The Virgil Jones Mystery Thriller Boxed Set

by Thomas Scott

  Virgil looked at Sandy with a ‘help me’ expression on his face, but when she held her hands up in a ‘what can you do?’ gesture, he did the only logical thing he could think of…he pressed the pain button again.

  That made the room spin, like he was caught in a vortex. Rosencrantz and Donatti were standing under the television, their heads tilted up toward the set, watching something on the screen. A few minutes later when the rush of the morphine tapered off, Virgil looked at Sandy and motioned for her to lean in closer. “Did you hear what I was saying before Mutt and Jeff walked in?”

  “Yes, I did,” she said. “But it wasn’t last night. That was five days ago, Virgil.”

  Rosencrantz turned his head and said, “What was last night?”

  Virgil ignored him, but Sandy turned her head and said, “We’re talking about something else. Last night was nothing.”

  “You know how many times I’ve heard a woman tell me that?” Donatti said. Sandy shot him a look and then turned her attention back to Virgil.

  “What are you talking about?” Virgil said. “What do you mean it was five days ago?”

  Sandy had her hand on his leg. “You’ve sort of been in and out over the last few days.”

  “What?” Virgil didn’t believe it. “What day is this?”

  “It’s Friday,” Sandy said.

  Donatti looked over at Sandy and said, “Hey, am I Mutt or Jeff? I think I’m Jeff. I’m Jeff, right?”

  The door opened and a nurse came in and told Virgil the doctor had given the okay for Oxycontin instead of the morphine drip for the pain but the Oxycontin would probably, in her words, bind him up some. “Not much worse than the morphine, though.”

  “That’s all right,” Rosencrantz said. “He’s full of shit anyway.”

  Virgil thought if the food in here didn’t kill him, the cop humor probably would. When he looked at Sandy she mouthed a silent I love you and he felt his eyes water at the edges.

  It became quiet in the room for a minute, then Rosencrantz looked at Donatti and said, “I kinda like the way she calls him Virgil, don’t you?”

  Sandy shook her head, then stood and said, “Hey guys, I think we need to let Virgil get his rest. What do you say?”

  “Yeah,” Donatti said. “She’s right. Virgil’s tired.”

  Rosencrantz turned and gave him a little finger wave. “Okay, bye, Virgil. We’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Sandy waved them out. “I’ll catch up with you guys later,” she said.

  When they were out of the room, Virgil pulled himself up in the bed a little. He could feel the tape around his ribcage. “See what you’ve started,” he said.

  “I’ll talk to them,” Sandy said.

  “Ah geez, don’t do that.”

  “Well what do you want me to do?”

  The Oxycontin was working already—Virgil could feel the buzz—but he was not drowsy like he’d been with the morphine drip. The pain was still present, but it was in the background, like it was hiding inside a closet.

  “It feels like…like everything is moving too fast. I was tied up and beaten and it feels like it all happened just this morning.”

  “We don’t have to talk about this now, you know.”

  “I think I need to.”

  Sandy sat on the edge of the bed and put her hand in his. “Are you sure you’re up for it?”

  “I’m not really sure. I think there might be a lot I don’t remember. In fact, most of it is blank right now, that part of it, I mean. I remember eating lunch at the diner, then nothing until I woke up tied to the post or beam or whatever it was.”

  “And when you woke up?”

  He closed his eyes and told Sandy what he remembered about the beatings and the torture with the stun gun, seeing Murton and how he killed the two men, and then how he saw his mother. When he opened his eyes tears were running down Sandy’s cheeks and when he reached up to wipe them away she took his hand in both of hers and held it tight against her face. She then kissed the tips of his fingers and held his hand in her lap. Virgil thought she might ask about his mom, but she shifted the direction of the conversation.

  “We’ve got an ID on the men. Their names were Collins and Hicks.”

  “What about Murton? Where is he?”

  “That’s a little more complicated,” she said.

  “I’ll bet.”

  “I might be able to help you with that,” Agent Gibson said. He was standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame. He pushed himself upright with his shoulder and said, “May I come in?”

  Virgil nodded to Gibson and he walked further into the room. He looked at Sandy and said, “Would you mind if I spoke with Detective Jones in private?”

  “That’s not necessary,” Virgil said.

  “It’s okay, Virgil,” Sandy said. “I’ve got work to do. A lot has happened. I’ll check back on you later and fill you in then. Get some rest.” She leaned down and kissed him on the lips, then turned and stared at Gibson, her expression a challenge for him to comment on their private life. But he just nodded at her and after she walked out he looked at Virgil and said, “How are you feeling?”

  “I’ve been better.”

  “I checked your records. Saw you were in the sandbox.”

  “That’s a term only a soldier would use.”

  He pulled a chair close to the bed then sat down, a pocket of air held in the side of his mouth. “So maybe I was there.”

  “In what capacity?”

  He chuckled at the question before he answered. “Let’s just say I wasn’t dressed in camouflage and humping a pack. But that was a long time ago, wasn’t it? Right now you’re wondering about Murton Wheeler.”

  “I’ve been wondering about Murton Wheeler for a long time.”

  “So like I said, I can probably help you with that.”

  Virgil thought for a moment before he spoke. “That day on the street, outside the bank…the bomb scare…the first time we met? You told me Murton was part of an ongoing investigation. You made it sound like he was the one being investigated.”

  “Did I? I don’t recall. It depends on your perspective, I guess.”

  “So he’s with the G?”

  “Something like that.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I’ll let him explain it. Believe me when I tell you though, Detective, he’s paid a tremendous price for his country. I personally owe him a debt I’ll never be able to repay, but that’s another story. From what I gather, that puts you and me in the same boat.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Out in the hall, waiting to come in,” Gibson said.

  Murton walked into the room and stood about halfway between the door and the bed. Virgil pushed the button on the control panel attached to the rail and elevated the bed into a sitting position. They stared at each other for a minute, neither one of them sure of what to say. It might have been the pain medicine, or it might have been the nervous tension, but Virgil felt the corner of his mouth turn upwards, then before he knew it they were both smiling.

  “You’re a fed?”

  “Well, I was,” he said. “But not anymore. I put in my papers this morning.”

  “Why?”

  He laughed without humor. “Which why are you asking me about? The why did I disappear? Or the why didn’t I tell you what was really happening in my life? Or the why I had to let everyone, including you, your parents, and even my girlfriend think I was a criminal and a convicted felon?”

  “I’m sorry about Amy.”

  Murton stayed quiet for a long time before he spoke. “We buried her yesterday. Her mom slapped me in the face at the service. She thought her death was my fault. You know what? She was right, but for all the wrong reasons. After the service I told her who I was, who I really was and she didn’t believe me. So I pulled out my badge and handed it to her and you know what she did? She fainted. Just like that. I thought I killed her. I’ve been under too long Jonesy. I had to get out. I let m
y job get in the way of my girlfriend’s well being and it cost her and my unborn child their lives.”

  “Ah, Murt, I’m sorry. I don’t know what else to say. Goddamn. I’ve been an asshole. I’m so sorry, man.”

  They sat there with that for a while, slowly coming to terms that they’d spent the first half of their lives together as best friends and brothers, and the last half under a flag of deception that drove them apart.

  “Well, at least Pate got his, huh?” Murton said.

  “What? What do you mean?”

  “You’re kidding, right? You mean no one told you?”

  “Told me what, Murt? No one’s told me anything.”

  “Ah, that’s beautiful, man. After everything that’s happened, I get to tell you. Guess you haven’t been watching the news. Pate’s dead, Jonesy. Yesterday morning at the taping of his show. Except it wasn’t just a taping. Because of everything that’s happened, he convinced the network to run a live special. The place was packed. He stood up there on the pulpit and confessed all of it. He had tears running down his cheeks and everything. It was like every other preacher you’ve ever seen on TV when they bare their soul and confess their sins, except ol’ Sermon Sam outdid them all.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “After he confessed to burning his church in Houston, and taking responsibility for the deaths of Franklin Dugan, and Amy, and trafficking in child pornography, he stuck a gun in his mouth and blew the back of his head all over the choir. All on live TV.”

  “You said with everything that’s been happening. What else did I miss?”

  “Plenty. A city cop who now has the unfortunate nickname of Cauliflower shot your sniper to death and saved the governor as well.”

  “What?”

  “Say, I don’t mean to change the subject, but I’ve got to tell you something else,” he said. “When I was cutting you down, I could hear your mom’s voice. In my head, I mean. It’s like she was telling me exactly what to do. Can you believe that, man?”

  Virgil was still processing what Murton had told him when a physical therapist came in the room and explained that it was necessary to get up and move around. Murton said good-bye, explaining that he had six or seven reams of paperwork to complete and would look in on him later. Then, before he left, he walked over to the bed and kissed Virgil on his forehead. “Never stopped lovin’ you, brother,” he said. Virgil’s lips trembled, but he couldn’t get any words out. “You’re welcome,” Murton said, then ruffled the top of Virgil’s head like they were kids again and walked out the door.

  The physical therapist watched the exchange in silence. She was a short sassy brunette who looked like she should be working for an ice cream parlor or maybe a pet supply store.

  “You can’t see it, but there’s a rubber knob on the bottom of your cast, right under the heel of your foot. Like the stopper on the end of these crutches,” she said, holding up one of the crutches. “When you’re moving around, I want you to keep as much weight off of your leg as possible. But, if you have to put any weight on it, keep it on the knob. That’s what it’s for. That, and to make sure you don’t slip and fall. She tried a smile on so Virgil tried one right back at her, and when his scar lit up, she momentarily jerked the crutch across the front of her body, like a shield. “Uh, anyway,” she said, “here, let me help you. Swing your legs off the side of the bed, but don’t try to stand, yet.”

  “Just give me a minute, will you?” Virgil said. He gathered himself together and sat upright on the side of the bed and with the therapist’s help managed to stand mostly on his good leg, the broken one held at an odd angle at the knee to prevent it from touching the floor.

  “Good, good. That’s good,” she said. “Now straighten your knee and let the knob on the bottom of your cast rest on the floor, but don’t put any weight on it. I just want you to get a feel for where it is down there.” Virgil did what she asked, but when he did, the pain flared and the room spun. The therapist grabbed his arm and eased him back down on the bed. “I said not to put any weight on it.”

  Virgil nodded, his breath whistling through his teeth. “I didn’t.”

  “Well, maybe you did a little. Do you want me to see about getting you a wheelchair?”

  “No, I do not want a wheelchair.”

  “All right, then, come on, let’s try again. It only gets better from here.”

  “I can believe that.” He gripped the handle of the crutches, the therapist standing next to him like a gymnastics spotter. He leaned forward, put the weight on his good leg and pulled himself up.

  “All right. Now, let’s try moving around the room a little. You look like a pretty strong guy. Just remember, the key to using crutches is in the forearms, not your armpits, okay? Keep your leg bent, and use both crutches at the same time. Step with your good leg, then follow with your arms, okay?”

  “Okay, okay,” he said, hating her already. But after a few minutes of her help and some painful practice, he had to admit, she had him moving around fairly well.

  She handed him some kind of waiver stating that she had demonstrated the proper use of the crutches and asked him to sign at the bottom. Her parting words were, “Remember, if you stumble and think you’re going to fall, and you probably will, just let your body go limp. Don’t try to save yourself. Just relax and go ahead and let yourself go. You’re more likely to re-injure if you try to save yourself than if you just go ahead and let it happen.”

  For some reason, her statement made Virgil think about his relationships with his dad, Murton, and Sandy.

  A few hours later, one of the nurses came in and told him his ticket out would be to show the doctor he could get around on his own, and that was all the motivation Virgil F. Jones required. He picked up the crutches and made his way toward the door, leaning against the jamb for a few minutes until the hall was mostly clear before venturing out. It wasn’t too bad, the moving around, but the physical therapist was right; the key was to keep the weight off the leg. He went up and down the hall a few times, stopping to rest only once at the opposite end of the corridor. The hardest part really was holding his leg in the air, bent at the knee, and it didn’t take long before the burn in his thigh was a little too much. There was a couch at the end of the hallway next to the elevators, so Virgil decided to sit and watch the business end of the hospital for a while.

  As soon as he sat down he knew it was a mistake. The couch was lower than he thought—going down was not too bad—but once seated he knew he wouldn’t be able to get back up without help. The nurses’ station was at the other end of the hall, so he’d have to either yell for help or wait until someone happened by who could help him.

  Smooth, Jonesy, he thought. He closed his eyes for a while and when he opened them back up his dad was sitting next to him and the look on Mason’s face told Virgil they were thinking the same thing. “This place will kill you, you know that?” Mason said. “You remember your Uncle Bob?”

  “No, not really. I might remember the name, but that’s about it.”

  Mason nodded. “Yeah, I’m not surprised. You were pretty young when he died. He was your mother’s uncle, your great uncle. He was a mortician. Had his own funeral home up in Kokomo. After he passed, his family sold out to a conglomerate, but I was talking to him one time, this was years ago, before you were even born I think, and you know what he told me? He told me that in the funeral home industry, they call it death care. I always thought that was the damnedest thing, death care.

  “I’d sit up here with your mother, just one floor above this one while they pumped that poison into her veins trying to kill the cancer, and in the end all they did was make the last few months of her life more miserable than they already were. Every time we’d come in here I’d think about that conversation with Uncle Bob. They might call this health care, Virg, but it’s really all the same thing sometimes.” Then, like the concept of a segue was foreign to him, he finished with, “So, when they letting you out?”

&nbs
p; “Tomorrow, I think. Want to help me back to my room?”

  “You bet,” Mason said. “You bet I do.”

  They took their time going down the hall. “Delroy and Robert are going back to Jamaica for a week, so I’m going to close the bar to sand down and refinish the bar top.” When Virgil said he’d stop by to help if he could, Mason laughed and told him not to worry about it.

  When they finally made it back to the room, they stood next to the bed for a moment, and Virgil looked at his dad and said, “I can’t explain it, Dad, but it was her. She was standing right behind him and her hands were over the top of his. She helped him untie me and get me down. She was smiling at me, Dad. What do you think of that?”

  “You were bleeding out from the inside, Virg. The doctors said you had about two and a half minutes left by the time they got you here. The mind can play tricks on you when you’re in that kind of shape.”

  “I’ve been in that bad of shape before, you know.”

  “I know. You saw what you saw. Was it real to you?”

  “Yeah, it was.”

  He opened his mouth to say something, but no words came out. Then he did something he hadn’t done in almost forty years, an act that brought tears to his eyes.

  He helped his son to bed.

  A short while later the nurse came in and Virgil thought the nature of the conversation that followed must have made her think he might be suffering from brain damage.

  “Do you believe in ghosts?” he asked her.

  She had her hand on his wrist, checking his pulse. She held up a finger in a wait a minute gesture then said, “Sorry, I was counting. What was that you just asked me?”

  “Never mind,” Virgil said, but then he asked her something else. “I keep hearing this muffled little happy birthday tune. Is anyone else hearing it, or is it just me?”

  The nurse laughed. “That’s from the maternity ward. It’s one floor below us. Every time a baby is born the new father gets to push a button behind the nurses’ station and it plays the first few notes of happy birthday over the loudspeaker on that floor. You can hear it on this floor because they’re right below us.” She wrapped the blood pressure cuff around his arm just above the elbow and pumped the bulb, the needle on the indicator bouncing back and forth. He waited until she was done before he spoke again.