Officer Jones

by Derek Ciccone

  “You worked with Grady Benson?” I asked, surprised.

  “Sure did, even went to Lake Cumberland with him to put on a safety clinic. The kid could really put emotion into a speech. Never a dry eye in the house when he talked about Leonard. There was no doubt there was a connection there.”

  “What’s the deal with Lake Cumberland?”

  “It’s in Kentucky-known as the houseboat capital of the world. They have a convention each year. Benson and I put on a safety demonstration.” He thought for a quick moment. “What’s your interest in Benson?”

  “He killed my brother,” I didn’t mince words.

  Sidwell flashed me a curious look, filled with many questions he didn’t have time to ask.

  “Over there,” he suddenly shouted, his attention diverted. We sped toward a docked houseboat. A woman, presumably the mother, stood on the deck waving her hands frantically.

  The dive team boarded the vessel like pirates, and obtained all the information they could out of the hysterical mother. Then like precision, we were off again. Sidwell was in full control as we jetted into the dark night, using radar and global-positioning satellite signals to plot the course. I sat alone, no longer thinking of Officer Jones, Noah, Leonard Harris, or even Gwen. The moment was compelling. I hoped for the best, but I’d seen too many bad endings to be overly optimistic.

  A half-hour passed and radio calls were made requesting reinforcements. The mood was tense and the water was silent. The eerie quiet of death.

  But just when the search appeared hopeless, Sidwell pointed at a silhouette on the water that would have surely been missed by the untrained eye. A floodlight flashed on the area and I could make out a small ski boat that containing a man, who like his wife, was waving frantically. Next to him were two young boys. They were trapped on a sandbar.

  The knot in my stomach slowly untied. I saw relief plastered on Sidwell’s face. There would be one less nightmare for him.

  I left the jubilant divers around midnight and checked into a local motel. I was still on an adrenaline rush that made sleep impossible. So I checked my email and found the files that Christina sent about the settlement in the death of Kyle Jones’ parents.

  His parents died in a boating accident. The boating manufacture that was potentially liable for the accident, quietly settled out of court with the Jones’ only heir, Kyle Jones.

  The cause of death was carbon monoxide poisoning on a houseboat in Lake Cumberland, Kentucky.

  Chapter 71

  Ocracoke Island

  October 5

  The rain pelted down in sheets. If it was raining cats and dogs, then they were mountain lions and Saint Bernards. To Gwen, it appeared to be shooting horizontally, as she did her best to follow Grady Benson in her rented minivan.

  She’d tracked Benson for the past few days. Her sources at the Rockfield PD told her that Officer Jones had been acting jumpy and agitated. He’d taken personal days for Wednesday through Friday, using the excuse of needing to secure his North Carolina home, facing the expectation that Hurricane Ava would hit the Outer Banks by the weekend. Benson booked a flight for Wednesday morning, but heavy rains in the Carolinas canceled all air traffic. So he scrambled to rent a car. Even though his response was logical, Gwen was suspicious of the urgency. She believed it had everything to do with Jeff Carter.

  The rain began lightly when she hit the Pennsylvania Turnpike. By the time she passed by the nation’s capital it was a downpour of biblical proportions. And the constant struggle for visibility, while keeping a safe distance from Benson’s vehicle, gave her a splitting headache. He drove straight through, only stopping for gas and bathroom breaks at rest-stops outside of Scranton and Fredericksburg.

  After twenty hours on the road, Gwen arrived at a deserted Cape Hatteras. Huge signs featuring skull and crossbones warned that Wednesday would be the final day of ferry transportation. The locals were evacuating in large numbers, but the atmosphere didn’t appear to be fraught with fear or panic. Hurricanes were not uncommon in these parts.

  Gwen let Benson take the first ferry, choosing to wait the half-hour to catch the next one. Once arriving on the island, she made the journey to the north shore. The heavy wind created a sandstorm effect and the waves crashed ashore like they were angry. The noon skies were as black as midnight. She jumped with every crash of thunder.

  She parked the minivan at a deserted home down the street, and entered the elements. A cold wind whipped and she felt like a hose was spraying precipitation into her face at point blank range. Trees swayed, to the point that they appeared on the verge of being ripped out of the ground.

  She found a hiding spot behind a sand dune that provided a direct view of Benson’s house. His vehicle was parked in the driveway.

  The only thing keeping her warm was thoughts of her night with JP. And then as if he were reading her thoughts, her phone rang.

  “I miss you,” she shouted over the relentless whipping of wind.

  “Not as much as I miss you,” he said back, always competitive. He seemed to be having equal trouble hearing her over the roar of voices.

  “Where are you, JP … the airport?” Gwen asked, never taking her eyes off Benson’s house.

  “Actually, I’m in a bar called Cransky’s.”

  “Very nice. I’m squatting in a sand dune in the middle of a hurricane and you are out enjoying yourself!”

  “Hurricane? Where are you, Gwen?”

  “I followed Kyle, or Grady, or whatever his name is, to Ocracoke.”

  “Gwen, this is no time to be a hero. You should hear some of the stuff I’ve learned about this guy. Please get out of there.”

  Loving JP and letting JP get the last word were two separate issues. “You should have seen how desperate he was to get here. I know he has Carter trapped somewhere down here. I can’t leave now.”

  “Are you crazy? Did you alert anyone that you’re even there?”

  “I just told you. Now tell me what you learned on your trip, I know you’re dying to impress me.”

  He let out a frustrated sigh. “According to police reports, Cransky’s is the last place that Phillip Tompkins was seen. I’ve talked to a couple of regulars who were here that day. Timothy Kent, one of the guys Tompkins hit with the car, was the one who had killed Benson’s parents. The records might be sealed, but the local gossip wasn’t. They remembered Tompkins leaving with a mystery man that nobody had seen in the bar, before or since. They couldn’t give a really good description after twenty-some years, other than he was rather nondescript, but one guy did remember that he wore a US Air Force shirt.”

  “I’m impressed. I guess you are doing a little work in between beers. Did you learn anything in Arizona?”

  “I met the mysterious Lucy. She had worked with Jones on the Gilbert PD. She basically confirmed that Benson was a psycho who once assaulted her when he discovered that she and Jones had driven home drunk one night. She also told me that Benson was set off by a GNZ report I did on a judge named Raymond Buford, who was known for letting drunk drivers off the hook.”

  “That doesn’t sound like good news for the judge.”

  “Let’s just say that Benson didn’t let him off the hook. As is his M.O, it was made to look like an accident, but it doesn’t fit into our anniversary theory.”

  “Although, it does fit our pattern of not being able to prove anything.”

  “Maybe so, but I can prove where Buford died.”

  “Why does the location of his death matter?” she shouted over a loud crackle of thunder.

  “You are on Benson’s street, right?”

  “Yes, I’m across the street from his house.”

  “Well, look down about three houses from Benson’s. That was Buford’s home.”

  She gasped, suddenly feeling that they were in way over their heads.

  He continued, “I traveled to Lake Havasu yesterday, to look into Leonard Harris’ death. I learned that there’s a section of many houseboats whe
re exhaust fumes gather that the experts call the ‘death zone.’ Benson rented the boat-it wasn’t a coincidence. He sent Harris to his death.”

  “And you can prove that?”

  “No, but Kyle Jones’ parents retired in Lake Cumberland, Kentucky, which happens to be the houseboat capital of the United States. Christina was able to get at the court documents, and learned that they died in the exact same way as Leonard Harris. That’s how Benson learned of the tactic.”

  This news sent a shiver down Gwen’s spine. As if on cue, Benson exited the beach house, got into his rental car and drove off. She knew she had to get some hard evidence.

  “He just left … I’m going in.”

  He began screaming at her, but eventually saw it her way. Mainly because there was nothing he could do about it from Seattle.

  “I’ll be careful. Is there anything else you want to tell me before I go?” she asked, while struggling to climb over the wet sand of the dune.

  “I helped save a missing family last night on Lake Havasu.”

  “Well aren’t you special,” Gwen said, no longer listening, all her focus on Benson’s house.

  “Just be careful,” he warned.

  Chapter 72

  Gwen stumbled through the wind and rain, which was so fierce it knocked her off balance. She splashed through puddles that were turning into small lakes. She hurried across the marshy ground, falling twice, before reaching the beach house. After making sure the coast was clear, she climbed the stairs, holding tightly to the slippery railing.

  Her naivete in thinking she could actually walk through the front door worked in her favor. The sliding glass door was smashed in. She didn’t know what to make of this development, but entered the house through the large hole. Her best guess was that Benson had left in search of supplies to fix it, and would be back soon. But for all she knew, he could have been off to kill a drunk driver. Regardless, she didn’t have a moment to lose.

  She pulled out her dripping cell phone from her poncho, surprised it still worked, and re-dialed. “JP, someone must have broken in or out of here, the glass door is bashed in. Maybe this is where he was holding Carter, but he was able to break out,” she said, excited by the possibility.

  He tempered her enthusiasm, “I broke it during my own search. I also emptied all his drawers when searching for evidence. There’s nothing in there.”

  Gwen urgently moved from room to room. “He must have cleaned up because everything is back in place.”

  “Hurry up and get out of there!”

  Gwen ignored, but kept him on the phone. His voice made her feel safer. “I know there’s something going on in his bedroom.”

  She searched the room and then checked the closet. When she parted the hanging clothes, she noticed a piece of the paneling slightly peeling off the wall. It might have gone unnoticed if she wasn’t looking for something. When she yanked on it, it came off, exposing a hidden door with a combination lock. She knew it!

  She began fiddling with the combination lock with no luck, and finally settled on the tactic of banging on the thick steel door and shouting, “Carter are you in there!?” Not very effective.

  “Can you please just get out of there, Gwen? I just can’t deal with the thought of losing you again,” JP pleaded.

  Gwen took his words with a smile.

  Then she screamed.

  A strong hand strapped around her neck. The other hand covered her mouth, muffling her screams.

  Her phone fell to the ground.

  Chapter 73

  Once again Grady Benson swallowed the bitter taste of betrayal. When his necklace signaled an intruder, he had hoped it was a looter, but deep down he knew he’d find Gwen Delaney.

  Even though he knew she’d plotted against him, he still held out some hope she would mend her ways. No woman had ever made him feel like she did. But now he saw that she was nothing more than a test. And it was one he was going to pass.

  He kept a firm hand over her mouth, while reaching down to pick up the phone. He listened for a moment, hearing Warner’s pleas, as if it would help. He unceremoniously hung up on him.

  He first secured the prisoner with a pair of Rockfield PD handcuffs, and putting masking tape over her mouth. It was bad enough she betrayed him, but he didn’t have to listen to her refer to him as a “sick bastard” and tell him over and over again he wouldn’t “get away with it.”

  He spun the combination lock and proudly informed her the combination was 74891010. The first part was the date of his parents’ murder, while the other was the date that would live in infamy.

  He tore off her hood and baseball cap. He grabbed a chunk of her hair and walked her into the secure room. When he tossed her on the floor, she landed right next to the unconscious Carter.

  “You very much disappoint me, Gwen,” he lamented. She couldn’t respond, which suited him fine. “You were supposed to be a journalist, to report the story without prejudice. But instead you used your platform to support an enabler of evil like JP Warner. He was once a courageous truth-teller who exposed Buford, but like Kyle, he turned his back on his calling. And look what he’s done to you-he turned you into a common criminal, willing to break into a private home to support your agenda of lies.”

  He noticed her eyes casing the room, viewing the pictures on the wall. Many that she was very familiar with. He took pleasure in the shock on her face when she viewed the one remaining photo without an X. She knew he was next. Too bad she wouldn’t be around to see it.

  He took out a bag of candy bars and tossed them on the floor. “Don’t fret, Gwen, you are a prisoner of war. A prisoner of a just and morally correct war. Therefore, you and your friend will be treated with the policies outlined in the Geneva Convention. You are too important to the final outcome for me to let you starve to death.”

  He tore the masking tape off so hard he first thought he tore her lips right off her face. “I will leave the keys to your handcuffs over here. You are very resourceful, I’m sure you’ll find a way to remove them. It won’t matter, since you will never be able to escape this room.”

  He viewed the trepidation on her face. “Don’t be afraid. This room is designed to withstand winds up to three-hundred-miles-per-hour. The rest of the house may fall apart, but your final resting place will be stable.”

  He used the remainder of the afternoon to eat a light lunch and board-up the sliding glass door. He penned a chapter in his journal as the rain pounded on the roof and the wind howled. Before leaving, he returned to the storm-room with a large mixing bowl filled with water. He figured it would keep his prisoners alive for the precious few days he needed from them. Then he locked them in.

  He secured the residence, in case of looters, or JP Warner, whom he was convinced was responsible for the previous damage. He then left the island. But before heading back to Connecticut, he decided that he needed to make a stop in Raleigh.

  On the ferry ride back to Cape Hatteras, he threw Gwen’s cell phone as far as he could and watched it plop into the turbulent waters.

  Part Six

  Bridging the Gap

  Chapter 74

  Cape Hatteras, North Carolina

  October 6-present

  The minute Gwen’s phone went dead I made a beeline to North Carolina. No flights were landing in the area, so I had to fly to Norfolk, Virginia and drive. The irony didn’t escape me that it was the same city I landed in on my return from Germany, convinced that my life was about to take a turn for the better, or at least would be calmer.

  My calls to the authorities went nowhere-the local police in the Outer Banks were too busy with hurricane evacuation, while the FBI has a standing policy against taking my calls. I did get in touch with the state police, but they hung up on me after I started talking crazy stuff about stolen identities, kidnapped wrestlers, and vigilante killers.

  I rented an SUV with four-wheel drive that seemed like my best bet with the looming hurricane. But what I really needed was my Humvee, w
hich was still docked at the Ocracoke Air Field as a security deposit on my last trip home. At least I hoped it was still there.

  The hurricane evacuation had turned the road heading out of town into a virtual parking lot. But working in my favor was that I was the only moron heading toward the storm, so traffic was clear my way. I took US-158 and then crossed over the Wright Memorial Bridge into Kitty Hawk. I wound through the center of Roanoke Island until I reached Whalebone Junction in Nags Head.

  When I reached Hatteras, I received some bad news-no more ferries were traveling to the island. I was left to face the reality that the only way to reach the island was a twenty-mile swim. I actually thought about it for a moment, before realizing I couldn’t even walk five miles in perfect weather in my condition. I retreated to Sloopy Joe’s in need of a new plan … and a drink.

  The only person present was Joe himself, and since I was his lone customer, I received the VIP service. Joe was a slim older man with a matter of fact style that was softened by his gentlemanly, southern charm. As I nursed a Killian’s Red, the past few months suddenly rose up like a tidal wave. Gwen and Carter were likely captured by Benson, my brother was dead, and another loyal friend was paralyzed. And I was no closer to stopping Benson. I’d never felt so helpless in my life.

  Probably feeling sorry for me, Joe brought another beer for his only customer, on the house. My only other request was if he would change the Weather Channel to the news. I was hoping to hear some good news on the Gwen and Carter front, but the reality was that they hadn’t even been reported missing and nobody was actively searching for them. But I clung to my delusion.

  Joe obliged, clicking the remote until he landed on GNZ. Close enough.