by Thomas Scott
Miles held up his hands, palms out. “No argument from me. I’m just asking, is all. Speaking of asking, is Ross okay?”
Virgil gave Miles a sad sort of grin. “He says he is. Doesn’t like to be asked about it though, I can tell you that.”
Murton was ready to head home. “Anyway…we good?”
“As far as I’m concerned we are,” Miles said. Then to Virgil: “So, uh, how long am I going to be sheriff?”
“I really don’t know, Ron. The county election board will have to meet and decide when to hold a special election. Just take it one day at a time. But my guess would be not much longer. We’ll see you, huh?”
“You bet,” Miles said. “Unless that Betty woman kills me.”
Virgil and Murton went home to their wives and family, feeling like they’d done everything they could to help bring down two killers, and stop a major meth distribution ring. They spent the rest of the day helping Ross and Sarah move out of Virgil and Sandy’s house, and into Murton and Becky’s old place.
Miles, on the other hand, still had plenty of work to do. He had two active crime scenes to manage, a ton of paperwork to complete, and a dozen or so prisoners to process. It was late in the day when Henderson stuck his head into Ron’s office.
“Listen, if you don’t mind, I’m going to go grab a bite, then run over and check in on Sheriff Holden. Bring him up to date on everything that’s happened. I’ll be back later to finish up the paper.”
“No problem,” Miles said. “Give Ben my best. Thoughts and prayers and all that.”
“I will. See you in an hour or two.”
Henderson was almost out the door when Miles stopped him. “Let me ask you something…”
“Sure,” Henderson said. “What is it?”
“That barn where Dakota, Hawk, and the rest of those idiots were cooking their meth…?”
“What about it?”
“Who owns it?” Miles said. “Do you know?”
Henderson turned his head and looked away in thought. “You know what? I don’t. That thing sat out there for years…decades even, all by itself. Dakota and Hawk were probably just squatting there.”
“That’d be sort of a ballsy squat, don’t you think?”
“Maybe,” Henderson said. “Want me to get with the county clerk’s office and go over the records?”
Miles looked at the clock on the wall, then shook his head. “No. They’re already closed up. Besides, I’ve got a quicker method anyway. I’ll have the information by the time you get back…I hope.”
Miles picked up the phone and called Virgil. “I need a favor.”
“What’s up?” Virgil said.
“Henderson went over to see Holden and check in on him. Right before he left, I asked him about that barn, wanting to know who actually owned it. He said he didn’t know, and I sure as hell don’t. Apparently it’d gone unused until Hawk and Dakota started cooking out of there. I’m thinking there might be one more player in all of this. Could you have Becky do a quick search and see who the actual owner is?”
“Sure. Probably won’t take more than an hour or two. I’ll have her call you. Anything else?”
“Nope, That’ll do it. Thanks, Jonesy.”
“You bet, Ron.” He hung up, and Virgil, the guy who didn’t miss much…
Missed it.
Epilogue
With the move complete—Sarah and Ross, along with little Liv, now the proud renters of Murton and Becky’s old house—Virgil suggested that they all go out to dinner at the bar to celebrate. Everyone agreed that even though the hour was late, it was a fine idea. Virgil and Murton went home to get cleaned up, leaving Ross and Sarah to do the same.
While Virgil was waiting on Sandy to finish her hair and makeup, he grabbed a Red Stripe from the fridge and when he turned around, he found Huma standing right behind him. It scared him a little. “Jesus, Huma, you can’t sneak up on me like that.”
Huma smiled, but ignored his statement, and said, “Is everything all right?”
Virgil let a question form on his face. “As far as I know. What exactly are you referring to?”
She didn’t immediately answer. Instead, she walked over to the kitchen window and looked down toward the pond. After a few seconds, she said, “I’m not sure. It’s just a weird feeling I have. It happens sometimes. Usually it’s nothing.” She was still staring out the window.
Virgil walked over to the window, looked down toward the pond, and saw his father standing by the cross. When he looked back at Huma, he said, “What do you see down there?”
She turned away from the window and looked directly at Virgil. “I don’t think that’s the right question, Jonesy. I think the real question is, what do you see?”
Huma and Delroy’s baby, Aayla, began to cry, and before Virgil could answer her question, she leaned close and gave him a brief hug. “I’ve got to go and change my little one.” She pulled away, and as she turned to go get Aayla, she said, “I’m going to miss Sarah’s presence in this house when she’s not here at night. But I have the distinct feeling everything is exactly as it should be, whether we like it or not.”
“You wouldn’t ever leave us, would you Huma?”
She stopped, turned back toward Virgil, and said, “Wild horses, Jonesy. Wild horses.”
Virgil walked down to the pond and pulled a chair over to the cross. Mason had a look on his face that Virgil couldn’t quite describe to himself. It was an odd combination of surprise and something else. Shock, maybe? Or was it disappointment?
“How are you, Dad?”
“I’m in a place of peace, Virg. I’m hoping eventually you will be too.”
“I’m not sure what you mean. You’ve got a strange look on your face.”
“Do I?”
Virgil ignored his father’s question and said, “Can she see you? Huma?”
“I think she senses me more than she actually sees me. But that’s not really what you wanted to ask, was it?”
“I guess not.” They both remained quiet for a few moments, then Virgil said, “Are you disappointed in me, Dad?”
“Why would you ask me that?” Mason said.
“Would you please just answer the question?”
“I’ve never been disappointed in you, Virg. Not one single time in your entire life.”
“Then what is it? Is this about the case? Never mind, don’t bother answering that. It all worked out anyway.”
“Did it?” Mason said.
“Yeah, we got the killers, stopped the flow of meth, and no one else got hurt.”
Mason looked at Virgil for a full minute, as if he wasn’t sure how to respond. Eventually he said, “I have to go now, Bud. I’m being…called to do something.”
“Called to do what?”
“Stay tuned, Virg. You’re about to find out. What Huma just told you is true. If you don’t remember anything, remember that. Everything is exactly as it should be, whether you like it or not.”
Later that same night, when Henderson walked into the bar, he had to momentarily stop and let his eyes adjust to the dim environment. After a few seconds, he walked over to the bartender, and said, “I’m Undersheriff Ed Henderson out of Shelby County. I’m looking for Detective Jones.”
Delroy smiled at him, and said, “You in da right place, den, you. Welcome to Jonesy’s Rastabarian. He and Murton and their lovely wives are at dat table in the far corner having drinks. Day just finished dinner, mon. See those other two on da dance floor? Dat Sarah and Ross. Day all together. A fine looking group, no?”
Henderson nodded, a vacant look in his eyes. When he didn’t answer, Delroy said, “Let me get you a beer and you can go talk to Virgil, mon.”
“Maybe a beer and something a little stronger. It’s been one of those days.”
Delroy looked into Henderson’s eyes and said, “Everyting irie, mon?”
Henderson tipped his head. He’d never spoken to a Jamaican before, and he didn’t understand the meaning of t
he word.
“It mean, are you okay, you?”
“No, not really.”
Delroy knew it wasn’t his job to press the man. He pulled out a bottle of Red Stripe, then poured a shot of overproof rum and set them both on the bar top.
Henderson downed the shot, then reached for his wallet, but Delroy wouldn’t let him pay. “It on the house, mon. Like I said, me, Virgil Jones right over there in da back corner.”
Henderson grabbed the bottle of beer, thanked Delroy, and walked away from the bar. He made it about halfway across the room, then turned back and glanced at Delroy, who was still watching him. He gave him a tight nod, then turned and headed for Virgil’s table.
A tear escaped the corner of his eye, and he wiped it away. Then, before he knew it, he was standing right next to them. Everyone seemed to be talking at once, their faces lit with laughter and joy. Someone was talking about a fat fish. A Trout, maybe? Something like that.
Virgil saw Henderson out of the corner of his eye and said, “Ed, what the heck are you doing here?” Then before Henderson could answer, Virgil continued with, “Have a seat. Let me introduce you to my wife, Sandy, and Murton’s wife, Becky. We just finished a late dinner, and we were about to hit the dance floor, but if you’re hungry—”
Henderson shook his head. “No, thank you. I went to your house. Your nanny told me you were here and said it would be okay to come over. She seems nice.”
“She is,” Virgil said. “And you’re welcome here anytime. So, what’s up?” Then, Virgil took note of the look on Henderson’s face, the way the corners of his mouth were turned down, how his eyes were red and rimmed with moisture. What was it Ron had told him earlier in the day? Henderson was going to go over to the hospital and check in on Sheriff Holden? “Ed, is it Ben? Is he okay?”
Henderson wondered if he could do it…if he could say the words…if he had the strength, or perhaps even the will. But it had to be done. It was part of the job. “No he isn’t. I guess a clot had formed, or something. He had a major stroke.”
The table got quiet and Virgil looked away for a few seconds. “Ed, I’m sorry, I really am. How bad is it? Did the doctors give any sort of prognosis?”
Henderson’s jaw quivered as he spoke. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m not making any sense. I don’t exactly know how to explain it all.”
“Explain what?”
When Virgil heard the rest of it, for a fraction of a second, it felt like maybe he was the one having a stroke. His breath wouldn’t come, he suddenly couldn’t remember how to swallow, his vision blurred, and there was a high-pitched whine coming from somewhere inside his own head. He stood up so fast, he spilled all the drinks on the table, knocking his own chair to the floor. Then Murton was right there, his brother in his arms, a different sort of dance altogether…
Like this:
Miles said, “Thanks, Becky. Appreciate the quick work.”
“No problem. Think it means anything?”
“I’m about to find out. We braced the guy a day or so ago, and he seemed harmless enough, but if he knew what was going on out there he’s going to be in a world of hurt.”
“Okay. Good luck, I gotta go. We’re all going out to dinner tonight.”
“Lucky you,” Miles said. “Have fun.”
Becky said she would, then hung up right as Henderson walked into Miles’s office. Ron saw the look on his face and said, “What?”
“It’s Ben,” Henderson said.
“How is he?”
Henderson couldn’t seem to find the right words, and Miles knew he was struggling, so he said, “Listen, I just got the information on who owns that barn Dakota and Hawk were using. It’s Wilbur Little. I’m going to go have a talk with him right now. Come with me and you can tell me all about the sheriff.”
They talked it through all the way out to Wilbur’s house. Henderson was upset, and Miles knew the only thing he could do was to let the man work through the situation on his own terms, and in his own way. But right now they had a job to do, and Ron was set on doing it. “Let’s focus on the task at hand, and then we’ll go grab a beer or something. We can talk about it all you like, okay? From what I hear, Ben was a good guy. I’ll bet you’ve got some great stories about him.”
Henderson nodded without replying. When Ron turned the car into Wilbur’s drive, the house was dark, the curtains drawn, and the place looked abandoned.
“You sure this is his house?” Henderson asked, his voice hollow.
“Yeah, this is it. The guy’s probably passed out. He was three sheets to the wind last time I was here, and it was nowhere near happy hour. C’mon, time for a good old-fashioned cop knock.”
They started walking up to the front door, Henderson with his sidearm out and pointed down at the ground. He followed Ron, staying off to his left side. Then, when they were about halfway between the car and the house, the front door burst open, and Johnny Hawk—cranked out of his mind on meth, and balanced out by the Wild Turkey—opened up on them with the same rifle he’d used to blow the propane tank. Most of his shots were well off the mark.
Henderson returned fire until the slide on his gun locked open. Hawk fell to his knees, and dropped the gun, then rolled halfway down the front steps, his chest and throat and head a bloody mass of pulp.
And when it was over, Johnny Hawk was finally dead.
Henderson ran up and kicked the rifle away, though it really wasn’t necessary. The man was definitely gone. When he turned and looked over at Ron Miles, he saw him flat on his back, his eyes open, his pupils fixed, a single gunshot wound in the center of his forehead. He got down on the ground and sat there with him for a few minutes, his hand on Ron’s chest, the emptiness of both their hearts intertwined in a way Henderson knew he would never forget. Eventually, he keyed his microphone and made the call.
“Shot’s fired. Officer down…”
Less than a week later, Sheriffs Ben Holden and Ron Miles were both buried the same day, at the same cemetery in Shelby County. Virgil felt like every cop in the state was present, their squad cars stretching for miles in either direction of the cemetery’s entrance. The governor was there, and he gave an eloquent speech, speaking of Ron Miles’s service to the state, and Sheriff Ben Holden’s long-time service to the residents of the county.
Betty wept, openly and unashamed.
As did Virgil.
Later that night, as Virgil and Sandy were sitting outside, the boys sound asleep, Sandy took her husband’s hand and said, “Maybe you should think about taking a leave of absence for a while. Nothing permanent, unless you wanted it, of course, but a little time off might do you good.”
Virgil nodded without replying.
A few minutes later, Sandy continued with, “You’re starting to scare me a little, Virgil. You’re not speaking. You’ve barely said two words since that night at the bar when Henderson came in and told us what happened.”
Virgil nodded again without saying anything.
Sandy reached out and gently turned her husband’s face toward her own. “I mean it, Virg. I’m scared. You can’t let this destroy you. Or us, and our family.”
“I won’t.”
“Tell me what you’re thinking. Please.”
Virgil sat quietly for a long time before he answered. “The night we went out to dinner, Huma told me that she had a feeling about something. She asked me if everything was okay. I thought it was, but it wasn’t. She also told me everything is exactly as it should be, whether we like it or not. I thought she was speaking of Sarah moving out, but she wasn’t.”
“How could you know, Virgil?”
“Because my dad tried to tell me. He told me I was going to be asked to do something and I had to refuse. I’ve been quiet because I can’t seem to get out of my own head. I’ve been trying to figure out what it was.”
“Have you?”
Virgil leaned forward and put his elbows on his thighs, his face in his hands. After a moment, he looked at Sandy and
said, “I’m afraid so. It was such a small request I completely missed it. Ron called me and asked if I’d have Becky get some information for him, so I did. Then, while we were all out having the time of our lives at dinner, that information ended up getting him killed.”
“Oh, Virgil, I just don’t think that’s true. Your dad also said certain things are set in stone. As tragic and heartbreaking as it is, I think it was Ron’s time.”
“Maybe, but maybe not. I feel like I sent him to his death. I feel broken inside. Loss isn’t something that happens, like a one-off event. Loss is cumulative. It’s constant. It’s beginning to feel ever-present. It’s your mom and dad, my mom and dad, it’s my grandfather, it’s Ed and Pam Donatti, it’s Ron Miles. Loss is…”
“Loss is what, Virgil?”
Virgil knew that no matter what Mason had tried to tell him over the years, on this side of the plane, time held the winning hand as it always had, from the first shuffle of the deck to the last card sailed face-down across a table of green felt. He looked at his wife and said, “Loss is life, I guess. I can feel it. Sometimes I don’t want to. Most times in fact.”
“No one does,” Sandy said. She rested her head on Virgil’s shoulder and they sat there like that the rest of the night. Eventually the sun began to brighten the sky, the horizon of a new day dawning before them, their futures unwritten, yet still full of wonder and hope for what waited right around the corner, all on a single font of time. It was, they’d later admit to themselves, the state of life.
Thank you for reading State of Killers. If you’re enjoying the series, then there’s good news:
Virgil and the gang will be back soon in
State of Life.
Stay tuned for further information regarding the Virgil Jones Mystery Thriller and Suspense Series.
