Officer Jones

Chapter 87

Rockfield

I tore out of the parking lot in Officer Williams’ squad car. I took the radio receiver into my hand and squeezed so hard that I thought I might crush it. “You wanted me, Jones, now you’ve got me. Your move.”

I visualized Benson doing his psycho-stare out at the dark country road with Maloney trembling beside him.

Benson’s all-too-familiar voice emerged from the crackling static of the radio, “I said to back the van off! This is your last chance, Warner!”

Benson thinking I was in the van was my lone advantage, but the fact that I couldn’t control the van minimized it. I clicked the receiver. “I am sorry. We will back the van off.”

I dialed Rich Tolland’s phone-he picked up on the first ring. “JP, we…”

The voice at the other end suddenly changed. This was not good news. “I’m in charge of this investigation, Warner, and don’t you forget it. We will back off the van when I give the order, and only then!” Hawkins shouted.

I couldn’t believe this guy was more concerned with protecting his turf than saving Gwen’s life. But on second thought, sadly, I could.

“Perhaps you haven’t been paying attention, but Benson is in control. Now back off the van!”

“You are on a short rope, Warner. One more outburst like that…”

“You are now officially out of the loop, Hawkins. I’m done with you-put Agent Johnson on the phone before you get my friends killed!”

I continued to speed down Main Street with nothing but silence coming from the other end, thinking I’d made a big mistake. His ego wouldn’t allow him to give in to my demands. I held my breath.

“Agent Johnson here,” she said at last, and I let out a sigh of relief. But I had no time to waste.

“First of all, Agent Johnson, I need you to back the van off the suspect.”

“Hendrickson-back off the van,” she yelled out.

“The next thing I need is your location. I have no idea if I’m even going in the right direction.”

I heard her ask Rich Tolland for assistance on the local geography, before telling me, “He’s still driving north on Main Street. Just about to pass Skyview. His speed is around fifty.”

“I’m going to keep this line open. I’ll be the only one to speak to Benson on the radio. I need you to give me constant updates of his movements. I will be speaking to him as if I’m in the van-it’s imperative that he continues to think that I am.”

“We will follow your lead, JP. You better know what you’re doing.”

If I were thinking clearly I would have realized how much they were putting their collective asses on the line, including my friend Hawkins. If something went wrong, allowing a television reporter to call the shots would be catastrophic when guys like the old J-News started asking the tough questions. But when it came to Gwen, I hadn’t thought clearly since we were five.

Benson’s voice filled the airwaves once again, “That’s better, Warner. Keep the van at that distance and I won’t have to put a bullet into Maloney’s pretty face.”

“I think you’re overrating my level of concern for Maloney.”

“What do you care about, Warner?”

“All I care about is justice for my brother.”

“The brother you never cared about when he was alive? The brother who murdered that innocent girl?”

I bit my lip so hard I tasted blood. But I couldn’t let him bait me. “This is between you and me, Jones. Let Maloney go. Toss him out the door and let him bounce a couple times on the asphalt. A few broken bones never killed anyone-I’m living proof.”

I continued my juggling act, alternating between getting updates on the phone from Agent Johnson, and then responding to Benson on the radio. He was still going north on Main, passing the cemetery where Noah and Lisa were laid to rest. I continued gaining speed, making a dangerous pass of a slow moving station wagon, and barely swerving away from the on-coming headlights of a truck.

“This has nothing to do with that murderer you call your brother. We both know this is about you being jealous about my relationship with Gwen.”

“I gave you my word that I’d back off the van, now I need your word that she’s okay.”

“She won’t be for long if you don’t start cooperating. She’s tucked away in a place you’ll never find in a million years. You’ll need me to take you to her.”

He held all the cards, and he knew it. I had an idea as to why he wanted my cooperation, but I was still curious where this was all headed. What was his end game?

A short silence filled the airwaves. I used the brief moment to make a decision. Should I stay the course on Main and try to catch him from behind, or take Zycko and try to head him off at the pass? I chose Psycho Hill. I had to beat him. It was my only chance.

“So what do you need from me to finish the job? Some unmarked bills and a free trip to Argentina? That’s where all the Nazis went after World War II. I think it would be a good fit for you,” I tried to spark him to action. We were running out of time, and I’ve learned that you can’t get to resolution without conflict.

“You would think being the son of a historian that you would have a better knowledge of history. The obvious difference being that the Nazis took millions of innocent lives, while I am saving future lives. So much of how history is viewed depends on the scribes who record it. They have the power to glorify or demonize.”

He confirmed to me the reason he sought me out to tell his story. I was JP Warner, one of the most famed reporters of this generation, and with the unique power to write Benson’s chapter-Murray always said journalists write the first drafts of history. Benson needed me. His mission wouldn’t be completed until his “noble deeds” were embedded in the history books. And he knew my J-News size ego wouldn’t allow me to not tell it. He was wrong about the J-News part, but it was his lucky day, because the resurrected journalist in my blood wouldn’t allow me to leave his story untold.

I sped around a hairpin curve where a kid back in high school named Sharkey ended up with brain damage after going head on with a large oak tree. My police cruiser hit soft sand and began to fishtail, but I held it steady and accelerated into the night.

I was faced with another interview at gunpoint to spew hateful propaganda. Once again, I wanted no part of it, but as long as Benson had Gwen, I had no choice. Visions of Qwaui and Zahir filled my mind. I remembered their unwavering belief that their acts of terror were derived from a higher calling. And suddenly I knew where I’d seen Jones’ eyes before.

They were the same as Qwaui’s eyes.

The eyes of the zealot.