.”

“Tell me again why I hired you.”

“My superior investigative skills.”

I stood from the table. “Work it out, guys. We need leads and I want a plan of action by tomorrow morning. The Governor and the press are going to be breathing down our necks, so let’s show ‘em something.”

As I walked away I heard Rosie tell Miles again that he was positive he’d said ‘dick.’

Twenty minutes later I was ready to pack it in for the night. I told Delroy I hoped to see him tomorrow, but I couldn’t be sure.

‘Dat alright, mon. Every ting come in its own time, no?”

“I guess so, yeah.”

“Your father, he worries about you.”

“Is that right?”

“Yeah, mon. Of course dat’s right. He wants you here, run the bar wid ‘im. Safer for you here, you know what I mean?”

“He’s never said anything like that to me, Delroy.”

Delroy laughed. “Yeah mon, you two a couple of talkers, you are.”

“I don’t get it,” I said.

“Hey, what do I know? Probably not my bidness anyway, mon.” He nodded over my shoulder toward the front entrance of the bar. “Dat probably not my bidness either, but here come your woman.”

I turned and looked around just as Sandy slid onto a stool next to me. She wore a loose blue halter dress that hung almost to the middle of her thighs and a pair of platform sandals.

“Delroy,” Sandy said, her hand over her heart, “that voice of yours melts me every time I hear it.” Then to me: “Buy a girl a drink?”

I leaned over the bar and drew two Red Stripes from the tap. My eyes met Sandy’s in the bar mirror and I thought they were about the sexiest damn eyes I’ve ever seen. Ever. I set the mugs down and took a seat next her. “You don’t look too worse for wear. How you holding up?”

Instead of answering me right away, Sandy took three long drinks from her mug and set the half empty glass back down on the bar. Then she turned her head and saw the rest of the investigative team at the table in back. She looked back at me, picked up my mug and started toward the back.

“Hey, where are you going?” I said.

She stopped and turned back. “Gonna see what’s shaking back there. I love working for you, Jonesy. Have I told you that yet? But I’m either in or I’m out, you know what I mean?”

I thought her eyes were made of liquid blue. “Sandy, it’s not that.”

“It’s not what?”

“Well, it’s not…uh, well, hell, I don’t know,” I said. “I guess I just sort of thought-“

Sandy walked toward me and leaned in close, her mouth right next to my ear. “I know what you thought, Jonesy.” She kissed me on the cheek, then leaned away. “I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?” Then, almost as an after thought, “You look pretty good your damn self.”

I watched her cross the bar. So did everyone else in the room.

I moved behind the bar and pulled Delroy aside. “A minute ago you said something.”

“What’s that, mon? Delroy always saying one ting or another, no?”

“When Sandy came in. You said, ‘here comes your woman.’

Delroy laughed and shook his head. “I also say it probably not my bidness.”

“Yeah, you did. But she’s not my woman. She just works for me.”

“Yeah, mon. Dat’s all right. You keep telling yourself dat.”

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

Delroy put his hand on my shoulder. “I’m just a happy go lucky Jamaican bartender. What do I know?”

I scratched the back of my head. “I don’t understand.”

“Hah. I tink you do. I grew up wid my family, you know? We live right by the beach. When I was little, after school get out, I’d run and play in the water. Sometimes when I do I see a fish and tink to myself, ‘there go a fish.’ Simple as dat, mon. Plain as day, no?”

“But what did you mean about Sandy?”

“Delroy mean what he say. I say here come your woman, then it mean here come your woman.”

I thought I saw a twinkle in Delroy’s eyes. “But you said my woman.”

“Uh huh. Dat’s true.”

“Is there something I should know, Delroy?”

“Yeah, mon. There sure is. Maybe I draw you a map. You and that one,” he tipped his head toward Sandy, “you were meant to be together. It’s simple. Plain as day. Just like the fish, no?” Delroy made a swimming motion in the air with his hand and grinned at me the whole time.

When I glanced over at the table in back I saw Sandy watching me and Delroy. I thought about going over and joining her and the guys, but then someone else walked in the front door and I discovered my evening was far from over.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

In the dim light of the bar I couldn’t immediately tell who it was, but it didn’t take long before I recognized his familiar stride. It had been years since we’d last seen each other, or so I thought at the time. Our house band was playing a tune unfamiliar to me and the bass drum thumped through my chest until it was no longer a drum beat, but an explosion from over a decade ago when our HUMVEE was stopped in the sand and I was out in the dark with only my. 45 and a pair of faulty night vision goggles in territory unknown to a young Lieutenant from the heartland who was being ordered to kill on sight, no questions asked. One of my men, Murton Wheeler, had asked to stop the vehicle so he could relieve himself, and when he did not come back, I went looking for him. I found him about thirty yards from the HUMVEE, sipping on a flask filled with whiskey while simultaneously urinating on the body of a dead Iraqi Republican Guard. When the armor piercing round hit our vehicle, the explosion knocked us both to the ground and the smell of phosphorus hung in the air as the three remaining men inside the troop carrier burned to death before they could escape the twisted wreckage. It was the second time in my life I had almost burned to death. Those thoughts hung in front of my vision until I heard his voice, pulling me back.

“Hey, Jonesy, you alright?” he said. “Hey man, how about a double Jack with a beer back?”

I blinked the vision away and looked at the man in front of me. Murton Wheeler stood at the bar and waited for me to speak or pour him his drink. I took a glass from the shelf under the bar and filled it with tap water and set it on a coaster in front of where he stood and said, “This is on the house. You won’t be drinking here, Murt. Not tonight. Probably not ever. Are we clear on that, soldier?”

He sipped the water, his eyes never leaving mine, then set the glass gently on the bar. “It was a long time ago, Jonesy.”

“Not long enough, Murt. Heard you were in Westville. Assault or something like that, wasn’t it?”

He ignored my question as the jab it was and instead looked back over his shoulder at the front door. When he spoke again, his voice was soft but his eyes were rimmed in anger. “Look, Loot, I’ve got some information you should have. I give you what I think you ought to know, and I’m outta here, Jack.”

“You’re taking liberties you do not have when you call me Loot. Everyone calls me Jonesy. You can call me Sir, or Detective Jones. Are we clear on that?”

Murton snapped to attention, saluted and said, “Yes, Sir.”

I wanted to drop him where he stood, but instead I lowered my voice and said, “Knock that shit off. “What exactly is it you want, Murton?”

But before he could answer, the front door opened again and two men walked in together and scanned the bar, obviously looking for someone. It was by chance I’m sure, but they made a mistake when they looked at the tables and booths before they looked at the bar, and that gave Murton the time he needed as he reached for his glass and lobbed it overhand toward the opposite wall. As a diversion, it was very effective. The glass arched through the air end over end like a poorly punted football and before it landed he placed both hands along the brass railing in front of the bar, swung his legs up and vaulted over the top like a gymnast mounting a pommel horse. When the two men turned toward the sound of the glass shattering against the wall, Murton looked at me, winked and said, “Gotta boogie, Jones man. These boys are a little upset with me right about now. I left your tip under the coaster. Keep your powder dry.” He then picked up a cardboard case of empty beer bottles from the floor in front of the freezer and placed it on his shoulder, blocking the view of his face and walked toward the back of the bar and through the doorway that leads to the kitchen.

If it was a mistake for the men to not look toward the bar when they first entered, my mistake was that I stood completely still and watched Murton walk away. Everyone else in the bar was reacting to the broken glass except me and it didn’t take long before the men realized what had happened. By not reacting to Murton’s diversion I stood out in the crowd in such a way that I may as well have held a neon sign with a flashing arrow that said ‘He went that way.’

It would have been easy for me to turn away and let the two men who were following Murton Wheeler chase him through the doorway and out the back. No, that is not quite right. It should have been easy, but as I get older I’ve come to appreciate the fact that nothing is quite as simple as it may seem. The repressed anger I’ve carried with me toward Murton for the last decade is not only because three of my men died during a battle that should never have been waged, it also comes from the fact had he not gotten out that night, I would not have either. The simple truth is, I owed Murton my life. The three men who died that night are simply the vig I pay on a loan which until now I felt unwilling or even unable to repay.

Make no mistake, the interest I’ve paid over the years was disclosed to me long ago. The analogy is not my own. When I told all this to my therapist, he explained to me that I was acting out against myself as an emotional predatory lender and if I didn’t begin to repay some of the principle by forgiving Murton by forgiving myself, I would be burdened with an emotional debt I might very well carry to an early grave. It took ten sessions to get to that point, and in the end I told him I thought he was full of shit and never went back. But when I saw Murton walk back into my life through the front door of my bar and then almost immediately out the back I began to wonder if perhaps my old therapist may have been right and maybe this might be the time to try and balance the books.

The two men gazed at me for a fraction before they started toward the back. I moved along the length of the bar with my hideaway. 25 caliber semi-auto in my left hand, behind my back and out of sight. It was then that I recognized that they were the same two men who had escorted me back to Samuel Pate’s office earlier today. I held up my right hand as a signal for the two men to stop and said, “Sorry fellas, employees only past this point.”

The three of us stood there like we were having a management meeting, or perhaps like I was simply speaking to a couple of regular customers. “That guy that just left out the back. We need to talk to him.” His accent sounded east Texas, something I hadn’t noticed earlier in the day.

The shorter of the two tried to sidestep me and squeeze past into the kitchen, but I matched his maneuver and kept him in his place. “The band’s really cranking it out tonight, aren’t they?” I said. “I guess you didn’t hear me before. Employees only past this point.”

One of the advantages of owning a bar if you are a police officer is at any given time, the odds are in your favor that at least some small percentage of your patrons are going to be off-duty cops. In addition to my crew, there were about ten other cops in the bar as well. The commotion caused by Murton tossing his glass against the far wall as a diversion had subsided, but I noticed Rosencrantz and Donatti watching me, and when they saw me look their way and then back at the two men trying to get by me, they separated and walked up behind the men from different directions. I slipped my gun into my back pocket and crossed my arms in front of my chest. It was now three on two. Rosencrantz stepped up close behind the two men and said, “How’s it going, Jonesy? Think we could get another pitcher over at our table?”

I looked at him and said, “Right away, Rosie. These guys were just leaving, but they’re having a little trouble distinguishing the front from the back. Help them out, will you?”

The two men turned and looked at Rosencrantz and Donatti, and then back at me. I let them get the last word, which you learn is often the wise thing to do if you work in a bar. “Tell Wheeler to get in touch next time you see him,” the tall one said. “Like I said, we need to talk with him.”

Rosencrantz and Donatti muscled the two men out the front door and came back inside a few minutes later. Donatti walked behind the bar and ran his knuckles under the tap for a few minutes. Rosencrantz stood there and just smiled at me. “What happened?” I said.

“Not much,” Rosencrantz said. “My guy didn’t want to fight. The other one tried to throw a sucker punch at Ed. He missed. But then his ball sack decided it wanted to launch itself at Ed’s knee, and when that didn’t work he tried throwing his jaw as hard as he could into Ed’s fist. Twice. Sort of an unconventional style if you ask me. I think those guys might have been dropped on their heads as infants.”

“Where are they?”

Donatti grabbed a dish towel and wiped his hands dry. “We helped them to their car and sent them on their way. It was either that or take them downtown. The paperwork’s a drag.”

“Yeah, we’d be up all night,” Rosencrantz said.

“Do me a favor, will you?” I said.

“I think we just did,” Rosencrantz said.

“Uh huh. Run a sheet for me tomorrow morning on a guy named Murton Wheeler. Let me know what you get.”

“No problem, Jonesy,” Donatti said.

Rosencrantz grabbed a handful of peanuts from a dish on top of the bar and tossed them in his mouth. “Hey, I was serious a minute ago. Can we get another pitcher of beer?”

I had a waitress take another pitcher over to their table and tear up the ticket she had going. When I finally got back behind the bar I remembered what Murton had said about my tip being under his drink coaster. I walked over to where he had been seated and saw the coaster. Underneath was a thick brass key, the words ‘ do not duplicate ’ stamped on both sides. I had no idea what lock the key would open or what contents may be hidden behind its tumblers, but less than a week later I would find myself questioning the thought process of repaying an emotional loan I never should have applied for to begin with.

An hour later I was home. It was late and I thought about going to bed, then thought, fuck it, and grabbed a beer before going outside where I propped my ass in a chair and my feet on the upper rail of my deck. The night was clear and calm and when I looked up at the stars it made me think of my mom, gone now an entire year.

I was half way done with my beer when the doorbell rang. I checked the time again, saw that it was just after midnight. I pulled my. 25 auto hideaway from my pocket for the second time this evening and went to the door. When I saw who was there I felt my knees get a little weak.

“I’m not wearing a watch,” Sandy said, “But I’m pretty sure it’s tomorrow.”

I tried to smile in a cool sort of way, but even as I did I was fairly certain I ended up looking like a school boy with an ‘aw shucks’ kind of look on my face before I managed to get a grip on myself and invite Sandy inside. When I flipped on a couple of lights I heard Sandy take in a breath.

“My god, Jonesy. This is beautiful.”

I designed the house myself, going through three different builders in the process before I found the one I knew could get it just right. Double doors lead from the foyer into the great room with a massive fireplace made entirely of fieldstone I had collected from the building site. The floors and walls were all wood, a mixture of natural pine, cherry, oak, and maple, all blended together that gave the interior a colorful, yet natural look. A leather sofa sits directly in front of the fireplace, and a waist-high bar with six stools separates the great room from the kitchen which is the only carpeted room in the entire house. Opposite the kitchen is an area off of the great room I use as my office.

“Thanks. It was a lot of work at first. Took over two years to build from the time I bought the site. Sometimes it seems like a little more work than I’d like, but then every year when summer rolls around and you can sit out back on the deck at night it all seems pretty much worth it. In fact, that’s what I was doing just now, sitting on the deck, finishing my beer. Want one?”

“Sure.”

I got her a beer and a fresh one for myself, then leaned against the counter. I let her wander around the great room for a minute taking it all in. When she circled her way back around next to me I handed her a beer, but she took them both and set them on the counter. Then she tilted her head to the side and just looked at me. I started to think about it, but then just as quick I stopped thinking and pulled her close. I pressed my body into hers and felt her press back. Just as I started to move my lips toward hers, Sandy pulled back and said, “Jonesy, is that a gun in your pocket or are you just happy to see me.”

I felt the heat rise in my face, even as I laughed with her. “Yes to both,” I said. I took the gun from my pocket and set it on the counter and when I did, Sandy started to laugh even harder.

“What?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Sandy said. “It’s so…uh…little. I guess I just imagined it would be bigger”

“Hey…”

Sandy: “Listen, uh, do you mind if I freshen up a little. You know… first. I love your bar and everything, but I sort of smell like barbeque sauce or something.”

“Don’t ever let Robert hear you say that. It’s called jerk sauce, and it’s his specialty.”

Sandy cocked an eyebrow at me. “You’ve got the hottest woman in the county standing in your house after midnight and you’re worried about what your cook thinks?”

I felt myself redden again. “No, no. I’m just saying…”

Before I could go on, Sandy stood on her toes and kissed me on the cheek. “Where’s the bathroom?”

I walked her to the bathroom-the master bathroom-and showed her where the towels were. She gave me a little girly wave then closed the door. I heard the lock click and thought, hmm. I decided that it was some kind of signal, so I left the bedroom and went back out to the deck.

She has a little tease in her, I thought. I wondered if she wanted me to tease back. I thought I might try it out, even played some scenarios around in my head, then thought, fuck it. What did I know about teasing a woman? I was lost in thought long enough that I didn’t hear her when she came up behind me and wrapped her arms around my waist and pulled herself in tight. I actually jumped a little.

“I thought you’d be waiting for me in the bedroom, Cowboy.”

I turned around and saw that she had put one of my dress shirts on. Her hair was still wet, slicked back from her forehead. Little drops of water had dripped from her hair, leaving dark spots on the shoulders of the shirt. She had the sleeves rolled up to her elbows, and only one button half way down holding it closed. “I thought maybe…I mean, I wasn’t sure…”

“You think too much, Jonesy.” She reached up and unbuttoned the shirt, slinked her shoulders back and let the shirt slide to the floor. She stepped one step back so I could see her naked body and said, “Are you sure now?”

I discovered that I was indeed sure. I led her back to the bedroom, kissing her hard on the mouth as she undid my belt buckle and helped me struggle out of my clothes. I touched her breasts, placed her nipple inside my mouth and rolled my tongue back and forth. I heard her moan with pleasure, felt her fingernails bite into my butt, then let go as she rolled me onto my back and sat atop me. She helped me inside her, then began rolling her hips back and forth, her eyes never leaving mine. Then we slipped into a wave of rhythm and passion where we both fell headlong over the edge together.

When we were finished we laid in my bed for a few minutes, neither of us saying much of anything. Sandy gave me three quick kisses, one on the lips, one on the chest, and one on my pecker. “Don’t go anywhere, handsome. I’ll be right back.”

I told her I wouldn’t and watched her walk from the bed to the bathroom, her ass moving with just the right amount of jiggle. The jiggle factor was important. Too much was never a good thing, and too little meant you didn’t have anything to work with. I laid on my back, my hands behind my head, and listened to the sounds coming from the bathroom. I heard the toilet flush, the water running in the sink, the dowel on the holder creaking just a bit as she hung a towel, and then the familiar stealthy squeak of the mirrored medicine cabinet door.

Ah, I thought. A snooper.

She came back out, took a running start and jumped on the bed right next to me. I instinctively covered my crotch in case she missed the landing. “Relax, big guy. I won’t hurt you.”

“Mmm, we’ll see,” I said. “What are you doing in there?”

“Girl stuff. Don’t you worry about it. Maybe a little poking around, too.”

I rolled onto my side to face her. She lay on her back and the moonlight that spilled in from the bedroom window bled across the swell of her breasts. “Find anything incriminating?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact I did,” she said as she sat back up. She swung her legs to the opposite side of the bed, away from me. “It’s good and bad.”

I propped myself up on one arm and reached over and placed my hand on her back. “What is it?”

“Well, the bad news is I found a prescription bottle of unidentifiable pills, with no label on the bottle.”

“Yeah? That’s easily explainable. What’s the good news?”

Sandy reached down to the floor and pulled something out of her purse, then turned back toward me, an evil grin on her face. “The good news is, I have handcuffs,” she said, as she twirled the cuffs around her index finger. “And I know how to use them.”

Sidney Wells, Jr. sat on her front porch, a cigarette at the corner of her mouth. Her eyes moved back and forth between the little pile of ash at her feet and the street corner a half block away. She saw the headlights sweep through the turn, then extinguish as the car pulled up and stopped in front of the house. Amanda Pate climbed out, tugged a bit at her skirt, then walked up and sat down next to Junior. “The fuck you been,” Junior said. “You’re over an hour late.”

Amanda picked up the pack of cigarettes next to Junior, shook one out and lit up. “Samuel was up late. I had to wait until he took his sleeping pills. I told you it might be a while.” She took a long drag and held her smoke for a few seconds before blowing it out the corner of her mouth. “So, anyway, I’m here now, aren’t I?”

“Yeah, you are,” Junior said. “And I still think it’s a bad idea. We agreed we were going to lay sort of low until this was over. That was the plan, anyway. So what’s so fucking important that you had to come slumming down here after midnight?”

Amanda lifted her ass off the porch a little and tugged at her skirt some more. “I’m just nervous,” she said. “It threw me a little when the cops came to my house today. And it wasn’t just any cop. It was Virgil Fucking Jones. I know him, Sid. Or knew him, anyway. I went to high school with him.”

Junior snorted. “Uh huh. What was that, twenty years ago?”

“That’s not the point.”

“So what is?”

“The point is what I just said. I know him, or knew him anyway. We had a thing. It was a one time thing, but I never forgot it, or him. I’ve sort of followed him his whole career.”

“So?”

“So get on the internet and look him up. He’s good. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. He’s like super cop or something. He does not fuck around. He works for the Governor for fuck sake. And so on day fucking one when he shows up at my front door and starts asking questions, yeah, I’m nervous.”

“What did you say?”

Amanda flicked her cigarette into the weeds next to the porch. “I didn’t say anything. He wanted to speak with Samuel and me about Dugan, but Samuel was at the church.”

“That it?” Junior said.

“Yeah, except he went to the church and spoke with Samuel.”

“Tell me about that.”

“I can’t,” Amanda said. “Samuel didn’t say anything about it.”

“So don’t worry about it then. We knew going in that they were going to look at Samuel. We want them to, remember? So just relax. It’s all good.”

“But so soon, Sid? I mean, the first day? And now this cop, I’m telling you baby, he’s bad news. Junior thought about that for a few minutes. “So maybe we move on the cop.”

“You think?”

“I don’t see why not,” Junior said. “Might give us a little misdirection. Let me talk to the old man about it.”

“Oh, god, he’s not here is he?”

“Yeah, so?”

“He doesn’t like me. Doesn’t like us.”

“He doesn’t like anyone, Amanda. I can handle him, so don’t get your panties in a wad over it, okay?”

Amanda spread her legs open far enough that her knee touched Junior’s. “I can’t. I’m not wearing any panties.”

Junior ran her hand up the inside of Amanda’s thigh, all the way to her bush. Felt the moisture and the warmth as she slid first one finger inside her, then another. Amanda tipped her head back and let out a little moan. “Maybe we should go inside.”

Junior leaned over and kissed her hard, then said, “We’ll have to be quiet this time.”

“I can do quiet,” Amanda said. “Might be fun.”

As a young child my parents insisted that I attend Sunday School. Every Sunday our teacher would rattle on for an hour about heaven, hell, the bible, and all things good and scary that, in their entirety, encompass Catholicism as a whole. I pretty much hated it. But one thing has stuck with me all these years, a small little lesson that remains trapped in my brain. My teacher once helped our class better understand the concept of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit and how they are all one and the same. She did this by using the analogy of an egg. It did not matter what part of the egg you looked at, the shell, the white, or the yoke, an egg is an egg is an egg, she would say. Later in life I grew to believe that the mind, body, spirit, and soul are connected together in much the same way. But just as gravity holds the mind and the body firmly to earth, I believe that the spirit and soul are tethered to something greater than just our physical selves. I also believe they are forever connected to where we once were, and one day where we will be again. Could it be then, that the same force holds sway in our lives in ways we sometimes can not envision, often until much later in life, if ever at all?

You decide. But before you do, consider this…

Sandy and I had moved from the bedroom to the sofa. I pressed a button on a remote and the gas logs in the fireplace lit up automatically, the glow of the flames dancing across the room. Very suave, I know. I watched Sandy stare at the fire, then she looked at over toward my office, squeezed my hand and said, “Tell me about the turn-out helmet.”

I blinked in surprise, then let go of her hand and walked into my office. On the credenza behind my desk is a fireman’s helmet, still stained with soot, the eye shield cracked diagonally across its entire length. I picked up the helmet and carried it to the sofa and handed it to her. “Hell of a story from a long time ago,” I said.

“Would you tell me about it?”

I nodded, my vision suddenly blurry. “I will, but I’d like to ask you something first.”

Sandy held the helmet in her lap, tracing the outline of the crest above the visor, her fingers trembling as if charged with an electrical current. “Okay.”

“You called it a turn-out helmet. That’s a term firemen use.”

“My father was a fireman,” Sandy said, staring at the flames. Her movements were almost imperceptible, but she was rocking back and forth on the sofa, the helmet in her arms. “Tell me your story, Jonesy.”

I must have held that helmet a thousand times over the years. I would probably hold it a thousand more before I die. It was part of who I am, part of why I am alive today. “One of the worst days of my life,” I said.

Sandy nodded, still looking at the fire, but she didn’t speak, so I told her the story. I told her about the time when I was just a boy, only five years old, and what happened that fateful day on my birthday.

My mother had wanted carpet in the kitchen. It seemed like such an extravagant thing at the time, but my parents could afford it and everyone agreed just how neat it would be to have wall to wall carpeting in the kitchen of all places. At first, my father tried to talk my mom into maybe just an area rug or two, but her mind was set. The day the carpet was to be installed, the trucks pulled into the driveway and the men all got out wearing identical green cover-alls, as if their matching uniforms could somehow make up for their inadequacies of procedural forethought.

“I went inside to play, to smell my cake baking in the oven, and to look at my presents that were wrapped and sitting on the table in the family room. I was walking through the kitchen-god, it was hot in there, I remember that-it was the middle of August, no air conditioning, and the oven was on. I stood and watched as two of the workmen began to pour the glue on the floor to hold the carpet in place. No one ever thought about the pilot light on the stove.

“The glue was flammable. As it turns out, the stuff was so volatile it wasn’t even legal in all fifty states. What I remember most about the explosion is the way everything went white. So white that things almost looked transparent, like some of the films you can watch of atomic bomb blasts. That white. And quiet. No loud bang or anything like that. Just the white.

“And then I couldn’t move. I’m not sure how long I was out, though it couldn’t have been that long. I was in the garage. The explosion had blown me through the screen door and a pile of rubble had landed on top of me. I wasn’t hurt too bad, except for the cut on my face, but I couldn’t move because I was trapped under the debris. I tried to call out to someone, but the blast had knocked the wind out of me and I couldn’t catch my breath. I’ll tell you something, I was five years old, I could smell the smoke and feel the heat and I thought I was dying, Sandy. That’s not the kind of thing that’s easy to forget.

“I heard my mom screaming my name, but I couldn’t call back to her. I remember I kept thinking the sirens are coming, the sirens are coming. Not the firemen, just the sirens, and I remember thinking I wanted my mom to just please shut up so I could hear the sirens, and then I did hear them, that long, painful wail as they wound their way toward me, the smoke so thick I had to keep my eyes pinched shut.”

I paused for a moment to collect my thoughts. Sandy still held the helmet, but she’d turned it over where it now lay crown down in her lap, her hands caressing the age old sweat stains of the liner inside the hard shell. Tears were running down her cheeks and they dripped into the inside of the helmet with little plops that sounded like rain falling on top of snowpack at winter’s end. “And they pulled you out.” She said it softly, no louder than a whisper, her words thick and lonesome.

I was going to go on with my story, but Sandy spoke before I did, and what she said made me wonder about the workings of fate and the mystery of things we can never know, but only accept with astonishment and wonder. “It took two of them to get you out,” she said. “They always go in as a team. The debris was deep and heavy and they had to be careful when they were pulling it off so it didn’t collapse down and crush you. The other firemen were pouring water in to keep the flames back and when they finally got to you it was just before the rest of the garage collapsed, wasn’t it?”

I looked at her, my voice a shadow of itself. “Yes, but how-”

She laid her hand on my forearm to quiet me, then continued. “One of the firemen had to pick up a rafter that was directly over you. It landed just inches from your head. He picked it up, straining against its weight, the heat of the flames no longer being held back by the water. They were losing the fight, but you were almost free. And then, when he had the rafter up high enough, the other fireman picked you up and carried you out. It was only a dozen steps or so to safety. The one holding the rafter let it drop, but when he did it shifted and came down on top of him, crushing his legs. He couldn’t move and just seconds later there was a secondary explosion when the gas main went. But you and the other fireman made it out, isn’t that right?”

I couldn’t speak. When I tried to swallow I discovered my throat was as dry as scattered ash. When I opened my mouth to say something-I do not know what-my teeth clicked together like marbles being rattled around in a glass jar. I finally just nodded, letting her know she was right.

She took her hand from my arm and unsnapped the liner inside the helmet. Written in permanent marker on the inside of the hard shell was a name: S.C.A. Small. “S.C. stands for Station Chief,” she said. “The A. stands for Andrew. Station Chief Andy Small was my father, Jonesy. He died in that explosion while saving your life.”

She buried her head in my chest, her cries no less painful than the wail of the sirens I longed for on that fateful day so many years ago. I took the helmet from her lap and pulled her close, my arms tight around her shuddering body. There were no words to say in the moment so I just held her amidst the sound of the crackling fire as it threw off a heat unmatched by the shame and responsibility I felt. I had just made love to a woman whose father had given his life to save my own, and while I had lived, it was at the expense of Sandy’s life-long sorrow.

How do you reconcile that?

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The Sids. Up early. And grumpy. There was a schedule to keep, and now, it was time again.

This one would be coincidence. The Sids knew this. They had talked about it like everything else, tossed it around for a while like a game of Hot Potato. Junior thought it might be a problem, though by her own admission she couldn’t explain why, just that it might. Senior pointed out that wasn’t much of an argument, and even though it pissed her off, she knew he was right. “Besides,” he had said, “One way or another we’re going to do her. Might as well create a little misdirection while we’re at it.” Junior thought about it, and the more she did, the cooler the potato got. “Yeah, I can see that,” she finally said, and so for the Sids, the coincidence of another nurse was just that.

For Elle Richardson, third-shift nurse supervisor on the maternity ward at Methodist Hospital, it was anything but.

Elle Richardson thought she had about the best gosh-danged job in the entire hospital. No one really liked hospitals, she knew, but Elle (Ells to her husband Eugene and her close friends) thought they were about the best place on earth. Sure there were a lot of sick and dying, (nine gosh-danged floors of them if you were counting) but her floor was where life was delivered, where little bundles of hope and happiness slid out of the gate (Ells always giggled to herself when she thought of it that way) and were swaddled up in loving arms, the balance between life and death maintained for another day, or at least her eight hours of the ten-till-six. Like most of her clothing (including her mouse pad and coffee cups) Ells was reminded on a daily basis that Life is Good.

Her shift had been a busy one, that was for sure. Three singles and a double, (Ells sometimes thought her version of hospital speak sounded an awful lot like ordering at the drive-thru… either that or the scorecard of a little-league baseball game) all before her late morning break. But the rest of her shift remained quiet (all gates temporarily closed for business, ha, ha) and when the big hand was on the twelve and the little hand was on the six, Ells scrunched her shoulders at her co-workers, squinted her eyes, and gave them a tootle-do before she scooted down the hall and out to her car.

Gosh almighty, she felt happy. Her life was everything she had always hoped it would be, and more. Her husband, Eugene (Genes to her, Gene to his friends) was a police officer for the city of Indianapolis, and even though he was a cop and she was a nurse, Ells always thought she and Gene worked hand in hand to help bring goodness and life to the city where they lived. They were, Ells thought, a match made in heaven. It even said so on the matchbook covers at their wedding reception.

Gene worked the third shift as well, except his went ninety minutes longer than hers, but the good news was (and there’s always good news if people would just take their gosh-dang time and look for it) today marked the beginning of Gene’s weekend. Plus, now that Elle was a shift supervisor, she could make her own schedule so she and Hubby had the same two days off each week. Could life be any better? Ells thought not.

Problem was, Ells was wrong. She just didn’t know it yet.

The Sids in their van. Junior had the driver’s seat, Senior in the back, on his back and out of sight. They had the fucking thing planned nine ways from Sunday, but it didn’t take long for Senior to realize they’d forgotten at least one thing-something for him to lay on. The floor of the van was like any other, ribbed, or corrugated, or what-the-fuck-ever, and it was pressing into his spine like nobody’s business. “How much longer?” he grumbled.

Junior looked at her watch. “How the hell should I know? Just give it a few more minutes.”

“Few more minutes my ass. If I lay here any longer I’m gonna be paralyzed. I’m sitting up.”

“Better not. Don’t want to be seen.”

“Fuck that. I’m getting up. Besides, the windows are tinted. No one saw me last time, did they? So no one is going to see me now. We need a pad or some pillows or something back here to lay on. What the fuck are you laughing at?”

“I was just thinking that after this, they’ll probably change the name of this place.” Before Senior could say anything, Junior stopped laughing and started the van. “Here she comes. Get ready.”

Elle pulled into the Safeway Grocery and parked her car between a rust colored pickemup (that’s what daddy always called them, pickemup trucks…gosh she missed him, fifteen years gone now if you could believe that) and a cute little lime green VW Beetle-bug, (dang, she wanted one of those sooo bad) one of the newer models that came with a flower holder that stuck out of the column. She forced herself to look away from the Bug when she walked by. She wanted to stop and look, but time was short. Genes would be home soon and she wanted her shopping out of the way so she could sit with her hubby and tell him all about her shift. The prospect of regaling Genes of the fine work she did this day (three singles and a double!) made her feel so good it caused her to put a little extra scoot in her step. She even grabbed a stray cart that had rolled away from the corral and gave it a shove back where it belonged. A good deed for a good day. Jake and Rocket were right. Life is Good. So very, very gosh-danged good.

Senior looked out the window. “Aw, we’re gonna have to move. I don’t have an angle.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure, god damn it. Move over a few rows. We’ll get her on the way out.”

Junior backed out of their spot and moved the van a couple of rows over. “Take a quick peek. This should be better.”

Senior did, and it was. Elle caught a break.

A short one, anyway.

Twenty minutes later, now seriously behind schedule, Elle pushed her cart toward her car. The Bug was gone, (thank gosh for small favors-she might have spent a few extra minutes looking it over-minutes she didn’t have) but the rust colored pickemup was still there. Somebody taking their sweet ol’, she thought. That was another thing Daddy always used to say. He had all kinds of words and sayings. They were his isms. Elle sighed. Love you, Daddy.

Senior watched through the scope as the woman loaded the groceries into her trunk. They were parked four rows over and one spot further away from the store, close for the scope’s powerful optics. He clicked off the safety and kept the crosshairs centered on the space between her eyes. From Senior’s perspective it looked like she was about a half an inch away. He could make out every feature, every flaw on her face.

Bitch needed to tweeze.

Elle put the last sack in the trunk and shut the lid. She stood still for a moment-something was bothering her, but she couldn’t for the life of her figure out what it was. Genes had always told her to listen to her gut. That, and situational awareness. Good gosh he was big on situational awareness. He had practically drilled it into her over the years.

And that was the last thought Elle ever had in her ‘Life is Good’ life. The bullet caught her in the center of her brow, right where she needed to tweeze. It snapped her head backwards and blew out the back of her skull just like it did to JFK on the day she was born. The force of the bullet knocked her backwards, her arms pin-wheeling merrily along after her. When her legs realized they were no longer receiving signals from her brain they collapsed under her and what was left of the back of her head made contact with the basket section of an empty shopping cart. The cart flipped forward and came down on top of her and wouldn’t you know it, the next person out of the store, the one who found her lying under the cart like a discarded doll and stroller in someone’s back yard was just some guy taking his sweet ol’ back to his pickemup. When he saw Elle’s body he dropped his bags and spun around, twice. A white van turned a corner at the edge of the lot and was lost to the early morning traffic. Mr. Pickemup never saw it.

When my cell phone rang I tried to slide away from Sandy, but when I did she held tight to my arm. I listened to the ringing, four, five, six times, then a little half ring, cut down by the voice mail feature. A minute or so later, I heard the familiar chime that told me I had a message. I stirred a bit, moved my arm just so-it was starting to fall asleep-and then brushed the hair from the side of Sandy’s face. Her breathing was rhythmic, slow, like she was asleep, though she was not. Thirty seconds later, the phone rang again.

“I should probably get that,” I said. “Could be something happening.”

Sandy untangled herself, sat up and then leaned forward, her forearms resting on her thighs. She turned her head and looked back over her shoulder at me. “Could be something happening here, Jonesy.” A little edge in her voice.

I stood, looked toward the kitchen where my cell phone lay, and then back at Sandy. I took a step toward the other room, but when the ringing stopped, so did I. Something was happening. But Sandy was right. It was here. I sat down on the bed next to her. “Whatever it is, it can wait.”

“I’m not talking about the sex, you know,” she said.

“Hey, give a guy a little credit, will you?” I took a deep breath in through my nose and puffed my cheeks as I let it out. Then I said the only thing I knew how to say on the heels of the most complex discovery I have ever made. “I’m sorry.”

We sat there for a few minutes with that, and when Sandy raised her head and looked at me, I opened my mouth to say something else but instead I ended up repeating myself. “I’m sorry, Sandy. I’m so very sorry”

“You don’t have to apologize, Jonesy. It wasn’t your fault.”

“Wasn’t it?”

“No. It wasn’t. You were a victim of something that happened a long time ago, just like I was. In a different way, but a victim just the same. I accept your apology, but know this: I don’t ever want to hear you say those words again with regard to the fire. I can’t build the rest of my life on an apology.”

“What did you just say?”

“Tell me you don’t feel it. Tell me we don’t belong together. Tell me you have some logical, even mystical explanation as to how we came together thirty years later as friends, co-workers, and now as lovers.” She reached out and took my hands in her own. “What I’m asking you, Virgil, is to tell me it means something. Tell me I’ve found what I’ve been looking for since I was five years old. Tell me you haven’t been searching for something all these years without really knowing what it is, either. Tell me that what we did last night, what we just had isn’t the reason I lost my childhood, it’s the reward. Tell me that the part of me I thought I lost didn’t die in that fire with my father, but has been waiting for this one single moment where it’s safe to say that this is who I am, that this is where I’m supposed to be, that this is my life, right here, right now, with you. Tell me that my father not only gave you the gift of saving your life, but in some mysterious way that gift belongs to me too. Tell me I’m wrong, Virgil.”

“I can’t.”

“Tell me.”

“I can’t.”

Sandy leaned forward and kissed me lightly on the mouth. “Tell me.”

When I looked at her face I felt something inside myself let go in a way I had never experienced in all my years. It was then I said the words that for the first time in my life I knew to be true. “I love you.”

When Sandy crawled into my lap and wrapped her arms around me she sounded childlike, but her words were those of a woman and a lover undivided, freed from something by a gift I knew no one could give her, save me. “Tell me.”

“I love you.”

“Tell me…”

“I was there you know,” I said, the ringing of my phone forgotten. We were back on the couch, her feet on my lap. “At your dad’s funeral. Me and my mom. My dad didn’t go. He said he was sick, but I don’t think he was. It wasn’t a happy time for us. It feels sort of ridiculous to say that now-it was just a fucking house-but I’ll tell you, we lost something that day-as a family-and we never got it back.

“But I remember the funeral. The sea of red trucks that stretched for block after block from the cemetery. All the firemen in their dress uniforms. The flag over your dad’s coffin. The way they folded the damn thing and handed it to your mom like, like-”

“Like it was some sort of substitute,” Sandy said. “Like that flag would somehow put food on the table, or keep my mom safe, or tuck me in bed at night. I wasn’t very old, but I remember thinking it was a joke. I remember thinking it might make everyone else feel good, except for the ones who really mattered.”

“We don’t have to talk about this right now, you know. It’s sort of a lot to process.”

“It’ll always be with us. It’s part of who we are.”

I took her feet in my hands, my thumbs kneading the area just below her toes. “I want to say I remember seeing you there, and I think maybe I do, but it might just be wishful thinking, you know, like when you want to remember something so bad you end up making part of it up and then that becomes the reality. I remember the line of trucks, I remember your mom, and I remember the sadness. I remember thinking for the longest time how I wished it had been me that died that day. I remember thinking about how there wouldn’t be all those fire trucks there at the cemetery, how there wouldn’t be as many people, how there wouldn’t be a flag over my coffin.

“I’ve got to tell you, I didn’t want to go. But my mom made me. She didn’t say it, but she made it clear that your dad had died trying to save me, and it was our duty to go.”

“Oh, Virgil, that’s terrible.”

“You know, it wasn’t really,” I said. “She didn’t put the weight on me. She didn’t have to. She just helped me see that it was the right thing to do. Boy, I can remember her and my dad fighting about it. They fought for weeks after that. Not about me going, but the fact that he didn’t.”

“Why do you think he didn’t go?”

“He never told me. He was drinking pretty bad back then, but I think the real reason was that he felt responsible for your father’s death.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. You have to understand, I might not know what I’m talking about here. It’s not something my dad and I talk about very often, but I think he feels like if he could have gotten me out, then your dad would still be alive.”

“But you know that’s not true. It took two men to get you out.”

“Yeah, try telling that to him.”

“I will.”

“Yeah, well, good luck with that. He’s not exactly the easiest guy in the world to talk to sometimes.”

“So says the son.” I looked at her, a reply forming, when the phone rang again. Sandy dug her feet into my lap for a second, then swung them off and went to the kitchen. She answered my phone like it was the most natural thing in the world, spoke into the receiver for a moment, then handed it to me, a hint of a smile sneaking across the corner of her mouth. “It’s your dad.”

“How do you know that?”

“Caller I.D.,” she said. Then with a playfulness in her voice I was grateful to hear, she added, “ Detective.”

I laughed at myself and took the phone. “Morning, Pops. What’s up?”

“Hey Virg. Your boss is looking for you. She tried here out of desperation. Said she couldn’t get a hold of you. Anyway, sounds like something big might be happening with your case. She wants you to call her right away. Say, who’s that just answered your phone?”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

I dialed Cora’s number then put the phone on speaker so Sandy could hear the conversation. When she answered her words were clipped and the frustration in her voice at not being able to reach me was evident. “Know where the Safeway off of Morris Street is at?”

“What’s going on, Cora?”

“Woman named Elle Richardson is dead. Shot in the middle of her forehead. Ron Miles is already there and says the crime scene weenies think it’s the same shooter. If you’re not doing anything you might want to swing by. And by the way, Pate’s lawyer is raising holy hell with the Governor as we speak so you may have touched a nerve somewhere. Things are happening, Slick. You might want to get in the game.”

“We’ll get right over there,” I said, then wished I’d been more careful with my choice of words.

“Is there something you’d like to tell me?” Her voice seemed to relax a little, but as is often the case with Cora, she didn’t wait for an answer. “Your phone sounds sort of funny. Do you have me on speaker or something? Hey, one other thing, I’ve got everyone else’s paperwork from yesterday’s cluster fuck outside the Governor’s place, but I’m still waiting on Small’s. Tell her to get it to me, will you? Or did I just do that?”

Sometimes a conversation with Cora can leave you feeling a little like a bug in a blender.

Fifteen minutes later we were dressed and in my truck, the bubble light flashing on the dashboard. When we pulled up to the crime scene, TV was there, along with a few print people. When we got out of the truck, the cameras turned our way. I looked at Sandy and said, “I hate it when the news beats me to the crime scene.”

“Well, they don’t really have a life,” Sandy said.

A very tall and skinny female reporter and her cameraman caught us just before we ducked under the crime scene tape. “Detective Jones, what can you tell me about this latest murder? Our information is the victim is a nurse, just like one of yesterday’s victims. Do the nurses of our city need to be concerned, Detective? Is it the work of the killer you’ve been hunting in connection with the death of Franklin Dugan?”

Hunting. Good word.

I don’t mind the press, really. They have a job to do like anyone else. In fact, it has been my experience that as a detective, if you treat the press with dignity and respect, they in turn, will reciprocate in kind, thereby establishing a mutually beneficial relationship between all concerned parties.

Sandy and I ducked under the crime scene tape. “No comment,” I said.

The reporter put a pout on her lips. “Come on Jonesy…”

“Not now, Becky,” I said. Sandy and I took a few steps away and then I stopped her. “Go find Miles, will you?” I said. “I’ll be right there.”

Sandy looked at me, a quiz on her face. “Sure. What’s up?”

“I’ll be right there.”

“Did you know I’d be here Beck, or did you just get lucky?”

“I’m certain I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Becky said.

I think she was trying to look surprised, but with all the plastic surgery she’s had in an attempt to maintain the appearance of a twenty-two year old, it was hard to tell. I stood there for a moment and watched her try to blink.

“Who’s the cutie?”

I wanted to ignore her and walk away, and I even started to, but as most anyone who has ever been divorced will tell you, negative intimacy is a powerful force, one that often leaves you wondering about the status of your own mental faculties. I turned back around to say something to Becky. I wanted to put her in her place, but something else caught my eye. A taxi slowed in the street behind us and as I watched it go by I saw a man in the rear of the cab turn his head away at the last second. How many people when driving by a crime scene turn their head and look away? Answer: none. My eyes followed the cab, darted to Becky for a second, then back to the cab which was already turning the corner at the end of the block. When I looked over at Becky again I could not think of one single thing I ever liked about her, but I was not afraid to admit that probably said more about me than it did her. I watched the cab turn the corner, stuffed my hands in my pockets and headed to where the victim lay, all the while questioning my past preference in women.

Something about that cab, though.

I slipped on a pair of latex gloves, walked up and saw Sandy leaning over the body. She turned and faced me as I walked up. “Just like Cora said, Jonesy. Caught her right between the eyes.”

I looked at the victim’s body. A pool of blood had formed under her head. A shopping cart and it’s contents lay next to her, the groceries scattered about. “I see that. Where’s Miles?”

Sandy stood, then turned to face me. “You okay, Jonesy? What was that back there?”

I looked at her, trying to process too many things at once; the discovery Sandy and I had made together just hours ago, our love making, another shooting victim, the cab that just went by. It was a lot of information. “What?” I said.

“Who was that?”

“I don’t know. Just someone in a cab. It was weird. How many people have you ever seen that look away from a bunch of cop cars?”

Sandy frowned, tilted her head. “What cab? What are you talking about? I’m talking about the woman. Who was that?”

“Oh, that,” I said. “Uh, her name is Becky Connor.”

Sandy chewed on the inside of her lip. “Well, I don’t like her. She seems kinda…brassy.”

I puffed my cheeks, then blew out a breath. “Let me tell you.”

“Oh, you will, boss man, you will.”

“Well, uh, as long as we’re on the subject,” I said, “I guess I should tell you something.”

“Yes…”

“You know, just so it’s out there.”

“What?” Sandy asked, a note of skepticism in her voice.

I looked down at my feet, not quite sure how to say it. I did not know if it would matter to her or not. “Well, you see, the thing is…”

“You were married to her?”

“Well, yeah, but the key word here is was. As in I was married to her, but now I’m not.”

“You never told me you were married.”

“I’m not.”

“But you were,” she said.

“Right. But I’m not now.”

“You didn’t tell me.”

“You didn’t ask. Besides, I thought you would have detected it, Detective.” I watched her expression and picked up a hint of jealousy. Just a whiff. The fun kind though.

I hoped.

“Besides,” I said. “It was a mistake. I was just waiting for the right woman to come along.”

Just then, an overweight bald man in a cheap suit walked in eating a double cheeseburger. He held the burger with three fingers, the other two pinching the cardboard container underneath the sandwich as a drip tray. He held an unused napkin in his other hand. He had caught the end of our conversation. “Hope that wasn’t her.”

I looked at him without saying anything. Sandy said, “Excuse me?”

The fat man took another bite of his cheeseburger, chewed three times, pushed the rest of the sandwich in his mouth like a wad of chewing tobacco, and spoke with his cheeks puffed full of food. He pointed the empty box at me, but spoke to Sandy. “He said he was waiting for the right woman to come along. I was just commenting that I hoped it wasn’t this one here,” he said as he waved his napkin at the body. Then he turned and faced me. “How’s it going, Jones man? Crime Scene been here yet?”

Wally Wright, Deputy Coroner of Marion County, placed his napkin in the empty box and then shoved the box into his suit pocket. Ron Miles walked up behind him, and the four of us, me, Sandy, Wally, and Ron all adjusted ourselves into a little circle. Miles nodded at me and Sandy, but spoke first to Wally. “Took you long enough.”

“Yeah well. Traffic. What can you do?”

Miles wrinkled his nose, sniffing the air. “You said you were going to bring me something to eat.”

“Didn’t have time to stop.” Wally took a few steps over toward the body, looked down, then back toward the group. “Are you all done here? Where’s your crime scene people? I’ve got shit to do.”

Miles shook his head. “God damn, Wally. We’ve been waiting on you for a preliminary assessment.”

Wally took in a deep breath, belched, then let out an exasperated sigh. He squatted down next to the body, and when he did the bottom of his jacket rode up on his waist and revealed his ass crack. A mole rode high between his cheeks, and the entire thing looked like a hairy, upside down exclamation point. His left hand pulled something out of his pocket, then went to his mouth. He stood, visibly swallowing as he did. “GSW to the head. Probably dead before she hit the ground. Maybe I should have been a cop. Okay if I get the gurney now?” He walked away, not waiting for an answer.

Miles looked at me. “Was that a French fry he pulled out of his pocket? I think it was a French fry. He said he was going to bring me something to eat.”

Sandy looked at me, then Ron. “Did you get a chance to look at the security tapes?

Miles shook his head. “Not yet.”

Sandy turned to me. Want me to take a look?”

“Yeah,” I said. “See what you can see. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

Ron and I watched Sandy walk away. We looked at each other for a moment, then Ron said, “You getting any of that?”

“Course he is,” Wally said as he pushed a gurney in front of him. “It might as well be tattooed on his forehead. I really should have been a cop. You guys are something, you know that?”

Ten minutes later I saw Sandy as she headed back over to where Ron and I stood. Her face was gray and the corners of her mouth were turned down. “What’s the matter?” I said. “Are you alright?”

She held up a CD. “Got the shot on tape, Jonesy. It’s bad.”

“Well, we sort of knew that,” I said, and I soon as I did, I regretted it. “Aw, jeez, that was a shitty thing to say wasn’t it? I’m sorry.”

Sandy looked at me for a second like she might not be sure, but then I saw her soften up. “No no, you’re right. I just…“

“Yeah, I know. What’s on the disc? What does it show?”

“Everything. Everything except what we need that is. Picture isn’t good enough to get the plate. Not even close. I don’t know, maybe the lab can do something with it, but I doubt it.”

“Alright, good, good. Send it back to the shop with Crime Scene and see what they can do. I’m going to have Rosencrantz and Donatti come out here. We need to figure this fucking thing out.”

“All right. What are you doing?” Sandy asked.

“I’m going to church.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Most people who know me think the reason I became a police officer was as simple as the fact that my father was one, and while there may be a measure of truth in their suppositions, I think the reasons are deeper than even I sometimes understand.

The days of my youth were spent much like any other mid-western teenager. Murton and I would attend our high school’s football games on Friday nights in the fall, the autumn air cool and thick with the aroma of red and white striped boxes of salted corn popped over the heat of gas fired oil pans at the concession stand. At half-time the marching band would perform and the sounds of the bass and snare drums would thunder off the out-buildings and reverberate through the grandstands like gunfire from a war not yet fought by children who, in reality, were only months away from sacrificing their lives for a cause they would never have the opportunity to know as both futile and unwarrantable.

My grandfather would often accompany me to the games, then end up by himself as Murton and I walked the grandstand area to visit with our friends. Sometimes when I looked back to where he sat my eyes would catch his gaze only to discover he was watching me and not the game. It was those times that I would leave Murton to his teen-aged conquests and go back to sit with my grandfather and watch the game with him, our words few, but our bond as strong as ever. Less than two years later, on the very night Murton was ripping open sterile gauze packs and pressing them into my wounds while my blood seeped between his fingers, half a world away my grandfather died in his sleep of heart failure. He was sixty-nine years old.

For months after I returned home from the war I carried an immeasurable sense of loss and anger around with me over the events of the war, my injuries, and the loss of my grandfather while I was away. I was mad at myself for being gone when my grandfather died, mad at Murton for the loss of the men in our unit, and in truth, mad at my grandfather for abandoning me. I was even mad at Murton for saving me. If you have ever been close to someone who has been the victim of a violent encounter then you know what I am talking about. The sudden shock and distress that comes with the knowledge of harm and injustice done to a loved one is something you carry with you for years, if not forever. I became a police officer because those feelings are ones I hoped to help put to rest in others, perhaps even myself.

I found the broken down church in Broad Ripple easily enough. Cora, had indicated to me that the building looked like it was being held together by bailing twine and when I arrived I had to admit that her assessment was not very far off the mark.

The building was originally constructed well over a hundred years ago and although it was larger than a small country chapel, the resemblance was unmistakable. The entire structure was made up of red brick and clapboard, the latter having long ago lost its protective coat of top paint, the boards now rotted and sagging at their joints. The nail holes wept reddish brown stains which left vertical tracks in the wood that looked like blood. A traditional steeple sat atop the main entrance to the church and the iron cross that stood like a spire against the morning sky leaned slightly askew and was held in place with guy wires attached to its base. The wires were pulled taught and were pinched against sagging gutters at the roof’s edge, then attached to steel bands that encompassed the perimeter of the structure. When I looked closer I discovered it was not the cross that angled out of plumb from the steeple, but the entire steeple itself that was out of square and sitting precariously on top of its base, perched to one side like the leaning tower of Pisa. I parked my truck a safe distance from the structure and walked inside, my gaze held to the steeple until I was at the front steps of the building.

As I opened the door and stepped inside I heard the sounds of children laughing and jumping about from the second story and I have to admit I wanted to warn them of the structural integrity of the building and perhaps even admonish them for the danger they were placing themselves in by dishing out more abuse than the building was capable of accepting. I listened as a pipe organ played from the chapel area, the notes bellowed with a hallowed, laborious effort that sounded both painful and redemptive all at the same time.

I followed the sounds of the children up the main stairwell and when I poked my head into to classroom I gave witness to one of those moments that make me happy to be alive. There were about twenty or so pre-school children in the room, the tables and chairs all pushed against the walls, and the teacher, a young girl of college age stood at the front of the room where she acted out a one person play of some sort. I don’t know what the play was about, but the children seemed thoroughly amused at her attempt to entertain them. She was playing two separate parts and every time she switched roles she would move to the other side of the room in an overly dramatic fashion and try to disguise her voice. She was not a very good actor, but she certainly knew how to entertain children. When she saw me standing in the doorway, she stopped mid sentence and still in her character’s voice said, “And how may I help you today, kind sir?”

The children all turned and looked at me laughing and clapping as if I were a part of their play. I thought about throwing my arms open wide and in my best theatrical voice announcing the purpose of my visit, but in the end I just smiled and told the young lady I was looking for Amy Frechette.

The woman threw both her hands to her breast, her eyes wide, and said, “See children, see, the stranger in our midst seeks out our fearless leader, even though he mispronounces her last name. Come, come, let us show him the way. The children all jumped up and followed the woman to the doorway. She winked at me and walked down the stairs, the children marching and clapping along with her and a few seconds later I followed them down. I did not march or laugh or jump or clap, but I probably should have. You only live once.

The woman and children led me to the main chapel area, down the aisle between the pews and up to the altar where another woman sat at the pipe organ, her back to us. When she heard the children she stopped playing and turned on the bench and faced the group and I saw her smile falter just a little when she looked at me. The daycare worker and the children kept right on marching past the alter and headed back upstairs to resume their fun.

Then something happened that left me momentarily unable to speak and caused a slew of questions to form in my mind at once, none of which I was prepared to ask let alone comprehend the answers. Amy Frechette walked over and extended her hand and said, “Hello. You’re the police officer, aren’t you? From the state? Murton’s told me all about you, but I’d recognize you any day from all the pictures he’s shown me. Do you know where Murton is?”

She stepped down off the altar and we sat together in the first pew. I had little if any preconceived notions of what a female pastor may look like, but if I had, I think Amy Frechette would fit the bill with perfection. I guessed her age a little younger than my own, perhaps thirty-five or so. She wore a matching plain brown skirt and blazer over a white turtle neck sweater. When I did not immediately say anything, I expected her to ask me about Murton again, but instead I followed her gaze to the brass organ pipes that lined the alter wall. Her eyes were down turned at the outer edges and marked with crows feet that crinkled with kindness when she spoke. “Our organ player moved on about a year ago. I’ve been filling in ever since. It’s a beast of an instrument to play.”

“I thought it sounded just fine,” I said.

She accepted my compliment with modesty then said, “I haven’t seen him in over a week. I don’t know what’s going on.” Her voice was strong but I could see the soft skin under her chin when it trembled. “You’re the best friend he’s got, Detective.”

“I wouldn’t be too sure about that,” I said.

Her unexpected smile caught me off guard, but the light in her eyes reminded me of the look I used to see on my parents faces when I was a child and they watched me discover something wonderful and joyous, like a rainbow, or the flight of a box kite for the very first time. But then I watched the light go out of her expression, replaced by something dark and defensive. “You’ve not been kind to him, Detective,” she said. “He thinks of you like a brother.”

“I’m here on another matter, Ms. Frechette. But if you don’t mind me asking, how do you know Murton, and by extension, his relationship with me?”

She shook her head and chuckled, then turned in the pew so she was facing me. “How do I know about your relationship? I guess Murton hasn’t been exaggerating when he speaks of your feelings for him. We’ve been living together for over a year, Detective. I guess I somehow thought you knew that.”

“No, I’m afraid I didn’t know that. In fact, I think there are a number of things I don’t know about Murton these days.”

“What in the world is that supposed to mean?” she said.

I ignored her question and asked one of my own. “What do you know about a man by the name of Franklin Dugan?”

“Who?”

“I am investigating a series of murders. One of the victims was a man named Franklin Dugan. He was the President of Sunrise Bank. Murt is either trying to insert himself into the investigation for reasons I can’t begin to understand, or he’s trying to extricate himself from it. I can’t tell which. Or maybe he’s guilty of something again, and he’s-”

“What? What do you mean guilty of something again?” she said, the anger in her voice evident.

“If you’ve lived with him for over a year, then I assume you know of his record. He spent some time at Westville for assault. He beat a man, almost to death.”

She pointed her finger at me. “Murton carries images around in his head from the war that leave him little room for peace. The man he beat was a drug dealer who tried to steal from him. I make no excuses for his past behavior, Detective, but I don’t delude myself into thinking it was something it was not. He’s paid his debt to society. Why not leave him be?”

I decided to try a different direction. “Tell me about Samuel Pate.”

“What about him?”

“You sold him your church. Why?”

She pinched her lips together and shook her head the way a grade school teacher might if she were addressing the slow student at the back of the classroom. “First of all, Detective, you don’t sell a church. No one does. You might sell a building that once housed a church, but the church is never for sale. As far as the sale you’re speaking of, it was more of a merger.”

“A merger?”

“That’s right. The Pate Ministry wants to branch out. They’ve brought me on board as one of their staff ministers. The building we’re sitting in is scheduled for demolition in a few months. In time, it will be replaced with a modern ministry center designed for and around the children of our community.”

“So you’re going to be an employee of Pate’s?”

“I already am,” she said.

“What about the money?”

“What money?” she said. What on earth are you talking about?”

“Franklin Dugan and Sunrise Bank handled the financing for your so called merger. Again, I’ve seen the paperwork. It was a multi-million dollar deal. Shortly after the paperwork was completed, Franklin Dugan was murdered at his home. He was shot to death, Ms. Frechette, and your boyfriend, Murton, has shown up out of nowhere and inserted himself into my investigation. He has a record for almost beating someone to death. By your own admission he’s a tormented war veteran. Do you see where I’m going with this?”

I watched her swallow then clench her hands together. It took her a few moments to speak, but when she did, I wasn’t all that surprised by what she said.

“He’s been working security for the Pates,” she said. “This deal has been in the works for over a year now. That’s how we met.”

When I got back out to the Safeway, I saw the manager of the store arguing with Donatti. He wanted to know when he was going to be allowed to open the store back up. Donatti walked away from him while he was still yelling and came over to me. “What’s going on?” I said.

“Man wants to open his store. We should probably let him. Body’s gone, Crime Scene is done, witnesses are gone.”

“So why don’t you let him open?”

Donatti popped a stick of gum into his mouth and tossed the wrapper on the ground. “Because he’s been a dick, or at the very least, sort of dickish, all fucking day.”

I picked up the wrapper and rolled it between my fingers. “Besides,” Donatti continued, “that would be what us underlings refer to as an executive decision.”

Sandy walked up. “He’s right, we’re not authorized to make those kind of decisions.”

I looked at Donatti. “Let him open.”

“You got it, boss.

I looked at Sandy. “Where’s Rosie?”

“He left a little while ago. He said something about some follow up questions for someone at the bank. Margery somebody or other.”

I shook my head.

Sandy looked at me, her head tilted. “What?”

“Aw, nothing. I’ll tell you later.”

“That seems to be a habit of yours.”

“Hey now…”

“Hey now your own self.”

“Listen, I’d like for you to go back to the shop, take everyone’s notes and get them into the computer. The victims, their families, their co-workers, friends, neighbors, witness statements, all of it. This is all connected somehow. You’re the one with the psychology degree. See if you can psychologize some sense out of it all.”

“I don’t think that’s a real word. In fact, I’m sure of it.”

I gave her my best fake smile. “I know. I was trying to be charming.”

“Keep trying. See you tonight?”

I leaned in close, smelled her hair and whispered in her ear. “Count on it. I’ll let you psychologize me.”

“Like we’ve got enough time for that.”

“Hey…”

I had a thought and punched Rosencrantz’s number into my phone. “Still at the bank?” I said when he answered.

“Aw fuck, who ratted me out?”

“No one. I’m psychic. Are you still there or not?”

“Yeah. What’s up?”

I took the key that Murton left on the bar out of my pocket. “Let me talk to Margery for a minute, will you?”

“She’s in the can, freshening up. We’re uh, gonna have a late lunch. Wait a minute, here she comes.”

“Have her pull up the records for their safe deposit boxes. See if one of them belongs to Murton Wheeler.” I listened to Rosie repeat my instructions and then I heard the clacking of a computer keyboard. A few seconds later I had the answer.

“No Murton Wheeler listed.”

“How about anyone with the last name of Wheeler?”

I listened again to the sounds of the keyboard before he told me there were no Wheelers listed at all. After thinking for a moment, I asked him to have her try Samuel Pate.

“Sorry Jonesy. No Pate listed either.”

I was about to hang up again when I thought of one more thing. “Ask her if she can identify a safe deposit box by the code stamped on the key.”

A few seconds later he said, “She says the keys are code stamped to match the boxes. If you have a key she can match it to the box, then check the box against the owner to get a name.”

I gave him the code and waited while he repeated it to Dugan’s assistant. When Rosencrantz came back on the line his voice sounded flat, like he was talking to me on the other side of a glass wall. “What the hell is going on, Jonesy?”

“What do you mean?” I said.

“That key code you gave me belongs to a box currently shown as being rented to you. You know those signature cards they make you sign so they know it’s your box? I’m looking at yours as we speak. It’s your signature, man.”

When I arrived at Sunrise Bank, Rosencrantz was waiting for me at the entrance to the executive offices. He stood leaning against a marble tiled wall, a half eaten apple in his hand. When he saw me, he pulled the signature card out of his breast pocket and handed it to me without saying anything. I studied the card for a moment then looked back at him. “What do you think?” I said.

He took another bite of the apple and thoroughly chewed, then swallowed before he answered me. “I think we should go see what’s in the box, Sherlock,” he said.

I let the focus drain out of my eyes before responding. “As long as we’re on the same page, then.” I took the apple from his hand and took a bite before I gave it back. “After you,” I said.

We found Margery, who introduced us to an account manager named Beth, a heavy breasted, dark haired woman who reminded me of my first grade teacher. She took us downstairs to the safe deposit box area and I had to sign the signature card to demonstrate that the box was mine, even though it was not. When she compared the signatures she looked at me, looked at the card again, then back at me. “You say you never rented this box?” she said.

“That’s right,” I said.

“Well, that is weird, isn’t it? I mean, your signature matches perfectly. I’m probably breaking some rule by allowing you access to this box, but you guys are the good guys, right? And with what’s happened to Franklin, I don’t think anyone would object, do you?”

Rosencrantz dipped his chin and looked at me. I frowned at him, then gently took the bank’s master key from Beth’s hand and inserted it into the top lock on the box, turned it counter-clockwise and heard it’s tumblers ratchet into place. I then took the key Murton had left for me at the bar and placed it in the lower lock, but before I turned it, Rosencrantz’s hand clamped around my wrist like a pair of vise grips. “Tell me again where you got the key,” he said, the look on his face one of intention.

“From Murton Wheeler. He’s the one I asked you guys to run the sheet on.”

“Yeah, I just put that together,” he said. “This is the guy that almost got your bacon fried outside Kuwait, right?”

“Something like that,” I said. “He also saved my life. I took some shrapnel. He pumped me full of morphine and blood expander until the medics arrived. I would have bled to death. You can let go of my wrist now.”

“I will, but don’t turn that key.”

“Why not?” I said.

“What was Wheeler’s specialty in your unit?”

It was one of those questions that make you doubt yourself and wonder if perhaps you might have chosen the wrong line of work, the way a surgeon must feel the first time he commands an operating theater and holds a scalpel in his hand, knowing he must slice into human flesh and explore the physical depths of the human body. “He was a demolitions expert,” I said. “It was his job to blow the Iraqi ammo dumps.” I felt myself swallow, then I let go of the key as carefully as I could.

The three of us stood there and stared at the box in the wall. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Beth put a hand to her throat then whisper ‘oh my God.’ I turned and looked at Rosencrantz and said, “Let’s clear this building and get the bomb squad down here.”

But as I soon discovered, you do not clear an operating bank during business hours as quickly as you would like, no matter the reason. The bank’s in-house security had to be notified, the main vault locked down, the teller drawers locked, the computer’s had to be shut down, and all of that took most every employee in the building working together almost thirty minutes. I wondered what they would do if a fire broke out. When I asked the security chief that very question he looked at me with an expression that seemed to indicate I might not be operating at full speed. “We’d get the hell out,” he said. I stared at him until he shook his head and walked away.

When the bomb squad technicians arrived, Rosencrantz and I showed them the safe deposit box, then we walked across the street and waited inside a coffee shop. I bought two large cups of coffee from a purple haired teen age boy who had enough piercings on his face to set off an airport metal detector. A college text book lay on the counter next to the cash register entitled ‘Ethical Issues of Molecular Nanotechnology.’ He saw me looking at the book and said, “Yeah, it’s pretty heavy stuff, man. Did you know that it won’t be long before they’ll have computers so small you’ll need a microscope to see them? They’ll put them inside little capsules you can swallow that’ll cure cancer and all kinds of shit. Isn’t that something? Say, you want cream or sugar for your joe?”

I wasn’t sure which question to answer, so I handed him a ten dollar bill and told him to keep the change. When I handed Rosencrantz his coffee, he said “I almost forgot. Your boy Wheeler? He came up blank.”

“You must have missed something then,” I said. “He’d be on record with the V.A. Plus, he was busted for assault. He did time in Westville.”

Rosie shook his head. “I think you misunderstood what I said. Everybody’s got something, right? A traffic ticket, a divorce settlement, a beef with the IRS, whatever. I wasn’t saying he comes up with no record. I’m saying he doesn’t come up at all. We checked Federal, State, local, the service, everything. There’s nothing there, Jonesy. He doesn’t exist, at least on paper anyway. You know how hard that is these days?”

“Yeah. It’s impossible,” I said.

Or was it? Two hours later, after the box had been sniffed by two dogs, a hand held chemical detection device, then finally x-rayed, the bomb squad technician walked out the front door of the bank and looked around until he saw me and Rosencrantz through the glass front of the coffee shop. He waved us over, but just as we crossed the street and were about to enter the building a black Crown Victoria slid to a stop behind us, it’s front tire bouncing off the curb. A young man who looked like he had just graduated from college got out of the car and approached the front entrance of the bank. He wore a dark blue suit under a light-weight tan trench coat and his hair looked as if had been cut just this morning. He walked over to where we were standing and identified himself as Agent Gibson with the FBI.

“Is one of you Detective Donatti?” he asked.

The relationship between Federal, State, and Local law enforcement is often portrayed on television or in fiction novels as strained, competitive, or tenuous at best. But in real life, particularly after the terrorist attacks of 9/11, there is an interdepartmental agency wide level of cooperation which works better than most people might imagine. But not always.

Rosencrantz looked at Agent Gibson, then said, “I think what you meant to say was ‘ Are one of you Detective Donatti?’ You see, grammatically speaking, when asking-”

I cut him off before he went any further. “I’m Detective Jones with the Indiana State Police. Donatti works for me. How may I help you?”

Agent Gibson peeled his eyes off of Rosencrantz and looked at me. “A request was put in for information earlier today regarding Murton Wheeler. It had Donatti’s name attached. Wheeler is part of an on-going federal investigation. We’d like to know why.”

“You’re federal agents and you’re asking us why Wheeler is part of an on-going federal investigation?” Rosencrantz said.

“No,” Agent Gibson said, a look of exasperation on his face. “We’d like to know why you’re looking for information on Wheeler.”

“That’s not what you said. You said-“

“Rosie, why don’t you wait by the box with the bomb tech?” I said. “I’ll be right there.”

“Sure thing, Jonesy,” he said. But before he walked away he turned and winked at Gibson then gave him a big smile and two thumbs up. “Keep up the great work, dude. I sleep better at night knowing you’re out there doing your job. I really do.”

After Rosencrantz walked away I looked at Agent Gibson and tried a little diplomacy. “I’ll be honest with you, Murton Wheeler was a boyhood friend of mine. We grew up together and even served in the first Gulf war with each other. It has been a number of years since we’ve seen each other until just last night. He walked into a bar I own, gave me a key to a safe deposit box inside this bank then disappeared out the back. In addition, two men I’d never seen before until that very same day were following him. I don’t know what else I can tell you. Why are you looking at him?”

“I didn’t say we were looking for him. I said he’s part of an ongoing investigation.”

“What exactly do you want with him then?”

“I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to say.”

So much for diplomacy. “Look, Agent Gibson, I’m in the middle of a murder investigation. The CEO of this financial institution was murdered yesterday, and we’ve had several other shootings which I now believe are somehow connected. Murton Wheeler ties in to it somehow. Anything you can give me would be a big help.”

“Murder is not a federal offense, Detective, so I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

“Have a nice day, then,” I said, and turned to walk away.

“We’re not done here, Detective,” Agent Gibson said.

“Yes we are,” I said without turning around. But after a few steps I stopped and this time I did turn around. “I don’t know what’s going on with Wheeler. We were friends for a long time before he dropped out of my life. But I’ll tell you this, Federal Agent or not, you better watch your back. Murton is not someone you want for an enemy. I can probably help you, if you’ll let me.” But it’s hard to get over on a Federal Agent and he had already lost interest in anything else I had to say, his back toward me as he climbed into his car. I don’t know if he heard me or not.

When I got back inside, Rosencrantz and the bomb tech were looking at the x-ray picture of the inside of the safe deposit box. “It’s either a folded piece of paper, or an envelope or two. Won’t be able to tell until we turn the key.” When neither Rosencrantz or myself said anything, the tech shrugged his shoulders, turned the key and opened the door. Inside the box were two letter sized envelopes, one with my name hand written on the front. The tech picked up the envelope, ran the scanner over it, rolled his eyes before handing it to me, then said, “You got a case number for my report?”

“I’ll send one over when I get back to the office,” I said.

“Good enough then. Tell that Jamaican who cooks for you I like my sauce extra hot, will you? Man, that’s some good shit. I’ll be in tonight for supper.”

After the bomb tech walked out I asked Rosencrantz why he was so hard on the FBI agent. “Aw, those guys just flat piss me off sometimes. They strut around like their shit doesn’t stink and every time you ask them for something they tell you they’re not at liberty to say, but what they’re really saying is we’re just small time, you know? Those kind of guys wouldn’t piss on you if you were on fire.”

“Anything else?”

“Yeah, maybe. I applied twice to be an agent. They turned me down both times. You think it might be my attitude?”

“I don’t see how that could be,” I said.

I saw the corner of his mouth turn upwards, then he said, “You going to open that?”

“Yeah, I guess so,” I said.

Murton Wheeler and I had grown up together playing in backyards and ball fields in a time and place when parents still let children walk to school by themselves and most people didn’t bother to lock their doors at night. It was a time when you looked back at the past and used it as a guide to a better and brighter future because of the people in your life and the good and decent things they accomplished, not just for themselves, but for one another. But we are, I sometimes think, of a generation whose goals and accomplishments seem to take precedent over our moral obligations to those in need or sometimes even the ones we love.

So as young men, still not old enough to drink an alcoholic beverage, when our country called on us to serve we did so without hesitation or question because it was what our fathers and their fathers before them did, all in the ultimate quest for life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. Except along the way, when you’re humping an eighty pound pack across the desert sand in one-hundred-twenty degree heat you might begin to question the history and reason of war, and maybe, if you are lucky enough to make it back home you might decide that it was all for a cause greater than you are capable of understanding. Then one day the sins of the fathers are passed on to their sons and middle eastern men with nothing more than box cutters fly airliners into buildings and no one’s life is ever the same again, and like it or not, if you want to sleep at night, you have to admit to yourself that in some way large or small, you are a participant in a game that never ends, the rules ever changing.

I opened the first envelope and saw that it contained a copy of a birth certificate for a female named Sidney Wells, Jr., born in May of 1987. I double checked the spelling of the first name, then the sex of the child. It was either a mistake, or the parents had opted to use the male spelling of the name Sidney for their daughter. The mother’s name was listed as Sara Wells. The line for the father’s name was blank. I had no idea what any of it meant. I put the birth certificate aside and opened the other envelope.

What I saw made me squint and blink back the sting from my eyes. It was as if I still stood in the heat of the desert over twenty years ago as an arid wind filled the corners of my eyes with grains of sand from a place I can not seem to cleanse from my soul.

The envelope contained two items. One was a picture of my mother as she lay in her hospital bed. She was propped up by pillows and blankets arranged just so to hold her upright, her lack of strength and fatigue evident in the photograph, even though she was smiling. The side effects from the steroids her oncologists had prescribed had taken a toll on her body, her face puffy and swollen, but the light in her eyes remained strong even as she lay on her deathbed. What gave me pause, though, and caused my hand to tremble beyond my control was the man who sat on the edge of the bed next to her, one arm around her shoulders, the other holding her hand in his. The man next to my mother was Murton Wheeler.

Somewhere in the depths of my consciousness I heard Rosencrantz say my name. When I turned to look at him I saw his lips move, but the sounds I heard were muted, like he was talking to me under water. My throat was dry and when I tried to swallow it felt like I no longer knew how. “It’s personal, Rosie,” I managed to say. “Would you excuse me, please?” I looked at the photograph again, and I didn’t hear his response, but in the periphery of my vision I saw him leave the room and pull the door shut behind him.

I sat down at one of the small cubicles and lay the photograph on the table before me. I can not say for certain how long I stared at it, but eventually I unfolded the pages that were in the envelope as well and began to read. The letter was from my mother, in her own hand, and it was addressed to me, dated less than a week before she died. It read,

My dear Virgil,

This is a fine picture of Murton and me, isn’t it? I thought you might like to keep it. When you and Murton became friends it was a friendship that changed our family for the better. After his own mother died, I watched you boys play and grow together over the years and I began to think of you as brothers, and myself as a substitute for the mother he never had the opportunity to know or love.

Murton was a fine child and from what I gather, he has turned into a fine man as well. I believe it’s time to let the past go, Virgil. You have chosen to punish Murton for what happened, but I thank him. I thank him for asking you to stop that horrible night in the desert. I thank him for wandering off and getting lost in the dark. But mostly, I thank him for keeping you alive while your body bled from the inside. It’s time for you to forgive yourself and Murton for what happened over there, and quite frankly, I think you should thank him too. I have.

I hope throughout the years my love for you was as evident as it could be. I hope you’re lucky enough to eventually find someone to share your life with. Don’t be afraid of marriage. There is a woman out there waiting for you and all you have to do is be open enough to recognize it when she finds you. Have children if you can, and someday when they’re grown and gone and you find yourself older and in the twilight of your life, find this letter and read it again. My hope is it will offer you an understanding not previously possible. I consider it an honor to be able to live on through you and I’m proud to say I am your mother. I love you Virgil, my sweet darling boy.

Love,

Mom

P.S. Don’t forget to duck if someone shoots at you. Ha ha.

Later that night I worked behind the bar with Delroy, but the truth was, the events of the last two days had left me in a fog and I was mostly in the way. Jamaican people on the whole are some of the most patient, kind and forgiving individuals I have ever met, but everyone has their limits. Finally, after I had made a half dozen drinks in a row the wrong way, or more specifically, when he could take no more, Delroy pulled me aside and asked what was wrong. I told him about my case, from when I first heard of Franklin Dugan’s murder, to speaking briefly with an old high school flame and her peculiar and mercurial husband, my encounter with Sandy, seeing Murton, and most of all, the letter and photograph that allowed my mother to speak to me from the grave as if the elements of time, space, and mortality held no sway in her existence even though she had passed over a year ago.

“Let me see dat picture, you,” he said. When I handed him the picture he studied it for a long time before he spoke. “My mother’s name was Hazel,” he said. “She stood ‘bout five feet tall, her, no more of dat, mon. She work her whole life, mostly laundry for the rich people live in the hills high above the road dat look out over the bay water. One day Robert and me went wid her to carry the buckets. We were both only fourteen. When dat truck swerved to miss the goats in the road it headed right toward us. She shoved Robert and me into the ditch but dat truck, mon, it struck her dead. She land right next to us, she did. I never forget it. I never had a picture of my mother, no. No letter, either. But I’ll tell you this, if I did, I do what it say to do, mon.” Then he did something that surprised me. He handed me the picture then put both his hands on my face and kissed me on the cheek. “Your mother, she don’t live here,” he said as he tapped his finger at the side of my head. “She don’t live in no picture, either.” Then he placed his palm flat upon my chest over my beating heart and said, “She live in here, just like your grandfather do. Go home now. There’s nothing here for you. Not tonight, no.”

How did you ever become so wise, Delroy?

Bottom line? If you find yourself in need, seek out the advice of a Jamaican bartender.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The next morning on my way to work, with little forethought, I turned into the entrance of the cemetery where my mother is buried and wound my way around the perimeter road and parked my truck on the service pathway next to her burial plot. A black Crown Victoria sat on the road a few yards ahead of me, its parking lights on, its engine idling. I got out of my truck and walked with my head down until I was almost abreast of my mom’s gravesite. What I saw when I got there stopped me in my tracks.

Murton Wheeler stood by the grave, a single flower clutched in his right hand. I walked up behind him, but before I could speak he placed the flower on top of her tombstone, his back still toward me and said, “I always loved your mom, Jonesy. You know that, don’t you? She was the mom I never had. Remember how she cried when we got back from sand land? She hugged me like I was her own then kissed me on both cheeks and once on the lips, just like she did with you.”

I walked up next to where he stood and looked him in the eye. “I remember her crying even harder when you disappeared,” I said. “You broke her heart, Murt.”

A morning wind blew hard across the burial ground and the flower Murt had placed atop her tombstone fell off the back. He retrieved it, this time placing it on the ground in front of her marker and used his fingers to half bury the stem in the ground to hold it in place. When he stood, he looked at me and said, “There are things you don’t know, Jonesy. Sometimes things go a certain way and you end up someplace you never knew existed, and you see things that are hard to forget.”

“What the hell are you talking about, Murton?

“I’m talking about trying to figure some things out, that’s all.” He turned a full circle and looked across the cemetery as he did so. “Did you know I was here the day you buried your mom? You didn’t, did you? I can tell by the look on your face. I wanted to talk to you then, but I knew how that would probably turn out.”

“Maybe not,” I said, but even as I said the words I thought he was probably right. “Who were those men looking for you last night at the bar? Why did you leave?”

“You talked to Pate at his church, didn’t you?” he said. “I know you did because I saw you there.”

I was just about to ask him why he was there when the corner of my mother’s tombstone seemed to fragment, the granite exploding outward at the same time a distant gunshot echoed through the trees. Murton pushed me to the ground and I landed face first in the grass. By the time I cleared my eyes of dirt and debris, Murt was running toward the Crown Vic parked ahead of my truck. I started to run after him, but when he climbed in the driver’s side door and drove off I stopped and watched him go. There were no other shots fired, and the shooter, was nowhere in sight.

The damage to my mother’s tombstone was minimal. In fact, given the nature of the design, you probably would not notice the chipped piece missing from the corner unless you were specifically looking for it. A casual glance would reveal what looked like nothing more than a clean spot, as if someone had started to clean away a year’s worth of grime then given up. Nevertheless, I would have to file a report of the gunshot, both with my department and with the city. I stopped at the cemetery office building before I left the grounds, more as a courtesy than anything else and informed the lone worker of the incident. When I showed him my badge and informed him of the incident that just took place, he seemed utterly underwhelmed by the entire situation.

“Did you happen to notice a black Crown Victoria enter the grounds before I arrived?”

“I didn’t see you arrive, so I don’t know if it was before or after,” he said.

“I think perhaps you’ve misinterpreted my question,” I said. “I’m not asking if you saw the car before or after, I’m asking if you saw it at all.”

He rolled his eyes at me the way young people often do when forced to participate in a conversation they want no part of. “There’s a form you can fill out if you want to report any type of vandalism to a grave site,” he said. “But the cemetery is only responsible for the grounds. Any damage to the marker is your own responsibility. It says so in your contract. I saw the Crown Vic a few minutes ago when it left. If they’re friends of yours the next time you see them you might want to mention the speed limit around here is five miles per hour. But you’re a cop right? I guess you’d know that already.”

I looked at him without saying anything, and after a few seconds of silence he asked me if I wanted the form or not. I told him no, but I signed the guestbook as evidence of my being here, wrote the date and time next to my name, then handed the young man my card. “Have a nice day,” I said, then walked out the door.

When I walked into my office there was a note on my desk from my boss, Cora, with instructions to see her when I got in. I tossed my jacket on the chair and walked toward the door, but my desk phone rang so I walked back over and picked up the receiver. It was Bradley Pearson, the Governor’s aid. “Do you mind explaining to me what in the hell is going on over there?”

“Hello, Bradley,” I said. “I’m not sure I understand the nature of your question.”

“Then let me see if I can help you with that,” he said. “The Governor does not appreciate agents from the FBI questioning him in a public setting about a case that you’re supposed to be handling for him.”

Pearson had a way of making something sound completely different than what it actually was. I was charged with leading the investigation into Dugan’s murder on behalf of the state, but Pearson’s choice of words and the manner in which he spoke suggested I was, at the very least, doing a personal favor for the Governor, and at most, covering something up for him and his office. “Let me see if I can clear something up for you, Bradley. I work for the State of Indiana. I am not, repeat, not handling anything for the Governor. The agent you’re talking about is named Gibson, right? He rolled on a bomb threat that turned up bust yesterday and tried to tell me I was interfering with a Federal investigation. If he went crying to the Governor that’s your problem, not mine. Anything else?”

“Yeah, Jonesy, there is something else. Who the fuck is Murton Wheeler?”

I hung the phone up gently and walked over to Cora’s office. It was only ten thirty in the morning.

When I walked into Cora’s office she had Bradley Pearson on speaker, and he was shouting into the phone about how I had just hung up on him. Cora let him go on for a few minutes and waved me into one of the chairs in front of her desk as she did. When his rant got old and repetitive, Cora interrupted him and said, “Listen to me you pathetic little piss pot, the Governor and I go back further than you and he ever will. Much further. In fact, I knew him when you were still in diapers, so hear me when I say this. If you ever call up one of my people and question their tactics, loyalties, or methods of operation again, I will personally see to it that the next political position you hold will be cleaning out the congressional toilets. If you don’t think I’ve got the juice to pull it off then pick up the phone and call me back.” Then for the second time in less than five minutes someone hung up on Bradley Pearson.

If you have a boss like Cora LaRue, going to work in the morning is not too difficult at all.

She puffed out her cheeks, then said, “So Jones man, lay it out for me, will you? Where are we? I can take care of Pearson, but sooner or later the Governor himself is going to come calling.”

So I did. I told her of my boyhood relationship with Murton, how we played together, how my mother raised us, how we fought together in the war, our falling out, his visit to the bar and my mother’s grave site, my interviews with Amanda and Samuel Pate, and my talk with Amy Frechette. Thirty minutes later, after I had finished, she asked the most basic of questions. “So what now?”

“I hate to say it,” I said.

“Well, at least we’re on the same page then. Boyhood friends or not, Jonesy, you’ve got to follow this wherever it leads you. Get warrants for Wheeler. One to search his residence and one for his arrest.”

“You asked me to look into Pate, Cora. I’ve had one brief conversation with him. For reasons I can’t readily explain, they’ve invited me Saturday to a gathering at their church. I think I might go and see what I can see. It’s probably a waste of time.”

“Maybe, maybe not. You know how these things work. Get the warrants cut on Wheeler anyway.”

“I just don’t think Murton is involved in the way it seems like he might be.”

“It’s not a request, Jonesy. Get it done.”

I wanted to argue, but she was right, and I think we both knew it.

Sorry, Mom, I thought.

I filled out the appropriate forms for the warrants, walked them over to the prosecutor’s office, then spent the better part of the day with Sandy reviewing the case notes that had been put together on the murders of Franklin Dugan, Barney Burns, Rhonda Rhodes, and Elle Richardson. But I had a difficult time concentrating as my thoughts bounced back and forth between my growing feelings for Sandy, and my sudden rekindled loyalty to my lifelong friend, Murton Wheeler, whom I felt I was about to betray. I picked up the phone and called Cora in her office. “Got a second?”

“Sure. What’s up?”

“I’ll be right there,” I said, then I hung up and told Sandy I’d be back in a few minutes.

I walked into her office and sat down in front of her desk. “This morning you asked me to get warrants for Murton Wheeler. On the surface I think that’s sound procedure, but there’s something else at play here.”

She was tapping her pen against the blotter on her desk. “Like what?”

“Murton Wheeler worked for Pate. His girlfriend, Amy Frechette, is now one of the Pastors of Grace Community Church. Pate borrowed over five million dollars from Dugan’s bank to buy an all but condemned building. Amy Frechette says she doesn’t know where Wheeler is. The two goons who followed him into the bar the other night also work for Pate. You read my report on the shots fired at the cemetery?”

“Yeah?”

“Who do you think was doing the shooting?”

“My guess would be the two who tried to brace you about Wheeler at the bar. Pate’s guys,” she said. She tapped the pen harder and faster on her blotter.

“Mine too.” I looked at the pen and the little ink marks it made on the desk pad. “Would you mind not doing that, please?” I said.

She lowered her chin and raised her eyebrows at me. I looked down for a moment, then raised my hands, my palms toward her as an apology. “So if Wheeler, who works or worked for Pate is responsible for the murder of Franklin Dugan, why would he seek me out at the bar? When I saw him at the cemetery he hadn’t followed me, he was already there.”

“So you’re saying you don’t want to pick him up or search his last known residence?” she said.

“No. I’m not saying that at all,” I said, but my eyes fell away from hers when I spoke.

“Like it or not, Jonesy, Wheeler’s a part of this.”

“Whether or not I like it has nothing to do with it, Cora.”

“You’re right about that,” she said. “But you don’t have to convince me.”

“Meaning what, exactly?”

“Wheeler is, or was, a friend, right? You two have a history together. You can’t serve a personal agenda and the State at the same time, Jonesy.”

“There is no personal agenda,” I said, but I regretted the lie as soon as the words were out of my mouth.

“So what was in the safe deposit box then?” she said. “I didn’t see that in your report.”

Try to throw Cora a curve ball on an even up count and she’ll check her swing every time. When I did not answer her question, she tried another. “So what is it, exactly, that you want to do?”

I laid it out for her. When I finished she gave her pen a little rat-a-tat-tat on the blotter, winked at me and said, “So let’s take a walk over and talk to the D.A. It should be fun. Did you know he used to teach a criminal law course at Notre Dame? I’m sure we won’t have any trouble convincing him.”

Preston Elliott, the prosecuting attorney for Marion county was someone I had known for over five years. We weren’t exactly friends, but we had worked together any number of times over the years on different cases. He was a hands-on administrator who still worked his own caseload, put in more hours than anyone else in his office, and held one of the highest conviction rates in the history of the county. He stood five feet, four inches tall, had an attitude consistent with someone who carries a short man complex, and he seemed to tower over his opponents in the courtroom. He took his job seriously and his scotch neat.

When we walked into his office at the end of the day he greeted us from behind his desk without standing up. His shirt sleeves were rolled up past his elbows and I saw him peek at his watch has he motioned us to the chairs in front of his desk. Twenty minutes later I had laid it out for him.

He looked at me, then at Cora, then back at me. “It’s not enough. Surely you know that. Cora, you told him, right? It’s not enough.”

“It’s where the answers are,” I said. “But Pate’s not talking. If we can get a look at his books, I think-”

Elliott interrupted me. “Have you served the warrant on this Wheeler fellow yet?”

“Not yet” I said.

“So let me see if I’ve got this straight,” he said. “This Wheeler character has served time in Westville for assault. Franklin Dugan, who wrote the note on a five million dollar deal is shot to death in his driveway. Nobody knows where Wheeler is, not even his girlfriend, who coincidentally is the pastor of the church that was bought by Pate with the money he borrowed from the dead banker. Do I have that right?”

“Yes, but-“

Elliott held up a finger. “Let me finish,” he said. He was pacing back and forth now behind his desk, as if he were in the courtroom giving a summation to a jury. “Wheeler worked for Pate, but again, no one knows where Wheeler is. So for reasons you’ve yet to explain, you want to sit on the arrest and search warrants of a convicted felon and instead you want another warrant so you can toss the offices of one of the city’s most famous, and I might add, influential people.”

“Murton Wheeler didn’t have motive,” I said. “Why would he want to kill Dugan?”

“That’s a great question, Jonesy,” Elliott said. His back was to Cora and me, and he spoke to us both through the reflection in the window behind his desk. “Why don’t you use the warrant, pick him up and ask him?”

“I intend to, Preston. But I’m telling you right now, this all leads back to Pate. Murton Wheeler might be a player somehow, but Pate is the one we should be looking at.”

“What proof do you have?”

“He’s under investigation by the Texas Department of Insurance for Fraud out of Houston. His last church burned to the ground,” Cora said.

“Yes. And that would be a matter for the State of Texas, and maybe, just maybe, a matter for the FBI, depending of course on which way the federal winds are currently blowing,” he said, his voice impatient and thick with sarcasm. “Either way, it’s just a tad bit out of our jurisdiction, Cora. The fact of the matter is, neither of you can offer any proof whatsoever of Samuel Pate’s involvement in the murder of Franklin Dugan. As an officer of the court I appreciate your efforts, but this office has certain standards we like to follow and we can not infringe upon the rights of our citizens based solely on supposition or minimalistic circumstantial evidence. Get me something concrete and I’ll sign off on a warrant. Until then, I suggest you round up this Wheeler fellow and work your case from that angle.” After a moment he turned from the window, looked at Cora and said, “Are you free for dinner tonight?”

Later that night the phone next to my bed rang just as I was about to fall asleep. I was certain it was Sandy and I did not bother to check the caller I.D. before I answered. The smile in my voice must have been evident because after I said hello the voice that came through the receiver was as soft and feminine as I have ever heard.

“You’ve got your warrant for Pate. One for the office and one for the house.”

“What? Cora? Say that again, will you please?”

“What’s the matter, Jonesy? You sound like you were expecting someone else. I said you’ve got your warrant for Pate.”

As I listened to her speak, I realized her words were slightly over annunciated yet slurred, and it reminded me of my days on patrol when I would stop an intoxicated driver then listen as they tried to talk their way out of a trip to jail. “Uh, that’s great, Cora. How did you pull that off?”

“Don’t ask,” she said, then giggled quietly like a young girl. “Let’s just say my powers of persuasion are still as good as they ever were.”

Among other things, I thought.

“What was that?” she said.

“I didn’t say anything. The connection is bad, I think. Thanks for going to bat for me.”

“Anytime,” she said. “Hey, did you ever see that Far Side cartoon? The one where the couple is in the delivery room at the hospital? The father is standing next to the bed and the doctor is holding their new baby boy right after he comes out of the chute. The father looks at his wife and says, ‘Look honey, it’s a boy. Let’s name him Preston.’” She howled with laughter, then hung up on me.

Out of the chute?

I looked at the caller I.D. It read Elliott, Preston. It was just after one-thirty in the morning.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The next morning, Saturday at ten o’clock, Sandy and I were supposed to meet at the Pate Ministries complex. I saw her State car, but not her so I assumed she was already inside. I looked at my watch and discovered I was about ten minutes late. I had a search warrant for the complex tucked inside my jacket pocket. The lobby of the church had been converted from the wide open space I witnessed on my last visit to a smaller, more intimate setting, the latter being achieved by erecting a three-sided red pipe and drape system, the kind you see at trade shows and conventions. At the front of the enclosure an electrically operated viewing screen had been lowered from its ceiling mount and the images being displayed prior to the screening of tomorrow’s broadcast was a closed circuit view of the enclosed area where I now stood. There were about twenty to twenty-five people scattered about the area, some seated in padded folding chairs which were set out in four rows of twelve across the width of the enclosure. Others either stood or were seated in various places at the round four-top tables covered with white linen cloths and set with dishes and flatware.

I watched myself enter the area on the closed circuit system and almost tripped on the leg of a chair as I did so. A buffet was set up on the left side of the room and the wait staff were busy as they placed stainless steel chafing dishes into their holders. A faint wax-like aroma filled the room from the cans of chafing fuel that burned with blue flames under the containers.

Samuel and Amanda Pate stood at the front of the room next to the lowered view screen and spoke with another man and woman I did not recognize. Samuel had his back to me, the arm bands of his crutches clamped tightly around his suit sleeves. Amanda glanced my way and let her eyes skip across me as if I were not there.

Sandy and I saw each other at the same time, first on the screen, then in real life as she turned around in her chair and looked back at me. She leaned over and whispered something to a handsome man seated next to her, then stood and walked between the chairs to the end of the row. She wore a cream colored sweater dress with matching knit stockings that were just slightly longer than the bottom of her dress. When she walked the tops of her stockings peeked out from under the bottom of her dress and I felt myself swallow as I watched her approach, my mouth suddenly hot and dry.

“Hey, Jonesy,” she said, her hand on my arm. “How are you?”

I ran my tongue over the top of my teeth and tried to get some moisture back in my mouth, but before I said anything, Amanda was at my side and she slipped her left hand into the crook of my arm, the words she spoke directed at Sandy, not me. “Virgil and I go way back. I’m Amanda Pate, Samuel’s wife. You’re one of Virgil’s people, aren’t you?” I moved sideways, away from Amanda’s grasp and crossed my arms in front of my chest.

Her actions were vintage Amanda, I thought. She had the ability to put someone in their place, all while helping them conclude they did it to themselves, any victimization they might feel brought on by their own inadequacies or stature, not the words she spoke. But it wouldn’t play with Sandy, as I was about to find out, and in more ways than one, at that.

Sandy tilted her head slightly and said, “Something like that.”

“Well,” Amanda said with mock sincerity, “I love your little outfit. It’s so, so…”

“Yes?” Sandy said, her eyes blinking more than usual. It’s so what, exactly?”

“Well dear, it’s so, um, edgy I think is the word I’m looking for. Yes, that’s it. It’s so edgy I think I might be a little jealous. You’ve managed to capture just about every man’s attention here this morning. For example, that man you were seated next to just a moment ago. Do you know who that is?”

“It’s your party,” Sandy said. “Don’t you?”

“Of course I know, dear. I was just wondering if you did. He’s a very successful bond trader. Single too. In fact, don’t look, but he’s watching you right now. Would you like me to formally introduce the two of you?”

“We’ve already met, thank you,” Sandy said. “Speaking of attention, I think your husband is trying to get yours.” She looked at me, then said, “Detective Jones, could I speak with you for a moment?” Then to Amanda, “Can’t wait to see the show. I’ve heard it’s a hoot.”

Amanda looked at Sandy, then at me and walked away without saying anything more. Once she was gone I looked at Sandy and said, “hoot?”

She ignored me and waved at the bond trader.

“What was that all about?” she finally said.

“That,” I said, “was a master manipulator in action.”

“No kidding.” Then, a few seconds later, “What time are they coming?” She was still making eyes with the trader, or at the very least, letting him make eyes with her.

I looked at my watch. “In about thirty seconds. Donatti’s running this squad. Rosie’s at the Pate’s residence. Once they’re in, I want you to keep an eye on Amanda.”

“You got it, boss” she said, her head turned upward at me. I wanted to kiss her right then and there, and I might have, except a number of things happened almost simultaneously. Samuel Pate picked up a spoon and tapped it against the side of a water goblet and said, “Excuse me everyone, if you’ll take a seat please, we’re ready to-”

At the exact same time, Donatti and ten uniformed State Troopers came through the front doors of the lobby. Donatti shouted, “Police! Search warrant! Nobody move. Everyone stay right where you are and keep your hands where I can see them.”

I moved toward Pate. The bond trader who had been flirting with Sandy saw me coming, stood up to get out of the way and tripped backwards over the row of chairs behind him. I saw Amanda try to duck behind the drapery out of sight, but Sandy wrapped her arms around her and tackled her to the ground. The drapery and support rods got tangled up in their struggle and fell over the buffet table, then the table and everything on it crashed to the ground as well. People were screaming and trying to get away from the commotion by the buffet and Donatti was still yelling for no one to move. I pointed a finger at Samuel Pate, told him not to move, then ran over to where Sandy was still struggling with Amanda. I yanked the drapery free from the top of them both, then held her down while Sandy got up.

Sandy and I stood up, my foot stationed in the middle of Amanda’s back to hold her in place. Samuel Pate walked across the room knocking chairs aside with his crutches as he approached. I noticed his ability to move about was better than it had been in our previous meetings and I suspected the crutches, while obviously necessary to a certain extent, were just as much stage props as they were an aid to his mobility. “What in God’s name is going on here?” he said, his voice coarse with anger. “Will you take your foot off of my wife’s back please? Why are the police here?”

Sandy was still brushing herself off and straightening her dress. I held her by her upper arm and she had her hand on my own for support. “Step back please, Reverend,” I said. “I’ll speak with you in a moment.”

But he either did not hear me, or simply refused to listen amid the chaos of the events as they unfolded around him. He stepped closer and put his crutch against my hip, forcing me to remove my foot from Amanda’s back or lose my balance. “Step away from my wife, Detective. I insist you tell me-”

I let go of Sandy and used my own momentum against him. I grabbed the still extended crutch and pinched it under my arm, swept his legs out from under him and had him on the ground before he knew what had happened. I yanked the crutch from his right arm and pinned his hands behind his back. His arms felt like tree limbs under his shirt, and I had the impression he could toss me aside if he wanted to. I also felt like he knew it as well. I looked over at Donatti who ran toward me and placed his handcuffs around Pate’s wrists. I leaned down and whispered into Pate’s ear. “You ever place your cane against my person again I’ll show you the other end of it. I’ve got the resume, sir, believe me.”

“Release my husband this instant,” Amanda shouted at me as she stood up. “For God’s sake, Jonesy, he’s disabled. You’ve got a crippled man on the ground in handcuffs on his own property. What’s the matter with you? I demand to know what’s going on here,” she said. Why are all these police officers here?” She stomped her foot, her hands balled into fists at her side as she spoke.

I reached into my pocket, pulled out the search warrant and handed it to her. “We have a warrant to search the premises, Amanda.” Then to Donatti. “Have your men take the file cabinets and everything in the desk drawers. You brought trucks and dollies?”

“We’re good to go, boss,” Donatti said.

“Alright, get started then. Get the computers, too. They probably have a central server somewhere. A closet, or a small office. Don’t miss that.”

Pate mumbled something I couldn’t quite catch. “What was that,” I said.

“It’s in the basement,” he said. “The door at the end of the hall.”

I looked at him for a moment. He lay on his side on the floor to accommodate the handcuffs. Then he lifted his head and smiled at me. “I’ve nothing to hide, Detective. Nothing at all. You’ll see. Then you and I, well, we’ll talk again, I suspect.”

I ignored his comments and nodded to Donatti who motioned for the other officers. They wheeled the dollies in and moved toward the offices. I looked at Amanda. Tears were running down her cheeks. She held the warrant in her hand, down by her side. “Read the warrant, Amanda. It gives us permission to search and seize anything in this building. Your house as well.”

Her head snapped up, the whites of her eyes veined with red streaks at the corners. “What? My house? You’re going to search my house?’

“Not going to, Amanda. Are. We’ve got a team there right now as well.”

“You bastard,” she said. “If you think I’m going to let you get away with this you’re mistaken,” she said, her finger pointed at me like she was admonishing a child. “I’ll have your badge for this, Virgil Jones. You watch and see. You think we don’t have any influence in this town?”

Samuel Pate looked at his wife and said, “Amanda, go home. Please, you’re not helping.”

“But Samuel, can’t you see what they’re trying to do to us? We can’t just let-”

“Amanda, I said go home. Keep your wits about you and get to the house and make sure they conduct their search in a respectful manner, then call Everett. Tell him what’s happened and have him meet me downtown. Can you do that for me, Amanda? Detective, is she free to go?”

I nodded. Amanda looked at me, the veins on the sides of her neck still bulging with anger. “This isn’t over, Jonesy. Not even close.” But I did not hear the rest of what she said.

Sandy was shouting as she pulled the rest of the drapery off their support rods. “Hey, I need some help here. Someone get a fire extinguisher. Those burner cans are still going. The drapes are on fire. Jonesy? Jonesy, I need some help over here.”

The burner cans from under the chafing dishes had spilled to the floor when Sandy tackled Amanda, but in the commotion that followed no one had noticed the smoldering drapery. I helped Sandy yank the rest of the curtains down, then we grabbed carafes of ice water from the tables and dumped them on the hot spots. A few of the people who were present to preview the Sunday broadcast and the rest of the wait staff picked up the smoldering curtains and pulled them outside and tossed them into a pile on the sidewalk.

Sandy looked at me and puffed out her cheeks. Her hands were shaking. “You okay?” I said.

“Yeah. Sorry. Fire sort of freaks me out.”

“Yeah, me too,” I said. “But I guess you knew that already.”

Sandy smiled at me. “Well, all in all, I think that went just fine, don’t you?”

“Yeah. Textbook,” I said.

My phone rang and when I looked at the screen I saw it was Cora’s home number, and I thought, Jesus, what now?

“I know we talked about it a little,” Cora said. “But if I’m being honest with you, my head’s a little foggy this morning.”

“How was your evening, Cora?”

“It was, um, productive. That about sums it up, I think.”

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“I know. Listen, did you see everything you needed to over at that dilapidated church in Broad Ripple?”

I took the phone away from my ear for a minute, picked up one of the chairs that had been knocked over and set it upright then sat down upon it before I spoke. “Yeah, pretty sure. Why?”

“Oh, no reason. I guess last night while you were sleeping and Elliott and I were…uh, well, while you were sleeping, it blew up and burned to the ground. I just got off the phone with the watch commander. Looks like there was some kind of explosion. He said it blew the steeple right off the top. It’s laying in the alley behind the church. He said it looks like the pictures of the cockpit of that Pan Am jet they blew out of the sky over Lockerbie. Remember that?”

“I’ll get over there as soon as I can.”

“Slow down, Slick. There’s more. The firemen found a body inside the church. Unidentified female, but the car in the lot belongs to Amy Frechette, so you can do the math. Crime scene is on the way to the Frechette residence as we speak. Didn’t you tell me that’s where Murton Wheeler lives?”

When we pulled up to Murton and Amy’s house, two crime scene tech’s were waiting for us. Sandy hopped out of my truck, and when she did both of the techs said something to her, first one, then the other. I didn’t hear what it was.

Sandy looked at them and shook her head. “Oh my God, how about we all just pull our dicks out and see whose is bigger?” She looked at each man individually for just a split second, then said, “I’d probably win. We may or may not need you boys. We’ll let you know. Why don’t you wait in your van? Go on now,” she said, as she gave them a little wave of her hand. Once they were gone, she looked at me and said, “you want the front or the back?”

“Front I guess.”

I had to pop one of the small glass panes in the front door to gain entry. Once we were inside I saw that Amy Frechette’s house was old, but in good shape. The walls were stucco instead of sheet-rocked, the ceiling was made of a biscuit colored stamped tin, and the walk-ways between rooms were all arched. The wall opposite the front door was covered from floor to ceiling with bookshelves, and each shelf was filled with row after row of both religious and psychology studies. For reasons I can not readily explain, I expected to find a good selection of fiction novels, the utilitarian surroundings suggestive of an individual who lived through someone else’s imagination, but clearly that was not the case. Instead, what I found was book after book whose titles were reflective of someone who sought greater understanding of the people she served. Amy Frechette’s home did not appear to be a place of sanctuary from her work, rather a place of continued study of the work to which she devoted her life.

A hinged, two photo frame sat at eye level on one of the shelves. One side of the frame held a sepia-toned picture of a young couple’s profile as they looked at each other, the opposite side held a color photo, yellowed with age, of a young man dressed in jungle fatigues standing next to an airplane somewhere in the tropics. Her father perhaps. But it was a single photo next to the others which caught my eye and reminded me of Cora’s comments about not being able to serve the State and my own personal agenda at the same time. The photo was one of Murton and me, taken just after we’d arrived home from basic training, before we were shipped out to fight in the gulf war. In the photo we stood side by side, our arms around each other, both of us smiling at the camera. Just off to the side, part of her face cut out of the frame of the photo, was my mother. She was looking at us and the flash of the camera caught the tears running down her cheek.

I left the photo untouched and continued to search the room. A February 2006 issue of Psychology Today lay face up on the sofa, open to an article entitled, ‘A Field Guide to Narcissism.’ I wasted a few minutes as I scanned the article, but I ultimately decided I was not narcissistic, and tossed it back on the couch.

The kitchen was extremely small, a nook really, with only one florescent light bulb that hummed above the kitchen sink. The flickering light against the dark paneled walls reminded me of the times I had spent as a child with my grandfather when I’d wake in the early morning to the smell of percolated coffee and toasted wheat bread before we would go out to fish on his neighbor’s pond.

We spent close to three hours searching Amy Frechette’s residence, but the truth was, I did not know what we were looking for. I did not expect to find a ledger in Murton’s handwriting that detailed a master plan to kill Franklin Dugan. In fact, the best I could hope for would be to find nothing at all. I searched every drawer, every closet, the attic, the crawl space and every inch in between. In the end, we had made a hell of a mess but turned up no evidence whatsoever.

My cell phone vibrated in my pocket and when I looked at the screen the number that showed was not one I had seen before. “Jones.”

“You’re not going to find anything,” Murton said. “There’s nothing there. There never was. I’m not the man you think I am, Jonesy.”

“Murt, what the hell is going on? That was you in the cab, wasn’t it? If you’re not part of this, come in and we’ll-“

He laughed without humor into the phone. “We’ll what, figure everything out? Get me a lawyer? I don’t think so, Bud. We were going to be married, did you know that? Did she tell you that?

“Murt…”

“I left to protect her, Jonesy. I told them she didn’t know anything, that she was just a minister working with pre-school children. She was pregnant. We found out about a week ago. She died thinking I left her because she was pregnant. Jesus, what have I done?”

I picked up the phone from the kitchen while he spoke and dialed 911. “Murt, I’m sorry. Let me help you.” I could hear the 911 operator in the background asking if someone needed assistance.

“You know, I always sort of had it in my head that you and I might hook back up one day, but I guess that ship has sailed, but that’s not on you. Hey, what’s that we used to say? Pop ‘em and drop ‘em? That’s exactly what I’m gonna do. Tell your old man he’s the best, will you? And don’t bother trying to get a trace on this phone. It’s one of those pre-paid specials. It’s about to be road kill on the interstate. What a country, huh?”

Sandy came around the corner and saw me holding two phones. “What’s going on?” she said.

“I wish I knew.”

CHAPTER NINTEEN

Monday morning when I arrived at my office I discovered Amanda Pate sitting in one of the two chairs that front my desk. “Your assistant said I could wait in here,” she said.

I walked past her and sat down at my desk. ‘What do you want, Amanda?” I said.

“What do I want?” Then, as if she were either trying to digest my question, or make something clear to me, she repeated the question. “What do I want? For God’s sake, Jonesy, I want my husband released from that rat hole you’ve put him in. He’s been in there all weekend. What were you thinking?”

I looked at my watch. “Arraignment is in two hours. He can bond out afterwards.”

“Bond out? Have you lost your mind? I want the charges against him dropped and I want him released this instant.”

“That’s not going to happened, Amanda. It’s time to get a grip on reality, here. Samuel is being held for assault on a police officer.”

“Oh, bullshit, Jonesy. That is pure bullshit, and you know it. You’re holding him because you think he’s somehow mixed up in Franklin’s death, and that just isn’t true. God, you piss me off.”

“If it’s not true, then convince him to talk to me so I can clear him and move on, otherwise, he’s our number one suspect.”

“Our attorney has advised us-”

I cut her off with a wave of my hand. “Yes, yes, your attorney has advised you not to speak with the police or answer any of our questions.” I shook my head at her. “That’s what attorneys do, Amanda. But the hard reality of the situation is this: The truth eventually comes out, and when it does, it’s one of two ways. Either a suspect talks to us and we clear their story, or we move forward with charges and the whole thing goes to trial. Which would you prefer?”

She rose from the chair and stood in front of my desk, her face and neck red with anger. “You’re wrong,” she said. “Those aren’t the only two choices.”

“I’m afraid that’s the way I see it, Amanda. If you or Samuel change your mind and want to get on the record, let me know. Otherwise, my office will be moving forward on the case with the evidence we’ve accumulated from both your home and your offices.”

“What evidence? There is no evidence.”

“We’re building our case, Amanda. I’m afraid that’s all I can tell you. If I were you, I’d advise Samuel that it’s time to get in front of this thing before it’s too late. Capital murder in the State of Indiana carries the death penalty. With a full confession, the D.A. might be willing to accept a plea deal of life without the possibility of parole, but I may be speaking out of turn here. I can check with him if you’d like.”

She pointed her finger at me and I watched as it trembled, the fear and rage evident when she spoke. “Fuck you, Jonesy. Fuck you times two, you son of a bitch.”

“Good bye, Amanda. Next time you want to speak with me, make an appointment.”

When she walked out of my office I was left with the feeling that something wasn’t quite right. It wasn’t the exchange we just had, as I have had countless ones with other suspect’s spouses just like it over the years. This was different. Visceral in a way I was unable to define. It was as if my office was not the same after Amanda had been in it. The feeling was so strong I moved around the room and viewed it from different angles in an attempt to put myself at ease. In the end, I shook the feeling away and walked back over to my desk. When I looked out my window at the street below I saw Amanda as she stood on the sidewalk waiting for the light to change so she could cross and make her way to the courthouse.

A well-dressed elderly man stood next to her, his small dog on a leash at his side. A city bus pulled up next to the curb just past where they stood as they waited on the light to change. When the bus started to pull away its airbrakes let out a blast of air and the dog jumped at the sound and managed to pull free from the man’s grasp where it darted out into the flow of traffic and was crushed under the wheels of a passing car that was unable to stop in time. The elderly man ran out into the traffic, his arms flailing at his sides like a bird that lumbers along in an effort to take flight. He scooped up the remains of his dog and I could see the animal’s head hung at an odd angle when he raised it from the street. It looked like a sack of furry triangles. He brought the animal up close to his face and buried his head in its fur, but the tragedy of the moment was lost on me when I looked at Amanda who still stood on the curb. She was bent forward at the waist, her hands over her face. She stood there like that for a minute or so, then turned and looked up at me in the window and shook her head as if she were unable to comprehend the twist of fate she just gave witness to, or perhaps it was an effort to communicate to me that I was somehow at fault for every tragedy that crossed her path. She stared at me until I moved away from the window and sat down in my chair.

Sometimes you learn to trust your gut after it’s too late. A few minutes later when I got up, Amanda was gone, but the man still stood at the curb, his arms wrapped firmly around his dead dog, his shoulders rounded, his back to the world around him as a means to protect his pet even though fate had ensured it no longer mattered. Looking back though, I discovered that fate belongs to us all, and the event I witnessed out my window that day and the feelings I had were ones I should have given more thought. Had I done so, things may have turned out much different than they eventually did.

An hour or so later I was still at my desk when Agent Gibson knocked on the door jamb and walked into my office. He sat down in front of my desk, bit into the bottom corner of his lip then raised his eyebrows at me.

“So maybe we got off on the wrong foot,” he said.

“Heard you tried to brace the Governor,” I said. “How’d that work out for you?”

“Hey, I’m trying here. You want my help, or not?”

Good question, I thought. “What exactly do you want, Agent Gibson?”

“Bottom line? I want you to drop the charges against Pate. His arraignment is less than an hour from now.”

“You asked me if I wanted your help,” I said. “How exactly does my dropping charges against Pate help me?”

“Look, Detective. You’ve managed to drop a turd in the punch bowl and now I’m the one who has to clean it up. We’ve been monitoring Pate’s activities for months trying to put our case together. You’re getting in the way. And this penny ante charge of assault you’ve got hanging over him is going to hurt our chances. And while you’re doing that, I have to wonder, Detective, is it helping your case at all? Is it putting you any closer to solving the murders you’re working on?”

“Nice speech,” I said. “But you still haven’t answered my question.”

“How sure are you of Pate’s involvement in Dugan’s death?” he said.

“He’s our primary suspect.”

“Based on what?” When I didn’t answer, he went on. “Okay, here it is. I work out of the Houston office, but I guess you know that. It’s the Texas Department of Insurance that’s under investigation by our office for fraud. Not Pate. Pate torched his church in Houston and when the company who underwrote his policy started making waves about writing the check, the Texas DOI got involved and Pate walked away with a wad of cash before the building had stopped smoldering.”

“So what?” I said. “File charges on the Commissioner of the Texas DOI.”

“Oh, we did. But his lawyer cut a hell of a deal and now the commissioner is part of witness protection.”

“Witness protection? What for?”

Gibson half laughed at my questions. “You Midwestern guys are something, you know that?

“What exactly is that supposed to mean?”

“Let me put it this way,” he said. “You think the Catholic priests are the only ones tweaking the twangers on little boys?”

“How about you take the corn dog out of your mouth and tell me the whole story?” I said.

“Hey, great choice of words. When we took the commissioner down for fraud we discovered his personal computer was full of pictures of little kids with no clothes on. He cut a deal and put us onto Pate, who the commissioner says was supplying the photos. Our analysts compared the background of the photos to ones we could find of Pate’s church before he torched it. We think they match up. In any event, the Commissioner says Pate blackmailed him and had him lean on the insurance company to write the check or he’d start to squeal about the photos.”

“You’re saying Samuel Pate is a pedophile?”

“You tell me,” Gibson said. “I read your report on that dilapidated church he bought for five million bucks. What was he going to do with it? Knock it down and build a learning center for pre-school kids or something like that? But let me guess, when you searched the Pate complex and his home you didn’t find one scrap of evidence that ties him to your case or mine. And in the meantime, that old broken down building, the one that wasn’t included in your search warrant burns to a crisp along with any evidence that may or may not have been material to your case, let alone mine.” He stood from his chair and turned to leave. Then, as if I were slow and unable to make the connections he’d just laid out for me he added, “Someone is leading you around by your nose, Detective. Take the corn dog out of my mouth. I love it.”

I walked over to Cora’s office to fill her in on my conversation with Amanda Pate and the meeting I just had with Agent Gibson. She sat quietly and listened, but when I got to the part of Pate’s alleged involvement as a pedophile, her expression was one you might associate with someone staring out the window of an airliner at thirty thousand feet as they watch the rivets pop one at a time from the wing of a plane.

“What is it?” I asked.

“So we’ve got a suspected murderer and pedophile in custody and Gibson wants us to let him skate?”

“He’s going to get out anyway,” I said. “Besides, I think Gibson may be right. Someone is pulling our strings behind the curtain. I just don’t know who it is, or why. But I don’t think it has anything to do with Pate.”

Cora looked at me for a moment, then said something that made me think we were having two different conversations. “Is there something you’d like to tell me regarding the nature of your relationship with Detective Small?”

When I did not answer her right away, she said, “I see. What about Wheeler? What did Gibson tell you about him? You did ask, didn’t you?”

“Not exactly.”

“Your personal life is interfering with your job, Jonesy. Clean it up.”

“I’m not sure I understand what you’re saying, Cora.”

“I think you do,” she said, then stared at the paperwork on her desk until I got up and walked out.

My conversation with Cora left me confused and angry. I ate lunch by myself in a small diner I frequent a few miles from my office, and by the time I was finished, I had concluded that Cora was probably right. I was romantically involved with a co-worker who reports to me, and my lifelong friend, Murton Wheeler was somehow connected, at least on the periphery, with a serial murder investigation, and I, the chief investigative officer of the State of Indiana had put no more effort into his apprehension than I had a Sunday jaywalker late for morning Mass. I finished my sandwich, paid my tab, and got ready to leave when something occurred to me. It was something about my conversations with Agent Gibson, and with Cora. Somebody was pulling my strings. I realized I had been in possession of a large part of the answer to what’s been happening all along. Maybe not the entire answer, but a pretty damn big piece. And, I knew what I had to do next, or more specifically, who I had to see.

I walked out to my truck and just as I reached the driver’s door I heard the footsteps coming hard from behind me. I turned in time to see a club being swung at my head and I tried to bring my right arm up to block the blow, but the attacker made just enough contact with my arm to knock me off balance and I fell face first into the pavement. Before I could move or get up he hit me again, this time in the back of my head, and that’s the last thing I remember until I woke some time later, a thick blindfold across my eyes, my body bound with rope across a vertical steel support structure with my arms out from my sides and tied to a cross member as if I were being crucified.

I tried to pull free, but I knew it was pointless. I had no idea how long I had been unconscious and tied up, but I had virtually no feeling left in my arms and legs.

Or so I thought.

I let my head hang down, my chin against my chest. I heard myself whisper Sandy’s name.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Often, with little care or attention, a seedling of a wish will take root and grow across a windswept garden of unspoken dreams. It will sett ever deeper into the mind, its root structure wide and strong over the darkness of the psyche where it dares to exist as a hushed and secret desire. The subconscious will nurture this desire and feed it until it grows from a seedling of desire into a stalk of hope. And when that happens, a flower of dark faith is born, its root base entrenched deep into the hardpan of who we are, where a dry and unfed hunger is concealed from the killing frost of conscious thought.

Brian Goodwell lived in the light of such darkness, his mind forced to conjure the images from his faded memories. Were it not for his hearing, his sense of smell, his ability to taste, or touch, Brian Goodwell thought he might go mad. Wondered sometimes if he hadn’t already and no one had ever bothered to tell him.

Brian shared his life and his love with his wife Tess whom he had not seen in over eleven years. They had been married for only a year and a half when the doctor discovered Brian suffered from Retinoblastoma, a cancer of the retina. Both eyes were affected. When Tess came home from work that night Brian followed her around the house, trying to memorize every curve of her body, the angle of her jaw, the slight gap in her front teeth, the color of her hair, the shape of her hands, and the dimples in her cheeks when she smiled. They made love that night before Brian shared the news with Tess, and when he did, Tess took his face in her hands and studied it as if it were her that was about to go blind.

The doctor had said that surgical removal of both of Brian’s eyes would be the most effective treatment option. If left untreated, the tumors would travel up the optic nerve to the brain and death would soon follow. They sought a second, third, and fourth opinion. Tess wanted to keep trying. She would have sought a ninety-ninth opinion had there been time. It was her insurance from her employer that would cover the tests and ultimately, the procedure to remove her husband’s eyes. Tess worked as a hotel property district manager, her pay was good and the benefits, including their insurance coverage were among the best available. From a financial perspective, the procedure to remove Brian’s eyes would be painless. From a physical and emotional perspective, the procedure would be devastating.

The night before the surgery Brian and Tess stayed up all night. They turned on every light in the house, as if the flow of electrons through copper wire could beat back the arrival of Brian’s long and permanent night. With less than an hour before sunrise they walked back through the house once again and one by one began to extinguish the lights. “I want to go one more time from the darkness into the light,” he had said to Tess.

They sat on lawn chairs in their back yard and held hands in the false dawn of the day, and when the sun peaked over the horizon, Brian looked around the back yard. “I was going to put our garden right over there,” he said as he pointed with his chin. “Flowers and vegetables, and both red and green peppers, tomatoes, green beans. It was going to be beautiful.”

“It will be beautiful,” Tess had said. “You can still do it. I’ll help you.”

“You’ll have to help me with everything. Everything, Tess. I can’t ask that of you. I won’t.”

“Brian, don’t. Please don’t do this now. We’ll figure everything out. One step at a time. I promise. It will all be alright. You’ll s-”

Brian buried his face in his hands for a moment, then stood.

“Brian, I’m sorry, baby. I didn’t mean that. It’s a figure of speech.”

“I don’t feel like I’m losing my sight, Tess. I feel like I’m losing my mind.”

Now, a little over eleven years later, Brian Goodwell grasped the handrail and walked down the three steps of his back door and into the yard. Seven steps forward, then a ninety degree turn to the right, then nine steps more. The edge of his garden. He dropped down to his knees, then felt carefully on both sides to make sure he was lined up properly with the neat rows of vegetables. His garden was getting better and better each year. Tess had told him so.

The first few years had been a disaster. He would sometimes pull the flowers and vegetables by mistake and leave the weeds to grow and prosper. The first year, out of stubbornness, he refused to allow Tess to help him, and the net result of his garden that year had been six green beans, two smashed tomatoes, and one red pepper. But his sense of touch and smell had gotten better over the years and he now knew his way around the garden like the back of his hand.

At the beginning of his second season, Tess confessed to him that she had gone to the market and seeded his garden with produce picked from the aisle instead of the ground. Brian confessed to her that he knew she had done so because he liked to eat the tomatoes raw and had, one afternoon, bitten into one that had a sticker on the side.

But now Brian moved expertly along, feeling first for the stalks and stems of his labor before he pulled any weeds that tried to rise around the plants. When he worked in his garden, he thought only of Tess. It was Tess who had helped him through the last eleven years. It was Tess who remained true to him, who taught him how to be self-sufficient, who did not pity him, who not only told him, but showed him how much of a man he still was, blind or not. Brian loved Tess more than he thought humanly possible.

He’d run his hands across her face, his fingers barely touching the surface of her skin. Every night when she came home from work he would greet her the same way. First a kiss, then he’d get to look at her beauty with his hands. At first, right after the surgery, this worked well for him. He would picture her face in his mind as he ran his hands across her delicate features. But over the years, the picture of her began to fade to what it was now, a dim shadow of a memory, like an under-developed photograph, a ghost of an image. He sometimes thought he’d give his own life to see his wife’s face just one more time. In death he could look down upon her every day.

So Brian spent his days in the garden of his mind with a secret wish that grew unchecked, rooted deep in an unfulfilled desire that he cultivated into a depressive hope of death where he could free himself and Tess from the burden he had placed on them both.

When the Sids pulled the trigger, Brian got his wish.

When consciousness came it was in progressive, laborious steps as if I were walking up a steep incline on the bottom of the ocean’s floor. I couldn’t see because of the blindfold that covered my eyes, but I knew I was naked.

Naked in every sense of the word. My guns, my badge, my clothes, and my boots were all somewhere I’m sure, but they were not on my person. My shoulders ached from supporting the weight of my body and I could no longer feel any sensation in my hands, the bindings on my wrists tight against the cold steel. I found that if I stood on my toes I could relieve the pain in my shoulders for a short time, but then my legs would begin to tremble and buckle under their restraints and I would once again fall against the weight of myself, my body its own burden. To say at that moment my life was not rooted in fear would be an outright lie.

I am not certain how long I had been unconscious or in fact how long I had been awake before I heard the footsteps echo off the walls around the area of my confinement, their sound drawing close until I could sense a nearby presence and smell an odd mixture of cheap cologne and nicotine stained clothing. When I heard him start to move away, I said, “Who are you?”

When I spoke, the sound of my words stopped the man for just a moment, but then he continued to walk away from me, his footsteps growing faint until I could barely hear them. I counted ten steps in all from his hard soled shoes before I heard a door open and a voice say, “He’s awake.”

Tens steps. Thirty feet to a door. Tied to a steel beam and cross section in a wide open space indoors. A warehouse? I tried to think how to turn the situation around, but my options were limited, if not down right non-existent. Two sets of footsteps approached this time, and when I felt they were near enough I spoke again.

“Listen to me,” I said. “I’m a cop. I don’t know what you’re doing, or what you’ve got planned here, but I want you to know it’s not too late to throw it into park and just walk away.”

“You hear that,” a voice to my left said. “It’s not too late. What do you think? Should we just walk away?”

A laugh came from my right. I felt myself swallow and hoped the two men did not notice. I tried again. “Look, sometimes things happen and before you know it you’re on a certain path and it looks like there’s no room to turn around or go back so you just keep going forward no matter how bad forward may seem, but I’m here to tell you, it’s not too late. Listen to me when I tell you that. You had me out before I saw your faces. I’m blindfolded now. That means I don’t know who you are or what your agenda is, and I don’t care. Cut me loose and walk away. I can’t identify you, so no harm will come to you, I guarantee it.”

“Take his blindfold off. He’s supposed to see it coming.”

“You don’t want to do that,” I shouted. “Do not remove my blindfold.” I felt a hand on the back of my head and then the cloth that covered my eyes was removed. The two men who had followed Murton into my bar the other night, the same two men who worked security for Samuel Pate stood before me, their faces void of any emotion. “You shouldn’t have done that,” I said. “You’ve just complicated the situation.”

The two men looked at each other. “Get a load of this guy,” the taller of the two said. “We’ve just complicated the situation.” He turned and looked at me. “It’s your situation that’s complicated, Hoss. It’s about to get worse, too.”

I was in a large room that looked like an abandoned warehouse. A solitary light fixture hung low on its cord over a small card table with two chairs. On top of the table were a rubber mallet, a roll of duct tape, a handheld stun gun, a pair of tin snips, an electric chain saw, and a small digital camera. The shorter of the two men saw me looking at the table and said, “We’re supposed to get pictures along the way. Seems a little excessive to me, but people like this, you gotta do what you’re told. Nothing personal, you understand.”

I felt a quiver run through my jaw and I was ashamed at my inability to control its movement. But something else was happening along the way as well, and when it did, my breathing became more regular and my heart began to slow. If I was at my end, if this was my time, I would go with as much courage as I could muster. My regrets were few, though significant. When I closed my eyes I saw Sandy and how we were just beginning our journey, a journey she would have to continue without me. I saw a faceless, unborn child, and though I could not tell if it were a boy or a girl, I knew it was mine and Sandy’s. The thought of how I would never know a child’s love or the joys of being a grandparent in the later season of my life filled me with a sense of loss I thought myself not capable of. I saw my father then, and realized that any pain I was going to endure just now would be immeasurable compared to the pain he has suffered at the loss of my mother and then finally the loss of his only son. When I spoke again, it was not for myself, but for those who would live on without me. My voice was strong, and for a moment I showed no fear.

“No matter what happens to me here, I’ve got people in my life that won’t rest until this is squared. Do you hear me? Whatever you think would happen to you if you walk away now is nothing compared to what it will be if you don’t. You won’t be caught and convicted. You’ll be hunted like animals and someone, somewhere will flip your switch. You won’t even see it coming. Samuel Pate isn’t worth what you’re doing here, don’t you see that?”

The taller of the two men walked over and picked up the roll of duct tape from the table. He took the cloth they had used to blindfold me and forced it into my mouth, then tore a foot-long piece of tape from the roll and placed it over the cloth. “Samuel Pate? You think this is about Ol’ Sermon Sam?” He looked at the shorter man and said, “You hear that?”

The shorter man shook his head. “Come on, let’s get going, already,” he said. “I don’t want to be here all night.” He then stepped closer and pressed the stun gun against the side of my ribcage and pulled the trigger.

The shock of the stun gun locked my body in a ridged arc against the restraints and caused my bowels and bladder to let go, the air rife with the odor of my waste. I felt my heart stammer in my chest and the shock roared through my body like a double header locomotive steaming into an electrical storm in the middle of the night. Both men jumped back away from my incontinence and the short man said, “Ah, Jesus Christ, look at that. Why don’t we just park one in his squash and be done with it?”

“You know why,” the tall man said. “We’re supposed to do it slow, make it last. He’s supposed to suffer before he get’s it. Now get that hose over by the wall and rinse him down. I ain’t gonna work standing in his shit.”

My body was numb from the shock they had just given me, so when the water hit me I could not tell if it was hot or cold. The short man sprayed my fecal matter and urine from the floor and off of my legs while the tall man took pictures, the flash of the camera momentarily lighting the darkened corners of the room.

The short man dropped the hose and turned the valve off to stop the flow of water. He then picked up the mallet and beat me repeatedly across both thighs, my stomach, and my chest. One of the blows struck me square on the shin of my left leg and I heard the bone crack like a dead twig yanked from the branch of a tree. I tried to cry out but the rag held in my mouth by the duct tape prevented all but the smallest of sounds from escaping my throat. The tall man shocked me repeated with the stun gun and I lost all control of my body. My heart beat in an irregular fashion from the electrical charge running through me, and I was unable to draw even the most ragged of breaths through my nose, my nostrils wide as I tried to find my dying purchase of air.

My body hung limp now, and I was amazed at how much damage had been done in such a short amount of time. My head hung low on my chest, its weight almost more than I could manage. My eyes watered without shame and in my quest for air I had swallowed part of the rag in my mouth and it now blocked my airway.

The tall man took another picture then ripped the tape from my mouth and pulled out the rag. A mixture of blood and drool ran down my chin and dripped across the flat of my stomach before it hit the floor and I knew I was bleeding on the inside. The pain was unbearable, relentless in its grasp, but with the rag now out of my mouth, I was able to get enough air to remain conscious. I looked at the tall man once again and when I did, I saw something behind him that gave me hope, not just for myself, but for all those things I thought I might never experience.

I gathered what little remaining strength I possessed and lifted my head to speak. “Murton Wheeler is going to square this,” I said, my voice barely louder than a whisper.

“I doubt it. Undercover Fed’s have a way of falling off the map sometimes. We’re going to take care of him just like you. Your time is up here bubba. Like I said, nothing personal, but you went and rattled the wrong cage.”

I could feel my chest getting heavy and knew I was drowning in my own blood. I spit more blood from my mouth and lifted my head for what I was sure was the last time. “I know where he is,” I said. “Wheeler.”

The short man had moved over to where the tall man stood and they were now standing side by side, no more than a foot away from me. “Okay, I’ll bite, tough guy. Where is Wheeler?”

“Right behind you,” Murton said. He then raised his arms in front of him, and I saw he held two chrome plated semi-automatic thumb busters, one in each hand. The light reflected off the. 45’s polished finishes and danced around the enclosure like shards from a broken mirror. He pulled the triggers on both guns at the same time and I saw his arms fly high with the recoil of the massive weapons. The two men flew backwards as if they had been tied to a catapult and yanked from my line of sight. Murton ran past me and I saw his lips move, but the gunshots had temporarily deafened me so I could not hear what he said. Then I heard two more shots behind me, one right after the other and when Murt walked back around in front of me I eventually heard what he was saying, but his words seemed to be slow and sluggish, like someone had pulled the power cord to an old LP record player, the music of his voice getting slower and deeper as the record spun to a stop. “Don’t you die on me, Jonesy. I’m gonna get you out of here. Just like before, remember? Hang in there man. Jonesy? God damn it, Jonesy, don’t you die, you hear me? Jonesy?”

In the distance I thought I heard a siren coming for me, though I do not know if it was real or imaginary. But when Murton cut the ties that held me against the steel beam and lowered me to the floor I was sure I saw my mother. She stood behind him, her face radiant and the room was somehow brighter with her presence. She shadowed Murton’s efforts, her hands over the top of his as she directed his movements and though I tried to reach out to them both I could not move my arms. The effort of it all was too much and once again I slipped away from myself, uncertain of my fate, my body warm in the hands of my past.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Jenny Anderson needed something. Trouble was, she just didn’t know what it might be. She was bored. Not just in the moment, the I’ve-got-nothing-to-do-right-now kind of bored, but bored with her life. She had no children to care for, her and her husband Bob found out long ago they would never conceive a child-her anatomy, not his-but it never bothered them enough to look at radical methods of child bearing like having someone carry a child for them. That just didn’t seem right. “Might as well adopt a kid,” Bob had said one evening about ten years ago. So they talked about that-twenty minutes all told-before they decided they didn’t want the fuss and bother of the paperwork, not to mention the expense.

She didn’t work. No, Jenny was not a worker. She was a stay at home wife. Yawn. Had nothing against work, really. Work was a tool. You used it to earn income to provide for yourself and your family. The problem with work was, if it wasn’t a career, a real love-what-you-do kind of thing, like a doctor, or lawyer, or in her husband Bob’s case, Air Traffic Controller, what was the point? It’s not like they needed the money. The economy sucked anyway. Let someone else trade their time for cash minus taxes, thanks just the same.

Friends? Sure, there were a few, but nobody she’d take a bullet for. The truth of the matter was, Jenny was sort of stuck between good ol’ Mr. Rock and Sir Hard Place. She liked her solitude, but it sometimes bored her right out of her god-damned gourd.

And why in the world had she just knighted Hard Place?

Jenny walked outside to the pool with only one thing on her mind, the one thing that kept her from losing her mind.

Sex.

Yes sir, if there was one thing that got Jenny through her days it was good old fashioned sex. She’d knock one off with Bob before he left to play his video games at the airport, and usually hit him up at night before bed, but Bob was, what? Worn out? No, that wasn’t it. Fact was, it wasn’t about big Bob at all. It was about her. She just couldn’t get enough. She’d had a few guys on the side from time to time-one had even been a co-worker of Bob’s-but that had fizzled like all the rest when they found out how insatiable her desires were. So most days she did what she liked best. Herself. Then, not long ago, she discovered something that killed her boredom like a big ol can of Bore-B-Gone.

An audience.

She stuck her big toe in the water of their built-in pool, more of a ritual than a gage of temperature. The gas heater kept the water at a perfect eighty-five degrees throughout the season. A glance at her wrist watch told her the time, and a slow, almost wicked smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. She undid the tie that held her robe closed and let it fall open, the front of her naked body exposed to the expanse of the back yard and the tree line beyond. When she was sure he was out there-she’d caught just a hint of movement at the corner of the tree line, she let the robe fall to the ground and stood nude, her body his to admire.

As K.C. and the boys would say, Jenny was puttin’ on her boogie shoes.

The Sids were in place and ready, Junior with the rifle at the edge of the tree line, Senior back near the van, covering the road in case anyone from the Cell company showed up. It was unlikely, but it paid to be thorough. When the woman came out to sunbathe, Junior would take care of business and they’d be out of there.

Nothing to it.

Jimmy Hamilton had a situation. One of those you’ve-got-to-be-fucking-kidding-me situations. His house-okay, his parents house-sat on the other side of the access road from the Anderson’s. A tree line, much thinner than the one on Mrs. Anderson’s (A.K.A. Hot Babe, A.K.A. Trophy Wife) side separated his yard from the narrow gravel road. You could cross the road in two quick steps, nothing to it. He’d done it twice a day for the last month since school let out. Sometimes three. Both his parents worked, so he was alone during the days. Weekends sucked because Mr. Anderson was home, as were his own parents. But the weekdays were his. His and Mrs. Anderson’s.

Jenny.

Jimmy was naked from the ankles up, the only clothing that covered anything at all on his body of sixteen years was a pair of New Balance sneakers. He had his back and butt pressed tight against the chain link fence that bordered the cell tower’s base and it was starting to hurt. He cursed himself for the foolish, even perverted bravado he had displayed. His shorts were on the other side of the road, his side, where he’d left them before crossing over and into the thicker trees. He should have kept them with him, but over the last month he grown more and more daring as he looked for ways to increase his level of excitement.

The first time he’d seen her laying nude by the pool he was just out exploring the area, looking for a nice quiet place to spark a doob. He crossed the access road and ventured into the tree line, sat on a log and lit up. When he heard the music he walked a little deeper into the trees and that’s when he saw her. She was completely naked, just floating around in the pool on a couple of those foam snakes, one under her arms and one under her knees. Jimmy dropped his doobie, then his shorts. It didn’t take much, six or seven tugs tops before he came and when he did, he let out a moan that caused Mrs. Anderson to raise her head and look at the tree line.

Jimmy froze, an honest to God deer in the headlights freeze. He didn’t know if he should run or not. But then something happened, something that made Jimmy hard again almost immediately. Mrs. Anderson got out of the pool, looked toward the trees, right where he was standing with his Johnson in his hand, and waved at him.

Jimmy had to hold onto a tree with his free hand to keep from falling over.

Over the next few weeks he watched Jenny swim, he watched her exercise, he watched her lay in the sun, he watched her masturbate, and once he watched her blow her husband when he came home from work early. That had been the best.

This was only the third time he had ventured over nude. The last two times he had actually stepped out from the tree line and into her backyard and when he did she immediately started pounding away at herself. When he took a few steps forward toward the pool though, she held up her hand, palm out indicating she wanted him to stop. He guessed it was because of his age.

He guessed right. The next time he showed up there was a hand written note stuck in the branches of the tree he always leaned on. It wasn’t addressed to him, but it was for him. It simply said: You’re too young. I can’t allow anything more. But please keep visiting me. I love to watch and be watched.

Jimmy couldn’t believe it. Sure, he was disappointed that he couldn’t have her, she was hot, hot, hot. Fucking-A perfect, in fact. But the please keep visiting me part? He’d take that in a heartbeat. For now anyway. If he could keep her going for another two years, really only a year and a half, he would be old enough to cross the backyard and go all the way.

But right now, today, he had a problem. A genuine OMFG, shriveled up nutsack sort of problem. He had no sooner begun to cross the road, naked as a Jaybird as his grandma would have said, when he saw the white van creeping along through the turn. He just managed to duck behind the cell tower’s shack-there wasn’t enough time to turn around and dart to his side-as the van came around the bend in the road and made a U-turn right in front of the tower’s perimeter fence. He couldn’t go back and he couldn’t go forward. For the moment, he was trapped.

Naked.

With a boner.

Junior was close enough she could hear the naked bitch moaning someone’s name. Johnny, or Joey, or something. Couldn’t quite make it out. Not that it mattered. Jesus, she thought as she watched the woman masturbate. What was it with people these days? Bunch of God-damned nuts. She thought about parking one right in her biscuit.

Needed a death shot, though.

Took it, too.

Jimmy couldn’t take it anymore. He was just about to say fuck it and make a run for his side of the fence when he heard a rustle in the trees to his left. He saw someone moving through, just a shape in the shadows. Then, when she came out of the trees, he peaked around the corner of the fencing and saw her. A woman. A good looking woman at that, and an older man. Not real old though. His dad’s age, maybe. Fiftyish. The woman was carrying a rifle. When they got in the van and drove away, Jimmy realized he’d been holding his breath. He memorized the plate on the back of the van and wondered why the woman had held a rifle? Was it hunting season? Jimmy didn’t know anything about hunting laws, but surely no one would hunt in the suburbs, even ones as secluded as this.

What Jimmy did know about was nature’s law. With his boner still long and strong, Jimmy headed for the edge of the Anderson’s property line. And why not? The van and its strange occupants were gone.

Plus, he hadn’t heard a shot, so what was the problemo? Jimmy thought he’d spray some DNA and be on his way. He was aching for it.

The problemo was, when Jimmy saw Jenny’s dead body and the puddle of blood that leaked from the hole in her head and into the pool, Jimmy sprayed some DNA alright, just not the kind he had hoped. He vomited all over his New Balance sneakers, which coincidentally, did not live up to their name. He lay on the ground for a few seconds, and tried to convince himself what he saw wasn’t real. When he finally managed to stand, covered in puke and leaves and dirt, he started toward is own house. He walked at first, then he started to run. Kept repeating the plate number of the van over and over in his head.

Sid, Sr. drove them out of the suburbs and into town. Junior looked out the window and thought about her lover, Amanda. They had one more shot to take…this was the big one, and then it would be over. Her and Amanda could be together at last. They already had their place picked out down in the Keys. With the money Amanda had siphoned off over the last few years, they’d be able to live comfortably, though not extravagantly. But that was alright. Anything to be together and out of fucking Indiana.

“Are you listening to me?” Senior said. “How are we doing on time?”

The Governor was holding a press conference to announce his intentions to run for reelection. The media would be there in droves and the entire thing would be captured on television.

“We’re doing good,” Junior said.

“Keep your fucking head in the game. We’re almost through.”

“Interesting choice of words,” Junior said.

“Don’t get all mystical on me now. This is it. After we pop fly boy we’re outta here.”

“You never did tell me where you’re going.”

Senior laughed a wicked little laugh. “I’m going to hell, darling. But I’ll be going via Mexico. You and that crazy cunt still going to the Keys?”

Junior wished she’d never told him where they were going, but she had, so… “Yeah. Leaving tonight. And don’t call her that. We’re in love.”

“That right? Well, that was something about Sermon Sam, though, huh?”

No shit, Junior thought. “Fuck Sermon Sam. Pedophile motherfucker.” Then a minute or so later. “Maybe you’ll see him there. In hell.”

“No maybe about it,” Senior said. “No maybe at all.”

The Governor’s press conference was being held at the USS Indianapolis Memorial, near downtown, on the east side of the canal walk. The Sid’s parked their van at the back of the lot just north of a medical education building which gave them a clear shot of the podium where the Governor would give his speech. The plan was simple. Take the shot, burn the van, then walk away. They had a getaway car parked in the lot, and Senior had the keys in his pocket. They turned into the lot and drove to the back.

They were right on time.

Indianapolis Metro Patrol Officer Jonathon Cauliffer drove along Roanoke street and turned his cruiser onto West North street and then hung a left on Walnut. He was in the area where the Governor was going to give his speech and if he took Walnut to the end, right where it met Ellsworth, he could sit in his squad car, eat his sandwich and watch the big guy give his speech. Another day on the job.

Except the traffic was heavy, and there was no real place to park, so Cauliffer turned around and hooked a left and went back north toward the parking lot adjacent to the education building. He’d be able to see just as well. Either way, he’d have his lunch.

Senior had the van backed in at the rear of the lot which gave him a clear view of the Memorial and the area where the Governor was going to speak. He moved to the back and slid the rear window of the van open just enough to allow the barrel of the rifle to slip through. The lot was virtually empty. They were good to go.

Cauliffer turned into the mostly empty lot and parked right next to the building. He unwrapped his sandwich, took a quick bite, then set it down on the passenger seat. He unbuckled his seatbelt, turned the volume on his radio down, lowered the window on his squad car and settled in. He was on the last day of his tour before his three days off. Four hours to go. He couldn’t wait.

The governor stepped up to the podium and turn on his camera smile. “I have a quick announcement to make, and then I’ll take a few questions, if you have any, that is.” The reporters all laughed politely. “Well, as you all probably already know, I am here today to announce my intentions to run for reelection for the office of Governor for the great state of…”

Senior put the cross hairs on the Governor’s forehead. His finger had just started to pull the trigger when Junior spoke and everything changed. “City cop turning in. He’s parking right next to the building.”

Senior relaxed his finger. “Son of a bitch.”

“Want me to take him?” Junior said. She reached under the seat and pulled the silenced pistol out. “I bet I could get him before he knew what’s what. Just like that state boy.”

“No, no, hold off. Let’s see what he’s doing.”

“Looks to me like he’s eating a sandwich.”

“Maybe today’s not the Governor’s day,” Senior said.

“It has to be today. We don’t have a choice.”

Senior thought about it. It did have to be today. The cops would put it together before too long, and they did not want to be around when that happened. The Governor had flown the plane, everyone knew that. But it was Rhonda Rhodes’ husband, the on-scene Fire Department Commander that wouldn’t let anyone in the hotel after the crash. Elle Richardson’s husband, the City cop had backed him up. Together they let Sara burn. Goodwin’s wife, Tess was the twat that had switched Sara’s schedule to the night shift, otherwise she wouldn’t have even been there that day. And Bob Anderson? That motherfucker worked the tower that morning, so his hot little number of a wife, Jenny, well she had to go too. Now every single one of those cocksuckers would know what it felt like to Sid, Sr., what it still feels like every god damned day of his life.

The weight of it all had been building for such a long time that Sid felt like he might bust. He laid the rifle down, turned and spoke, his voice as hollow as Junior had ever heard. He was always going to tell her, but he was also going to wait until after they were done with the Governor. But now…

“There’s something you should know, Sidney. About the Governor.”

“What?” she said. “I know everything there is to know.”

“No, you don’t.”

“What else is there? He crashed his plane into the hotel and Mom burned to death,” Junior said as she pointed to where the Governor stood talking to the media. “Nobody went in to rescue her or anyone else, all while that son of a bitch floated down in his parachute and landed without a scratch.” She shook her head. “Now pick up your gun, take the fucking shot and I’ll go take care of the cop.” Junior reached for the door handle but Senior caught her arm and stopped her. The pressure of the situation was almost too much for Junior to take.

“ What?”

“Listen to me,” Senior said. He practically hissed it at her. “There’s something you don’t know. Something I should have told you a long time ago.”

“Well what is it, for fuck’s sake?” Junior yelled.

So Senior told her…

Cauliffer finished his sandwich and for the first time noticed the van at the back of the lot. It was white. He scrolled through his computer and checked the logs. There was something about a BOLO for a white van. There was a plate number too, he thought. He found the report and read through the details.

…and when Junior heard the words, she snapped. Her life had been a sham, everything she knew to be true, everything that made her who she was and what she had become was a lie. She didn’t think, she didn’t weigh her options, she just did what she thought anyone would do, something that she was very familiar and very comfortable with after all these years. She raised her gun and fired. Sidney Wells, Sr., took one in the forehead. Then two in the heart.

When Cauliffer saw that the make and model of the van matched the BOLO he picked up the microphone to call for backup, but then just as quickly set it back in it’s holder. Check the plate first, he thought. Lots of white vans in the city. He opened his door, got out, and brushed the crumbs from his uniform shirt. He was about half way across the lot when the side door of the van flew open and a woman jumped out.

With a gun.

He pulled his service revolver and yelled. “Police! Drop the weapon!”

The woman spun and fired a single shot at Cauliffer. The bullet hit the handheld radio clipped to his belt and when it did a shard from the plastic casing fragmented upward and sliced into Cauliffer’s forehead, just above his left eye. He ducked, winced at the pain, and momentarily lost sight of the woman. He thought about running back to his squad car to call for help, but then he remembered that the Governor was only a few hundred yards away.

And the woman with the gun was running that way.

Cauliffer started after her, one eye pinched shut and full of blood.

Sidney Wells, Jr. heard the cop yell for her to stop, or freeze or some such shit that the cops are always yelling. She spun around, fired once to slow the cop, and then ran toward the Governor. She was still on auto-pilot, the thoughts of what her father had just told her spinning through her brain.

Her father.

She’d been lied to, abandoned, neglected, abused, and rejected her entire life. It was all about to stop.

It was all about to end.

Cauliffer was gaining on the woman. She was fast, but still, he was gaining ground. But it wasn’t going to be enough. He wanted to stop and take a shot, but with one eye full of blood he knew the chances of hitting his target were slim at best. And if he missed she would be on top of the Governor before he could do anything about it. His radio was useless, so Cauliffer did the only thing he could think to do, something that at the Academy they told you never to do because of the danger to yourself or others. Cauliffer fired three warning shots into the air.

When Junior heard the shots behind her she turned to look back, and when she did she tripped in the grass and fell to the ground. The cop was about thirty yards back and coming hard. Junior knew then that the Governor would live and she would not. There would be no comfortable and peaceful villa in the Keys with her lover, Amanda. There would be nothing except a jail cell and ultimately a needle in her vein. She scrambled to her feet and turned toward the cop.

When the Governor’s three-man protection detail heard the shots, two of them took the Governor to the ground and held him there while the third ran toward the sounds of the gunfire. Most of the media people were on the ground as well, but one of the cameramen, a veteran from the war and no stranger to the sound of gunfire put his camera on his shoulder and followed the cop. He got the entire thing on tape.

Cauliffer saw her fall and he kept running until he saw her get up. He stopped, leveled his gun and yelled one more time for her to drop the weapon. He saw her start to bring the gun up, saw the crazy light in her eyes and pulled the trigger. The nine millimeter caught her center mass and Sidney Wells, Jr. dropped in a heap in the grass. Cauliffer ran over and secured her weapon, then sat down in the grass and tried to wipe the blood from his eye.

When it was over the Governor and his protection detail pushed their way through the circle of cops and chaos. The Governor walked up to Cauliffer and shook his hand. “Officer Cauliflower, you’ve saved my life.”

Cauliffer shook the Governor’s hand. “It’s, uh, Cauliffer, sir.”

The Governor reddened at his repeated gaff. “Yes, yes, of course. I keep getting that wrong, don’t I?”

The cameraman got the entire exchange. It made the evening news and went viral on the internet within hours.

Indiana Governor…Saved By Cauliflower.

“That’s all right, sir,” Cauliffer said, as he wiped more blood from his eyes.

“What the hell happened?”

“It was a woman. She was headed your way with a gun. She fired at me. I chased her here and when she tried to fire again I took the shot.”

“A woman? Where is she?”

Cauliffer pointed to the other grouping of cops. “Right over there,” he said.

The Governor walked over and looked at the body of the woman that lay in the grass. When he saw her face he turned away, then vomited all over his shoes.

That went viral as well.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

I swam in and out of consciousness, or imagined I did over a period of time that may have been a few minutes or a few days. People shimmered in and out of focus, fuzzy around the edges, like images on a big screen television with poor reception. When I was able to finally hold my eyes open and keep them focused, I found myself on my back in an uncomfortable bed in a darkened room. A tube was taped to my right arm and ran down to my wrist where a needle poked into a vein on the back of my hand, held in place with more tape. My left leg was in a cast that extended from the tips of my toes to just under my knee. As soon as I saw the cast the pain brought me fully awake and I let out a moan.

“He’s awake,” I heard someone say. “Better get the doc.”

A door opened and a shaft of light from the hall snuck into the room then faded away as the door hissed closed and clicked against the latch. I saw Sandy’s face, her eyes tired, a frown line across her brow. My father stood just behind her. She leaned in close and brushed my hair off of my forehead. “Hey, tough guy,” she said. “About time you woke up.”

It was all coming back to me now, the attack, being tied to the steel girder, the beating, all of it. I wanted to ask, how long I had been here, but when I opened my mouth to speak, all I said was, “Hurts.”

My dad had stepped forward, just behind Sandy. He had his hands on her shoulders “Cora was here, Son. She stepped out to get the doctor. There’s a button for the pain. Do you want me to press it?”

I nodded and he reached out and pushed the button. After a few seconds, the morphine made its way through the IV and I felt it beat the pain back, though not completely. I tried to sit up a little, then wished I hadn’t.

“Where am I? What happened?”

The door opened again and I watched Cora come into the room, a doctor in tow. “You’re at Methodist Hospital, Detective,” the Doctor said. He took a pen light from his pocket and shone it in both of my eyes. “If you had to rate your pain on a scale of one to ten, what would you say the number is?”

I tried to blink the light away and the after images hung on the back of my eyelids. “Uh, I don’t know. Eight now, I guess. My dad just pushed a button.”

I watched the doctor inspect the IV line that ran into my vein, and then he made some sort of adjustment to the pump next to my bed. “I upped the dose a little. You can push this button every seven minutes if you have to, and you’ll probably have to for the next twenty-four hours or so. Did anyone tell you what we did?”

“He just woke up,” Sandy said. “We haven’t had a chance.”

The doctor wrote something on a chart while he spoke. “You apparently took quite a, uh, thrashing. You’ve got a broken rib on your left side that punctured a lung. You lost quite a bit of blood and I don’t mind telling you that you had us all a little worried there for a while. Your chest is taped and we’ve repaired the internal damage so you’re going to be just fine, but you’ve got a nice scar on your belly that will make a great conversation starter at the beach. The discomfort you feel in your leg is what’s going to be the worst of it. We had to pin it, so it’s going to take a while to heal. You’ll need physical therapy. The pain you’re feeling now is from the surgeries, and it’ll get better over the next few days, but you’re going to be pretty sore for a while. That cast is going to drive you bonkers for about eight weeks. You’ll know when the weather is about to change, too.”

The morphine filled my brain like a convective fog that floats over a pond and while I heard the words the doctor spoke, their meaning was lost. I stared dumbly at him and when he stopped talking, I said, “Okay.”

“Your leg is broken, Son,” my father said. “The surgery took almost four hours.”

“We used an artificial bone graft material, along with a few pins,” the doctor said. “Had lots of success with it in the past, so you’re going to be alright. There’s always a slight chance of infection, but we got you cleaned out pretty good. I’ll check on you in the morning. The nurses will be in to bother you every time you’re about to fall asleep. Good night.”

I reached out and found the pain button and pushed it. Twice. I looked at Cora and motioned her over to the bed. “Where’s my gun and badge?”

“We’ve got them, Jonesy. They were there, at the scene. Don’t worry about it.”

“Okay.”

“Listen, Jonesy,” Cora said. “I’m going to get out of here and let you rest. Sandy’ll fill you in on everything. Donatti and Rosencrantz were here earlier while you were still out. They said to let you know they’d be back in the morning. The Governor sends his best. I’ll check on you tomorrow.”

I could feel the morphine, its warmth flowing through me as if my blood were being heated then recycled through my veins. “Okay.”

After Cora left Sandy moved closer and stood at the edge of the bed, her hand resting on my upper arm, her touch light and cautious. I could feel her tremble. “My god, Virgil, you could have been killed.”

I was drifting now, and there were still questions I wanted to ask, but I could not seem to get them out. “I heard the sirens, Sandy. I saw my mom, too. She was there. I think she was there with me the entire time.”

My father was sitting in a visitor’s chair in the corner of the room, and when he heard what I said he walked over to the side of the bed. “What was that, Son? Say that again, will you?”

But the drugs pulled me back under and I don’t think I answered him.

The doctor was right. The nurses did come in every time I fell asleep. It got to the point where I thought they were all sadists. The doctor ordered rest, but then they didn’t let you get any. But the next time I woke on my own, the light of the day peeked through the slats of the window blinds and I could hear the business end of patient care coming alive from the other side of the door to my room. Sandy lay under a thin hospital blanket, curled in a ball on a recliner next to the window. I watched her sleep and felt ashamed at the pain she had endured because of my injuries.

My leg still hurt like hell, but it was not as bad as last night. The pain was more isolated, and not over my entire body like it had been before. I found the call button for the nurse and pressed it, and when she came into the room I asked her about switching to a pain pill instead of the IV drip. “It’s making me pretty loopy,” I said.

“I’ll have to clear it with the doctor,” she said. “But between you and me, I don’t think you’re ready just yet. In the meantime, don’t be a hero. Hit that pain button if you have to. Loopy ain’t all bad, honey.”

A short time later an orderly wheeled in a breakfast tray and set the cart next to the bed. All the in and out woke Sandy and I watched as she stretched, yawned, and then walked over to the bed. She leaned in and kissed me, hard, on the lips.

“You should have gone home last night,” I said.

“Would you have?”

“No.”

“So, okay then.”

My leg was throbbing now, the pain worse as I became fully awake. “I was thinking about last night. The way you called me Virgil.”

The door opened and Rosencrantz and Donatti walked in. “Of course she called you Virgil. That’s your name, isn’t it?” He looked over at Donatti. “Isn’t that his name?”

Donatti nodded. “Yep. Hey Small, what’s shaking? Did you know his middle name is Francis?”

“About time you woke up,” Rosencrantz said as he lifted the lid on my food tray. “What’s for breakfast?” He put the lid back down. “Geez, are they trying to cure you or kill you?”

“You know, you don’t get jack shit for workmen’s comp in Indiana,” Donatti said. “I think you’re faking.”

“Yeah, definitely faking,” Rosencrantz said.

“Hey, is it true you can predict when it’s going to rain, now?” Donatti said. “I heard TV 8 is looking for a new weatherman.”

“I’ll bet they’re giving you some good shit for the pain. Can I have some?” Rosencrantz said.

I looked at Sandy with my best ‘help me’ expression, but when she held her hands up in a ‘what can you do gesture,’ I did the only logical thing I could think to do. I said fuck it and pressed the pain button again.

The room spun and I felt like I was caught in a vortex. Rosencrantz and Donatti were standing under the television, their heads tilted up toward the set, watching something on the screen. A few minutes later when the rush of the morphine tapered off I looked at Sandy and motioned for her to lean in closer. “Did you hear what I was saying before Mutt and Jeff walked in?”

“Yes, I did,” she said. “But it wasn’t last night. That was five days ago, Virgil.”

Rosencrantz turned his head and said, “What was last night?”

I ignored him, but Sandy turned her head and said, “We’re talking about something else. Last night was nothing.”

“You know how many times I’ve heard a woman tell me that?” Donatti said.

Sandy shot him a look and then turned her attention back to me. “What are you talking about?” I said. “What do you mean it was five days ago?”

Sandy had her hand on my leg. “You’ve sort of been in and out over the last few days.”

“What?” I could not believe what I was hearing. “What day is this?” I said.

“It’s Friday,” Sandy said.

Donatti looked over at Sandy and me and said, “Hey, am I Mutt or Jeff? I think I’m Jeff. I’m Jeff, right?”

The door to my room opened and a nurse came in and told me the doctor had given the okay for Oxycontin instead of the morphine drip for my pain and then she disconnected the IV from my arm. I thought when she took the tape off of my arm-that hurt like a bitch-that maybe they should have left the IV in after all. The nurse told me that the Oxycontin would probably, in her words, bind me up some, but not much worse than the morphine did.

“That’s all right,” Rosencrantz said. “He’s full of shit anyway.”

I looked at him and thought if the food in here didn’t kill me, the cop humor probably would. When I looked at Sandy she mouthed a silent ‘I love you’ to me and I felt my eyes water at the edges.

It became quiet in the room for a minute, then Rosencrantz looked at Donatti and said, “I kinda like the way she calls him Virgil, don’t you?”

Sandy shook her head, then stood and said, “Hey guys, I think we need to let Virgil get his rest.” She placed her hand on my shoulder and gave me a little squeeze. Then to Rosencrantz and Donatti, she said, “What do you say?”

“Yeah,” Doantti said. She’s right. “Virgil’s tired.”

Rosencrantz turned and gave me a little finger wave. “Okay, bye, Virgil. We’ll see you tomorrow.

Sandy waved them out. “I’ll catch up with you guys after while,” she said.

When they were out of the room, I pulled myself up in the bed a little. I could feel the tape around my ribcage. “See what you’ve started,” I said.

“I’ll talk to them,” Sandy said.

“Aw geez, don’t do that.”

“Well what do you want me to do?”

The Oxycontin was working already. I could feel the buzz, but I was not drowsy like I had been with the morphine drip. The pain was still present, but it was in the background, like it was hiding inside a closet.

“It feels like…like everything is moving too fast. I was tied up and beaten and it feels like it all happened just this morning.”

“We don’t have to talk about his now, you know.”

“I think I need to.”

Sandy sat on the edge of the bed and put her hand in mine. “Are you sure you’re up for it?”

“I’m not really sure. I think there might be a lot I don’t remember. In fact, most of it is blank right now, that part of it, I mean. I remember eating lunch at the diner, then nothing until I woke up tied to the post or beam or whatever it was.”

“And when you woke up?”

I closed my eyes, and when I spoke, I left them that way. I told Sandy what I remembered about the beatings and the torture with the stun gun, seeing Murton and how he killed the two men, and then how I saw my mother. When I opened my eyes I saw that tears were running down her cheeks and when I reached up to wipe them away she took my hand in both of hers and held it tight against her face. She then kissed the tips of my fingers and held my hand in her lap. I thought she might ask me about my mom, like maybe I might have imagined it, but she shifted the direction of the conversation.

“We’ve got an I.D. on the men. Their names were Collins and Hicks.”

“What about Murton? Where is he?”

“That’s a little more complicated,” she said.

“I’ll bet.”

“I might be able to help you with that,” Agent Gibson said. He was standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame. He pushed himself upright with his shoulder and said, “May I come in?”

Sandy let go of my hand and stood from the side of my bed where she had been seated. I nodded to Agent Gibson and he walked further into the room. He looked at Sandy and said, “Would you mind if I spoke with Detective Jones in private?”

“That’s not necessary,” I said.

“It’s okay, Virgil,” Sandy said. “I’ve got work to do. A lot has happened. I’ll check back on you later and fill you in then. Get some rest.” She leaned down and kissed me on the lips, then turned and stared at Gibson, her expression a challenge for him to comment on our private life. But he just nodded at her and after she walked out he looked at me and said, “How are you feeling?”

“I’ve been better,” I said.

“I checked your records. Saw you were in the sandbox.”

“That’s a term only a soldier would use.”

He pulled a chair close to my bed then sat down, a pocket of air held in the side of his mouth. “So maybe I was there.”

“In what capacity?”

He chuckled at my question before he answered. “Let’s just say I wasn’t dressed in camouflage and humping a pack. But that was a long time ago, wasn’t it? Right now you’re wondering about Murton Wheeler.”

“I’ve been wondering about Murton Wheeler for a long time.”

“So like I said, I can probably help you with that.”

I thought for a moment before I spoke. “He’s with the G?” I said.

“Something like that,” he said.

“What does that mean?”

“I’ll let him explain it. Believe me when I tell you though, Detective, he’s paid a tremendous price for his country. I personally owe him a debt I’ll never be able to repay, but that’s another story. From what I gather, that puts you and me in the same boat.”

“Where is he?” I said.

“Out in the hall, waiting to come in,” he said.

Murton walked into the room and stood about halfway between the door and my bed. I pushed the button on the control panel attached to the rail and elevated the bed into a sitting position. We stared at each other for a minute, neither one of us sure of what to say. It might have been the pain medicine, or it might have been the nervous tension, but I felt the corner of my mouth turn upwards, then before I knew it we were both smiling.

“You’re a fed?”

“Well, I was,” he said. “But not anymore. I put in my papers this morning.”

“Why?”

He laughed without humor. “Which why are you asking me about? The why did I disappear? Or the why didn’t I tell you what was really happening in my life? Or the why I had to let everyone, including you, your parents, and even my girlfriend think I was a criminal and a complete fuck up?”

“I’m sorry about Amy,” I said.

“Yeah, me too.” He stayed quiet for a long time. “We buried her yesterday. Her mom slapped me in the face at the service. Bet you didn’t know that, did you? She thought her death was my fault. You know what? She was right, but for all the wrong reasons. After the service I told her who I was, who I really was and she didn’t believe me. So I pulled out my badge and handed it to her and you know what she did? She fainted. Just like that. I thought I killed her. I’ve been under too long Jonesy. I had to get out. I let my job get in the way of my girlfriend’s well being and it cost her and my unborn child their lives.”

Jesus, Murt, I’m sorry. I don’t know what else to say. God damn. I’ve been an asshole. I’m fucking sorry, man.”

We sat there, both of us quiet for a long time. We had spent the first half of our lives together as best friends, brothers, and the last half under a flag of deception that drove us apart.

“Well, at least Pate got his, huh?”

“What? What do you mean?”

“You’re kidding, right? You mean no one told you?”

“Told me what, Murt? No one’s told me anything.”

“Aw, that’s beautiful, man. After everything that’s happened, I get to tell you.” I watched the light in his eyes go dark and it reminded me of the look he carried with him in the desert over twenty years ago. “Guess you haven’t been watching the news. Pate’s dead, Jonesy. Yesterday morning at the taping of his show. Except it wasn’t just a taping. Because of everything that’s happened, he convinced the network to run a live special. The place was packed. He stood up there on the pulpit and confessed all of it. He had tears running down his cheeks and everything. It was like every other preacher you’ve ever seen on TV when they bare their soul and confess their sins, except ol’ Sermon Sam out did them all.”

“What do you mean?”

“After he confessed to burning his church in Houston, and taking responsibility for the deaths of Franklin Dugan, and Amy, and trafficking in child pornography, he stuck a gun in his mouth and blew the back of his head all over the choir. All on live TV.”

“You said with everything that’s been happening. What else did I miss?”

“Plenty. A city cop who now has the unfortunate nickname of Cauliflower shot your sniper to death and saved the Governor as well.”

“What?”

“Say, I don’t mean to change the subject, but I’ve got to tell you something else,” he said. “When I was cutting you down, I could hear your mom’s voice. In my head, I mean. It’s like she was telling me exactly what to do. Can you believe that, man?”

I was still processing what Murton had told me when a physical therapist came in the room and explained that it was necessary to get up and move around. Murton said good-bye, explaining that he had six or seven reams of paperwork to complete and would look in on me when I got home. Then, before he left, he walked over to the bed and kissed me on my forehead. “Never stopped lovin’ you, brother,” he said. My lips trembled, but I couldn’t get any words out. I grabbed his arm as he went to turn away and held him in place. After a few seconds I saw his eyes crinkle. “You’re welcome,” he said, then ruffled the top of my head like we were kids again and walked out the door.

The physical therapist watched our exchange in silence. She was a short sassy brunette who looked like she had never quite lost her baby fat. I had the thought she looked like she should be working in an ice cream parlor or maybe a pet supply store.

“You can’t see it, but there’s a rubber knob on the bottom of your cast, right under the heel of your foot. Like the stopper on the end of these crutches,” she said, holding up one of the crutches for me to see. “When you’re moving around, I want you to keep as much weight off of your leg as possible. But, if you have to put any weight on it, keep it on the knob. That’s what it’s for. That, and to make sure you don’t slip and fall. She tried a smile on so I tried one right back at her, and when my scar lit up, she momentarily jerked the crutch across the front of her body, like a shield. “Uh, anyway,” she said, “here, let me help you. Swing your legs off the side of the bed, but don’t try and stand, yet.”

“Just give me a minute, will you?” I said. Then I gathered myself together and sat upright on the side of the bed and with the therapist’s help I managed to stand mostly on my good leg, my broken one held at an odd angle at the knee to prevent it from touching the floor.

“Good, good. That’s good,” she said. “Now straighten your knee and let the knob on the bottom of your cast rest on the floor, but don’t put any weight on it. I just want you to get a feel for where it is down there.” I did what she asked, and when I did, the pain flared in my shin and the room spun. The therapist grabbed my arm and eased me back down on the bed. “I said not to put any weight on it.”

I nodded, my breath whistling through my teeth. “I didn’t.”

“Well, maybe you did a little. Do you want me to see about getting you a wheel chair?”

“No, I do not want a fucking wheel chair,” I said.

“All right, then, Come on, let’s try again.”

I looked over at the side of the bed where the IV stand had been and wondered if maybe they might hook me back up if I asked. Just for a little while.

“Come on, give it another try. It only gets better from here.”

“I can believe that,” I said. I gripped the handle of the crutches, the therapist standing next to me like a gymnastics spotter. I leaned forward, put my weight on my good leg and pulled myself up.

“All right. Now, let’s try moving around the room a little. You look like a pretty strong guy. Just remember, the key to using crutches is in the forearms, not your armpits, okay? Keep your leg bent, and use both crutches at the same time. Step with your good leg, then follow with your arms, okay?”

“Okay, okay,” I said, and found that I hated her already. But after a few minutes of her help and some painful practice, I had to admit, she had me moving around fairly well.

She handed me some kind of waiver stating that she had demonstrated the proper use of the crutches and asked me to sign at the bottom. Her parting words were, “Remember, if you stumble and think you’re going to fall, and you probably will, just let your body go limp. Don’t try and save yourself. Just relax and go ahead and let yourself go. You’re more likely to reinjure if you try to save yourself than if you just go ahead and let it happen.”

For some reason, her statement made me think about my relationships with my dad, Murton, and Sandy.

A few hours later, one of the nurses came in and told me my ticket out would be to show the doctor I could get around on my own, and that was all the motivation I, Virgil F. Jones required. I picked up my crutches and made my way toward the door. I leaned against the jamb for a few minutes and waited until the hall was mostly clear before I ventured out. I found it was not too bad, the moving around, but the physical therapist was right; the key was to keep the weight off my leg. I went up and down the hall a few times, stopping to rest only once at the opposite end of the corridor from my room. The hardest part really was holding my leg in the air, bent at the knee, and it did not take long before I could feel the burn in my thigh. There was a couch at the end of the hallway next to the elevators, so I decided to sit and watch the business end of the hospital for a while.

As soon as I sat down I knew it was a mistake. The couch was lower than I thought-going down was not too bad-but once I was seated I knew I would not be able to get back up without help. The nurses station was at the other end of the hall, so to get back up I would have to either yell for help, or wait until someone happened by who was able-bodied enough and took pity on me.

Smooth, Jonesy, I thought. I closed my eyes for a while and when I opened them back up my father was sitting next to me and the look on his face told me we were thinking the same thing. “This place will kill you, you know that?” he said. When I didn’t respond, my father looked over at me and said, “You remember your Uncle Bob?”

“No, not really. I might remember the name, but that’s about it.”

Mason nodded. “Yeah, I’m not surprised. You were pretty young when he died. He was your mother’s uncle, your great uncle. He was a mortician. Had his own funeral home up in Kokomo. After he passed, his family sold out to a conglomerate, but I was talking to him one time, this was years ago, before you were even born I think, and you know what he told me? He told me that in the funeral home industry, they call it death care. I always thought that was the damnedest thing, Death care.

“I’d sit up here with your mother, just one floor above this one while they pumped that poison into her veins trying to kill the cancer inside her, and in the end all they did was make the last few months of her life more miserable than they already were. Every time we’d come in here I’d think about that conversation with Uncle Bob. They might call this health care, Virg, but it’s really all the same thing sometimes.” Then, like the concept of a segue was foreign to him, he finished with, “So, when they letting you out?”

I looked at him, not quite sure what he was trying to say, if anything. “Tomorrow, I think. Want to help me back to my room?”

“You bet,” Mason said. “You bet I do.”

We took our time going down the hall, and he told me Delroy and Robert were going back to Jamaica for a week, so he was going to close the bar to sand down and refinish the bar top. When I said I would stop by to help if I could, he laughed, and told me not to worry about it.

When we finally made it back to the room, we stood next to the bed for a moment, and I looked at my father and said, “I can’t explain it Pops, but it was her. She was standing right behind him and her hands were over the top of his. She helped him untie me and get me down. She was smiling at me, Dad. What do you think of that?”

“You were bleeding out from the inside, Son. The doctors said you had about two and a half minutes left by the time they got you here. The mind can play tricks on you when you’re in that kind of shape.”

“I’ve been in that bad of shape before, you know.”

“I know, Son, I know. You saw what you saw. Was it real to you?”

“Yeah, it was.”

He opened his mouth to say something, but no words came out. We stayed there for a moment, then he did something he had not done in almost forty years, an act that brought tears to his eyes.

He helped his son to bed.

A short while later the nurse came in to take my blood pressure and when she offered me more pain medication, the nature of the conversation that followed must have made her think I might be suffering from brain damage.

“Do you believe in ghosts?” I asked her.

She had her hand on my wrist, my pulse beat steady under the tips of her fingers. She held up a finger in a ‘wait a minutes’ gesture and then said, “Sorry, I was counting. What was that you just asked me?”

“Never mind,” I said. But then I asked her something else. “I keep hearing this muffled little happy birthday tune. Is anyone else hearing it, or is it just me?”

The nurse laughed. “That’s from the maternity ward. It’s one floor below us. Every time a baby is born the new father gets to push a button behind the nurse’s station and it plays the first few notes of happy birthday over the loudspeaker on that floor. You can hear it on this floor because they’re right below us.” She wrapped the blood pressure cuff around my arm just above the elbow and pumped the bulb. I watched the needle on the indicator bounce back and forth and I waited until she was done before I spoke again.

“I was wondering. Is there any way that I could move one floor up?”

“What?” the nurse asked. Why would you want to do that? That’s the cancer ward.”

“I know,” I said. She stared at me, a look of confusion on her face, then walked out of the room.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

The next morning when I woke, the sun sliced through the partially open blinds and fell across the cast on my leg and gave it a striped look like that of a zebra. I wiggled my toes a little and when I did, the dull throb in my leg led me from the clutches of sleep like a demented tour guide with a cruel agenda. My mouth tasted like at some point in the night I’d sworn off hospital food and eaten my pillow instead. And I had to pee.

I thought about pressing the call button and having the nurse help me up and into the bathroom, then decided against it. I wanted to do it myself. By the time I got my crutches under myself, got up, took care of business and made it back to the bed twenty minutes had passed, but I had done it. I brought a damp wash cloth back from the bathroom and sat down and wiped the sweat from my forehead. A few minutes later, while I was watching the morning news a nurse’s assistant who I had not yet seen came into the room pushing a small cart ahead of her ample body. I estimated her weight at somewhere around three hundred pounds. Maybe more. Her bright pink lipstick and bright pink fingernails were a perfect match to the pink uniform stretched tight across her body. When she walked the fabric looked like it was being strained to the breaking point and I thought if one of the buttons on the front of her blouse let go I might need a bullet proof vest for protection. Her dark kinky hair was pulled back in tight cornrows that pulled the skin on her forehead so taught it made her look like the top half of her head was younger than the bottom.

The wheels on the cart made a wobbling noise that reminded me of the sound my air conditioner made last summer just before the compressor failed. It was not until she was almost next to the bed that I realized the noise wasn’t coming from the cart, but from the nurse’s breathing. She was wheezing from the effort, whether from pushing the cart or moving her own weight around. Maybe both.

I knew what was coming and even though I was starting to notice my own stink, I did what any sane person in my situation would do. I closed my eyes and feigned sleep, hoping she would go away.

“Good morning. My name is Miss Sally. What’s yours?”

I did not answer and instead I pulled the blanket up over myself and turned away. Miss Sally was not impressed.

“Oh, child, you’re gonna have to do better than that,” she said. “Come on, now, I’m here to hep ya. We’re gonna get you cleaned up. Won’t take but a minute or two. Lord, I swear I could smell you before I could see you. That’s not an insult, you understand, I just tells it like I smells it. What’d you say your name was, again.”

I opened my eyes a little bit, squinted at her. “I didn’t.”

“I see. Well, you know, I can see right here on your chart your name is Virgil. I was just trying to be polite.” She pulled the sheets off of me and set them on the chair next to the bed. “Now, untie your nighty there and let’s get started. You don’t have to be proud or ashamed, either. I done seen ‘em all, the big ones and the puny ones. I expect yours will be somewhere betwixt em.”

“Look,” I said, “I think I can clean myself up, okay? The doctor said I’d probably be going home today anyway, so thanks just the same.”

The nurse laughed, one hand resting on the cart, the other on her chest. “Oh lord, if I only had a nickel. You know how many times I heard that one? It’s always this and that, or some such thing. Come on now, I got me a schedule just like everyone else around here and you’re my last one. Don’t want to make Miss Sally late for quitin’ time, now do you?”

“No, I don’t suppose I do,” I said. I began to untie my hospital gown, thinking if there were a God, he’d do something about this. Then, as if I had a direct line to the heavens, the door opened and another nurse stuck her head in.

“Miss Sally? Mr. Jenkins down in six-oh-two missed the bed pan again. We need your help to lift him up so we can get the sheets.”

“Be right there,” she said over her shoulder. Then to me, she said, “That poor Mr. Jenkins. Well, you’re off the hook this time, handsome. Moving Mr. Jenkins around can take some time, and I’ll be off by then. Hope you do get out today, but iffen you don’t, someone from the next shift will be in to clean you up.”

“Thanks,” I said. When she was almost to the door, I said, “Miss Sally?”

“Yes, child?”

“Everyone calls me Jonesy.”

She smiled without answering and wheezed her way out of the room, her breathing like that of a locomotive’s steam whistle disappearing down the tracks. There is a God after all, I thought.

But then, proving God had a sense of humor, she was back five minutes later. “You’re in luck, Sugar. Morning shift change is happening right now. They didn’t need me down there to help with Mr. Jenkins after all. Now, where were we?”

Sandy walked in just as the nurse was finishing my sponge bath. The nurse looked her up and down one time with approval and said, “Hi. My name’s Miss Sally. What’s yours?”

Sandy smiled at the nurse. “I’m Sandy. Nice to meet you.”

“Oh, it’s my pleasure, child. My pleasure.” She leaned in close to Sandy and said, “That’s quite a fella you got there. Wouldn’t let him get away, I were you.”

They both turned and looked at me. “I don’t intend to,” Sandy said.

When the nurse left the room, Sandy walked over to my bed and gave me a kiss. “Did I miss anything good?”

I ignored her question, and said, “If you love me, you’ll find the doctor and get me the fuck out of here.”

Sandy went to check with the nurse’s station as to when the doctor might stop by to release me and when she came back into the room, she told me the nurse said the doctor was going to be delayed. “He got called into an emergency surgery.”

“Ah man,” I said. “Any idea how long?”

Sandy shook her head. “They didn’t know. Listen, I talked to your dad this morning. I’m going to go pick him up and we’re going to get your truck from the station and get it back to your house. I’ll be back to take you home after I drop him off. That okay?”

“Sure,” I said. “Grab my case notes off my desk will you?”

“Virgil…”

“What? I’m just going to be sitting around. Might as well do the paperwork. By the way, how’d my truck get back to the station?”

“Rosie drove it over there and put it in the lot.”

“Oh, geez, you let Rosie drive my truck?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Have you ever seen his car?”

“You worry to much, Jonesy. Hey, you’re going home today. Treat me right and maybe I’ll dress up in a little nurses uniform for you, make you forget all about the paperwork. You know, show you what a real sponge bath is like.” She winked at me. “See you in an hour or so, boyfriend.”

Boyfriend. I liked that.

Later that same afternoon after Sandy returned, the doctor came with a list of instructions for my release and the nurse who was with him made an appointment with me for a follow-up visit the next week at his office. After another hour and a half of preparations and paperwork, I was informed I was free to go.

I took the mandatory ride in the wheel chair to the front entrance and waited with the orderly-an elderly gentleman who appeared to be in greater need of the wheelchair than I-while Sandy pulled her car around. When she pulled up, the orderly pushed me over to the passenger side, set the brakes on the chair then helped me up and into the vehicle. The traffic was moderate in the city and heavy out on the loop, but forty-five minutes later we were back at my place.

Sandy turned on the lights and generally woke the place up while I settled onto the couch and tried to get comfortable. “What can I get you?” she asked.

The time had gotten away from me and the ride from the hospital had taken its toll. “I’m getting behind on the pain. I could use a couple of pills.”

She brought the medicine to me and I swallowed the pills with a glass of water, then Sandy slipped her hand into mine and said, “So, what’s next?”

“Is that a big question, or a little one?” I said.

“What do you think?” she said.

“I think it’s a big one.”

“You’d probably be right,” Sandy said. “If it were a little one, I say something like, ‘how about a pizza.’ And then you’d say, ‘sure, what do you like?’ And I’d say-”

“Okay, I get it. The truth of it is, I don’t know what’s next. But you know what?”

“What?”

“I don’t want to know. I know where we’ve been, I know where we are, and I know what I want. You’re here…we’re here, together. That’s what matters to me right now.”

Sandy pulled her feet up under her and laid her head on my shoulder. After a few minutes, she lifted her head and said, “You know, for a while, you’re going to need someone here to help you.”

“Yeah, I was kind of thinking the same thing.”

We sat there with that for a little while, then Sandy said, “you could ask Donatti.”

“That won’t work. He’s married, remember? His wife won’t let him come over anymore.”

“Well, what about Rosie?”

“Naw, he’d just drink all my beer. Plus, he’s kind of a slob. I’ve got a certain standard I like to maintain around here.”

“Hmm. Guess you’re out of luck, then,” Sandy said.

“Yeah. I guess so. Too bad there isn’t someone, you know, that could sort of move in for a while and keep an eye on me. Help me around. Like that.”

“Yeah, that is too bad,” Sandy said.

“Just about anyone would do, really.”

“You know, I’m pretty busy and everything,” Sandy said. “But if I moved some stuff around on my schedule, I bet I could do it. And look, I don’t want to seem too forward or anything like that, because I’m not really that kind of girl, but I went ahead and put a bag together thinking you might want me to stay for a few days or something.”

“Put a bag together, huh?”

“Yep.”

“Is it a big bag?”

“Well, it’s big enough that I’ve got options.”

“Gotta have options.”

“Yeah, options are good.”

I tried to look serious, but failed in the attempt. “Closet is pretty full. I guess I could give you a drawer, though.”

“Really? A drawer? You mean I’d get my very own drawer?”

“Well sure. That’s just the kind of guy I am.”

Sandy grabbed my pants at the top by my waist and bunched them up in her fist a little. “I’ve got your drawers, mister.”

And with that, I forgot all about my past, both the distant and the recent and for a while, even the pain in my leg. It all melted away against the warmth of a place where no one is judged, where the mind, body, spirit, and soul are all one and the same.

When I woke the next morning I was alone in bed, the throbbing of my leg in time with the beat of my heart. Sandy came in a few minutes later carrying a tray with coffee and juice, my robe open in front of her body, its edges barely covering the swell of her breasts.

“How you feeling, cowboy?” she said. She set the tray down on the night table next to the bed and leaned over and kissed me good morning.

I looked at her in my robe, the curve of her hips, the little space between the tops of her thighs when she stood with her legs together, the dangled jewel of her belly ring. I took her hand and guided it to my stomach, then gently pushed her further down. “This is how I’m feeling,” I said. “Since you asked, and all.”

“You know,” Sandy said as she ran her finger tips up and down the length of my erection, “the doctor said you are supposed to take it easy for a while.”

“Fuck the doctor,” I said.

And then the morning was mostly gone too.

Later, after we had both gotten cleaned up and dressed for the day, we sat across from each other at the kitchen table, my leg propped up under a pillow on the chair next to me. It felt good to have it elevated for a while, but then it’d start to bark at me and I’d have to set it down on the floor. Then that would become uncomfortable too, so I’d prop it back up again. The back and forth was driving me nuts.

“Wait till it starts itching,” Sandy said. “That’ll drive you mad.”

“Your bedside manner is atrocious, you know that?”

“Yeah, but my bed manners are perfect, aren’t they?”

Couldn’t argue that, I thought.

“I need to talk to you about something,” Sandy said.

Uh-oh. I brought my leg back up on the chair and looked at her, waiting for her to go on.

“Yesterday, when I went to your office to get the case notes you wanted I ran into Cora. We had an interesting conversation.”

“Is this about us?”

“Yeah, it is,” Sandy said. “I know we didn’t have a chance to talk about it-what she said to you a few days ago on the phone, but she laid it out pretty clear for me. We have to choose.”

“Aw, geez, Sandy. I’m sorry. I’ll talk to her.”

She reached across the table and took my hand. “Let me finish, okay. It’s not all bad. You probably don’t know this, but about six years ago, and every year since, I’ve been trying to get on with the Indiana law Enforcement Academy over in Plainville.”

“Is that right?”

“Yeah. And guess who greased the wheels for me.”

“Who?”

“The Governor.”

“What? You asked the Governor to help you?”

“Well, I sort of mentioned it in passing.”

“Sandy, this is a pretty powerful guy. Are you sure you want to get in bed with him?”

“You’re the only one I’m getting into bed with, Virgil.”

“You know what I mean.”

“It’s not that deep.”

Hmm. “So I take it there’s an opening at the Academy?”

“Yep. Director of Training, Psychological Division. He says it’s mine if I want it.”

“Just like that?”

“Well, he said they’d have to keep the posting up, let others apply, all that business, but other than maintaining appearances, yeah, it’s mine. I just have to say the word.”

“What kind of timeline are we talking about?”

“The current director leaves in thirty days. They’d want me in time for that.”

I took my leg from the chair and placed it back on the floor. Things were moving faster than I thought they would. Sandy and I had something though. Something strong. Still, could I ask her to leave her current position for something completely new and different just so we could be together as a couple? It didn’t seem fair. Would she ask that of me? Would I agree?

Then, as if she could read my mind, she said, “It’s just a job, Virgil. I know it might feel like things are moving pretty quick right now, but you and I both know that’s nobody’s business but our own. If I have to take this job so we can be together without the headache of hiding our relationship or dealing with someone else’s bullshit bureaucracy, then that’s what I think I should do. I won’t do it unless you say you want me to though. But I hope you do.”

I nodded my head, and the words were out of my mouth almost before I realized I was speaking. “I do.”

“Say that again, would you?”

I smiled at her. “I do.”

“I like the way that sounds. Big words though for a guy that only gives a girl one drawer.”

“Yeah, well, about that,” I said. “I was kidding about the closet. It’s mostly empty you know.”

“Yeah, I know. I looked.”

“So there’s probably something I should tell you,” I said. “I knew you applied for the job.”

“What? How?”

“Well, I know quite a few people over at the Academy, and when they saw your paperwork come through one of them called me. I think you wasted a favor with the Governor. From what they told me, unless you blew the interview or something, they were going to hire you anyway.”

“Virgil…”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

The next day, late in the morning I was back at the kitchen table, my case notes and files spread out before me. I had tried working at my desk, but there were two problems: one, there was not enough desk space for everything I wanted to look at, and two, I just could not get comfortable. There was not any way to prop my leg up. Sandy helped me move everything to the kitchen, then kissed me goodbye before she left to go downtown and hammer out the details of her new position with the academy.

Two hours later I was halfway through my reports when the phone rang. I followed the ringing and saw the phone laying on the end table in the other room and swore under my breath. Should have thought about that. My machine was turned off, and by the time I got my crutches under myself and got up and over to the phone, the ringing had stopped. I brought up the caller I.D., saw who it was, and punched the number back in.

“Marion County Prosecutor’s Office. How may I direct your call?”

“Hi, Detective Virgil Jones, for Preston Elliott, please.”

“One moment, Detective, I’ll see if he’s in.”

I started to tell the receptionist that I knew he was in because I just missed his call, but she had already clicked off. But then she clicked right back on, again. “I’m sorry, did I cut you off? I think you were saying something.”

“No, no, that’s alright. I was just saying I just missed his call, is all.”

“Very well, sir. One moment.”

I thought by the tone of her voice I could hear her eyes rolling on the other end of the phone. A few seconds later, the line clicked again and Elliott picked up. “Jonesy, thanks for calling back.”

“Sorry I didn’t get to the phone. Takes me a little longer to get around than I’m used to. How are you, Preston?”

“I’m doing well. The question is, how are you?”

“Pretty good,” I said, then winced at my own bad grammar. “Behind on my paperwork, which I’m guessing is the reason you’re calling me?”

“I knew there was a reason they called you detective. We want to get everything filed and get this one closed off. How much time do you need for your reports, you being crippled and all?”

I thought about it, but instead of answering, I said, “How many times have you watched the tape?”

“The one with Pate where he takes the back of his head off, or the one with the Governor tossing his lunch?”

“The one with Pate,” I said, hoping the sarcasm was not as obvious as it sounded in my head.

“Only twice, unless you count the nightmares I’ve been having.”

“Anything jump out at you.”

“Like what?”

“That’s what I’m asking you, Preston. Anything at all?”

“Nothing other than the obvious,” Elliott said. “He cried a river, admitted he was not only a sexual deviant but a pedophile on top of it, admitted torching his Houston church and then, well, you know the rest of it. He punched his own ticket. Case closed.”

“Yeah, I guess we’ve seen the same tape, then.”

“What is it, Jonesy?” I could hear the impatience in his voice.

“It’s not what he admitted. It’s what he didn’t.”

“What do you mean?”

“Why pack every seat in the house, then go on TV and confess your sins and pop yourself without telling it all?”

“You’re speaking of the fact that he didn’t mention his connection with the Senior and Junior Wells?”

“You got it. But not only didn’t he confess, he didn’t even mention them. It doesn’t make sense to me. These two nut jobs are driving around the city taking people out with a sniper rifle, and we know they’re connected, Pate and the Wells. Just doesn’t make sense to me.”

“Hey, who knows what these psychopaths are thinking? It was obvious he was going to go out on his own terms. Maybe he just got ahead of himself and flipped his switch before he said everything he wanted to say. I could sort of see that happening.”

“I don’t know. Seems off to me.”

“Hey, at their heart, suicides are cowards, right? Maybe he just didn’t have the stones to admit it.”

“But he had the balls to put a gun in his mouth and pull the trigger?”

“Do you have any physical evidence that puts him at the scene of any of the other murders?”

“No.”

“But we do have forensics that puts Wells and his daughter there, am I right?”

“And they’re both dead. So if Pate was pulling their strings, why not just admit it, along with everything else?” I said.

“You know what? I don’t know. But it’s case closed, Jonesy. Send me your reports so I can get on with my life, will you?”

“I’ll have Detective Small bring them over to you tomorrow.”

“Hey,” Elliott said. “How is Sandy? I’m hearing a rumor that you two are some kind of item. What’s the skinny on that?”

“So long, Preston.”

I carried the phone back to the kitchen table with me and as soon as I sat down it rang again.

“Hey good lookin’. What’s cookin’?”

Sandy. “Nothing much. Just doing the paper. You finished down there already?”

“Nope. That’s why I’m calling. I’m going to be here a little longer than I thought.”

“Well, God damn. How long?” I said, and instantly regretted the tone in my voice.

“What’s the matter, Jonesy?”

“Ah, nothing. I didn’t mean to snap at you,” I said. “These pills, they help with the pain, but they make me sort of cranky or something. I’m sorry. What I really want is for you to be here, at our place.”

“Maybe you should call the doctor, see if there’s something else he could give you.”

“It’ll be all right,” I said. Then I told her of the conversation I just had with Preston Elliott. “It seems like a hell of a loose end to me.”

“Yeah, I can see that. But I think I agree with what Elliott said. Guys like that have got a screw loose somewhere. They’re completely unpredictable. Maybe he left that part out on purpose.” Then, before I could comment on what she had just said, she added, “About the pain, It’ll get better. You’re in the hard part, right now, this period of a few days after surgery. They say that’s always the worst. But you’ll get through it. Look at what we’ve got ahead of us, Virgil. It’s all going to work out beautifully. Hey, you know what I’m excited about?”

“What?”

“Excited and a little scared too.”

“What?”

“Getting to know your dad. I don’t have any preconceived notions about it or anything, but in the back of my mind I’ve got this idea that he’ll be able to help me fill a gap I’ve been carrying around with me for a long time.”

“You know what? I’m sure my dad would want that, but he’s not the easiest guy in the world to get along with sometimes. He doesn’t really open himself up that way. At least with me.”

“It’s probably hard for him too. You’re his child, Virgil. No matter how old you are, or how grown up you are, you’ll always be his child.”

“I think in many ways, my dad could give you what you’re looking for. All I’m saying is he’s the kind of guy that gives on his own terms and not necessarily the needs of others. I just don’t want to see you get hurt because of an expectation you might have that he’s not willing to fulfill.”

“Your father could never hurt me, Jonesy.”

“Yeah,” I said. “You’re probably right.”

“Probably, he says. Hey, did you hear yourself a minute ago? You said ‘our place?’”

Sandy and I said goodbye to each other, but as soon as I set the phone down, it rang yet again. Christ.

“Hey Bud, I was wondering if I could borrow your truck today. I’ve got to run over to the lumber store and buy a few pieces of board for the bar top. Don’t think I can fit them in my car.”

“Sure thing, Pops. Door’s open, just come on in.”

Twenty minutes later I heard the front door open, then close. “That you, Dad? I’m in the kitchen.”

My father came around the corner just as I was moving away from the sink. “Hi, Virg. Looks like you’re moving around pretty good.”

“Yeah, I’m starting to get the hang of these things,” I said, and wiggled a crutch in the air. “Still hurts pretty good, especially in the mornings.”

“I’ll bet. I put my car next to the garage, out of the way. Sure you don’t mind letting me use the truck?”

“Naw, it’s fine,” I said. “But listen, how about I go with you? This just sitting around the house is driving me nuts. Sandy’s downtown and I could sure use a change of scenery. I’ll sit at the bar and keep you company while you work.”

He looked at me, the skepticism clear upon his face. “Gee, son, you sure you’re up to it? I’d hate to get all the way over there then have to turn around and bring you back.”

Well that sounded about right I thought. I let out a sigh. “I just need to get out, Dad, okay? Sandy will be done in a couple of hours or so. I’ll leave her a message and she can probably swing by and bring me back here.”

“Okay, if you’re sure.”

“I’m sure, Dad. Let’s go, huh?”

“You bet. Hey, I’ll pull the truck around to the front. Shorter walk, right? You want some help getting out there?”

“Yeah, maybe.”

We rode together in silence for a few miles, a routine that was familiar to us both. After the stop at the lumber store-I waited in the truck-we headed for the bar. “Which boards need to be replaced?” I said.

“Aw, you know, the ones on both ends that butt up against the cross-members, just above the sinks? They’re fine on top, but they’re getting soft underneath. All the water that splashes up there is taking a toll. I thought since I was going to sand and refinish the top, now would be the time to swap them out.”

“Yeah, probably right,” I said. “So, uh, how’s things with you and Carol?”

He shifted his eyes from the road without turning his head. “Okay, I guess,” he said. “Why?”

I shook my head and let out a little huff. “What do you mean, why? I was just asking. Making conversation, you know?”

“You pissed at me or something?” Mason said.

“Naw, Jesus Christ,” I said. “I’m sorry. It’s these fucking pills they’ve got me on. For the pain. I’m snapping at everyone.”

Mason nodded. “You’ll be alright, son.” After that, neither of us spoke for the rest of the ride over to the bar.

Way to go, Jonesy, I said to myself.

My dad helped me into the bar, then went back outside to bring the boards in from the back of the truck. I hobbled over to the juke box and put some music on, then hobbled back to the bar and sat on one of the stools and let my leg hang down below the brass railing underneath. It felt good to get the weight off of it. I looked at the clock above the back of the bar and checked the time, thought close enough, and took a couple more pills.

My dad placed the boards on top of the bar and set about prying the old ones from their mount, so I took a sanding block and began to sand the area in front of where I sat. Stevie Ray Vaughn’s ‘Lenny,’ from his Texas Flood album played in the background, the bluesy, soulful melody a fitting backdrop to an otherwise unbroken silence, my father and I communicating the way men often do, not with words, but by working together.

Later, while we were taking a break, I picked up the phone and called Sandy to let her know where I was and to see if she’d pick me up. For some reason, I thought she might be a little upset with me for leaving the house. I expected her to say something, but instead, she just said, “You boys having fun?”

“Oh yeah. Nothing better than bar upkeep. Think you could swing by and pick me up when you’re finished?”

“Sure,” Sandy said. “but I thought I’d stop and pick up something to eat. You think maybe the three of us could have dinner tonight?”

“Hold on,” I said. “I’ll check.” I pulled the phone away from my ear and said, “Hey Pops, Sandy wants to cook for the three of us tonight. What do you say?”

Mason wiped the sweat from his brow. “Aw, geez Virg, I don’t know. I think-”

I put the phone back up to my ear, but kept my eyes on my dad. “He says he’d love to.” I listened for another minute, then said goodbye and set the phone down.

“Don’t be such a stick in the mud,” I said. “She wants to cook for you.”

My father let out a sigh, then went back to work.

I did too.

Sandy got to the bar a little earlier than I expected and when she walked in she smiled and kissed me hello. “Thought you were going to the store,” I said.

“Well, I was going to, but I thought I’d stop by here first and see what sounded good to you guys. Any suggestions? Hi Mason.”

“Hi little darling,” Mason said. “You know how to make a meatloaf?”

Meatloaf? Oh boy.

“I sure do,” Sandy said. “As a matter of fact, I’ve got a meatloaf recipe that’ll make you love me forever.”

Mason laughed. “Won’t need a recipe for that Missy. All you’ve got to do is take care of my baby boy, here.”

I thought, huh. Felt the love in his words.

Sandy excused herself to the ladies room. “That’s one you don’t let get away, Son.”

“I know, Dad. I know. This one’s going to work. Meant to be, you know?”

“That I do, Son,” Mason said. He was marking a series of cut lines on the boards with a carpenter’s pencil. He didn’t look up when he spoke, but it didn’t stop the words. “You know, Virg, you and I, sometimes it sort of seems like neither one of us has the right words to say to each other. You ever feel like that?”

“Yeah, I guess sometimes I do, Dad.”

Mason put the old board on top of the new one and traced the cut points out. “My dad, your grandfather, he wasn’t much of a talker. I used to get mad at him when I was a kid because he wouldn’t say anything to me except to correct me when I did something wrong. It wasn’t until you were born that I finally figured out how much he loved me. Wasn’t until he died that I figured out how much I loved him, faults and all.”

I sat there with that for a minute and in the silence Sandy came back out and stood next to me. Then, as if she could sense the conversation, her eyes met with mine. “I’m not interrupting anything, am I?” she asked.

Neither my father or I had a chance to answer. The front door of the bar opened and someone stepped inside, just past the entryway. My dad looked up. “Bar’s closed for renovations,” he said. “Be open again next week.”

I heard my father say we were closed, but when I turned to look behind me at whoever was at the door my foot slipped a little on the brass railing under the stool, then got caught there between the railing and the bar. I cursed, then gently tried to twist my leg back into position. Just as I did, I heard my father say the last words that would ever come out of his mouth.

“Gun!”

When I turned my head toward the sound of his voice I saw Sandy reach for her weapon, then felt myself being pulled to the floor.

Sandy had grabbed the back of my shirt collar and pulled me toward her and onto the ground. Later, she would tell me she yelled something, but could not remember what it was. I never heard the words she spoke, but I did hear the gunfire right next to my ear. Sandy fired twice, but Amanda Pate managed to get one shot off.

And one was enough.

I couldn’t hear anything, the sound of the gunshots booming in my ears. The cordite from the spent shells assaulted my nostrils like someone had stuffed fire ants in my nose. I turned on the ground and the pain in my leg made the room swim out of focus for a moment, but I saw Sandy kick a gun from Amanda’s dead hand, then saw her move back toward me. She was yelling something, I don’t know what, but when our eyes locked and she saw I was okay, she ran right past me to the other side of the bar. I tried to get up, but my leg was caught in the railing, the cast wedged in tight. I finally managed to pull it free and when I did, I felt something pull loose and a wave of pain swam through me and everything seemed to turn gray, as if I were watching an old black and white film.

I could hear Sandy on the other side of the bar. She kept repeating, ‘no, no, no,’ over and over. I called out to her.

“Virgil…Virgil, I need you back here.”

“Sandy?” I yelled back.

“Virgil, hurry. You better hurry.”

I hopped and slid along the bar, my bad leg trailing behind me. When I turned the corner I saw Sandy was covered in my father’s blood, his head in her lap. The bullet had caught him squarely in the chest at the bottom of his rib cage. The color had drained from his face, and blood ran from both corners of his mouth. Sandy had one arm wrapped around his body, holding him in place, her other hand pressed tight over the gaping wound in his chest. I could see his blood as it burst between her fingers with every beat of his heart, and from the time it took me to move from the end of the bar to where they lay, he had lost more blood than I thought the human body capable of containing.

I already had my cell phone out. I punched in 9-1-1, shouted our location into the phone and let it slip from my hand. I got down at my father’s side and put my hand on top of his wound as well. “Hang in there, Dad. You’re going to be alright. You’re going to make it. Help’s on the way, you hear me?” His eyes glanced off mine and I felt his hand reach out and grab my wrist. He tried to say something, but when he did, he choked on the blood that ran from his mouth and no words ever came. He took my hand and held it to his heart, then placed Sandy’s hand on top of mine, his gaze held firmly to hers. I watched him stare at Sandy and as I did, I saw his eyes go out of focus and felt the silence in his chest.

I looked at Sandy who held my father in her lap and knew she grieved in ways I would never be able to know. For her, it was summer again from long ago, and this was yet another goodbye of a father figure she would never have the chance to know or love.

After a while, I slid sideways and sat down next to her and ran my fingers through my father’s hair. The three of us sat there like that for a long time, but for how long, I was never really sure.

EPILOGUE

The sun was out, suspended high in the miracle of another day and it felt like everything was fresh and destined to live forever. I walked with a cane, a handmade hickory stick Sandy bought for me when the doctor removed my cast and said I could go without the crutches. When we walked across the still wet grass of an overnight rain, the tip of my cane sank into the ground in various spots and Sandy had to hold my arm to help steady me along.

It had been eight weeks since my father died.

In the end, I decided that my father’s death could only be attributed to a certain sense of bad luck and a failure of imagination on my part. Amanda Pate had pulled the strings on her husband for years as she lived with and hid from his desires, all while she served an agenda of her own. We were able to piece together certain facts, Amanda Pate and Sidney Wells, Jr. being lovers, chief among them. When that fell into place, eventually the rest did too.

The fire that killed Amy Frechette, Murton’s girlfriend, was traced back to Collins and Hicks by forensics and the hard work of the Arson squad. It was ultimately decided that it was nothing more than a way to draw Murton out into the open and it worked better than either Collins or Hicks would have liked, I’m sure. It took a number of weeks, but I was finally able to put the final piece of the puzzle in place, and when I did, I almost wished I’d left it alone.

I thought I knew the rest of the story. No, that’s not quite right. I did know the rest of the story, but I needed someone to confirm it for me. So I called the Governor on a Sunday morning at home and asked him to meet me at his office.

He resisted the idea of the meeting.

I insisted.

I let him get there ahead of me, and when I walked into his office he was seated at his desk, a glass of scotch in his hand. It was only ten-thirty in the morning. I limped in and sat down in one of the chairs in front of his desk. I didn’t say a word.

He watched me for a few minutes. Then he unlocked the center drawer of his desk and pulled out a brown expandable file folder. He set it flat on the desk, removed the elastic string from the flap and pulled out a number of different photographs and laid them on his desk. I couldn’t see the person in the photos, but I didn’t need to. “I should have known you would figure it out,” the Governor said. “Who else knows?”

“Sandy, and probably Murton Wheeler, though he hasn’t come right out and said so. But no one else that I’m aware of. My gut tells me you’ve probably confided in Bradley though.”

“Your gut tells you true. That makes five people in the entire world who know, Jonesy. You, Sandy, Murton, me, and my aid, Bradley Pearson.”

“Your wife doesn’t even know?”

The Governor took a sip of scotch then shook his head. “No, she does not. We were never able to conceive and I thought the cruelty of it all, the fact that I had a child by another woman, would break us apart. So no, I never told her. How did you put it together?”

“Murton had a lot to do with it,” I said. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a copy of the birth certificate that had been in the safe deposit box and handed it to the Governor. “He gave me this. Amanda Pate had the original before Murton got hold of it. How she got it, I don’t know. I guess we’ll never know.”

The Governor passed a stack of pictures over to me and I leafed through them. They were all pictures of Sidney Wells, Jr. at various ages in her life. And then he told me his story.

“Her name was Sara Wells. One night I stayed at the hotel where she worked. It was as simple as that. She was stuck in a bad marriage, I was stuck in a bad hotel, and when we met in the bar, I’m telling you, Jonesy, it was magic. She stayed with me that night and we met every chance we got for the next year and a half.”

“And when you found out she was pregnant?”

“I’m not sure I understand your question. Is it my honor you’re asking about?”

“I’m asking you what happened next.”

The Governor looked at nothing and spoke to me. “She told me she knew the baby was mine. She said she knew it to be true because Sid had been to the doctor. He had a low count or something. I asked her to divorce Sid so she could marry me, and she told me she would. My God, Jonesy, we were happy. That’s where we were when everything changed.

“My call sign that day was Voodoo. You know what’s funny? I remember almost every single detail of that day except the one that matters. The one where I picked up the phone and filed my flight plan. I had the option of going to Indy or Ft. Wayne first. For some reason I picked Indy. If I’d have picked Ft. Wayne…” He let it hang there.

“She might still be alive today,” I said.

The Governor pointed his finger at me. “Wrong. She would still be alive. I’d probably be flying for the airlines and we’d have a ton of kids. Instead, the woman I loved and my only child are dead because of me.”

“Governor…”

He held up his hand to stop me. What he said next didn’t surprise me, but it made my stomach turn just the same. “I’m sorry about your father, Jonesy. I really am. But what’s done is done. I see no criminal involvement on my part in this matter. The Pate’s and the Wells’ are gone. I’ll consider the matter closed as soon as I have my daughter Sidney’s original birth certificate. You do have that, don’t you?”

I did indeed have it. It was in my pocket.

I had two choices.

One, give the birth certificate to the Governor and be complicit in hiding his secret, one that would all but destroy his political career if it ever came out, or two, include the birth certificate in the official file, and let the Governor fend for himself.

I stared at him for a long time.

He stared right back.

“You put me on Pate right out of the gate,” I said. “Why?”

“That was Bradley’s doing, though I agreed to it,” the Governor said. “We knew he was being looked at by the FBI, but they were dragging their feet.”

“I don’t think that’s entirely accurate, Sir. In fact, with all due respect, it’s flat out wrong.”

“It’s neither right or wrong, Jonesy. It’s politics. How long do you think I would have lasted in my next campaign against Sermon Sam once he started digging up old news stories about me punching out of my plane and taking out that hotel? Or better yet, how long would I have lasted once everyone found out that the woman I was sleeping with, the woman who just happened to be married to that idiot Wells was at work and in the hotel that morning? Not very long, I can tell you that,” the Governor said.

“And what about the shootings?”

The Governor took another drink of his scotch. “What about them? Sidney Wells was a psychopath. He was trying to destroy me by murdering family members of anyone and everyone he thought was even remotely responsible for the crash that day. He knew all along I was Sidney, Junior’s father. If Pate’s wife and my daughter were having some sort of illicit affair, as you allege, then the plan must have been put together by them. Who knows?”

I tried to hide the contempt in my voice, but I don’t think I succeeded. “And who cares, right?”

I picked up a few more of the pictures and looked through them. I thought the Governor’s priorities were about as far out of line as they could be, but in truth, who was I to judge? After a few minutes I did what I thought was the right thing-which may eventually be my downfall-and reached into my pocket and gave him the document. When he used my formal title I immediately knew I’d made the wrong choice.

“Thank you, Detective Jones. That will be all.”

I gave him a chance to correct himself, but he didn’t take it. “Are you sure about that, Sir?”

When he looked away and didn’t answer me, I pulled myself out of the chair and walked out of his office.

Sandy touched my arm and pulled me out of my thoughts. “Hey, you with me, big guy?” she said. We stood next to the edge of the pond behind my house and when I looked out across the water I saw it wrinkle in spots, the blue gill hungry, nicking at the surface.

“Why did you want to come out here?” I said.

Just then, a landscape truck pulling a back-hoe on a lowboy trailer turned off the road and came up the drive. I lost sight of it for a moment, then it came around the side of the house and stopped next to the out building I use as a storage space for my lawn equipment.

“You’re about to find out,” Sandy said. “We wanted to do something. For you. Me, Murton, and Delroy. ”

I watched as Murton backed the tractor from the trailer and drove over to where we stood, about ten yards from the edge of the pond. He lowered the bucket on the backhoe and scooped out a pile of soil then placed it carefully in a mound a few feet away from the hole. He repeated the process two more times, then turned the tractor around, winked at me like he may have just noticed my presence and drove back to the truck. When he returned the next time Delroy rode along with him. There was a Weeping Willow tree in the bucket of the tractor, its root ball enclosed with burlap and twine. Murton lowered the bucket next to the hole opposite the pile of dirt, shut down the engine and climbed from the operator’s seat, a small package in his hands.

“Hey Jonesy. Sandy,” he said, as he handed me the package. It was wrapped in plain white paper, the kind a butcher would use at a meat market, and tied across both ends with brown string that knotted in the middle. The paper wrapping was stiff, but the contents of the package soft and pliable. I let a question form on my face and I saw Sandy nod at Murton. “It’s the shirt your father was wearing at the bar when he was shot,” Murton said. I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you, Virg. I spent a year undercover with the Pate’s and never once looked at Amanda. I could have prevented the whole god damned thing.”

Sandy walked over and wrapped her arms around Murton and when she did, his eyes locked on mine. “It’s alright,” I said. “It’s time to let go of the past, Murt.”

I held the package against my chest, my father’s blood wasted and dry under a wrap of string and paper. I looked at Sandy. “He was telling me he loved me,” I said. “In the bar, when you came out of the bathroom. He didn’t say the words, but that’s what he was telling me.”

Murton walked over to the tractor and pulled a shovel from the side rack and stood next to the hole. Sandy and I walked over and I got down on my knees and placed my father’s bloodied shirt at the bottom of the hole. Then I stood back and watched as Sandy and Murton and Delroy wrestled the willow tree into the hole and filled the remaining space from the pile of dirt.

“Willow trees use more water than just about any other tree,” Murton said to no one. “I don’t know how I know that.” Then he looked away. I thought there was more he wanted to say, and I think Delroy thought the same thing.

“The ground water will soak tru the paper and into dat shirt, mon. Your father’s blood, it will flow tru dat tree just like it do your own heart, Virgil Jones.” I think it was the first time I had ever heard Delroy say my full name.

“It might not be much, but we had to do something,” Murton said.

Sandy sat down in the grass next to the tree, and after a few minutes, Murton and Delroy and I did too. Sandy took my hand and looked at me. “I’m sorry, baby,” she said. If I had been just a little quicker…”

I cut her off. “We agreed we weren’t going to have this discussion anymore.”

The shine in her eyes sparkled a turquoise blue, the un-felled tears caught in her lashes. “I can’t help it, Virgil. I can’t get these thoughts out of my head. My father died saving your life, and I keep thinking that surely there must be some reason things turned out this way. I was supposed to save your dad, Virgil. But I didn’t. Don’t you see that?”

“No, I don’t. Amanda was after me. When Dad yelled out, he took a bullet that was meant for me, and one that probably would have hit you. He not only saved my life, but he saved yours as well.”

“And how am I supposed to live with that, Virgil?”

“The same way I have all these years. The same way I’m still learning how to.”

“I don’t know how to do that.”

“I’ll show you,” I said. “I’ll teach you. We’ll do it together.”

Sometimes though, at night, as we lay together under the sheets, I wonder if maybe our roles aren’t reversed, if maybe it isn’t me who is being led and taught, not just by Sandy, but by those people who have held a place in my life and still rent pieces of my heart as tenants in perpetuity. And when sleep does not come as it sometimes does not, I’ll get up and walk out onto my deck and watch the moon journey across the sky, its reflection set deep in the sheen of the black-watered pond at the back of my house. I’ll stand quietly and listen to the wind hiss through the leaves on my father’s Willow tree or the dull echo of semi tires as they snap over the expansion joints out on the four-lane. The sounds surround and comfort me, ground me in some way.

And after a while I’ll go back to bed and wrap my arms around the woman I love and remind myself it probably does not matter who is the teacher and who is the student, only that we learn how to live and love along the way. God has put us here, and when our time is over God will take us away on a calendar not of our own making, but one that benefits the continued growth of our souls. Everything in between is part of a timeline we think we control, though I doubt we do. In the end I think we simply ride the rails, safe in the belief of a master plan we only witness after the fact, if ever at all.

Content

Thomas L. Scott
Voodoo Daddy

Prologue

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINTEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

EPILOGUE