“I don’t got no time for this.”
Byron had no choice but to play dirty. “It’s not a coincidence that you ended up with JP’s phone. This is your chance to make up for the death of Marilyn Lacey. I know you’ve been waiting to make up for that for years, Lamar. Now is your chance—are you going to let it just slip away?”
“There’s a hurricane doing something fierce down here. Even if I wanted to, the island’s been evacuated … not even the police can go there.”
“Lamar, people are going to die if you don’t act now!”
He went silent—he was thinking about it. “Why don’t you go?” he finally asked
“I would, but I’m in a wheelchair.”
One thing Byron had learned from a few months in the chair was how guilt could be used as an advantage. And he would need every advantage he could in order to get Lamar to Ocracoke.
It was clear that Lamar Thompson was Gwen and Carter’s only chance—a man nobody believed in for twenty years, and worse still, didn’t believe in himself.
Chapter 87
Rockfield
I tore out of the parking lot in Officer Williams’ squad car. I took the radio receiver into my hand and squeezed so hard that I thought I might crush it. “You wanted me, Jones, now you’ve got me. Your move.”
I visualized Benson doing his psycho-stare out at the dark country road with Maloney trembling beside him.
Benson’s all-too-familiar voice emerged from the crackling static of the radio, “I said to back the van off! This is your last chance, Warner!”
Benson thinking I was in the van was my lone advantage, but the fact that I couldn’t control the van minimized it. I clicked the receiver. “I am sorry. We will back the van off.”
I dialed Rich Tolland’s phone—he picked up on the first ring. “JP, we…”
The voice at the other end suddenly changed. This was not good news. “I’m in charge of this investigation, Warner, and don’t you forget it. We will back off the van when I give the order, and only then!” Hawkins shouted.
I couldn’t believe this guy was more concerned with protecting his turf than saving Gwen’s life. But on second thought, sadly, I could.
“Perhaps you haven’t been paying attention, but Benson is in control. Now back off the van!”
“You are on a short rope, Warner. One more outburst like that…”
“You are now officially out of the loop, Hawkins. I’m done with you—put Agent Johnson on the phone before you get my friends killed!”
I continued to speed down Main Street with nothing but silence coming from the other end, thinking I’d made a big mistake. His ego wouldn’t allow him to give in to my demands. I held my breath.
“Agent Johnson here,” she said at last, and I let out a sigh of relief. But I had no time to waste.
“First of all, Agent Johnson, I need you to back the van off the suspect.”
“Hendrickson—back off the van,” she yelled out.
“The next thing I need is your location. I have no idea if I’m even going in the right direction.”
I heard her ask Rich Tolland for assistance on the local geography, before telling me, “He’s still driving north on Main Street. Just about to pass Skyview. His speed is around fifty.”
“I’m going to keep this line open. I’ll be the only one to speak to Benson on the radio. I need you to give me constant updates of his movements. I will be speaking to him as if I’m in the van—it’s imperative that he continues to think that I am.”
“We will follow your lead, JP. You better know what you’re doing.”
If I were thinking clearly I would have realized how much they were putting their collective asses on the line, including my friend Hawkins. If something went wrong, allowing a television reporter to call the shots would be catastrophic when guys like the old J-News started asking the tough questions. But when it came to Gwen, I hadn’t thought clearly since we were five.
Benson’s voice filled the airwaves once again, “That’s better, Warner. Keep the van at that distance and I won’t have to put a bullet into Maloney’s pretty face.”
“I think you’re overrating my level of concern for Maloney.”
“What do you care about, Warner?”
“All I care about is justice for my brother.”
“The brother you never cared about when he was alive? The brother who murdered that innocent girl?”
I bit my lip so hard I tasted blood. But I couldn’t let him bait me. “This is between you and me, Jones. Let Maloney go. Toss him out the door and let him bounce a couple times on the asphalt. A few broken bones never killed anyone—I’m living proof.”
I continued my juggling act, alternating between getting updates on the phone from Agent Johnson, and then responding to Benson on the radio. He was still going north on Main, passing the cemetery where Noah and Lisa were laid to rest. I continued gaining speed, making a dangerous pass of a slow moving station wagon, and barely swerving away from the on-coming headlights of a truck.
“This has nothing to do with that murderer you call your brother. We both know this is about you being jealous about my relationship with Gwen.”
“I gave you my word that I’d back off the van, now I need your word that she’s okay.”
“She won’t be for long if you don’t start cooperating. She’s tucked away in a place you’ll never find in a million years. You’ll need me to take you to her.”
He held all the cards, and he knew it. I had an idea as to why he wanted my cooperation, but I was still curious where this was all headed. What was his end game?
A short silence filled the airwaves. I used the brief moment to make a decision. Should I stay the course on Main and try to catch him from behind, or take Zycko and try to head him off at the pass? I chose Psycho Hill. I had to beat him. It was my only chance.
“So what do you need from me to finish the job? Some unmarked bills and a free trip to Argentina? That’s where all the Nazis went after World War II. I think it would be a good fit for you,” I tried to spark him to action. We were running out of time, and I’ve learned that you can’t get to resolution without conflict.
“You would think being the son of a historian that you would have a better knowledge of history. The obvious difference being that the Nazis took millions of innocent lives, while I am saving future lives. So much of how history is viewed depends on the scribes who record it. They have the power to glorify or demonize.”
He confirmed to me the reason he sought me out to tell his story. I was JP Warner, one of the most famed reporters of this generation, and with the unique power to write Benson’s chapter—Murray always said journalists write the first drafts of history. Benson needed me. His mission wouldn’t be completed until his “noble deeds” were embedded in the history books. And he knew my J-News size ego wouldn’t allow me to not tell it. He was wrong about the J-News part, but it was his lucky day, because the resurrected journalist in my blood wouldn’t allow me to leave his story untold.
I sped around a hairpin curve where a kid back in high school named Sharkey ended up with brain damage after going head on with a large oak tree. My police cruiser hit soft sand and began to fishtail, but I held it steady and accelerated into the night.
I was faced with another interview at gunpoint to spew hateful propaganda. Once again, I wanted no part of it, but as long as Benson had Gwen, I had no choice. Visions of Qwaui and Zahir filled my mind. I remembered their unwavering belief that their acts of terror were derived from a higher calling. And suddenly I knew where I’d seen Jones’ eyes before.
They were the same as Qwaui’s eyes.
The eyes of the zealot.
Chapter 88
In preparation for the most important interview of my life, I flashed back to my high school journalism class.
Murray Brown was teaching the five W’s and one H of journalism—Who? What? Where? When? How? Why?
I squeezed the receiver and asked
my first questions. Who?
“Your true identity is not Kyle Jones. Who are you and when did you begin this quest?”
“My name is Grady Benson,” he stated proudly. “My parents were murdered by a drunk driver on July 4, 1989. I didn’t know it at the time, but it was for a bigger purpose. A purpose not chosen by me, but a higher power.”
“So you’re saying that you’re not the Grady Benson who was arrested on Saturday?”
“Since you set that whole charade up, Warner, I believe you know the answer to your question.” His tone turned from philosophical to angry in a heartbeat, again reminding me of my captors. “Next question!”
When? “You were responsible for the death of Timothy Kent—the man who killed your parents—on the anniversary of their murder. Was that when your quest began?”
“It is not my quest, nor did I choose it’s beginning or end. I am just a simple servant of justice. Whenever it began, it wasn’t soon enough to save my parents, or that innocent girl that your brother murdered.”
I had almost bitten completely through my lip. “You seem to have a pattern of applying your brand of justice on the anniversary of your parents’ death. Anniversaries are very important to you.”
“It is a day that needs to be remembered and honored. Just like tonight—October 10—to most it’s just a mundane autumn day, but it is the anniversary of one of the most heinous crimes and cover-ups in history. One in which Bobby Maloney is the last remaining criminal left to pay for his actions.”
What? “What is this ‘heinous crime’ you speak of? What makes it stand out above the others in your mind?”
“October 10, twenty years ago to the day, Craig Kingsbury spearheaded the murder of Marilyn Lacey, a loving mother who was returning home to her family. In itself, it was a devious act. But the Kingsbury family used power and influence to cover up the murder, with the help of the crooked judge named Raymond Buford, and the testimony of our friend Maloney. Those who had the power to cover up those atrocities, yet willfully continued the cycle of pain, are the worst kind of evil!”
“With his high profile, I am assuming that you would consider Senator Kingsbury to be the biggest victory in your battle.”
“Your focus is too narrow,” he chastised. “Kingsbury might be the most visible symbol, but he’s just one in a long line of powerful people who have committed atrocities against the innocent, and then used their influence to save themselves. I just do my best to dry the tears of those who weep at the sword of injustice, as I was called to do. No one life is more important than another.”
He already covered the why? Sparked by his parents’ death, called by a higher being, et-cetera. For someone who didn’t think one life was more important than the next, he sure had a superior vision of himself.
I moved on to the how? “My focus might be too narrow, but I’m a reporter at heart, I can’t help it. I’m fascinated how you were able to get access to a US senator. And Leonard Harris—sounds like you got the houseboat idea from Kyle Jones.”
The means are irrelevant, as long as the ends were achieved.”
“Who do you think you’re dealing with here? You brought me here for a reason—you’ve been following my work at least since you saw my report about Judge Buford—you know I’m all about digging under the surface. As they say, the devil is in the details.”
“We don’t have time at the moment to go into it. But you will receive a complete interpretation in my journals, including a thorough account of how the symbols were eliminated. It will be an important part of your story, and you have my permission to publish them.”
“Where will I find these dead symbol scrolls?”
“You will be provided those details when we are finished here. It is mutually beneficial to both of us that you do.”
“Is that where Gwen is—with your journals?”
No answer. I took that as a yes. I visualized her chained in a dungeon like the “Bat Cave” in his Rockfield house, and I almost put my foot through the accelerator..
I continued up the curvy Zycko. The speedometer rose, as did the danger. I hated the feeling of not being in control, so I decided it was time to retake it.
Clarisse Johnson shouted into the cell phone, “JP, he is really picking up speed. Do you want us to get closer?”
Benson had provided them enough ammunition to take him down, so I was surprised they hadn’t made a hard charge—one that I feared would get people killed, namely Maloney and Gwen.
“Stay where you are,” I demanded.
I was whipping around sharp curves like I was maneuvering a bobsled course. It was the same route Noah and Lisa took that fateful night. I overloaded with emotions.
I passed The Natty where Noah asked for Lisa’s hand in marriage. I went to wipe away tears, but found it was just sweat.
I wasn’t sad.
I was pissed off.
Chapter 89
Grady Benson was in Batman mode now, as he flew his final mission. Maloney was hardly a suitable replacement for Kyle. Thoughts of his former wingman flashed him back to the trip they took to Seattle. They had drove out to Mount St. Helens, where Kyle spread his parents’ ashes. He’d never felt so close to anyone as he did at that moment, and they vowed to fight, so others wouldn’t have to feel the same pain.
But there was no time for sentiment. He knew the clock was ticking and he needed to act fast. It was time for his final summation. He reached for the radio receiver.
“I’m just one man, and my accomplishments are nothing more than a start. But I am confident that many others will pick up where I left off.” He paused for a moment, trying to check his emotions, but this time he couldn’t contain them. “I never want someone else to have to go through what I did.”
“What about the real Kyle Jones … did he deserve to die?”
“Kyle was anything but innocent. Like me, he was granted the opportunity to protect lives, yet he chose to hide behind a wall of closure, and even accepted blood money from his parents’ killers. By doing so, he was responsible for enabling more families being torn apart. And the ironic thing was, while he remained silent, I was the one who spoke out about houseboat safety!”
“Only after you used it as a tactic to kill Leonard Harris. I think your concern was more about covering your own tracks.”
“Who was going to get justice for those girls that Harris murdered in cold blood? The police, who were too busy looking the other way when one of their own like Kyle Jones was caught driving drunk? Or maybe the judge who let Harris off with just probation?”
“The church of Grady Benson doesn’t seem to believe in redemption or forgiveness. I know Noah did, and he had dedicated his life to making up for past mistakes. And from what I’ve learned, so did Leonard Harris. Perhaps they could have been assets in your fight, but you were too focused on revenge.”
“It’s so typical of the media to shift the focus away from the victims. Where is your empathy for Lisa Spargo? How come there are no questions about Marilyn Lacey?”
Batman felt his nerves straining, but he fought to stay focused. He knew Warner was just trying to distract him from the task at hand, as many had tried to do along his journey, including Gwen. He needed to complete his story, and JP Warner was a necessary evil to make it happen.
But his attention was stolen away by the vibrating medallion around his neck. He filled with dread, visualizing an escape at the beach house. But he realized that there was no way out, and figured it was just a piece of wood dislodged during the hurricane.
He used Gwen to lure Warner to this final confrontation. And now that his story was almost complete, he had no use for her. He had kept her alive to use her as a bargaining chip, but any thoughts that the FBI would cut a deal with him in exchange for Gwen Delaney was ludicrous. It couldn’t be trusted, even if offered. He would die today.
But his tale would live beyond his life. A smile came over his face as he visualized Warner finding the bodies of Gwen and Carter, when
the authorities searched the beach house. The storm that had protected the island from outside forces, and kept any possibility of discovering their whereabouts before he completed his final mission, was another helping hand from above. It might be days before anyone would be allowed back on the island. The storm room would protect them from the hurricane, but he only left enough water to survive for a couple of days. Just like him, they were running out of time. If they hadn’t already.
But his journal would survive. A collection of stories about how one man doing his small part could change the world for the better. He felt at peace, confident that driven by Warner’s thirst for revenge following the discovery of Gwen’s death, he would go to great lengths to condemn Grady Benson. But Warner’s hate would backfire, and in the end, people would rally around the triumphant stories.
Batman sped toward the bridge, knowing the guardrail couldn’t hold his police cruiser that was traveling at over ninety miles-an-hour. He would not allow the enemy to capture him—his message would be crushed by their propaganda, which would label him as a ranting lunatic. He was in control of the ending.
He looked at the whimpering Maloney, slumped in the passenger seat. His face was ashen and paralyzed with fear. In his last moments he should have been thinking of those whose lives he helped destroy, but in the end he only begged for his own life.
Batman took one final glance into the mirror. He noticed the FBI van gaining speed. But he knew they would never catch him
Chapter 90
My speedometer hit triple digits—everything was a blur. I’d driven Zycko hundreds of times in my life, but I’d never seen it in fast-forward. My familiarity with every nook and cranny was the only thing keeping me alive.
“I thought I told you to back off!” Benson’s angry voice filled my car.
By the irritation in his voice, I knew the moment of truth was upon us. The intrusion of the van into his plan had struck a nerve.
(2012) Officer Jones Page 29
