When he stepped into the foyer, he immediately stopped in his tracks. Lucy looked annoyed, as usual, but also beautiful. He was drawn to the dark curls that fell onto her tanned shoulders like she just appeared out of a shampoo commercial. At work, where she was his commanding officer, she always wore a ponytail and little makeup, along with the stiff blue and gold police uniform. It had nothing on this sizzling pink number she was wearing for the picnic.
“Wow,” was all he could say.
She smiled. “Don’t even think you can charm your way out of making us late, Kyle Jones.”
After spending most of his life in the military, he’d never been late for anything. But since becoming a “civilian,” and meeting Lucy, his outlook had changed on a lot of things.
“Should I see if Grady wants to join us tonight?” he asked, already bracing for the answer.
Her smile suddenly disappeared, and she looked like she was fighting back every urge to lash out. It reminded him of Mount St. Helens, a dormant volcano three hours from Seattle, where he went on the anniversary of his parents’ death to spread their ashes, as was their request. He knew that Lucy could erupt at any moment.
“It’s not bad enough that you pay his rent—now you’re going to subsidize a night out for him?”
“Shh … he’s in the next room.”
“I really don’t care, Kyle!” her voice raised. “He sits on the couch all day watching that stupid murder trial, hoping you’ll feel sorry for him and keep supporting his free ride!”
“He’s been sick, Lucy, and he’s had some tough luck.”
When Kyle left the Air Force, law enforcement felt like a natural transition. As an “army brat” who’d lived everywhere from Germany to Lake Cumberland, Kentucky, he welcomed putting down roots in Gilbert, which was near Luke Air Force Base, his last stop in the military. It provided a stability he thought he’d never find again after the deaths of his parents.
But post-military life had been a struggle for Grady. He was lethargic and sick all the time, and blamed it on a mysterious illness the media was calling Gulf War Syndrome. This was completely different from the Grady Benson that Kyle remembered from their Air Force days. Back then, he was one of the most brash and daring pilots that Kyle had ever known. And when he wasn’t flying, Grady spent his time on the ski slopes and rollerblading around the base.
But that man had vanished. This Grady would sit on the couch, watching endless hours of the OJ Simpson murder trial. He talked about the players as if they were his friends—Kato, Marcia, Johnnie, and Judge Ito.
Grady had bounced from menial job to menial job. Each one that didn’t work out seemed to sap more energy from him, adding to his bitterness. But the bigger issue for Kyle was the strain Grady placed on his relationship with Lucy. And when she sighed again—this time like a dragon exhaling fire—Kyle knew he was on unsteady ground. He’d found out the hard way that three sighs meant no sex for a week.
“He’s been to all those doctors and they haven’t found one thing wrong with him. Not one thing!”
“Come on, Lucy,” Kyle pleaded. He tried to put his arm around her, but she pulled away. “Please keep it down—he’s in the next room.”
Her voice rose again in defiance. “Tell me why you put up with it!?”
“You don’t understand—we have fought the same battles.”
“I understand that he can’t hold a job, and sits on his ass all day while you pay the rent.”
“By battles, I don’t just mean the war.”
Lucy took a deep breath to fight off her frustration, and attempted a calmer approach, “Kyle—it’s tragic what happened, but it would be cheaper for you to hire a whole team of psychiatrists for him, than letting him slack his way through life on your dime.”
Lucy would never comprehend their bond. He and Grady were only children who lost their parents within a year of each other, both under tragic circumstances. Kyle still couldn’t grasp the irony of his own parents’ death. After surviving all the years living the dangerous fighter pilot life, including numerous combat missions, they had retired to a tranquil community “on the lake,” only to have their lives taken in an instant.
Kyle had faced those who were responsible for taking them away, and convinced himself that he’d gotten the closure he needed to move on with his life. He thought he’d put it behind him, but lately he felt the emotions bubbling underneath the surface … like his own version of Mount St. Helens.
Lucy stared at him, which made him feel like an enemy MiG was locked on his soul, ready to fire. But she showed restraint this time, choosing to ease off the trigger. “Fine, see if he wants to go,” she said, flashing Kyle a peace treaty smile.
Maybe she did understand after all.
Chapter 33
With a zombie-like click of the remote, Grady Benson turned up the volume on the TV. Did they really think he couldn’t hear them through the thin stucco walls? Or maybe they no longer cared. It was the same conversation, anyway—Lucy aggressively vilified him (faking Gulf War Syndrome) while Kyle did his best to defend him (members of the Dead Parents Society). But Kyle was no match for her, and she would eventually make him believe he got his way, when in reality, she was toying with him.
Out of the corner of his eye, he viewed Kyle hesitantly enter the living room. “Lucy and I are going to the GPD picnic. But we’re going to hit that new bar The Ostrich after, if you’re interested in meeting up. Might be fun … like the old days.”
Grady forced himself to peel his eyes away from the television. “I’m kind of engrossed in this show. But thanks for asking.”
“What are you watching? I thought the OJ trial took the weekends off,” Kyle made some charity conversation.
“It’s an investigative report on GNZ about a judge in North Carolina named Raymond Buford. He doesn’t believe in laws against drinking and driving, and recently let off a man named Craig Steele, who then mowed down an innocent family.”
Kyle predictably began to squirm—he believed in the concept of closure, and used it to rationalize the emotional pain of his parents’ death. Grady was convinced that the only thing closure would accomplish would be to build up the pain inside him. And when it eventually came out, and it would, it wasn’t going to be pretty.
But as expected, Kyle found his inner closure, and attempted to change the subject. He pointed at the reporter on the television. “I can’t stand that JP Warner—he’s such a phony.”
Grady disagreed. “I actually think he is the most brilliant journalist alive.”
Kyle looked surprised. “I remember you telling me that JP Warner was an insufferable glory-hound who was all about himself, and not the story.”
“I did say that when he arrogantly refused to cover the Simpson trial, thinking it was beneath him. But this recent investigation series on dirty judges has changed my mind. Maybe if more reports like this were done, many tragic accidents could be averted.”
He knew the mention of tragic accidents would get Kyle to leave him in peace. He’d rather numb the pain than find a cure for the disease. And it did. Grady didn’t even hear Kyle and Lucy leave for the evening, as he remained glued to the television.
He couldn’t get his mind off the investigative report—he envied reporters like Warner who could shed light on injustice, and in doing so, stop future tragedies. Wasn’t that what he and Kyle vowed to do—Batman and Robin?
Well past midnight, Kyle and Lucy returned home, stumbling drunk. They were singing a loud duet of the theme song from the television show Friends that was on top of the charts.
“I’ll be there for you! I’ll be there for you!” they continued to belt out in loud, drunken voices, before tumbling to the floor.
Lucy laughed hysterically as she unsuccessfully tried to pick herself up off the ground. Her inebriated personality was friendlier, and spoke to Grady as if they were long lost friends. “Kyle was swerving all over the road,” she explained, placing her hands on an imaginary steering whe
el, and continuing to laugh like a hyena.
Kyle joined her laughter. “I told Lucy I saw three lanes,” he stopped and looked at Lucy—who lay next to him on the floor—and they broke into giggles at their inside joke. “She told me to use the one in the middle.”
The domineering Lucy spoke over him, “Kyle got pulled over at the corner of Alma School and Ray Road.”
“Good thing it was one of our buddies from the force or I woulda been screwed. The rookies were the only ones on duty tonight because of the picnic, so what were they gonna do … arrest me?”
Grady’s eyes narrowed with confusion. “They knew you were drunk, but let you continue to drive?”
Lucy walked to Grady and patted him on the shoulder. “It’s okay—they were our friends—it was one of those wink wink things.” She tried to wink her left eye, but it more resembled a seizure.
Grady calmly walked to the phone and began to dial.
“What are you doing?” Kyle asked.
“I’m calling the police, I have to report this. I’m sorry, but you could have killed someone.”
“We are the police—we should arrest you for being a freeloader!” Lucy fired back. She had sobered enough to remember that she despised him.
She lunged at Grady. He responded by forcefully shoving her to the ground.
Kyle discovered the spine that had been missing since he found closure. But his punch was slow and telegraphed. Grady saw it all the way, blocked it with raised hands, then clutched Kyle by the throat and jammed him against the wall, shaking paintings of Arizona sunsets.
Kyle tried to squirm, to no avail. For months, Grady had lacked the energy to pick himself off the couch, but now suddenly had the strength of two men. He glared into Kyle’s eyes and felt a powerful chill throughout his being. He knew he was looking into the eyes of evil.
He let go of Kyle’s neck, and he fell to the ground in a heap beside his girlfriend. Grady quietly walked to his room and shut his door, leaving stunned looks on Lucy and Kyle’s faces.
He couldn’t shake the darkness he saw in Kyle—but he also saw the future with clarity—a future in which he’d have to be the one to stop Officer Kyle Jones.
Chapter 34
Rockfield, Connecticut
Saturday Night—Labor Day Weekend—present
We took off without a word. Gwen moved briskly, while I limped through the pain as fast as I could. We arrived at her vehicle—a white van that advertised the Rockfield Gazette on the side—and sped off.
Gwen had no answers to my incessant questions, but something told me it was related to this being this day, and that scared me. Gwen explained that she got the tip from Jones. He was the first officer to arrive at the scene. I wasn’t surprised.
Three police cars blocked the bridge, their flashing lights blinding. A sick feeling attacked my stomach like nothing I’d ever felt before. I’d witnessed more than my share of death and knew what it looked like. I saw the stretcher covered in the black tarp.
As Gwen slowed the van, I hopped out before it came to a full stop, almost falling in the process. But I felt no pain shoot through my brittle body—I was completely numb. I stormed past police who tried to hold me back.
I walked to the tarp and pulled it back. My world immediately spun out of control. Staring back at me was Noah. His face was full of abrasions and the calm look of death. I instantly knew that any peace I’d rediscovered had vanished. Maybe forever.
I lightly stroked Noah’s face. I reached behind his head, feeling a big gash in the back of the skull so wide my finger slid into it like the grip on a bowling ball. I pulled the bloodied face close to mine and kissed his forehead.
My gut wrenched, thinking of my mother’s reaction. Throughout my career, I’d always been able to maintain some semblance of composure, no matter the situation. But I felt like I’d lost all control of my emotions.
I snapped my head to Jones. “What the hell happened?”
He remained calm. Too calm for my taste. “I’m sorry, Mr. Warner, I know this must be hard for you. But please let us complete our investigation, and then we can properly inform your family of the cause of your brother’s death.”
The cause of my brother’s death. The words stung.
I glared fiercely back at him. “Perhaps you should take the cotton out of your ears, officer. What the hell happened to my brother?”
Jones looked to Rich Tolland to see if it was all right for him to talk. Rich nodded his block-shaped head.
“I was patrolling the area at approximately 0200 hours. When I came upon Samerauk Bridge, I saw a male standing on top of the guardrail. I got out of the patrol car and shouted for him to get down. At that point, I made the identification of Noah Warner. He was in what I would describe as a trance, and shouting, ‘I miss you, I miss you’ over and over again. I tried to talk him down for minutes. When I continued to receive no response, I returned to my car to radio for help. Before I could make the call, he leaped off the bridge.”
“Did you just say my brother took his own life?”
He lowered his head. “I’m afraid so, Mr. Warner.”
“So are you going to tell me what really happened?”
Jones’ eyes remained steely and calm. He didn’t even blink once. “I realize such news is hard to accept for any family.”
“Especially when some dumb cop is lying through his teeth.”
Gwen tried to play peacemaker, and pulled me into an embrace. I wasn’t sure if it was to comfort me or to keep me from killing her boyfriend. As she pulled me closer, I was hit with the memory of her being with my family at the hospital when Noah was born. The image was still vivid in my mind. I could see Gwen holding Noah, who looked like a loaf of bread draped in a blanket.
“I’m so sorry, JP,” she whispered in a shaken voice. “But there is nothing you can do here. Let’s get out of here before you do something you’ll regret.”
Her words weren’t what I wanted to hear, so I turned to Rich Tolland. “Where the hell are the crime scene investigators? And what about all that fancy yellow tape you guys like to hang up?”
He gave me a look of pity, which further infuriated me. “JP, there’s no evidence of any crime here. For goodness sake, we had to pull him off the same bridge last year. It was self inflicted.”
“He didn’t commit suicide, so I think you need to start looking to other theories.”
I saw a slight crack in Jones’ normally cool demeanor. “What makes you so sure?” he asked.
“For starters, we had plans tomorrow. People who plan on killing themselves don’t make plans. But I think the real question is how can you be so sure?”
“Because I was here.”
“Exactly,” I said, jabbing my finger in his direction. “You know what happened here, officer, and I will get to the bottom of it if it’s the last thing I do!”
Gwen stepped in again, and knowing I couldn’t be reasoned with, she physically moved me out of harm’s way back towards the van.
As she did, my eyes never left Officer Jones.
Chapter 35
The evidence was clear. On the anniversary of the death of his soul mate, Noah Warner went to the darkest of places. Faced with nothing but lonely years ahead, he made a pilgrimage to the place where the accident took place, just as he had the year before. But this time he didn’t back down, and threw himself over the bridge, onto the rocks below.
Over the years, with the success or failure of a story hanging precariously in the balance, and sometimes life and death, I’d learned about trusting instincts and hunches. And in this instance, every bone in my body screamed out that Noah did not commit suicide.
The living don’t kill themselves. People that are already dead do. The ones who are just matter taking up space, with their breaths being nothing but window dressing. Our conversation from the fair replayed in my mind. I didn’t have a doubt—Noah was one of the living. Now I had to figure out a way to prove it.
Chief Tolland, along
with his sidekick Bobby Maloney came to my parents’ house late last night to deliver the grim news. Gwen and I showed up a few minutes later to witness my father unsuccessfully trying to console my mother. At the break of dawn, Ethan and Pam arrived. It was the day everyone had feared for two years, and now it was the reality we would have to live with for the rest of our lives.
I sneaked away to my quarters and went immediately to my laptop. I had access to numerous files through my lengthy list of connections and could get information on almost any person on the planet. But even with this access, I still didn’t learn a lot about Kyle Jones.
He had lived the life of the typical military child. Born in Germany, but spent time in San Diego, North Carolina, and Lake Cumberland, Kentucky before he was in middle school. The military background made it more understandable as to why he’d described the incident in military time, which I had found odd at the time.
Jones followed his parents’ footsteps into the Air Force, a career that culminated with him piloting a jet fighter in the Gulf War. Other than the combat service, his military career was bland but honorable. He left in the mid-1990s—his last stop was Luke Air Force Base in Arizona.
Following his military service, he joined the police force in Gilbert, Arizona. His next stop was the Outer Banks of North Carolina, where his only job of note was giving flying lessons to the locals. Then he must have rediscovered his love for wearing a uniform, because he accepted a job of police officer in Rockfield, Connecticut, where he had a stellar record … except for the fact that he might have killed my brother.
If my instincts were correct, and Jones was responsible for Noah’s death, the next question was why. The obvious connection was that Noah was responsible for Lisa Spargo’s death, and he had grown close to the family. I recalled the angry words he had for me about Noah and the accident. But I needed more than that. I knew how this looked—I was a distraught family member who wasn’t thinking straight, and when you throw in the Gwen factor, it would also look like I was motivated by jealousy.
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