by Thomas Scott
Jonas let the toy truck fall from his hands, then climbed on the bed and sat down next to Sandy, his legs hanging off the mattress, his arms limp at his sides.
“Jonas?”
He gave her a shrug. Then his lower lip began to tremble. Finally he looked up at her and said, “Mommy’s mad at me.”
Sandy wrapped him in her arms and held him tight, stroking his dirty hair. “Oh no, sweetheart. No she isn’t…”
Sandy spent a few minutes with Jonas, gently questioning him…when was the last time he’d eaten? Yesterday. When was the last time he’d had a bath? Don’t remember. Was he still going to pre-school? No.
“How come? I thought you liked it there.”
“I do,” Jonas said. “But mommy says we can’t ford it.” Then, “Miss Sandy?”
“What, honey?”
“What does ford it mean? Mommy says we can’t ford anything.”
Sandy wasn’t quite sure how to answer, but it didn’t matter because Jonas didn’t give her the chance.
“Mommy’s always mad at me. And I miss my daddy. And mommy’s mad at Daddy because he went to heaven and he isn’t coming back. She’s mad at everybody, even Mr. Virgil and Mr. Murt.”
Sandy got off the bed and down on her knees, right in front of Jonas. She held his face in her hands as she spoke. “Listen very carefully, sweetheart. Your mommy isn’t mad. She’s not mad at Mr. Virgil or Mr. Murt, or your daddy. And she’s definitely not mad at you. She’s just very, very sad. She misses your daddy just like we all do.”
“She yells at me.”
Sandy thought about it for a minute. “I’ve got an idea. How would you like to come with me today? We can go back to my house and you and Mr. Virgil can go fishing in the pond. How does that sound?”
Jonas shrugged again. “Okay, I guess. But mommy won’t let me.”
“You get your warm clothes on. Can you do that by yourself?”
He said he could. He was a big boy now.
“Okay. You get dressed and I’ll talk to your mommy for a little while, then I’ll come back here to get you when it’s time to go, okay?”
“Okay. But mommy won’t let me.”
She doesn’t have a choice. “Yes she will, buddy. You’ll see. Wait here until I come to get you.”
It took Sandy a few minutes in the bathroom to cool down and gather herself together. She’d never raised a child before, but you didn’t have to be an expert on parenting to recognize a child in crisis. She rejoined Pam, who had in her short absence decided to go for the gold.
“I’m suing them,” Pam said. She was shouting now. “All of them. The state, the governor, the MCU, the docs, anyone and everyone who’s had a hand in this. By the time I’m finished with them they’ll wish they’d have just written the check and walked away. This whole thing has gotten out of control. I’ve done everything they asked. Everything except allow them to dig up Ed’s body and chop him to pieces.”
“Pam, lower your voice.”
“Don’t worry. I’m leaving you and Virgil out of it, but the rest of those bastards are going to pay.”
“Pam, I said lower your voice. Jonas is—”
But it was too late. Sandy caught the movement out of the corner of her eye and when she turned she saw Jonas in the hallway, dressed in the mismatched way that children do when left to choose their own outfits. He was staring at the wall, sucking his thumb, tears streaming down his face.
She couldn’t do two things at once, so Sandy chose Jonas. She walked over, took Jonas by the hand and led him into the den. She turned on the TV…if she could keep Jonas distracted with a children’s program for a few minutes, she’d be able to deal with Pam, then get Jonas out of the house for a while.
When the TV came up it was on a local news channel and Sandy’s brain almost didn’t register what appeared on the screen because she’d never seen it from that angle. A news anchor provided the voice-over to an image that showed her own house and property. Just then the camera zoomed in and she clearly saw Virgil, Murton, Cora, and the governor. They were all standing in the backyard next to the governor’s helicopter, looking up at the news station’s own helicopter—and its camera.
She turned the volume up and caught the announcer: “…have been informed that the property belongs to Virgil Jones. Jones, the former lead detective of the state’s major crimes unit, was summarily dismissed from the department after—” There was a brief burst of static, then the reporter was back. “Our pilot is telling us that we’ve been ordered out of the airspace by the FAA and instructed to return to the airport. We’ll keep you updated on the situation as things unfold. I’m Jack Evans, your Eye-In-The-Sky reporter, WISH-TV, Indianapolis.”
Murton waved at the camera as the pilot banked the helicopter away.
And Sandy thought, what the hell?
While that was going on, Pam had managed to collect herself…somewhat. When Sandy returned, Pam let out a deep breath and said, “I may as well tell you now. I’d rather you hear it from me than anyone else.”
“Tell me what?” Sandy said.
“Ed and I went through a pretty tough time a few years ago. That’s partly why I’ve been so upset with Virgil.”
“I don’t understand,” Sandy said.
“You will. Just let me say it. When Virgil hired him, Ed was thrilled. It was exactly the kind of work he’d always wanted to do. No more third-shift patrols, no more domestic disputes, no more sitting on the side of the highway with a radar gun and a ticket book. He’d finally be doing what he’d wanted to do all along…work high profile cases as part of an elite unit. The MCU was perfect for him. And I thought it was going to be perfect for us, too.”
“Pam, what happened with Ed…the attack…it could have happened to anyone. It could have happened to him if he was still on patrol. Surely you know that.”
“I do. I’m not talking about how he died. I’m talking about how he lived. We had a good thing going. It wasn’t perfect, but we made it work. When Virgil hired Ed everything changed. He was happy in a way that I can’t describe. And I’m ashamed to admit it, but the happier he got, the more unhappy I became. We tried everything. Couples therapy, church, whatever. You name it, we tried it. But Ed wasn’t the problem, we weren’t the problem. I was the problem.”
“Well you must have worked through it. I was watching you guys at the party—and I’m not making this up, Pam—I remember thinking how happy you guys looked, hoping that Virgil and I end up as happy as you guys are. Were. I’m sorry. You know what I mean.”
Pam waved her away. “It’s okay. I do. We were happy. Then. But about a year before Jonas was born, I finally ended up at the doctor’s office and it turned out I was clinically depressed. I’m telling you something, I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy. It really is that bad. And during all of it, even though he tried to hide it, I could see that Ed was happy. Do you know what that must have been like for him? He had to hide his happiness so I wouldn’t be so upset. Who puts their spouse through something like that? I’m ashamed of myself. But back then I started to resent him for it. How could he be so happy when I was so miserable? The doctor put me on an anti-depressant and that just made things worse. We started arguing, then we really started fighting. Mean, hurtful, door slamming fights. Saying the kinds of things to each other that you can never take back. The kinds of things that are never forgotten and rarely forgiven. I no longer cared about being happy. I only wanted him to be less happy. But Virgil and his goddamned MCU kept him busy…and happy. I couldn’t take it anymore. If I couldn’t get myself up to his level, I needed to drag him down to mine. I needed him to hurt. So I…hurt him.”
“Hurt him how?”
“Maybe I should say I tried to hurt him, because you know what? I never did. I made the mistake all right, I just didn’t have the guts to tell him about it.”
“What? What mistake?”
“When I said we tried everything to get happy, I mean we tried everything. We’d been trying to
get pregnant for over a year anyway but it just wasn’t happening. We both got checked out and all the tests came back normal, but it just wasn’t happening. The doctors said it was stress. So we fought about that too. About how I was the one who was so stressed out all the time.
“One afternoon, after a really big argument, he got called out for something, some mission or operation or surveillance—I don’t remember what—and I was just sick and tired of all the fighting and pretending, so I went out on a little mission of my own. I didn’t know what was going to happen…I really didn’t, but I took a drive out to the country and ended up at a bar. I met a guy… he seemed nice and we were just having a regular conversation like everyone does when they sit at a country bar in the middle of the afternoon. There was nothing to it. Nothing.”
“But?”
“But I was mad and I was hurt and I had too much to drink and the bar was attached to a roadside motel. Do I have to finish the story for you?”
Sandy shook her head, trying to keep the judgment out of her eyes. “No. I get it. You never said anything? Didn’t tell Ed?”
“No. How could I? I found out—a little too late—that I really wasn’t trying to hurt him. I was trying to hurt myself. It was weird, but after that encounter, something just clicked and suddenly everything made sense to me. I threw the anti-depressants away, recommitted myself to our marriage and after two years of struggling we clawed our way back to us. So no, I never told him, and it’s absolutely killing me.”
Sandy wasn’t quite sure how to respond, so she didn’t say anything for a few minutes. Both women sat quietly and stared at the wall until Sandy said, “You know what? If I wasn’t pregnant right now, I’d join you for breakfast.”
That got a small chuckle from Pam. “I’m afraid there’s more.”
There always is, Sandy thought. “Pam, listen. Why don’t we finish this tomorrow or something? Take some time to think about whether or not you want to talk about this with me, or anyone.”
“I’ve taken eight months to think about it. This is your lucky day.”
“Looking back, maybe it was the kindest thing you could have ever done for him, Pam.”
Pam wiped at her face with a sleeve. “Letting him die thinking he was the father of my child? No. I think the kindest thing would have been to tell him. It would have hurt him, deeply, but it would have been kinder than letting him live the last five years of his life in a lie.”
“He loved that boy, Pam. Everyone knew that.”
“Of course he did. That’s not the issue. The issue is I led my husband to his death by telling Virgil to take Ed with him that day. The issue is I let the man of my dreams die without ever telling him the truth. The issue is my son is the illegitimate child of a man I don’t know and haven’t seen in years…a man, I might add that is still alive. How am I ever going to explain all this to Jonas?”
“Pam, you don’t have to. At least not right now. Ed may not have been Jonas’s biological father, but he was his dad, the only dad he’s ever known.”
Pam shook her head and said, “Good speech. But it doesn’t matter.”
“What? Why not?”
Pam went into the kitchen and returned a moment later with a legal-sized manila envelope. She tossed it on the table in front of Sandy. “Because Ed is gone, Sandy. All indiscretions aside, we were consenting adults that day. I’ve been living like it never happened, except it did. Guess who wants custody of his son? And if he does get it, he’ll also end up with the pension fund money if they ever do release it.”
6
Virgil and Murton went through the back door, across the deck and out to the yard. The pilot hopped out, opened the passenger door of the Bell Jet-Ranger and tossed Virgil a casual salute as the passengers climbed out.
“Who’s the pilot?” Murton asked as they got closer.
“Captain Richard Cool, Director of Aviation, Indiana State Police,” Virgil said.
Murton pulled a cell phone out of his pocket and held it close to his side. He looked at Cool and asked him for the phone number of Indianapolis Air Traffic control. Cool hesitated, then glanced at the governor. Mac gave Cool a slight nod and Murton dialed as Cool recited the number. He pressed send and stepped to the rear of the helicopter.
“Watch the tail rotor,” Cool warned him.
Murton gave him a thumbs up over his shoulder.
The governor looked at Virgil. “What’s he up to?”
I could ask you the same thing, Virgil thought. “I’m not sure.”
Murton finished his call and rejoined the group. “What was that all about?” Virgil said.
Murton winked at him, but spoke to the pilot. “Good name for a guy with your job.”
“Yeah?” Cool said.
“Yeah,” Murton said. He pointed to the governor. “You work for this cat, and you fly that thing in here and land in someone’s backyard on a Sunday afternoon like it’s just another day at work. I’d say that’s pretty cool.” Murton offered his hand. “I’m Murton Wheeler.”
Cool shook Murton’s hand. “A pleasure. It pretty much is…just another day at the office for me.”
“I’m a cat,” the governor said to no one.
Cora rolled her eyes, then asked Murton, “Who’d you call?”
Murton looked up and the rest of them followed his gaze. Another helicopter circled overhead. It was high enough that no one else had noticed it. As soon as they all looked up the craft banked away and headed northwest, out of the area. Murton waved. “Air traffic control. I sometimes struggle with privacy issues.”
Cora said, “Huh. I thought we lost ‘em.”
“You good to wait here, Rich?” the governor said. “Gotta talk a little shop with Virgil and Murton.”
“I’m cool,” Cool said.
“I’ll bet that never gets old,” Murton said.
“Yes, it does,” Cora said.
Cool just grinned. “Mind if I wet a line, Jonesy?”
“Help yourself. Poles are in the shed.”
“Catch and release only,” the governor said. “I don’t want to lose that ‘new helicopter’ smell.”
Cool headed for the shed as the rest of them went up to the house. The governor had a little spring in his step. Never been called a cat before.
Governor McConnell was devilishly handsome in a Pierce Brosnan sort of way. He wore Italian suits, English shoes, and his socks usually carried some sort of design that matched his tie. Today it was fleurs-de-lis. “Those bastards have got me by the balls,” he said. “I swear to Christ, you can’t do anything anymore without some idiot sticking his nose in where it doesn’t belong. There’s no right answer to anything. Not anymore.”
They all sat in a circle of chairs in Virgil’s living room. “Who’s the idiot du jour this time?” Murton said. “Love the socks, by the way.”
“There are too many to count,” the governor said. He was getting wound up. “It reminds me of a presidential primary. About a billion people trying to prove they’re crazier than the other guy. It’s a race to the bottom.”
“The governor is merely expressing his frustration over the house sub-committee’s most recent maneuver and their unnecessary involvement in Detective Donatti’s death benefit,” Cora said.
“I just said that,” the governor said. “Although maybe not as clearly. Jonesy, Murton, meet my new chief of staff.”
Virgil and Murton looked at Cora. She gave them both a fake smile. “The governor has tasked me with getting his house in order…literally and figuratively.”
“That’s no small task either, given what we’ve uncovered over the last few months,” the governor said. “Jonesy, do you remember what I said to you about Pearson the night he died?”
Virgil did. “That guys like him were necessary?”
The governor pointed his finger at Cora. “See? What’d I tell you?” Then he looked at Virgil. “Yes. That’s exactly what I said. But here’s something I won’t often admit: I was wrong…mostly. Guys
like him used to be necessary, and it wasn’t that long ago, either. But not anymore. Politics as an institution is changing. That cry for transparency we’ve heard all our lives? It’s finally happening. It’s a long and slow process—like race relations or marriage equality—but it is happening. Pearson was old school; back room deals and under-the-table envelopes. He knew how to grease the skids and keep things moving. But times change, and so do the institutions of society. Politics is no different, nor should it be. If anything we should be leading the way, except we’re usually the last ones to arrive. Have you ever noticed that we don’t do anything anymore? Nothing gets done in government, and I’ll tell you why. It’s because we don’t have time to do anything. Everyone is running around with their hair on fire. All our time is spent reacting to one crisis after another. Reactions are a necessity, of course, but we need to be more proactive. That’s why I’ve called in the national guard.”
“I don’t want to speak out of turn here,” Murton said. “But calling in the guard seems more reactive than proactive to me.”
“You’re not speaking out of turn,” the governor said. “You’re speaking your mind. That’s why you’re here. And that’s what I want. People who’ll tell me the truth.” He looked at Virgil. “People like you, Jonesy. You’ve always been straight with me, even when you had reasons not to be. There’s nothing more important to me than people I can trust.”
Virgil understood. “I appreciate it, Sir. And I believe you. So, with all due respect, why did you call in the guard? Murt’s right. That’s about as reactionary as you could get.”
