It was Benson’s glimpse into the future that scared her most. He wrote of a “final” climactic event to take place in Rockfield, in which he didn’t believe he’d survive.
He planned to “eliminate” Bobby Maloney, who had been a key figure in the Kingsbury cover-up, and the reason that Benson went to Rockfield in the first place. And most distressing was that he also planned to use JP to complete his “mission,” by using Gwen as the bait. It was to take place on the tenth of October.
Carter’s face scrunched—it wasn’t a pretty sight. “What’s today?”
Gwen sighed. “I think today is the day.”
As if it was the last straw, she began to break down. First a sniffle and then a single tear. When the floodgates opened, she began to sob uncontrollably.
Carter struggled to raise his massive body off the floor. He wobbled with dizziness, and the handcuffs made it near impossible for him to push up off the floor. But he made it to Gwen. She wrapped her arms around his large frame.
“Is it something I said, or that I smell like piss?”
“It’s hopeless. We’re going to die here like rats. There’s no way out!”
Gwen held on for dear life. She really needed JP, but Carter reminded her of the oversized teddy bear she would grip onto as a child when she was upset.
Suddenly he pulled away. He looked around the room as if he were searching for a lost set of keys. Then he flashed a big grin, which confused Gwen.
“We are going to get out of here,” he stated confidently.
“There’s no way you’ll be able to bust the door down.”
Carter pointed to a black box that looked like a lunch box. It was neatly placed next to the bookshelf where Benson kept his journal.
“What is that thing?” she asked with a hopeful sniffle—she had tried to open the box earlier, hoping it might contain food or a tool that might help them pry their way out of there. But she couldn’t open it.
“It’s called a videophone, and it’s our ticket out of here.”
Chapter 83
Rockfield
October 10
When I awoke this morning, I knew today would be the most memorable day in the history of Rockfield. I just wasn’t sure if it would be recorded as a triumph or a disaster.
Our Saturday press conference had played to rave reviews, except from the FBI, who stormed in later that day like the cavalry. An agent named Hawkins made it clear he was in charge, and would be handing out our punishment. The severity of which would be based on our level of cooperation.
The rest of the crew consisted of an African-American woman agent named Clarisse Johnson, who appeared to be second in command. A bearded agent named Hendrickson who looked like Shaggy from Scooby Doo, and seemed to be a little nuts, which might not be a bad thing in our predicament. And two young agents, looking as if they were late for their high school geometry class. One was named Ellsworth, while the other was Agent Justice, which I thought sounded like the name of a cheesy 1970s detective show.
Rich Tolland took the brunt of Hawkins’ wrath. He focused on falsified arrests, public spectacles, and endangering the life of a college theater major. I insisted that the fake arrest was a hundred percent my idea. They ignored me at first, but I remained adamant, to the point that Hawkins eventually shifted all blame and anger in my direction. But with the business of 10/10 at hand, a temporary cease-fire was called.
I played nice enough so that I wasn’t completely banished from the operation. And as an offer of goodwill, I secured my mother’s historical society building to use as a makeshift command post. Hendrickson, posing as a maintenance man, fitted the town hall with hidden cameras that would show a closed circuit video back to the historical society. Ellsworth and Justice took turns tailing Benson for most of the day, but he showed no signs of having done anything out of his normal routine.
Maloney was fitted with a wiretap. The first option was to bug Benson’s squad car, but Hendrickson thought it would be too risky. Maloney would be used as bait, and once hooked, his job was to get Benson to confess his “heroic” tale. When he provided enough to make it an open and shut case for a federal prosecutor, the FBI would move in, arrest Benson, and use threats of the electric chair to leverage the location of Gwen and Carter. It sounded good in theory, but I was skeptical.
What they didn’t take into account was Benson’s planning and creativity. The murder of Kingsbury was probably years in the making. And there was no specific pattern to his murders—he killed Leonard Harris and Casey Leeds in public spots full of potential witnesses. But he acted covertly when it came to Noah, Buford, and the Kingsburys. And now that we put all the cards on the table with the fake arrest, we had turned him into a cornered animal. Would that change how he operated? And was it possible that he knew the ballgame was over and he’d decide to go out in a blaze of glory, perhaps just walking into Maloney’s office and shooting him? Since Maloney was already an emotional disaster, and we needed him to pull this off, I kept these questions to myself. Not that anyone was listening to me at this point, anyway.
I was told that I couldn’t be involved from this point on. A proclamation that led to a lot of yelling on my part—I was more invested in this than anyone, I argued. But they cited an FBI policy of not allowing civilians in operations such as this, particularly crazed ones like myself. When I declared that this was America, and they couldn’t stop me, they informed me that they were the FBI, and yes they could. And just to be sure, I was left with a babysitting task force made up of Ellsworth, Justice, and Officer Williams from the Rockfield PD.
As dusk descended, the FBI agents and Rich Tolland moved to their position in the surveillance van. The van was white with Martinez Painting inscribed on the side. Until today, it had been the Rockfield Gazette van. I hoped to see the angry look on Gwen’s face when she discovered the FBI sponsored paint job.
At 8:32 pm, my babysitters and I watched on the video surveillance as Benson parked Kyle Jones’ patrol car in front of Rockfield Town Hall. The only light came from the office of First Selectman Maloney, who was presumably burning the midnight oil.
Benson walked methodically through the corridors of the deserted building, in full police uniform, including the straight brimmed hat. It was eerily quiet, except for the rhythmic clicking of his heels. He knocked on the heavy oak door that read First Selectman Robert J. Maloney in silver engraving.
A meek voice on the other side uttered, “Come in please.”
Chapter 84
Maloney hid behind his large desk, wearing a brown suit over a crisp white shirt and a fashionable wiretap. He noticed the gun attached to Benson’s belt and swallowed hard. He rose to his feet, his legs feeling like jelly. He didn’t think they’d hold him upright very long.
“Can I help you, Officer Jones?”
“I think we need to go for a ride,” Benson responded coldly.
“I’m very busy. Can you tell me why?”
“I think it would be in your best interest to come with me.”
He doubted it would be. Benson tapped on the gun holstered at his waist to make his point. Maloney took a quick look down at his desk calendar that read October 10. It made it seem too real.
The two men walked into the dimly lit parking lot. Benson showed the first signs of aggression by grabbing Maloney’s elbow and forcing him into the passenger side of his squad car. He drove out of the complex onto Main Street.
“What is this about?” Maloney asked again.
“I think you know,” Benson replied, his eyes never leaving the dark country road as they sped by the village store.
“I demand you tell me right now what is going on,” Maloney attempted to be stern, but he knew he wasn’t convincing. He lived as a coward and now it was obvious to him that he was going to die as one.
“On the anniversary of this day, twenty years ago, you, along with Craig Kingsbury, Lamar Thompson, and Brad Lynch, made a conscious choice to toss a dummy resembling a human onto an
oncoming car, giving the driver the perception of striking a human being.”
“It was just a college prank,” Maloney defended. He always knew that night would come back to haunt him. “We never meant for any of this to transpire.”
“Everybody is sorry after the fact.”
“Did you kill Noah Warner?” Maloney asked, hoping he would say yes, then the feds could pounce and end his misery.
Benson smiled cryptically. “I think there’s a good chance you may have arrested the wrong man in that case.”
“What do you mean the wrong man?”
“I think we both know the man they have in custody is an imposter. He’s as fake as that testimony you gave in Judge Buford’s court.”
“I was forced to say those things—I had no choice,” Maloney pleaded. “Please, I have children. It wouldn’t be fair for them to grow up without a father.”
“Fair?” Benson asked incredulously. “Was it fair for Marilyn Lacey’s children? They lost their mother, while Kingsbury walked away, thanks to you taking their blood money. Did that judge make you do naughty things to get your money, Bobby?”
“They twisted my words.”
“I have your taped conversations with Buford, along with your deposition that the judge kept in a safe in his home, ironically, to protect himself. He kept his records in very neat order.”
“How did you get those? Did you kill him?”
Benson laughed. “Buford died from an accident, resulting from his hedonism. I was his neighbor, and he provided the records to me in case something happened to him. Sort of an insurance policy.”
Maloney realized that Benson was much better trained for this fight, and was going to win it. He was the judge and jury, so Maloney threw himself on the mercy of the court. “I was just a kid. I’m a different person now. Nothing we do can bring back Mrs. Lacey or Brad. I never meant for…”
He angrily cut him off, “It doesn’t matter what your intentions were. Your bad choices led to death and misery and it’s now time for you to pay for your sins.”
“I wasn’t driving—Kingsbury was.”
Benson began to respond, but stopped when he noticed something in the rear-view mirror. In a flash, he reached across the seat and ripped open Maloney’s sweat-drenched shirt, exposing the wiretap. He tore the wires off, ripping off patches of chest hair.
With steely determination, Benson picked up his speed along Main Street. And now that their conversation had gone wireless, he spoke freely, “You want to know who really killed Senator Kingsbury? You did! By covering up his actions you sentenced him to death. As you did to everyone else involved in your ‘prank.’ They are all gone now, and I’m here to deliver justice to the last remaining murderer.”
Maloney was fairly certain that by justice, Benson wasn’t referring to a long trial with an expensive lawyer and a consultant to pick the most sympathetic jury. He shouted desperately, “The FBI is following right behind us in a van—you will never get away with this!”
“Neither of us is getting away. We’re going to die together, Bobby. We will die just feet away from each other, but our legacies will be miles apart.”
Benson picked up the receiver of the police radio and squeezed. “For those of you listening in the van, you have failed.”
“Kyle, this is Chief Tolland. I implore you to stop your vehicle so we can discuss this,” Rich’s desperate voice shot through the radio.
Benson clicked the radio again and responded, “I will only negotiate with JP Warner. I know he’s in your vehicle.”
Chapter 85
The young FBI agents looked at each other with confusion—Benson’s surprise request wasn’t in the manual. I was sure the same blank looks were going on in the van. So I did what I always do—I took the initiative.
I limped to the police radio in the command center and picked up. “Yeah, I’m here, Jones.”
I visualized the angry look on Hawkins’ face, but I didn’t care. Some two-bit bureaucrat wasn’t going to be able to save Gwen. It would take someone willing to put his life on the line for her. That person wasn’t Agent Hawkins.
“If you ever want to see Gwen Delaney again, I suggest you keep the van at a safe distance.”
“If you harm one hair on her head, I will break every bone in your body. Then I’ll wait for them to heal and break them again!”
“I think you are overrating your negotiating leverage. Now back off the van!”
I stood and kicked a row of historical books in disgust, spilling them to the ground in a clutter of dust. But when I observed the feed of the surveillance camera shooting from the front of the van, I noticed that they were actually getting closer!
Benson must have noticed the same thing, because he lashed out, “I said back it off or you will never see her again!”
I scrambled for my phone, but came up empty. I’d left my phone in North Carolina. And then Agent Hawkins had confiscated the new one I’d purchased as part of the babysitting guidelines. So I went to Plan-B. I turned to Officer Williams, who seemed like a better option than the two feds, and demanded his cell. He surprisingly handed it to me.
I panic-dialed Rich Tolland, who answered on the second ring. “Back the van off!” I yelled into the phone and ended the call.
Silence filled the airwaves, before Benson responded, “I’m glad to see you are being sensible, Warner.”
They had backed off. I felt relief.
The cat and mouse game was all well and good, but I had to get into the fight. I demanded Officer Williams give me the keys to his police cruiser. He didn’t look as willing this time. And on top of it, the two young agents stepped in and announced that their orders were to not let me out of their sight.
I didn’t have time for this, so I apologized to Williams. Before he could ask why, I punched him across the face. I struck him clean and a fountain of blood spilled over my mother’s carpet. I was never going to hear the end of that. I scooped up his gun and aimed it at Ellsworth. I held it on his temple and shouted at Williams, “Give me the keys or the kid dies.”
Nobody ever confused me with Jack Bauer. Within seconds, Agent Justice performed some wrestling move on me that Carter would have been proud of, and snatched my gun.
Desperate times called for desperate measures. So I pulled a new technique from the Sutcliffe bag of tricks—begging. “Please, we don’t have time. Gwen’s life is at stake!”
I could tell they were paralyzed by a moral dilemma. Which was more than I expected. Williams finally relented and tossed his keys to me.
Justice lowered his gun, and before anyone could change their mind, I once again ran toward the danger.
Chapter 86
Charleston, South Carolina
The videophone connection was poor, but it couldn’t wipe the smile off Byron Jasper’s face. He’d been sick with worry since hearing the news of the disappearance of Gwen and Big Ugly.
After the initial excitement of the video reunion, reality began to set in. Figuring a way to get Gwen and Carter safely out of that house, before they succumbed to Benson, hunger, the hurricane, or some combination, would be no easy task. The island had been evacuated and all transportation was cut off, including emergency response.
Gwen made it clear the top priority should be to reach JP as soon as possible, and let him know that Benson was planning to use her to lure him into his web. So Byron kept the hostages on the videophone while he dialed JP’s cell.
“Who dis?” came an annoyed greeting from someone who definitely wasn’t JP Warner.
“I think the better question would be who are you?”
“The name’s Lamar Thompson. I got a tour to give, so I got no time for your games. This ain’t even my phone, so make it quick.”
Byron was confused. “I’m sorry, I was looking for JP Warner.” But then something clicked. “Is this the Lamar Thompson who was the greatest basketball player I’ve ever seen?”
“That was a long time ago, man. And I already to
ld you people, no more interviews. Especially that crazy blonde lady.”
Byron was baffled. “Lamar, what are you doing with JP’s phone?”
“He came here, bought me lunch, and then left like a bat out of hell. I didn’t steal no cell phone.”
“I didn’t say you did. I was just trying to get in touch with JP. My name is Byron, I’m a friend of his. It’s very important that I talk to him.”
“Then why you calling me?”
There was no time to explain, reason, or argue. “Lamar, I need your help … where are you located?”
“Kitty Hawk, North Carolina. First in flight, last in avoiding hurricanes.”
“The best flight I ever saw was when you took off from behind the foul line to dunk on Charleston High. I remember they jammed so many people in there to see you that night the game almost got shut down for violating the fire code.”
“That was a long time ago, man. It was nice talking to a fellow Carolina guy, but I gotta go.”
Byron needed to keep him on the line, and kept laying it on thick. “Maybe so, Lamar, but once a clutch player, always a clutch player. I need a clutch player to help me right now.”
“Man, the only clutch I got now is in my car. And even that don’t work no more.”
“You’re talking crazy—greatness is for life, you don’t lose it. I need your help, Lamar,” Byron pleaded.
Lamar sighed. “Listen, man, I’ll get this JP dude his phone back, okay? My word is good. It better be, it’s all I got left.”
“If you don’t help me, Lamar, people are going to die.”
“Now who’s talkin’ crazy?”
“People I know are trapped in a house on Ocracoke Island. You are my last shot to get them out alive.”
(2012) Officer Jones Page 28
