Officer Jones

Chapter 15

“I’m not ready-I need a couple minutes,” I said, overtaken by fright.

Carter shook his head. “There is no amount of time that’ll make this any easier. You just gotta tear the scab off.”

That was the problem-it wasn’t a scab yet. It was still an open wound. A wound that would likely never heal.

“You got two minutes,” Carter stated. “Do you want me to sing and dance, or do you wanna do small talk?”

“I was hoping for a lap dance.”

“I hate to get you all worked up for nothing, but I left my G-string home, so it’ll have to be small talk. What’s next, Mr. American Hero … book? … Movie? … Talk show circuit?”

I smiled serenely at him, and I could tell it freaked him out a little. “I just want to go back to Rockfield.”

“So what do you plan on doing when you arrive at this glorious field of rocks?”

“I want to go to the Rockfield Fair.”

“Who wouldn’t? Please tell me that it has something to do with alcohol and women.”

“It’s a country fair that’s held every year on Labor Day weekend. They have great food, carnival rides, and livestock contests. And it’s a showcase for a lot of the newest farming equipment. Since I’m going to start a farm, I need to learn more about that sort of stuff.”

Carter burst into laughter. “J-News the farmer, now that I gotta see.”

He reached in the back pocket of his faded jeans and pulled out a rolled up TIME Magazine. He tossed it softly on my chest. I winced-even the light magazine felt like an anvil.

“So you are telling me you have no plans to capitalize on your hero status?” Carter pushed.

I picked up the magazine and viewed myself on the cover. It was an out-of-focus screen-shot taken from the video Qwaui released to the worldwide media. The picture portrayed me in a way his audience rarely saw me-tired, haggard, and with a look of vulnerability. The caption under his photo read: With the capture of journalist JP Warner, we ask the question: Has the media gone too far?

I looked up. “It’s nice to read something objective on myself. The news coverage has almost made me believe I’m some sort of hero. We both know the real hero is…”

And with that, the eight hundred pound gorilla was out of the cage.

“How is he? They don’t tell me anything.”

“What do you say I take you over and you find out yourself?”

Before I had a chance to filibuster, he picked me out of the bed and slammed me into a nearby wheelchair. It felt like every inch of my body had been set on fire. He then proceeded to wheel me through a maze of corridors.

The hospital staff numbered over a thousand, and it seemed as if each and every one of them greeted Carter. He posed for pictures and signed autographs. Military members were some of the biggest fans of Coldblooded Carter. I, on the other hand, received snide glares.

Byron lay motionless in a bed, surrounded by breathing tubes and beeping monitors. We hadn’t seen each other since that fateful night-the doctors wouldn’t allow it. Byron smiled as wide as he could, but it didn’t lessen my guilt, if that was his intention.

Carter had informed me of the grim diagnosis a few weeks back. The paralysis would likely be permanent. But it didn’t soften the blow when I saw my fallen friend for the first time.

The reason for the quick getaway that night was that our captors had learned that the CIA had discovered their hideaway and were minutes away from taking them down. The three of us instantly went from bargaining chips to dead weight. Our SUV was sent careening into a ravine, and we were all ejected. I still couldn’t get Byron’s screams out of my mind from when he was trapped under the vehicle.

“It’s okay, man, it’s not your fault. It’s nobody’s fault,” Byron said, reading my bleak stare.

We bumped fists-his arms were the only things that he could move. He wore no shirt, revealing that his upper body, while scarred from the crash, was still in magnificent shape. It was impossible to believe a man in such top condition wouldn’t walk out of Landstuhl under his own power, while carrying a full load of video equipment.

“It was my fault,” I forced out the words, my voice shaking. “I’d lost my edge-I should have never gone on that trip.”

“Get over yourself, JP-it’s not always about you,” Byron scoffed. “I’m the lucky one. Do you know how many people leave this place in a coffin? Don’t you think that Milos would have loved to have another chance like this?”

“I’m so sorry,” I reiterated, almost zombie-like. I pushed out of my wheelchair and wobbled on shaky legs.

Byron looked at me, incredulously. “Listen, man, I got life and life is precious. As long as you’re breathing anything’s possible. You guys saved my life.”

He motioned me to come closer. When I did, Byron grabbed my hospital gown, surprising me with his strength. “Do you understand if you beat yourself up over this I will put you in this hospital … permanently?”

I nodded blankly.

He released his grip. “I’m glad we’re understood.”

“JP is going home today and going to start a farm,” Carter broke the tension with a laugh.

Byron smiled. “You won’t give up the life, JP. It’s not a job with you-it’s who you are.”

“The only way I’ll ever come back is if you’re my cameraman.”

“Deal,” Byron said with a determined stare.

We had learned never to doubt him.

It would still be weeks before he could leave Landstuhl, but preparations had already begun back in South Carolina. Without his knowledge, Carter and I had contracted to have his home in Charleston converted to the top-of-the-line in handicap accessibility. It would be ready upon his return. We figured that the technology lover would be like a kid on Christmas with all his new gadgets.

Byron mentioned that he couldn’t wait to get back home and eat the famous fried chicken from Mama Jasper’s, his mother’s restaurant. He was also looking forward to getting reacquainted with his longtime girlfriend, Tonya. Carter added that it sounded much more appealing than my plan of attending a farming fair.

We continued the visit until Byron’s team of camouflage-attired doctors descended upon his room like the 82nd Airborne, and ushered us out.

“Remember what I said, Warner,” Byron got in the last word.

After a final consultation with my doctor, Major Ellison, I was released from Landstuhl. None of the hospital staff seemed sad to see me go.

The media attacked me the moment I was outside the hospital. Carter played interference as I was escorted in a wheelchair in the soft rain. The media got nothing but ‘no-comments’ from me, and had to settle for a bicep flex from Carter.

We arrived at a C-141 Starlifter that would serve as my ride home. I took one last look at Landstuhl and noted, “What a long strange trip it’s been.”

“The Grateful Dead?” Carter inquired.

I smiled. “No, grateful to be alive.”