Officer Jones

Chapter 17

Norfolk, Virginia

September 1-present

The military plane scraped its wheels on the runway, landing me on home soil. A short time later, I stepped onto the tarmac, breathing in the crisp dawn air. I thought of performing the freed-hostage ritual of kissing the ground upon my return, but while that would be right up the attention-grabbing alley of J-News, it was JP who was the one who’d just returned from the European vacation from hell.

I struggled to walk with my cane, which besides a few cuts and bruises was the only visible evidence that I was any the worse for wear. I was met with a relieved smile and hug from my father, Peter Warner. He was thinner than the last time I’d seen him, but still had the same stocky frame and roundish face. It was a look passed on to my brother Ethan, the opposite of the lanky, long-jawed look that my brother Noah and I inherited from my mother’s side.

While I can often be a polarizing repellent, my father’s natural instinct had always been to pull people together, and he thrived on being the leader. I thought of this as I watched him shake hands with all the military personnel like he was running for office. He did hold political office for twenty-five years as Rockfield’s First Selectman. He knew everybody in the town, and everyone knew Peter Warner. He stepped down two years ago when he was diagnosed with prostate cancer, which so far he’d treated like his political opponents-he’s winning in a landslide.

My mother, Sandra Warner, also met me at the airport, but not with the same enthusiasm. She gave me the brief hug of a stranger, followed by deafening silence. Her passive-aggressive protest wasn’t very subtle. For years she’s questioned why they paid for my Columbia education, only for me to repay them by making a foolish and dangerous career choices. The silent-treatment was a new weapon in this ongoing battle. She was mysteriously absent whenever my father called me at Landstuhl, either babysitting Ethan’s kids, or at an event at her historical society-excuses that even Lauren Bowden could have seen through. I understood the grief I’d caused her, but that being said, I really could have used a hug from Mom.

After deplaning, Carter and I bid each other adieu-no hugs, just a manly handshake. I attempted to thank him for all the years by my side in the face of danger, but he mocked my retirement plans with a laugh. “Just get better quick, so we can blow open this Kingsbury case. Go to this Rock place and get that broad from high school out of your head, then you’ll be the old JP again.”

The “old JP” had a nice ring to it, even if it wasn’t what Carter had in mind.

We left Norfolk in a convoy, bypassing the horde of media, and headed northbound on I-95. As the morning sun began to appear in the east, we barreled up the coast, and out of habit I checked my phone messages. A mistake. There were angry ones from Lauren-something about being contractually obligated to be interviewed by her-ass kissing tangents from Sutcliffe, and one from Christina that breezed over the whole “glad you’re not dead” thing, before complaining about the wall of media camped outside the brownstone, trapping her inside. She actually had the nerve to describe it as a “hostage situation.” I erased them all in the spirit of a new beginning.

That spirit turned to reality when I saw the wooden sign that read: Rockfield Connecticut: Incorporated 1756. With a father who was the town’s biggest promoter, and a mother who headed the historical society, I knew all there was to know about Rockfield, both past and present. But I felt like I was seeing it for the first time.

We arrived at a familiar crossroads. Continuing straight on Main Street would take us to the Warner family home. It was the longer route, but also safer. The faster option was the curvy, mountainous drive of Zycko Hill Road, nicknamed Psycho Hill. It was convenient that it rhymed with Zycko, but the name really derived from the infamy associated with the many drivers it had felled over the years, including Noah Warner.

The convoy chose the conservative route. After a few slow miles of country driving, we took a right off Main onto Skyview Drive. The gradual rise of the road provided a breathtaking view of the countryside, which was dotted with farms and church steeples. I observed the children playing along the road, and for a brief moment I felt as if I’d traveled back in time. I could picture playing wiffle ball or kick-the-can with my brother Ethan and our friends, or riding bikes with Gwen. And I could still smell the summer barbecues.

When we arrived at the steep driveway that led to the house my parents had lived in for the past forty years, I was slapped back to reality. The bottom entrance was being guarded by a crowd of media, armed with a small battalion of news vans and satellite trucks. It gave me a flashback to when I returned home after Noah’s accident. At that time, I wasn’t sure that this place would ever feel the same again. Admitting that I’m wrong had never been my strength, but in this case I’m glad that I was.

The military escort showed no intention of stopping, and the media gave way. I smiled-it was good to be on the other side for once.

“Hey, Warner, suddenly you’re camera shy?” shouted a reporter as we sped by. My inner J-News wanted to get out and introduce him to my cane, but JP just kept smiling as the vehicles came to a stop in front of the house.

I took a long look at the cozy A-frame that I grew up in, and then glanced back at the pack of media. I could feel the “JP versus J-News” battle raging inside me, but for the first time I felt that JP might have a chance to win the war.