Officer Jones (27 page)

Just like the owner, the house was unremarkable. A weathered structure balancing on wooden stilts. A red pickup truck with an attached sailboat was parked underneath. I decided to go the breaking-and-entering route once again.

I studied the house, noticing an open window on the second floor. I was in no condition to scale a wall, but gritted my teeth and managed to use crevices in the exterior to climb to the window, wincing the entire way.

Once inside, I began searching each room, emptying drawers one by one, and investigating every nook and cranny. The place was clean. No Carter. Nothing incriminating. Then I almost jumped out of my skin, startled by the ringing of my cell. It was Gwen, and her tone had completely changed.

“JP, I just received an anonymous letter from someone who claims to have Carter, and says if we don’t back off he will be killed.”

I racked my brain. I ruled out almost all of our many enemies, including Az Zahir and his buddies. There was only one true suspect.

“It’s got to be Jones,” I said.

“You mean Grady Benson?”

“I see you got my email.”

“I have the photo on my laptop right now,” she said, her voice quivering. “But if Carter was in Ocracoke like you say, and I was with Kyle … I mean Grady, the whole time. Then who…”

I continued to stand in the master bedroom, suddenly feeling a little paranoid. “Was there any point during the day that you were not with him?”

“There was only about a ten minute period when we were changing to go out on the boat. I found it strange it took so long after he was so eager to launch the boat before dark. I got the feeling that he was hiding something in his bedroom.”

“I’m in there right now,” I said. I could tell Gwen was surprised I’d broken in. I don’t know why, she’d known me since we were five.

I searched the entire room again, including under the bed and in the closet, finding nothing. If Grady Benson was smart enough to maintain an alternate identity all these years, he surely wasn’t stupid enough to leave a trail at any of his homes. What was clear, was that I needed to return to Rockfield—I knew that was where the next battle was to take place.

But before leaving, I decided that if Benson was sending messages, it wouldn’t be polite not to return the favor. I tossed all his clothing on the floor and threw a chair through the sliding glass door. I departed through the gaping hole and down the front steps.

It made me feel good. I finally realized it’s better to get things out into the open. Keeping things inside just builds resentment and hard feelings.

Chapter 64

I drove to the airfield, where I was told no flights were available. When I offered a pilot a couple of grand for a trip, with my vehicle to be used as collateral, suddenly a flight opened up. Funny how that works.

Two hours later I arrived at Oxford Airport, a small, private airport near Rockfield. Gwen greeted me with a long hug that surprised me. When we finally pulled away from the embrace, she capped off the intimate moment by letting me know that I didn’t smell good. She had a point—I hadn’t changed clothes or showered since Friday morning.

As we walked toward her van, I breathed in the cool air of New England autumn. A sharp contrast from the mild Carolina temperatures.

“Where is your cane?” she asked

“I decided I didn’t need it anymore, so I gave it to Byron.”

“Did your doctor also decide that?”

My silence answered her question, and she shook her head as if I was a lost cause.

Once in the van, Gwen handed me the typed letter. It didn’t shed any new light on the situation.

“Do you think Benson knows we’re onto him? Because if he did—then why let me return? Why not push me over the side of the boat and claim an accident?”

I think I started having stroke-like symptoms. What if she hadn’t answered my call? I couldn’t go there right now, so I put forth a different theory, “Perhaps he isn’t sure about our involvement and is trying to test us by seeing how we react to the letter.”

Her crinkled face said she wasn’t buying it. And she was right. Benson knew by going after Carter he was going nuclear. This move was not meant to be subtle. We were getting too close and he was the first to blink.

I was never short on theories. “He’s sending a message, but think back to Casey Leeds and the fires, where he covered his tracks with an alibi. Perhaps he’s doing the same thing here. So he can lure us, eliminate us both, and nobody could connect him to taking Carter.”

“I still don’t know how he was able to do it. Do you think he has a partner?”

“I doubt it,” I said. I hadn’t thought about the partner angle until Christina brought it up. I was quick to dismiss it at the time, but with the current situation I felt it required further review.

But I ruled it out again. “He’s working alone.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Ever hear of the fable of the Fox and the Hedgehog?”

“I think you’re forgetting that any class you passed in school was with my help.”

“Then I’m sure you remember that the Greek poet Archilochus used the fox and hedgehog as a metaphor to support his belief that human beings are categorized into two types. The hedgehog is symbolic of those who have one central vision of reality. Their existence is completely shaped by that vision.”

“And a fox has a sense that reality is too complex to try fit it into one central vision. What does this have to do with anything?”

“Benson is a hedgehog. His central vision is that it’s his destiny to eradicate the ills of drunk driving—he has a messianic view of himself. And most people I’ve met with such a divine sense of their work, tend not to like to share the credit. No partner.”

“Then where do you think the real Kyle Jones is?”

My look turned grim.

“I thought so, too,” she replied in a soft voice.

Our destination was the small building on Main Street that housed the
Rockfield Gazette
. The only employee present on the late Monday afternoon was Murray. As usual, he was typing away on his 1950s black typewriter, writing his weekly editorial.

Murray was all business, and didn’t spare anything beyond a pleasant greeting. Gwen and I went to her office—a desk adjacent to the one where Murray typed away. This was not the
New York Globe
by any stretch of the imagination. She moved to a dry erase board tacked to the wall behind her desk and began scribbling. We were the foxes, filled with complex questions, but not a lot of definite answers.

As if our mentor was sending subliminal reminders from across the room, we first went back to the beginning to try to decipher the ending. To the best of our knowledge, it began when a drunk driver killed Grady Benson’s parents in 1989. We didn’t have the name of the driver, due to state laws protecting juveniles, but we researched suspicious deaths in the Redmond, Washington area on Benson’s preferred holiday for killing. One that caught my interest occurred on July 4, 1991, when a Phillip Tompkins mowed down five college students at a cul-de-sac party, in what was thought to be an accident. All victims were reportedly acquaintances, and all were intoxicated at the time of the accident. But what most interested me was that they all would have been juveniles when Benson’s parents were killed.

But we had no evidence that linked Benson. In fact, we had no real connection between him and any suspicious death until July 4, 1996, when Leonard Harris drowned at Lake Havasu. And the only link was that he was there, as were a hundred others. Not exactly incriminating evidence.

We were confident that Benson killed the real Kyle Jones around May of 1998. The next month, Benson bought the beach house in Ocracoke using Jones’ identity. But then our trail went dry until he arrived in Rockfield.

Gwen studied the board. “Okay, let’s leave Real Jones out of it for now. The common thread is that all were involved in alcohol related incidents, resulting in death, and in each case the perpetrator received a light sentence.”

She thought for a second, and then added, “He seems to have a thing for July 4, the anniversary of his parents’ accident. But Noah’s murder throws a wrench into that theory.”

“It was an anniversary though—it was two years to the day of the accident.” I let out a frustrated sigh. “But we can’t tie any of these killings to Benson, because we can’t even prove that any of them were murders. Leonard Harris’ death was listed as accidental. Noah committed suicide, and the police shot Leeds. And there was no foul play suspected in the Phillip Tompkins accident.”

Gwen looked equally frustrated. Our earlier hopefulness now seemed premature. The most we had on the guy was identity theft.

Murray finished his typing and started for the door. “Good night, fellow journalists.”

We came up for air to wish him a pleasant evening. He mentioned that he was in a hurry, hoping not to be late for his great-granddaughter’s dance recital.

Murray did have one piece of advice for us, “If you don’t mind my butting in, I think you need to answer why he came to Rockfield. His killings are symbolic, so there must be a symbol here. The alcohol related incidents of Noah and Casey Leeds occurred after his arrival, so they couldn’t be the reason he graced us with his presence. And while they are both tragic, neither case seems to fulfill his visions of grandeur. He strikes me as a big game hunter, and there must be a very large critter in Rockfield that he wants to hang over his mantle.

“But once you decipher his reason for coming, don’t get stuck trying to understand his past. You can’t bring Noah or anyone else back, but you can stop the next one. Too many dwell on the past, and they get stuck there. Always look toward the future, my fellow journalists.”

With that pearl of wisdom, Murray smiled, placed his fedora on his head, and left for the evening.

Gwen and I looked at each other. He could have just as easily been talking about our relationship. Maybe he was.

When the door closed behind him, Gwen looked at me strangely and asked, “What are you smiling at?”

“He called me a journalist.”

“He’s getting old. Sometimes he gets confused.”

I kept smiling as I glanced at my watch. “I better go. I have an early start tomorrow.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m flying to Arizona. I plan to talk to the police chief in Gilbert, along with anyone who might have been on that boat the night Leonard Harris died. Then I’m going to Seattle to find out about Benson’s parents, and see if it’s connected to this Phillip Tompkins accident.”

I was surprised she didn’t declare that she was coming with me. I kind of hoped she would. To keep her safe, of course. “I will trail Benson while you’re gone. My guess is that he’ll lead me to Carter,” she replied, catching me off guard.

“Oh no you don’t. Do you know how dangerous that is, Gwen?”

“Thank you for your concern, Dad, but why don’t you quit while you’re only slightly behind.”

I knew I wasn’t going to win the battle—again—so I decided to take her advice … for now. But despite the tough front, I could tell that the Carter letter had affected her. I noticed her hands shaking.

“Why don’t you stop by tonight and let me make you dinner. Knowing you, you’ll be so focused on the task at hand that you’ll forget to eat. And besides, Dad and Tommy would love to see you,” she offered.

She left out the part about feeling safer with someone else there, especially with her father not in peak physical condition. But it didn’t take away from the fact that those were the words I’d been waiting to hear for so many years.

Just because I’m difficult, I acted like it would be a hardship to rearrange my schedule, before finally agreeing. We then locked up the office and headed back to the past, but looking toward the future.

Chapter 65

Gwen stirred a spattering tomato sauce with the help of Tommy, who stood on a stool, wearing an apron that was about five times too big for him. After an overdue hot shower, I changed into a
Delaney Construction
T-shirt and a pair of jeans, borrowed from her father.

The four of us then ate dinner together at the kitchen table. Everybody knew this was the way it should have been, but nobody brought it up. The adults were quiet, while Tommy made loud sucking sounds as he slurped the spaghetti into his mouth.

After dinner, a group effort of cleaning dishes took place, in which, predictably, I was the only one to break a plate. Soon after, Mr. Delaney ordered Tommy to his room to do his homework. Then a half hour after Tommy’s departure, Mr. Delaney called it a day for himself, leaving Gwen and I to struggle with the awkward alone time.

We sat at the table with a bottle of Pinot and a lot of memories. I noticed her hands were still shaking as she lifted her wine glass.

“It’s going to be okay, Gwen,” I attempted to comfort.

She forced a smile. When I peered into her beautiful green eyes, I saw a look I hadn’t seen in a long time. She’d let down the wall, exposing a fragility, but also her firm resolve. It reminded me of the pleasant past.

She poured me another glass of wine. In doing so, she got close enough for me to become intoxicated by her perfume. It sent my memories back to prom night. Dancing to our song—“Never Say Goodbye” by Bon Jovi. I was just glad we never had the opportunity to say goodbye.

“It’s going to be okay,” I said again, this time with more conviction.

Gwen didn’t seem so sure. She took another gulp of wine and looked across the table at me.

“Something on your mind?” I asked.

“When you took the full-time job at GNZ, you told me if you ever got my call in the middle of the night you’d be right by my side, no matter where you were in the world. It took you a while, but you kept your word, JP Warner.”

I smiled, then took a glance at the clock in the kitchen. “I should be going.”

“You better stay a little while longer—with all the wine we’ve had, I don’t want Officer
Grady Benson
to lock you up and throw away the key.”