by Thomas Scott
“Oh I’m right. In a matter of days you and I are going to be filthy rich, retired and trying to figure out how to spend the interest on hundreds of millions of dollars.”
“It doesn’t seem real.”
Nicky laughed. “I know what you mean. But believe me, it will seem real enough when you check your account balances. Listen, I have to ask, just to make myself feel better…you know what to do with that play slip right?”
“I do.”
“Tell me.”
She rolled her eyes a little, then told him.
3
__________
If Virgil thought about it—and he often did—he’d have to admit the shooting of James Pope still haunted him. After it happened he was still young and foolish enough to believe that the past was just that and once free from its grasp he’d not worry over it anymore or attempt to be the arbiter of events outside his own control. Except those types of certainties are a preserve best left to youth, a lesson Virgil thought he might never have to learn. Then before he knew it twenty years had sailed away and now this; a summer like no other, the pain a constant companion as it cut a swath through the jungle of his life, a trail laid bare as if it were his only choice, at once clear and true. It would be a harbinger of things to come, a combination of that moment from long ago and his life now, one he might be able to point to someday and say, Ah, yes, that’s when it turned. That’s when it all changed. If only…
A late-afternoon haze drifted across the sun but the air temperature held steady enough that no adjustments were necessary to his line depth. The bobber he used was simple, made from the cork of an old wine bottle and it vibrated in the water if he held too much tension on the line. It reminded him of those old electric football games Virgil and his boyhood friend, Murton Wheeler, used to play when they were kids. They’d line up the little plastic players, then hit the switch and watch the tiny figurines vibrate their way across the surface of the game board. Virgil could still hear the buzzing sound the board made when they toggled the power button and turned it on.
He had a two-pound monofilament line tied directly to an eyehook at the end of the cane pole. The pole was twelve feet in length and stained dark with age and the regular applications of Tung oil used to maintain its beauty and structural integrity. The pole was one of Virgil’s most prized possessions. His grandfather had taught him to fish with it and then had given it to him as a gift just a few years before he died. Virgil had a shed full of fishing poles, ones made of boron, graphite, fiberglass or some other space-age composite, and they were all fine poles. Some were so flexible and tough you could literally tie them into a knot without damaging the rod, while others were so sensitive you could detect a deer fly if it landed on the tip. Virgil didn’t know why he continued to buy them. His grandfather’s cane pole was the only one he ever used. When he held the pole in his hands the way he’d been taught so long ago he felt a connection to his grandfather, as if the linear reality of time held no sway in his existence and he was back in control of himself and his own destiny, his path clear, his choices many.
Virgil knew, at least on some level, that he was a sight this Saturday afternoon. He wore a pair of green cotton gym shorts that hung to his knees, a Jamaican Red Stripe Beer utility cap angled low across his brow and a pair of brown leather half-top boots with no socks. He sat at the edge of his pond, cane pole in hand and tried to relax, mostly without any measure of success. The fish were not biting but he didn’t really care. He set the pole in the grass next to his chair, reached into the cooler and took out his supplies. Among them, a plastic syringe with a screw tip on the end, a glass vial of a drug called Heparin, and an odd looking, round container made of a stiff rubbery material about the size of a baseball. The baseball-like container held a drug called Vancomycin, a powerful antibiotic medication that the doctor had referred to as their ‘drug of last resort.’
The glass vial of Heparin was fitted with a threaded female connector that matched the male connector of the syringe on the table. He scrubbed his hands clean with a disposable alcohol wipe, then used another to cleanse the top of the Heparin vial and yet another to wipe the connector that was sutured and taped under his arm. The tube that penetrated his body was a Peripherally Inserted Central Catheter, or PICC Line for short. Once he had everything sterilized he filled the syringe from the Heparin bottle with the required amount of the drug and injected it into the tube.
Heparin, the doctor had told Virgil, was an anti-coagulant drug that prevented the formation of blood clots and helped aid in the healing process of human tissue. In non-technical language, it greased the skids for the real medicine, the Vancomycin.
After injecting the Heparin, he hooked up the Vancomycin container. The delivery process of the Vancomycin would take about thirty minutes as the medicine flowed from the ball and into a vein through Virgil’s heart before being distributed throughout his body.
Five months ago, while working a case as the lead investigator for the state’s Major Crimes Unit, Virgil had been kidnapped, tortured and beaten almost to death. In the course of the beating his right leg was broken and required surgery to repair the damage. The surgery went well, or so he’d been told and he was up and around in no time at all. Except one day about eight weeks into the recovery process, he woke in the morning with a low-grade fever that did not seem to want to leave him alone no matter how many aspirin he took. He began to feel worse with each passing day until finally on the fifth morning Virgil’s girlfriend, Sandy Small, found him unconscious on their bedroom floor. During the surgical procedure to fix his leg, Virgil had picked up a staph infection. The infection grew in his body where it eventually worked its way into his blood stream, a condition known as Staphylococcal Sepsis. He’d been taking the Vancomycin twice a day for the last six weeks in an effort to kill the infection. This would be his last dose.
It had been a rough couple of months. During his previous investigation—right after his release from the hospital—the wife of one of the main suspects in his case killed Virgil’s father, Mason. She was trying to shoot Virgil, but his father took the bullet instead.
The buzzing in Virgil’s head was with him constantly. It had nothing to do with childhood memories and simpler times, nor did it have anything to do with the Heparin or the Vancomycin. It was because of the other drugs he was still taking. Oxycodone was one. He took two of the blue-colored thirty milligram tablets three times a day. Between doses, he’d toss back two or three Vicodin…both for the pain in his leg.
At least that’s what he kept telling himself.
When he thought about the men who kidnapped and tried to kill him, Virgil thought they might yet succeed.
__________
Virgil broke two of the Vicodin in half and swallowed them with a couple of sips of Dew. A few minutes later he felt the chemical rush hit his system the same way a shot of whiskey will burn the throat and warm the blood. He closed his eyes and let the feeling flow through his body and for a few minutes he felt confident and strong and happy and free. But he also knew the feeling wouldn’t last, that soon the reality of his situation would once again wrap itself around him like a second skin, one in which he could not seem to find the edge. He thought if he could he’d peel it away until there was nothing left at all.
After twenty minutes or so, the Vancomycin container was empty, so Virgil unscrewed the connector and capped it off tight. He had an appointment later in the day to have the tube removed and a blood test to ensure the infection was gone.
When he pulled his fishing line from the pond he noticed that not only was the worm missing from the hook at the end of the line, but so too was his desire to fish. The late morning air was warm and still and when Virgil let his gaze settle on the bowed limbs of the willow tree planted next to the edge of the pond water he saw his father standing there, leaning against the trunk of the tree, his face partially hidden by the leafy, feather-veined fronds. He was shirtless under his bib-style bar apron tied off at
his waist and he had a towel thrown over his left shoulder. Virgil could see the scar from the bullet wound at the bottom of his father’s chest, the skin around the edges gnarled and puckered, yet somehow pink and fresh like that of a newborn baby.
They stared at each other for a long time, then Mason moved sideways just a bit. “I’m worried about you, Son,” he said. When he spoke, the buzzing inside Virgil’s head went quiet and the absence of the incessant sound was more of a surprise than the vision of his dead father. “You’re hitting the meds pretty hard, don’t you think?”
“Better living through chemistry,” Virgil said, but regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth. The sarcasm didn’t seem to bother Mason though; the look of both love and concern on his face remaining steady. “I’m sorry, Dad.”
“It’s alright, Bud. I remember you told me that day in the truck how the pills were making you cranky.”
“That’s not what I meant. Why do I think you know that?”
“It wasn’t your fault.”
“Wasn’t it?”
“Of course not.” Mason looked away for a moment and wrapped his hands around the trunk of the willow tree. “This is a beautiful thing you did here, Virg. It’s more significant than you might imagine.”
After Mason’s death, the people who meant more to Virgil than anyone else in the world brought his father’s bloodied shirt to his house along with the willow tree. Together they buried the shirt and planted the tree on top of it. “Thanks, Dad, but I’m not exactly sure what that means.”
“It’s okay, Son. You wouldn’t. You learn things over here. It’s sort of a timeless knowledge. I can’t really explain it. The actual words don’t exist.”
“Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“I don’t want you to take offense.”
Mason smiled. “What is it, Son?”
“Why haven’t I heard from my grandfather?”
“He’s been here with you all morning, Virg. In fact, he spends most of his time with you.”
“I’ve never seen him.”
“It doesn’t always work that way.”
Virgil closed his eyes and shook his head. “I don’t—”
“I have to go now, Virgil. You have people in your life who are going to need you.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean you’ve got to be shut of those pills. You’re not thinking straight.”
“I’m trying,” Virgil said.
The smile left Mason’s face and Virgil felt as much as he heard the words that came next. To Virgil, it felt as if they passed through him, like a pressure wave from a bomb blast. “Try harder.”
“Will you tell him I said hello?” Virgil asked.
“You can tell him yourself, Virg. He hears you. We all do.” Then Mason looked toward the house and pointed with his chin. “Say, looks like you’ve got company.” The look on his face almost mischievous. “Don’t worry, Virgil. Everything is exactly how it should be.”
“I don’t understand, Dad.”
“Maybe not yet, but you will. Good-bye for now, buddy.”
“Wait, Dad, there’s something else I need to know.”
“Dad loves you, Virgil. We all do. Stay tuned.”
From the time Virgil was old enough to remember, he and his father had acknowledged their love for each other in something of an unusual way. Mason spoke of himself in the third person. He would say, “Dad loves you,” and because Virgil was still young enough that he’d not yet grasped the many nuances of the English language, he’d say, “Dad loves you too.” Virgil had always considered it one of the best things about his own life—the fact that they both continued to express their love for each other in that particular way…‘Dad loves you. Dad loves you too.’
The footsteps came from behind and when Virgil turned in his chair he saw his boss, Cora LaRue, and the Governor’s Chief of Staff, Bradley Pearson, as they approached across the back yard. Virgil put the pill bottles in the pocket of his shorts and stood to greet them, his legs not quite as steady as he would have liked. The air was thick and heavy without any wind and the surface water of the pond as smooth and flat as a tabletop mirror, but when Virgil looked over at the willow tree where he’d just spoken with his dead father he saw a few of the branches sway as if someone had just brushed them aside.
The buzzing in his head was back and at that very moment Virgil thought he’d do just about anything to make it all go away.
__________
When the people of Indiana elected Hewitt McConnell as Governor, he answered their concerns over rising crime rates by forming the Major Crimes Unit. He appointed Cora LaRue as the administrator of the division and together she and the Governor chose Virgil as lead detective for all investigative operations. Because of the nature of politics though, Cora spent most of her time dealing with Pearson instead of the Governor. As a result, Pearson—the state’s biggest political operator—often used this to his advantage in ways that were not only unnecessary but also counterproductive. In short, it was typical politics, which Virgil despised more than just about anything. Cora never let her dislike of Pearson get in the way of her job, though she never tried to hide her feelings either. Pearson, on the other hand, operator that he was, rarely let his emotions show. You could be a friend one minute if it suited any particular agenda, or conversely, if the need arose, you could be an enemy of the state. The problem with people like Pearson, Virgil knew, was that those two things were not often mutually exclusive.
“Jonesy, how are you feeling?” Cora asked.
“I’m squeaking by,” Virgil said. His words were slurred and his tongue felt thick and unresponsive and he had to look away from Cora when he spoke.
“We need to talk to you, Jonesy. I’m sorry about this, I really am.”
“Sorry about what?”
“Oh for Christ sake, Cora, look at him,” Pearson said. “It’s the right call. He’s in no condition. No condition at all. He has tubes coming out of him and he sounds like he’s three sheets to the wind. How about we get this over with and get back to work.”
“Hi, Bradley, always a pleasure,” Virgil said. “I’m standing right here, you know. How about telling me what’s going on?”
Pearson ran his hands across his forehead then up through his thinning hair. He pulled back so hard on his scalp that for a moment the outer corners of his eyes angled upward in a manner that gave him an effeminate look. He started to speak, but Cora cut him off.
“Jonesy, about an hour ago, on direct orders from the Governor, you’ve been replaced as lead detective of the Major Crimes Unit.” She paused to let her words sink in and Virgil saw her eyes slide away from his own. “Ron Miles has been appointed by the Governor as your replacement.”
Virgil sat back down in his lawn chair and looked out at the pond water. When he didn’t respond, Pearson filled the silence. “Jesus Christ, Jones, what did you expect? Look at yourself. You’re a goddamned mess. How many pills are you popping these days, anyway?”
“Why are you here, Bradley?”
“To make sure that there is no misunderstanding regarding your situation.”
The drugs were still working on him and when Virgil spoke he took no care with his words or their intent. “How much of that is your doing, Pearson? Never mind, you don’t have to answer. We already know the answer to that question, don’t we? So here’s the deal, Pearson…I think I want you to leave. In fact, I’m sure of it. Would you like me to show you to your car?”
“In your condition? I’d like to see you try,” Pearson said. He stepped forward and when he did his foot came down on top of the cane pole and snapped it in half. Pearson jumped a little at the sound the cane made when it broke and when he did, Virgil knew he had not stepped on it with purpose. Pearson bent over to pick up the ruined pole, as if the act of lifting it in his hands could repair the damage. “Don’t touch that,” Virgil said, his voice no more than a whisper. “I really would like you
to leave now.”
Cora looked at Pearson, then back at Virgil. “Would you two please give it a rest?”
“This is my home, Cora.” Virgil said. “I make the rules here. Not him and you know what? Not you, either.” When she didn’t respond, Virgil said, “What?”
“There’s something else.”
“There always is, Cora. I just can’t for the life of me imagine what it might be.”
“Your replacement isn’t temporary. They’re not going to let you come back.”
Virgil stood and faced her. “Say that again.”
Cora took an involuntary step back, as if in fear. “The state. They’re forcing you out.”
“What? On what grounds?”
“The medical reports for one. You’ll qualify for three-quarters disability. With your time on the job your pension will kick in right away. I’ve done the math and the truth is you’ll be making more by walking away than if you stayed.”
Virgil kept glancing over at the willow tree, as if something his father had said would somehow help him. He bent down to retrieve the broken cane pole and when he stood, the look on Cora’s face seemed as sad and mixed as his own emotions.
“How bad is it?” she said.
“I don’t know, Cora. Some things just can’t be fixed.”
She stepped close and placed her hand on the flat of Virgil’s bare chest, her eyes inspecting the PICC line. “I’m not talking about the fishing pole, Jonesy.”
“I know you’re not. Neither am I.”
Cora shook her head, then raised her chin, her voice taking on an official tone. “I’m sorry, Detective, but I’m going to have to ask you for your badge.”
