Officer Jones

Chapter 11

Outer Banks, North Carolina

Fourth of July

Senator Craig Kingsbury sat in the back of the stretch limo, surrounded by his insufferable father, George Kingsbury, and his annoying press secretary, Joey Lynch. It was the fitting end to the week from hell.

The plan was to spend a long Fourth of July weekend at the Kingsbury’s vacation retreat in the Avon Village. They needed to regroup from the sudden return of Lamar Thompson into their lives.

At first, they tried to laugh off the accusations, but kept running into the same sticking point-they were true. Craig ran his last campaign on the slogan “character and honesty.” Right now, honesty was biting him in the ass.

Craig wasn’t concerned that the scandal would cost him the presidential election. It was still sixteen months away and he didn’t want to win, anyway. His biggest fear was his father pulling him out of the fire one more time and accumulating more debt. The debt paid to George Kingsbury came at a very high interest rate.

He was still on a payment plan for the “incident” at UNC, almost twenty years earlier. The senate seat he never wanted was the biggest punishment so far. The run for the White House was another. But it was still better than doing ten to fifteen in a state pen for vehicular homicide-he was too pretty for prison.

On television or a billboard, Craig appeared to be the ideal political candidate. Boyish good looks accentuated by sandy blond hair that flopped to the side. One prominent magazine billed him as the southern Bobby Kennedy. Craig just hoped the voters would determine he lacked the experience to hold the office of president, and cast their vote for his competitors.

Joey Lynch ended his call and jubilantly provided the latest polling numbers. Still ten points ahead of any other Democrat, even with the mini-scandal, and in a dead heat with the incumbent Republican president.

As usual, his father tempered the enthusiasm by shouting in his hard-of-hearing style, “A lot can happen in sixteen months!”

Craig sure hoped so, as the positive numbers were really starting to scare him.

George was a cranky man of seventy-three, who made no secret that he was living vicariously through his youngest son. The elder children either failed, or worse, turned out to be girls. A Kingsbury would hold the office of president if it killed him to get him there. Craig sighed, thinking of those obnoxious television commercials. No credit? Bad credit?

The story broke in a small high school newspaper in South Carolina. Lamar Thompson was being honored as the high school’s top athlete in school history. A sixteen-year-old sophomore reporter asked Lamar about the accident that changed his life. Lamar Thompson answered truthfully.

As far as Craig knew, Lamar had never previously uttered a word about the accident, at least not one that connected Craig to it. He figured that King George had threatened him to keep his mouth shut. Or maybe he just thought that nobody would ever believe him. So why did he suddenly decide to talk? Maybe the headlines of Craig joining the presidential campaign opened some old wounds, or perhaps Thompson saw it as a bargaining chip to shake them down for a nice payday. But if so, why not take the money when it was originally offered? What Craig did know, was that his father was unraveling like never before, which meant it must be the worst-case scenario-Lamar Thompson had decided to talk because he no longer had anything left to lose. You can’t threaten a dead man.

The limo followed the police officer in the unmarked SUV down US-64 South-the stealth escort was one of the perks of the Kingsbury power. They were desperate to avoid the slobbering media that smelled the blood in the water, until they could come up with a solution to the Thompson problem. Sand dunes and quiet bodies of water surrounded the road. The only signs of civilization were the vacation homes on stilts that likely wouldn’t last through the next hurricane.

They rumbled up NC-12, and King George continued on his soapbox, “I always knew your bad choices would get in the way of our dream.”

“This is your dream, Daddy, not mine. It was never my dream!”

“You are such a child. Look at yourself, you pathetic little baby. If it wasn’t for me, you’d be rotting in jail.”

“And my brother would still be alive,” Joey piled on.

If Craig had any energy left, he would have reached out and physically wiped the smug look off Joey’s face. He had used the death of his brother, Brad Lynch, to extort a career from King George. Brad had been Craig’s only true friend involved in the accident-he barely knew Thompson or the freshman kid, who was just another in a long line of hangers-on who had surrounded him throughout his life.

George put up his hand to demand silence. He then made a statement as if he were trying to define hypocritical, “We must worry about going forward and not look back.”

Joey had notes. “Lamar Thompson lives not far from here in Kitty Hawk. No wife or kids … at least ones he knows about. Parents are deceased-a grandmother still lives in Columbia. He’ll often visit her when he’s sober enough or needs money. I say we take him out. Make it look like an OD-wouldn’t be much of a stretch.”

George smacked him in the head, causing Joey to grab his ears in pain. “Can you stop being stupid for a moment? You think the media is harsh now-watch if something happens to this Lamar fella. Any ideas, Craig?”

“What do you want me to say? You’re the one who tried to buy him off, not me.”

“Do I have to explain to you, son, that the payoff you turn your nose up at is what kept you out of jail?”

“I have been in jail for twenty years!”

“Smarten up, boy!” he shouted, before declaring, “Nothing is going to hold back my dreams, especially not some drug addict cullerd boy.”