Maybe there’s hope for me yet.
Mia
Though it took Paul about a year to heal from the fall and the multiple concussions he suffered, he claimed to be just fine long before that. As for me, I was fully recovered after a few months—physically that is. I spent the next year attempting to put my personal life back in order; not that it had completely fallen apart, but I did lose a girlfriend and some of the respect of my two kids for falling for the Maureen/Olga con. They denied it, but I knew better.
Since there was nothing left for me in Tennessee, I decided to sell the house in Franklin and return to New York. It’s where my children were, and like my daughter, Charlotte, once said to me: “Home is where there is someone who loves you.”
As for Charlie Malone, he was more than happy to return to the life of a crusty old man with nothing more to look forward to than therapy sessions with an attractive psychologist for a PTSD condition that he never had to begin with.
But I, however, had other plans for him.
In December of 2018, I closed on a house in my hometown of Merrick, Long Island, and set up a trust fund with enough money in it to pay the real estate taxes and utility bills on the home for the next twenty years. The beneficiary of the trust: Charlie Malone.
It was a two-bedroom ranch with a rear patio, an outdoor gas barbeque, and a large backyard. The inside did need some minor alterations (I called them ‘design changes’) to suit the unique characteristics of its newly entrusted inhabitant—like ramps and widened interior doorways for easy wheelchair access and navigation.
In short, after all was said and done, it was perfect for him. But without even asking, I knew what Charlie wanted more than anything in the world.
He wanted to stand up and walk again.
Which brought me to ‘Phase II’ of the Charlie Malone project: Getting him fitted for a pair of prosthetic legs. As expected, he resisted at first. But the more he said he didn’t want them, the more I knew that he did. Either way, this man had saved my life, and I wasn’t taking no for an answer.
I bought him two pair, which, with therapy and training, he easily adapted to.
Cleaned up—hair trimmed, face shaved, dressed up and out on the town—you would never know that he was standing on artificial limbs.
Then came the biggest surprise of all—the wedding.
On July 27, 2019, Charlie Malone married a sixty-two-year-old waitress he had met in a Peruvian restaurant in Mineola, Long Island. And after having had dinner with them on numerous occasions, I was able to witness firsthand how genuine her love and affection for him really was. As a result, I was only too happy to give Charlie my wholehearted blessing, and it touched me to my core how much it mattered to him. That tough, cantankerous curmudgeon—who growled at everyone from his wheelchair—turned out to be one big (at six-foot two-inches) teddy bear in the presence of his lovely bride. The man who gave his legs for his country, risked his life for Paul and me, and would not quit until we put an end to the horror in Cartersville, New York, had finally found happiness in a world that had sold him terribly short. And no one deserved it more. Charlie was, and still is, an American hero—my hero—and a great man.
August 24, 2019.
New York Harbor.
The view from the penthouse deck of the cruise ship is nothing short of breathtaking—a vacation gift from John and Charlotte “for no special reason,”—or so they claimed. They wanted me to get away. But I knew better. They wanted us to get away as a family.
Though I have grown closer to my son and daughter with my return to New York—and have a new granddaughter to fuss over—when I’m alone at night, that unrelenting sinking feeling returns. Maybe that’s why I went down into that tunnel, knowing in my mind and heart that nothing good was waiting for me there.
But even when I was certain I was going to die—whether it was a death that would come quickly or slowly at the hands of a monster—deep down I wanted to live, even if it was in a world without my Eleanor. A world without the deep, abiding love of the life partner I adored. And though the happiness my children and their families bring sustains me, they have their own lives, and I must have mine. I just need to stop feeling sorry for myself, (I hate that I sometimes still feel sorry for myself.) I also need to stop feeling sad. But with each successive day that passes with Cartersville behind me I am imbued with a greater sense of hope. And it’s that hope, however fleeting it may be sometimes, that makes me believe that there is still something worth living for—like a light in the offing beckoning me onward.
If I garnered anything from Mia and her alters, maybe it was that.
It is on this same special day that Mia begins her freshman orientation at New York University in Downtown Manhattan. Her dorm room is on Fifth Avenue and 10th Street in the same building that was once Mark Twain’s personal residence. Though she has not yet selected a major, I’m expecting it will be journalism, given her close personal relationship with Lauren, whom she now resides with—something I couldn’t be happier about.
Though Charlie and I have been anxious to see more of Mia—and I’m told she feels the same way—since we are vivid reminders of Cartersville, her new psychiatrist has recommended we keep it to a minimum for the time being. And although alternate personalities creep in and out of Mia’s psyche on occasion, it is becoming less frequent. Consequently, we are hopeful that we will be able to see more of her as time passes. Until then, Lauren will continue to keep us updated on her health and well-being—and I rest easy knowing that Mia has a champion caretaker, mentor, and best friend. The two have become nothing short of inseparable since Beatrice Langley’s death. And considering the tragedy that befell Lauren’s sister, I couldn’t have hoped for a better ending for Lauren, and an even better beginning for her and Mia.
As for Mia…she is brilliant. She is kind. She is a beautiful young woman in every way, who now not only has Lauren, but also Charlie and me as a support system. Together or apart, none of us will ever let anything bad happen to her again.
As our ship leaves New York Harbor—my eight-month-old granddaughter in my arms—Charlotte and John alongside me on the penthouse deck—I get a text from Charlie.
Our little girl is little no more. I bought her an NYU sweatshirt. Can’t wait to see her.
I give my granddaughter a kiss, pass her to her father, and text back. We’ll get to soon enough. So proud. Two proud uncles we are.
Charlotte, John, and my sweet Eleanor (her grandmother’s namesake), soon return to their staterooms. Left alone with my thoughts, I lean on the deck rail and marvel at the expanse of the Hudson River and its connecting shores, while a tugboat nearby shoots a cone of river at the sun—a salute to our passing ship and New York City’s glittering undaunted skyline.
We pass the Freedom Tower shining like a pristine rocket poised to launch unscathed into a cloudless sky. And I am awed by it, until it is gone from sight along with the tip of Lower Manhattan and its harbor of countless untold stories that swell inside me like a melancholy dream.
And I can’t help but wonder what ran through the minds of those Dutch sailors who first lay claim to a trading post there—their sense of unwavering adventure, their daring, their bravery at confronting F. Scott’s ‘fresh, green breast of the New World.’
The ship continues past Ellis Island, Brooklyn, Staten Island, and New Jersey until it gently coasts under the Verrazano Bridge, but it is the vision of the singular majesty of the Statute of Liberty, beckoning those who dare challenge its shores that stays with me long after the city and all its monuments and symbols of struggle and achievement are left behind, and long after our ship meets the endless bounty of the ocean—content in the knowledge that when we return—freedom and hope will, as ever, be there long after...
Thank you for reading The Criminal Mind. I certainly hope you enjoyed it. I welcome your reviews, so please post on Amazon as you wish.<
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God bless you all. T.B.
Thanks to my first draft readers: Maria Tullo, Bruce Ferber, Peter McIntosh, and Kathy Gurrieri. Many thanks to my editor and story consultant, Anne Brewer, whose brilliance on this one I could have not done without, Diana Benigno, my supporting editor and initial copy editor, and Jonathan Baker, my final copy editor on all my novels, including this one. Thanks to my friends and family for their continued support, A tremendous note of thanks to my readers. I try my best to write books I can be proud of, but, make no mistake about it—I write them for you and only you. Once again, to my children for their love and tolerance. And most of all, to my wife, Angie, “God only knows what I’d be without you.” –Brian Wilson/Tony Asher.
Thomas Benigno is a former trial attorney with the Criminal Defense Division of the NYC Legal Aid Society. Over the years he has dabbled as a Broadway producer and actor, while continuing in the private practice of law.
He is author of the international bestsellers:
The Good Lawyer at: http://amzn.to/2drvzPI and
The Criminal Lawyer at: https://amzn.to/3a2OdfI
Audiobooks of his novels, including this one, are available on Audible.com.
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