State of Life: A Mystery Thriller Novel (Virgil Jones Book 12)

by Thomas Scott

The governor very quickly and quite unceremoniously moved back to his chair and sat down. “I see the prospects of a week in Jamaica has someone feeling better already. I think your wife is waiting for you.”

  Virgil took the hint and moved toward the door.

  The governor called out to him at the last second. “Hey, Jonesy?”

  Virgil stopped and turned, “Yeah, Mac?”

  The governor opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. They looked at each other until the governor broke eye contact.

  “I get it, Mac. Thank you. I’ll be fine. See you in a week, huh?”

  Chapter Five

  Virgil and Murton went home to pack, and an hour later, Baker turned into the drive with Sandy and Becky. They brought the limo so there’d be plenty of room for anyone who wanted to ride along to the airport to say goodbye. As it happened, everyone did.

  With Baker’s help, Huma and Sarah got the kids loaded up and buckled in while Sandy and Becky inspected their husbands’ luggage. Murton had a small leather carry bag that looked like it was made from the hide of an exotic bird found only in the northern Horn of Africa.

  Virgil had a green canvas duffle with a mustard stain on the side and a frayed drawstring the color of dirt. Sandy looked at the bag and simply said, “No.”

  “What?” Virgil said. “It’s just a bag. Who cares?”

  “C’mon, inside,” Sandy said. “This will only take a minute.” To everyone else, she said, “Wait here. We’ll be right out.”

  Sandy led her husband back to the master suite, and Virgil began loosening the string on his bag. “I still don’t see what the big deal is,” Virgil said. He had his back to Sandy. “I’m not trying to impress anyone with my luggage.”

  “What are you doing?” Sandy said.

  “I’m unpacking. Would you grab the suitcase out of the closet for me?”

  “Virgil?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Virgil?”

  Virgil turned around and saw that Sandy had stripped out of her dress. She stood there with her hands on her hips, wearing absolutely nothing at all. “I don’t want you to unpack,” Sandy said. Then she pushed him back on the bed, climbed on top of him, and said, “I want you to impress me. And you better make it quick before someone comes looking for us.”

  Ten minutes later—because Virgil was quick—they were back outside and ready to go. Murton looked at Virgil’s duffle bag, took note of Sandy’s slightly disheveled hair, opened his mouth to say something, and got punched in the arm by Becky. “Shut up,” she said.

  Murton tipped his head at his wife and said, “Well, if I’d have known there was going to be time to repack…”

  Becky kissed him on the cheek. “It’s only a week, baby. I think you’ll survive. We’ll repack when you get back home.”

  As they were climbing into the limo, Virgil looked at Murton and said, “What? The suitcase had a broken handle.” He tossed the duffle in the back and they were off.

  When they arrived at the Million-Air facility at the Indianapolis Airport, the gate slid open and Baker drove right up next to the Bombardier Global 6500 jet. Becky looked out the window and said, “Nichole sure likes to travel in style, doesn’t she?”

  “Looks exactly like the last plane we were on when we came back from dealing with Brenner,” Murton said. Roje Brenner had been a drug kingpin on the island, and a few years ago when Nichole needed their help, Virgil and the entire MCU had flown down and taken care of business.

  “I think it is,” Virgil said. “We should be down there in time for a late lunch.”

  They all piled out of the limo, then Virgil and Murton spent a few minutes saying goodbye to everyone. Virgil got down on his knees and hugged his boys, promised them he’d call, and generally tried to make up for his behavior over the last few months in the span of ninety seconds. He kissed Sandy goodbye a second time, told her he loved her, and that he’d see her soon.

  Sandy grabbed his T-shirt, bunched it in her fist, looked Virgil in the eyes, and said, “I love you too. Do whatever it takes, but bring my husband back.”

  “I will. I promise.”

  Ten seconds later, Virgil and Murton were on board, and the door was closed. Fifteen minutes after that they were in the air, and once past the 250-knot speed restriction of ten thousand feet, everyone settled in and rode comfortably at nearly the speed of sound.

  Virgil looked at Nichole and said, “So, you and Mac?”

  Nichole just smiled.

  Virgil had been right. They did arrive in time for a late lunch. When Nichole walked them into the guest house, her chef was ready and waiting, just putting together the final touches of their meal. Once that was done, he and Nichole left the men to eat and relax. As she was walking out the door, Nichole said, “Virgil, you know the phones and all that. I’ll let you explain everything to Murton. Anything you need, just let us know. Wu said he might stop in tomorrow morning and say hello…among other things.” Then she was gone.

  The guest house wasn’t new to Virgil—he and Sandy had stayed there before—but it was the first time Murton had ever seen the place. He spent a few minutes looking around, then turned to Virgil and said, “You know, being your brother does have its advantages.”

  Virgil let that go and said, “What do you think Nichole meant about Wu?”

  Murton shrugged. “Beats me. She said he wanted to come down and say hello.”

  “She also said, ‘among other things,’” Virgil said. “What’s that about?”

  “You’re asking the wrong guy. C’mon, let’s eat. Look at the size of those lobsters.” Murton opened the fridge and said, “Want a beer?” Then he turned and glanced at the liquor cabinet. “Wow. This place is stocked better than our bar.”

  “I’ll be sure and let Delroy know your feelings on the subject. And yeah, I’ll take a beer.”

  Murton cracked the tops on two bottles of Red Stripe, then said, “What did she mean about the phones?”

  Virgil explained: “Your cell phone won’t work down here, even if you have the international plan. Don’t ask me why. There are satellite phones on the table behind you. There’s a blue phone in the kitchen without a keypad. It rings directly to the head chef. Someone is on duty in the kitchen twenty-four hours a day, and all you have to do is pick it up and let them know what you’d like to eat. The phone over by the sofa rings to the main house. Why are you looking at me like that?”

  Murton held up his fork in a wait-a-minute gesture, chewed, then swallowed a bite of lobster. “Oh man, I might be in heaven. I mean, I love Becky with my whole heart, but now I’m sort of hoping it’ll take more than a week to get your head straight.”

  After they finished their meal, Murton grabbed a bottle of over-proof rum, two glasses, and both men walked outside next to the pool. They stripped out of their shirts, poured themselves a drink, and stared out at the hills and the ocean beyond.

  “I’ll tell you something,” Murton said, “this place, this way of life, it could be habit-forming, and I’ve only been here for a couple of hours.”

  Virgil nodded without responding.

  Murton tried again. “I can see why you come down here almost every year. I’m half surprised you ever make it back.”

  Another nod.

  Murton let a few minutes drift away to wherever drifting minutes tend to go, then said, “Talk to me, man. It’s why we’re here.”

  Virgil topped off his drink without responding.

  Murton wasn’t a quitter, though, and he kept pressing. “I want to tell you something, Virgil, and I need you to hear me.”

  Virgil turned and looked at his brother.

  “Over the last few months, the way you’ve been struggling with Ron’s death…I get it. I really do. Hell, I feel the same way.”

  “Except you’re not the one who screwed up and sent the man to his own execution.”

  “Look, this is going to sound crass, or whatever, but the man went out happy, on top, doing what he wanted to do.
You arranged for him to be sheriff, and I don’t think he was ever happier than he was right there, at that moment, doing his thing. But you know what? None of that really matters until you decide to get your balls out and tell the rest of the story.”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “It means that if you want to you’ll work your way past Ron’s death and any part you think you played in it, but only if you’re willing to tell yourself the truth. The whole truth.” Virgil started to respond, but Murton put his hand up. “Tell me about your last conversation.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m asking. Because I’m trying to help.”

  “He said he needed a favor and asked if I’d have Becky look up the owner—”

  “Stop it,” Murton said. A little bite in his voice.

  “Stop what? I’m trying to answer your question.”

  Murton jabbed a finger at his brother. “That’s not the question I’m asking and you damned well know it. We all miss Ron. It’s sad. It’s tragic. It can’t be changed. But if I had to put a number to it, I’d say that’s only half of the equation, at best. Now, answer the fucking question.”

  Virgil looked at his brother for a long time before he spoke. “It was before we all went out to dinner that night. He told me he was in a place of peace, and he hoped that I’d ultimately get there too. He had this look on his face, one I don’t believe I’ve ever seen before. At first I thought it was shock, but then I landed on something else. I asked him if he was disappointed in me.”

  “And what’d he tell you?” Murton said.

  “He said that he’d never been disappointed in me. Not one single time in my entire life. Then I pressed him and asked if it was about the case, but I wouldn’t let him answer. I told him to forget it or something because it all worked out. He stared at me hard…I mean hard, Murt, then he said he had to go…that he was being called to do something.”

  “What was it?”

  Virgil shook his head, then put his face in his hands. “Murt, my dad…our dad, he’s left me and I think I know why.”

  This time it was Murton who remained quiet for a beat. Eventually, he said, “Tell me.”

  “He told me I was going to be asked to do something and I had to refuse.”

  “I know that,” Murton said.

  “Yeah, except I didn’t refuse, and now Ron is dead, and my dad is gone. What if I never see him again? The whole thing is tearing me up inside.”

  They skipped dinner, drank too much, talked off and on, argued about things that didn’t really matter, and even had the brief, occasional laugh. Murton thought he might have made some progress, but he knew it was too soon to tell. Eventually, the day caught up with him, and as the stars twinkled in time with the lights scattered across the hillside, he told Virgil he was going to bed. When he didn’t get a response, he looked over and noticed that his brother was asleep. He went inside, grabbed a blanket, and covered him up.

  Once he was alone in his room, Murton did something he rarely did. He asked for Mason’s help. If there was any kind of response, he didn’t hear it.

  Chapter Six

  YEARS AGO:

  As the killer drove home—he lived in Prospect, Indiana, just north of the Lost River—he kept his speed limit where it belonged and let his mind wander. He wouldn’t be going directly to his house in town. He’d go to his other place…a plot of land northeast of Highway 56. There, he kept a modest two-bedroom hunting cabin tucked neatly into the woods, not visible from the road. When he found the land, he couldn’t afford it at the time, but he managed to talk his father into buying it, and he made the payments to him. He worked hard on the property, tearing down the ancient farmhouse that had long ago gone to seed, then building a new cabin in its place. The cabin was meant for his father with the hope that maybe one day he’d move a little closer…or perhaps even move in permanently, but that had never happened. The old man didn’t want to hunt or be out in nature. He wanted to sit around in his big empty house in French Lick, all by himself, and do nothing but drink.

  Except the old man’s house wasn’t exactly empty. The truth was, it was stuffed to the gills with high-end furnishings that were probably valued in the hundreds of thousands, stacks of bearer bonds in the safe worth nearly a half million, and roll after roll of Canadian Maple Leaf gold coins valued at almost two million, give or take, depending on the market. The old man had done well for himself over the years, and the killer knew it. The problem was, so did his siblings.

  Thus, the cabin. But no matter how hard he pushed the idea, his father wouldn’t budge, so now he was reduced to stopping by and visiting with the old man every few days. It was a pain in the ass, but also a necessity because his sister—rotten bitch that she was—lived in West Baden Springs, which was a bit closer to French Lick, and she’d go over twice a day…once in the morning to check on him, then once in the evening to take him his dinner. It made the killer sick. She was working the old man for his money, and the cranky old coot seemed to be buying into the whole enchilada.

  If the killer didn’t know better—and he wasn’t completely sure he didn’t—he thought she might be blowing the old man to keep him happy and satisfied. She’d do anything to get her hands on the money.

  The killer’s mother had died of cancer exactly nine years ago today. He shook his head at the thought of how time flew by. After she died, everyone knew—though no one said anything—that it really wasn’t cancer that took her…it was the old man’s emotional and mental abuse that finally took her down. It caused her body to turn on itself, to wither and die as a means of escape from the horrors of her everyday life.

  And that, he thought, was why he took the girls. Something had snapped inside him the day he lost his mom. He felt the need to somehow save someone so they’d never have to experience what his mother had been forced to endure. He’d do it in her honor.

  It took him a full year to plan and prepare for the first one. He’d done everything exactly right, and on the anniversary of his mother’s death, he took his first. But the taking wasn’t enough. He had to explain to the girls what he was doing and why. He had to let them know that there were monsters everywhere, men who would physically and mentally abuse them for no reason other than the fact that they couldn’t conquer their own demons without ripping themselves apart…something none of them seemed able to accomplish. He had to explain that he was actually saving them from a life of pain, misery, and suffering.

  As a child, he’d done everything right. He kept the old man off his mother, kept him preoccupied and as happy as he could. He became a pleaser. But it was never enough. His work was never done. He was a savior, and so he did what he’d always done. It was what was expected of him. Unspoken, but expected, still.

  He was, after all, the golden boy of the family.

  Don Whittle.

  Guidance counselor.

  Coach.

  Killer.

  He turned into the drive and made his way back through the tree line, and when he pulled around to the rear of the cabin, he saw his sister, Karen, leaning against her car. He swore under his breath, parked by the detached garage, got out, and said, “What’s going on? Is Dad okay?”

  Karen waved him off like it was a stupid question. “Yeah, yeah. Not getting any better, but right now he’s okay. Blood pressure is up, he won’t take the meds…says they give him headaches. Plus the doc told him he couldn’t drink if he takes the pills. Even with all that, knowing our luck, the bastard will probably outlive us both.”

  “Hate to see that happen,” Don said. “Sam would get everything.”

  Karen bared her teeth. “Fuck Sam, the hotshot writer. He thinks he’s king shit because he sells a few novels. He lives less than a half-mile from Dad, and I don’t think the two of them have spoken in over two years. At least that’s what Dad tells me.”

  “What does Sam tell you?”

  “Almost the exact same thing, but I haven’t seen him in a while, m
yself. Plus, you know how it was with those two. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a father more disappointed with a child, or a child more disgusted with a parent.”

  “Look who’s talking,” Don said. “It wasn’t exactly a cakewalk for you, the way I remember it.”

  Karen seemed to soften. “No, it wasn’t. But it wasn’t all bad, either. You remember that, don’t you?”

  “What? You’re talking about Christmas? They were all a joke.”

  Karen pointed a finger at him. “They were not.”

  Don actually laughed. “Yeah, Karen, they were. Don’t you remember how extravagant everything was? How there were so many presents on Christmas we had to take breaks while we were still opening everything? And the way Dad would make everyone wait and watch while one of us unwrapped a gift? We had to do it one at a time. It was almost sick. The gifts weren’t for us. They were for him, so he could feel like king for a day.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “Yeah, it is. If it’s not, then answer this: How could the man spend the other 364 days of the year beating us to a pulp—physically, emotionally, mentally—then one day…one fucking day, he’d shower us with the most expensive gifts he could find? Or how about this: The way he’d get drunk and make a big speech about how much it all cost? What about all that?”

  “It was just his way,” Karen said.

  “It was bullshit, is what it was. A bullshit way of apologizing. And guess what? It didn’t work. Don’t you remember the way mom would always say she was sorry each time one of us opened a present? Sorry? What kind of way is that to give someone a gift. She wasn’t sorry about the presents. She was sorry about the way we were abused all year long, except on that one magical day when everything was right with our world, even though it wasn’t. That’s why she was always apologizing.”

  “He got her a lot of nice stuff, too,” Karen said.