STATE OF BETRAYAL: A Virgil Jones Mystery (Detective Virgil Jones Mystery Series Book 2) (2 page)

3

__________

I
f
Virgil thought about it—and he often did—he’d have to admit the shooting
of James Pope still haunted him. After it happened he was still young and
foolish enough to believe that the past was just that and once free from its grasp
he’d not worry over it anymore or attempt to be the arbiter of events outside
his own control. Except those types of certainties are a preserve best left to youth,
a lesson Virgil thought he might never have to learn. Then before he knew it twenty
years had sailed away and now this; a summer like no other, the pain a constant
companion as it cut a swath through the jungle of his life, a trail laid bare
as if it were his only choice, at once clear and true. It would be a harbinger
of things to come, a combination of that moment from long ago and his life now,
one he might be able to point to someday and say,
Ah, yes, that’s when it
turned. That’s when it all changed. If only…

A late-afternoon haze drifted
across the sun but the air temperature held steady enough that no adjustments were
necessary to his line depth. The bobber he used was simple, made from the cork
of an old wine bottle and it vibrated in the water if he held too much tension
on the line. It reminded him of those old electric football games Virgil and
his boyhood friend, Murton Wheeler, used to play when they were kids. They’d
line up the little plastic players, then hit the switch and watch the tiny
figurines vibrate their way across the surface of the game board. Virgil could
still hear the buzzing sound the board made when they toggled the power button
and turned it on.

He had a two-pound monofilament line
tied directly to an eyehook at the end of the cane pole. The pole was twelve
feet in length and stained dark with age and the regular applications of Tung
oil used to maintain its beauty and structural integrity. The pole was one of
Virgil’s most prized possessions. His grandfather had taught him to fish with it
and then had given it to him as a gift just a few years before he died. Virgil
had a shed full of fishing poles, ones made of boron, graphite, fiberglass or
some other space-age composite, and they were all fine poles. Some were so flexible
and tough you could literally tie them into a knot without damaging the rod,
while others were so sensitive you could detect a deer fly if it landed on the
tip. Virgil didn’t know why he continued to buy them. His grandfather’s cane pole
was the only one he ever used. When he held the pole in his hands the way he’d
been taught so long ago he felt a connection to his grandfather, as if the linear
reality of time held no sway in his existence and he was back in control of
himself and his own destiny, his path clear, his choices many.

Virgil knew, at least on some
level, that he was a sight this Saturday afternoon. He wore a pair of green
cotton gym shorts that hung to his knees, a Jamaican Red Stripe Beer utility
cap angled low across his brow and a pair of brown leather half-top boots with
no socks. He sat at the edge of his pond, cane pole in hand and tried to relax,
mostly without any measure of success. The fish were not biting but he didn’t really
care. He set the pole in the grass next to his chair, reached into the cooler
and took out his supplies. Among them, a plastic syringe with a screw tip on
the end, a glass vial of a drug called Heparin, and an odd looking, round container
made of a stiff rubbery material about the size of a baseball. The
baseball-like container held a drug called Vancomycin, a powerful antibiotic
medication that the doctor had referred to as their ‘drug of last resort.’

The glass vial of Heparin was fitted
with a threaded female connector that matched the male connector of the syringe
on the table. He scrubbed his hands clean with a disposable alcohol wipe, then
used another to cleanse the top of the Heparin vial and yet another to wipe the
connector that was sutured and taped under his arm. The tube that penetrated
his body was a Peripherally Inserted Central Catheter, or PICC Line for short. Once
he had everything sterilized he filled the syringe from the Heparin bottle with
the required amount of the drug and injected it into the tube.

Heparin, the doctor had told
Virgil, was an anti-coagulant drug that prevented the formation of blood clots
and helped aid in the healing process of human tissue. In non-technical
language, it greased the skids for the real medicine, the Vancomycin.

After injecting the Heparin, he
hooked up the Vancomycin container. The delivery process of the Vancomycin
would take about thirty minutes as the medicine flowed from the ball and into a
vein through Virgil’s heart before being distributed throughout his body.

Five months ago, while working a
case as the lead investigator for the state’s Major Crimes Unit, Virgil had
been kidnapped, tortured and beaten almost to death. In the course of the
beating his right leg was broken and required surgery to repair the damage. The
surgery went well, or so he’d been told and he was up and around in no time at
all. Except one day about eight weeks into the recovery process, he woke in the
morning with a low-grade fever that did not seem to want to leave him alone no
matter how many aspirin he took. He began to feel worse with each passing day
until finally on the fifth morning Virgil’s girlfriend, Sandy Small, found him
unconscious on their bedroom floor. During the surgical procedure to fix his leg,
Virgil  had picked up a staph infection. The infection grew in his body
where it eventually worked its way into his blood stream, a condition known as
Staphylococcal Sepsis. He’d been taking the Vancomycin twice a day for the last
six weeks in an effort to kill the infection. This would be his last dose.

It had been a rough couple of
months. During his previous investigation—right after his release from
the hospital—the wife of one of the main suspects in his case killed
Virgil’s father, Mason. She was trying to shoot Virgil, but his father took the
bullet instead.

The buzzing in Virgil’s head was
with him constantly. It had nothing to do with childhood memories and simpler
times, nor did it have anything to do with the Heparin or the Vancomycin. It was
because of the other drugs he was still taking. Oxycodone was one. He took two
of the blue-colored thirty milligram tablets three times a day. Between doses,
he’d toss back two or three Vicodin…both for the pain in his leg.

At least that’s what he kept
telling himself.

When he thought about the men who
kidnapped and tried to kill him, Virgil thought they might yet succeed.

__________

Virgil broke two of
the
Vicodin
in
half and swallowed them with a couple of sips of Dew. A few minutes later he
felt the chemical rush hit his system the same way a shot of whiskey will burn
the throat and warm the blood. He closed his eyes and let the feeling flow
through his body and for a few minutes he felt confident and strong and happy
and free. But he also knew the feeling wouldn’t last, that soon the reality of
his situation would once again wrap itself around him like a second skin, one in
which he could not seem to find the edge. He thought if he could he’d peel it
away until there was nothing left at all.

After twenty minutes or so, the
Vancomycin container was empty, so Virgil unscrewed the connector and capped it
off tight. He had an appointment later in the day to have the tube removed and a
blood test to ensure the infection was gone.

When he pulled his fishing line
from the pond he noticed that not only was the worm missing from the hook at
the end of the line, but so too was his desire to fish. The late morning air
was warm and still and when Virgil let his gaze settle on the bowed limbs of
the willow tree planted next to the edge of the pond water he saw his father
standing there, leaning against the trunk of the tree, his face partially
hidden by the leafy, feather-veined fronds. He was shirtless under his
bib-style bar apron tied off at his waist and he had a towel thrown over his
left shoulder. Virgil could see the scar from the bullet wound at the bottom of
his father’s chest, the skin around the edges gnarled and puckered, yet somehow
pink and fresh like that of a newborn baby.

They stared at each other for a
long time, then Mason moved sideways just a bit. “I’m worried about you, Son,”
he said. When he spoke, the buzzing inside Virgil’s head went quiet and the
absence of the incessant sound was more of a surprise than the vision of his
dead father. “You’re hitting the meds pretty hard, don’t you think?”

“Better living through chemistry,”
Virgil said, but regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth. The
sarcasm didn’t seem to bother Mason though; the look of both love and concern
on his face remaining steady. “I’m sorry, Dad.”

“It’s alright, Bud. I remember you
told me that day in the truck how the pills were making you cranky.”

“That’s not what I meant. Why do I
think you know that?”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“Wasn’t it?”

“Of course not.” Mason looked away for
a moment and wrapped his hands around the trunk of the willow tree. “This is a
beautiful thing you did here, Virg. It’s more significant than you might
imagine.”

After Mason’s death, the people who
meant more to Virgil than anyone else in the world brought his father’s bloodied
shirt to his house along with the willow tree. Together they buried the shirt
and planted the tree on top of it. “Thanks, Dad, but I’m not exactly sure what
that means.”

“It’s okay, Son. You wouldn’t. You
learn things over here. It’s sort of a timeless knowledge. I can’t really
explain it. The actual words don’t exist.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“I don’t want you to take offense.”

Mason smiled. “What is it, Son?”

“Why haven’t I heard from my
grandfather?”

“He’s been here with you all
morning, Virg. In fact, he spends most of his time with you.”

“I’ve never seen him.”

“It doesn’t always work that way.”

Virgil closed his eyes and shook
his head. “I don’t—”

“I have to go now, Virgil. You have
people in your life who are going to need you.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean you’ve got to be shut of
those pills. You’re not thinking straight.”

“I’m trying,” Virgil said.

The smile left Mason’s face and Virgil
felt as much as he heard the words that came next. To Virgil, it felt as if
they passed through him, like a pressure wave from a bomb blast. “
Try harder
.”

“Will you tell him I said hello?”
Virgil asked.

“You can tell him yourself, Virg.
He hears you. We all do.” Then Mason looked toward the house and pointed with
his chin. “Say, looks like you’ve got company.” The look on his face almost
mischievous. “Don’t worry, Virgil. Everything is exactly how it should be.”

“I don’t understand, Dad.”

“Maybe not yet, but you will.
Good-bye for now, buddy.”

“Wait, Dad, there’s something else
I need to know.”

“Dad loves you, Virgil. We all do.
Stay tuned.”

From the time Virgil was old enough
to remember, he and his father had acknowledged their love for each other in
something of an unusual way. Mason spoke of himself in the third person. He
would say, “Dad loves you,” and because Virgil was still young enough that he’d
not yet grasped the many nuances of the English language, he’d say, “Dad loves
you too.” Virgil had always considered it one of the best things about his own life—the
fact that they both continued to express their love for each other in that
particular way…‘Dad loves you. Dad loves you too.’

The footsteps came from behind and
when Virgil turned in his chair he saw his boss, Cora LaRue, and the Governor’s
Chief of Staff, Bradley Pearson, as they approached across the back yard. Virgil
put the pill bottles in the pocket of his shorts and stood to greet them, his
legs not quite as steady as he would have liked. The air was thick and heavy
without any wind and the surface water of the pond as smooth and flat as a
tabletop mirror, but when Virgil looked over at the willow tree where he’d just
spoken with his dead father he saw a few of the branches sway as if someone had
just brushed them aside.

The buzzing in his head was back
and at that very moment Virgil thought he’d do just about anything to make it
all go away.

__________

When the people of
Indiana
elected Hewitt McConnell as Governor, he answered their concerns
over rising crime rates by forming the Major Crimes Unit. He appointed Cora
LaRue as the administrator of the division and together she and the Governor
chose Virgil as lead detective for all investigative operations. Because of the
nature of politics though, Cora spent most of her time dealing with Pearson instead
of the Governor. As a result, Pearson—the state’s biggest political operator—often
used this to his advantage in ways that were not only unnecessary but also
counterproductive. In short, it was typical politics, which Virgil despised more
than just about anything. Cora never let her dislike of Pearson get in the way
of her job, though she never tried to hide her feelings either. Pearson, on the
other hand, operator that he was, rarely let his emotions show. You could be a
friend one minute if it suited any particular agenda, or conversely, if the
need arose, you could be an enemy of the state. The problem with people like
Pearson, Virgil knew, was that those two things were not often mutually
exclusive.

“Jonesy, how are you feeling?” Cora
asked.

“I’m squeaking by,” Virgil said. His
words were slurred and his tongue felt thick and unresponsive and he had to
look away from Cora when he spoke.