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

by Thomas Scott

  “What is it?”

  “Come. Wu show you.”

  They walked from the guest house, turned out on the road, and began climbing the hill that would take them up to the Brenner estate—a property now owned by the Popes. When they arrived, Virgil noticed that Brenner’s house had been demolished, and the grounds had been turned into a park with a large community garden.

  “It is beautiful, no?”

  Virgil had to agree. It was almost artistic in nature. There were all sorts of tropical plants and flowers, fruits and vegetables, a large recreational area, shade trees with park benches, and a cement path that snaked its way through the various sections of the park.

  “It is beautiful, Wu. Looks nothing like the last time I saw it.” Then he got suspicious. “I’m not here to pull weeds or something, am I?”

  Wu shrugged. “You may, if you wish, though I do not believe you will find many.”

  “Then why are we here?” Virgil said.

  Wu shook his head. “Not we. You. Wu is leaving now.”

  “I don’t understand,” Virgil said. “You told me I had one more thing to do.”

  “You do.”

  “So what is it?”

  “You tell me,” Wu said. Then he reached into his pocket, pulled out a Pond apple and tossed it to Virgil before walking away.

  Virgil followed the path down the hill toward the back of the property. The only things that remained of Brenner’s presence were the small table and chairs next to the two Pond apple trees. Years ago, Delroy and Robert had buried Delroy’s girlfriend and their infant child after a series of tragic events, then planted the trees above their graves.

  Virgil sat down on one of the chairs, the shade of the trees blocking out the sun. A plate of fresh fruit had been set out on the table—by whom, Virgil didn’t know. A small cooler filled with ice and bottles of water sat between the chairs. Virgil set the apple on the table, popped a bite of fruit into his mouth, opened a bottle of water, then wondered what, exactly he was supposed to do, other than eat breakfast by himself.

  “I see you’re back amongst the living,” Nichole said. She came out from behind the trees and sat down with an apple of her own.

  “Jesus, Nichole, you scared the hell out of me.”

  She placed the apple on the table and said, “Sorry.” She gestured at the fruit on the table, and said, “I wanted to bring you a bite to eat and see how you’re doing.”

  Virgil stood and pulled the other chair into position for her. “Have a seat.” He grabbed a bottle of water from the cooler, handed it to Nichole, and said, “I was beginning to wonder if I was going to see you at all this week.”

  Nichole laughed, and said, “If you’d been paying attention, you’d have seen me plenty of times.”

  Virgil raised an eyebrow at her.

  “You really shouldn’t do that,” Nichole said. “Anyway, I’ve been watching you all week.”

  “What? When?”

  “Everywhere, Jonesy. I was the old lady you waved to every day when you made the turn at the end of the road while jogging. I bussed tables with you at the catering event. I was the one who delivered the engine parts when you guys were working on the scooters. I also drove the truck and delivered the shingles for the roof. You signed the delivery form I handed you…like that. A girl’s gotta stay sharp.”

  Nichole’s ability to disguise herself was almost legendary. “I’m impressed,” Virgil said. “And I think you can rest easy. You’re as good as you ever were.”

  “Thank you. So, what do you think of our little park?”

  “It’s gorgeous. You guys took a place that represented the worst this island had to offer and turned it into something beautiful. There’s just one thing I don’t understand.”

  Nichole cocked her head at him. “What’s that?”

  “Where the heck is everyone? I thought the place would be packed.”

  “It will be soon. But I’ve arranged to let you have it to yourself this morning for a little while.”

  “Why?”

  Nichole stood, and said, “I’ll be going now.” Then she bent down, kissed Virgil lightly on the cheek, and said, “And you’re right, this place is beautiful. Some might even say magical.”

  Virgil watched her walk away, thinking about the first time he’d ever met the woman, and how at the end of the investigation he’d told her he hoped to never see her again. And now, here he was, counting himself among those who called her a friend…and a good one at that, even though he’d shot and killed her father over twenty-five years ago.

  “Makes you wonder about the state of life, sometimes, doesn’t it, Son?”

  Virgil had been so caught up in his own thoughts as he watched Nichole walk away, he didn’t notice his father had taken a seat in the other chair. He felt the weight on his heart leave him as if someone had just removed a boulder from his chest. “Dad…I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.” His voice trembled when he spoke.

  “Why not?” Mason said. He was bare-chested, as usual, a bar towel thrown over his shoulder. The scar where the bullet had punched through his chest and cost him his life was pink and fresh as if the wound had healed only days ago. He popped a piece of fruit into his mouth and gave his son a good-natured smile.

  “It’s been over three months,” Virgil said.

  “Has it?”

  “Dad…”

  Mason winked at him. “Okay, fair enough. I just wanted to make sure we didn’t have to recap the whole time issue…again.”

  “Why did you leave me? It was tearing me up inside.”

  “I never left you, Virg. Not once. I’ve been with you all along. It’s my blood that runs through the rivers of your heart.”

  Virgil turned and looked away from his father for a few minutes, mostly because he thought he might be hallucinating. When he turned back though, his father was still there.

  “What were you thinking just now?” Mason said.

  “I thought I might be imagining all this.”

  “You’re not.”

  “If you’ve been with me all along, how come I haven’t seen you?”

  “Maybe for the same reason you didn’t notice Nichole all week, even though she was practically right in front of your face the whole time. If you want to see, Virg, you’ve got to look.”

  “You’re saying that all those times over the past three months when I needed you, you were there and I simply didn’t know it?”

  “Not exactly. As I recall, I told you I had something to do, and as a point of fact, you did as well.”

  “What’s that?” Virgil said.

  “In a word? Grieve.”

  “I’ve done plenty of that.”

  “Have you?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Virgil said.

  “I’m sorry about Ron, Son. But he’s in a place of peace now. You better than anyone should know that. You didn’t send him to his death any more than I did. It’s time to stop feeling guilty about something you had no control over.”

  “But you told me I was going to be asked to do something and I had to refuse. I ignored that advice and now Ron is dead.”

  “That’s not what I was talking about. It didn’t have anything to do with Ron.”

  “Then what was it?”

  “I’ll let you explore your own past, Virg. I’ve been busy doing the same with mine.”

  “Why?”

  “To examine my mistakes. To learn from them.”

  “Have you?” Virgil said.

  “I’m whittling away at the truth…running down some clues, you might say.”

  “Care to explain what that means?” Virgil said.

  Mason looked across the park area toward the front gate. “Looks like things are starting to pick up around here.”

  Virgil turned and noticed that people were beginning to show up. He turned back to his father and said, “You haven’t answered my question.”

  “Of course I did. What was it Nichole said that day
in the bar when she gave you the thumb drive? Something about the answer is somewhere in the middle?”

  Virgil heard someone running hard on the path behind him, and when he turned and looked, he saw a young girl, maybe in her mid-teens, with red hair and a face full of freckles. She ran right up to him and said, “Excuse me, sir. I don’t mean to intrude, but would you mind if I have one of those apples?”

  He smiled at the young lady, and said, “Sure.” Then, just to be friendly, he said, “My name is Virgil Jones. What’s yours?”

  “Nice to meet you, Mr. Jones. My name is Mary Adams.”

  Virgil smiled again and said, “Actually it’s Detective. I’m a police officer from America.”

  “I know,” Mary said.

  Virgil tipped his head to the side, and said, “Do you, now?” When he turned to reach for an apple, he noticed his father was gone. He let out a weary sigh, picked up the apple, and turned back to the girl.

  That’s when Virgil noticed she was gone as well. In fact, the entire park was empty once again. When he looked at where the girl had stood, he saw a single shoe, the kind runners wear, in the middle of the path. He didn’t know what to make of that, so he left it alone, and walked back to the guest house.

  Virgil and Murton spent a wonderful evening with the entire Pope crew, laughing and reminiscing about their past encounters, and catching up on the work they were doing, both with their foundation and their lives in general.

  The next morning, Nichole came down to say goodbye, promised Virgil and Murton both that she’d see them soon—although the way she said it made Virgil just the tiniest bit suspicious—and waved them off as Lola drove them to the airport.

  She talked the entire way. Neither Virgil nor Murton managed to get a single word in. Four hours later they landed in Indy, where Sandy and Becky were waiting.

  After all the hugging and kissing, Sandy grabbed Virgil by his biceps, held him at arm’s length, then said, “Did you keep your promise?”

  “I did,” Virgil said. “I am fully and completely here.”

  Sandy nodded once, like that was all she needed to hear. Then she took note of the physical transformation both Virgil and Murton had gone through. They were both leaner, tighter, their faces edgy, deeply tanned, and in short, they looked terrific. “Nichole kept us informed. I understand Wu worked you guys a little harder than you let on.”

  Murton laughed. “Well, he did me, that’s for sure. But I think Virgil spent most of his time waxing off.”

  Chapter Nine

  SIX MONTHS AGO:

  Sam Whittle was working in his home office, doing the final rewrite of his fifth novel—his editor told him she wanted the final draft by the end of the day if they were going to get it out on time—when his phone buzzed at him. He glanced at the screen and saw it was his brother calling. He thought about ignoring the call, but it’d been a while since they’d spoken, so he hit the Save key on his keyboard, pressed the Answer button, and said, “Hey, Don. How’s it going?”

  “It’s going okay. Got a second?”

  Don might have said it was going okay, but Sam knew him well enough to know by the sound of his voice that it wasn’t going okay at all. “Yeah. What’s the matter? You sound upset.”

  “Look, Sam, I know you don’t want to hear this, but I think you need to go over and see Dad. He’s running out of time, man, and if the two of you don’t get things worked out…well, I think you might spend the rest of your life regretting it.”

  “What do you mean he’s running out of time? The last time I saw him he was running a chainsaw in the backyard. He seemed fine to me.”

  “Sam…that was over two years ago. I’m telling you, he’s getting sicker by the day. I don’t know what happened between the two of you, but if you won’t do it for me, or even for him, I’m begging you…do it for yourself.”

  Sam shook his head at the sound of his brother’s voice. The pleaser, the fixer of the family who just couldn’t let it go.

  Also the liar. Don knew exactly what had happened between him and their father, he just didn’t want to hear it. It was easier to live in a fantasy world than it was to tell the truth. “I’ll tell you something, Don…you keep saying you don’t know what happened between the two of us, but I know you do.”

  “I don’t want to get into all that right now. Just go see him, please.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “Better think quick.”

  After they ended the call, Sam sat at his desk and tried to get back to work, but his mind kept taking him back to the past. Back to the time when his father used to beat him. Back to the time when he was running the entire ranch by himself, and so tired he was barely able to function. Back to that one awful winter when the blizzard hit and the roof of the barn collapsed. He barely made it out alive, the rafters snapping and falling like dominos as he ran for his life to escape the carnage. He wasn’t hurt…until he got to the house, that is.

  He threw open the kitchen door and found his father sitting at the table, a drink in his hand.

  “The fuck you doing in here? You’re supposed to be out working.”

  Sam was so out of breath, and shaking from the adrenaline flooding his system he could barely speak. “Dad, the roof of the barn just came down. It collapsed under the weight of the snow.”

  Dick Whittle looked at his son, his face a mask of both confusion and rage. “What? What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “I didn’t think I was going to make it out. The rafters were snapping like toothpicks.”

  Whittle jumped from his chair and grabbed his son by the sleeves of his jacket. “Did you get the chickens out? Did you?” He was screaming so loud that spittle dripped from his chin.

  “The chickens?” Sam jerked away from his father. “The chickens? Did you hear what I just said? I almost died.”

  Whittle grabbed his boots and jacket and stumbled across the yard and out toward the barn. He was only halfway there when he stopped. The building had been completely crushed by the weight of the snow. He turned to Sam and said, “This is your fault. You should have gotten up there on that roof and shoveled that snow off. What the hell were you thinking?”

  Sam was so stunned by his father’s words, he couldn’t speak.

  “Well, what are you going to do about it?”

  “I don’t know. What should I do?”

  Whittle put a mocking tone in his voice. “I don’t know. What should I do?” Then, “My God, I don’t think I’ve ever been more disappointed in anyone, ever. I’ll tell you what you’re going to do. You’re going to get inside that fucking barn and find every dead bird you can. Thanks to you, we’re going from a house full of hens to a freezer full of fryers. I want them butchered and cleaned proper. Don’t come in until you’re finished. Jesus Christ, what a piece of shit. This is your fault. Do you hear me? This is all your fault.”

  And this: When he was an adult, his mother dead and gone, God bless her, Sam married the woman of his dreams in their own backyard...a wise, intuitive woman named Danika. The invitations were sent, the tent put up, the catering in place, and the only single person who didn’t show for the wedding or the reception—even though there were free drinks—was his father. The next day when Sam went out to check the mail before he and his bride would leave for their honeymoon, he found a crumpled Walmart bag in the box. When Sam looked inside the bag, he saw a check from his father. The amount? Twenty-five dollars. Attached was a note that read: Congrats. Love is all that matters.

  Sam took the note and the check inside, tore them to pieces, threw them in the trash, then sat down and wrote his father a letter:

  Dear Dad,

  It’s too bad you couldn’t make the wedding. I have a few things I’d like to say, and I guess now is as good a time as any. The short version is this: You’ve deeply hurt me and my wife. If you think that sounds harsh, I’m sorry you feel that way. Also, if history is any sort of marker, you’ll probably disagree with what follows. Anyw
ay, here goes:

  Of everyone invited to our wedding, you were the only one who didn’t show. Why is that? Are you so ashamed of your past behavior that you couldn’t stand to see me happy and at peace? Are you that afraid of the truth?

  I’ve had a lot of time to think about things over the years, about how I view my life, my past, my future, how much my wife means to me, and how I plan to continue to love and care for the people who want me in their lives. In the process I’ve come to realize something: I’ve spent my entire life trying to protect your feelings. What a colossal waste of time. It’s a waste of time because I’m not responsible for your feelings. You are. I’ve learned that every time I try to protect your feelings (which everyone in this family has been doing all our lives, by the way) all I’m really doing is hurting you in a different manner…pushing the issue at hand further down the road until it is almost impossible to discuss, making things more difficult as time goes on.

  I never meant to hurt our relationship by trying to protect your feelings, but that’s how you raised me, so that’s what I’ve done. I have to admit, I’m a little embarrassed that it’s taken me so long to figure it all out. Want to know who taught me how wrong it was and why?

  It was Danika.

  I’m not sure how you feel about all this, (although if I’m being honest…I’ve got a pretty good mental picture in my head right about now) but whatever you feel, remember, you’re responsible for your feelings, not me because all I’m doing is telling the fucking truth. If you don’t want or can’t handle that, or if you just want to have a pretend relationship, you’ll have to do that with someone else, like Don and Karen. They seem up to the task. But don’t expect me to continue to participate in the absurd lies and falsehoods that seem to keep everyone’s motor running these days, yours in particular. Karen just sent me a picture of herself holding a chicken at the state fair the other day. Good grief.