by Jan Sumner
Chapter 8
It was time to leave. He’d been away from home for almost two weeks, and he needed to get back. He had one last dinner with his dad, and arose early to leave the next morning. As usual, his dad was up to make him breakfast and see him off. What a wonderful time they’d had; gotten to really know each other after all these years.
“Dad, I can’t tell you how much I’ve enjoyed this; us getting reacquainted.”
“Me too, son. I’ll treasure it always. I wish Matt could have been here and maybe the three of us could have gotten…well, it’s been wonderful.”
That was the first time he’d brought Matt up. “Me too, I’ve been wondering about him. Have you heard from him since he left?”
“No, he just disappeared. I’ve made inquiries, but no one seems to know anything. It’s like he fell off the earth. If I think about it too much I get a sick feeling inside. I finally figured, if he wanted to talk to me, he’d have to contact me, since I don’t know where he is. I hope that happens, because he’s still my son, and I love him.” He got up and went into the kitchen. Jonathan followed in a few seconds. He put his arm around his dad, “It’s not your fault. We both love Matt, but he has to feel the same way. Like you, I wish he’d reach out, but until he does…I guess we’ll just have to wait.”
His dad turned, looking him in the eye, “I know, but it doesn’t take one thing away from what we’ve shared,” and gave him a big hug.
As he packed his bags he just couldn’t help wondering why it had taken him so long to come home. Then he realized how lucky he was to have had a second chance. On the way out of town, he made a stop at the cemetery. He’d come by on his first day in, but that was before he knew what he knew now. She was buried next to her parents. It was a simple, yet elegant head stone. The cemetery was small, all dirt roads and lots of old trees. They were bare now, as fall winds had taken their leaves. He parked and made the short walk to the marker. Placing a blanket on the ground he sat down and talked to her for a while. Only a few days ago he’d known so little about her, now…well, he still didn’t know her like he wished he could have but now there was a warmth inside he’d never felt before.
“Mom, I hope someday I can meet you in heaven. I’m sorry I wasn’t a better son to dad and a better grandson to Fran. I have no excuse, other than youth and self-interest. I hope you know I’m trying to make up for lost time. Dad and I have had a great time together over the past few days, and they won’t be our last. By the way, he still loves you more than you’ll ever know.
“Well, I’d better get going mom, but I’ll see you someday and I love and respect you even more than before.”
He put a small bouquet of flowers at the base of the headstone, knelt, said a small prayer, then drove out of Independence, heading home. It was a long and reflective drive. He wasn’t sure it had all sunk in yet, but he knew his life had changed, forever.
Ah, New Orleans, how he loved it, Cajun food, Canal street and the mighty Mississippi. It seemed like another country from Independence. In many ways, it was.
In short order he settled back into his daily routine, reading, writing and badgering his agent about lagging book sales. When he left, he was well into his third Jake Mozzetti mystery novel. It was good, he felt renewed, invigorated, excited to write again. He had a new lease on life, he’d connected with his dad and had discovered things about his family, that while disturbing, were also interesting, and most important…were his.
He breezed through his third novel, with a passion and flow he’d never felt before. Then started on his fourth. His agent, although pleased with this newfound fervor, was a little worried about where this enthusiasm was coming from. Jonathan explained how he had rediscovered his family and how it had inspired him.
And so it had. He rededicated himself to his writing career, went home for holidays and birthdays and generally found his life renewed. Each time he went home, it was wonderful. The time spent with his dad was always fulfilling. Independence wasn’t the sad little town he’d grown up in anymore. It certainly wasn’t New Orleans, but it was home, in its own irreplaceable way.
Although writing with more zeal and proficiency, his book sales did not equate. But unlike the past, he was a little more at peace with it. He was writing for the sake of writing now. If that translated into literary success, so be it, if not…well it didn’t.
He finished his fourth book and had moved onto a fifth. It had been three years now since Fran's death, and his enlightening trip home. Normalcy had returned to Jonathan’s life.
His favorite writing environment was having the television on, either muted or at a very low volume. He felt like he could write and when he needed a break, check out whatever was on the tube. Usually an action movie or sporting event; he really didn’t need the sound on for those. One evening on a cable channel, while muted, he noted a lead in for a special on the ten most notorious serial killers of the past fifty years. He knew most of the names, but one jumped out at him…Jack Zane. For the most part, he’d forgotten about him, had tried deliberately to put him out of his mind. But here he was right in front of him; he had to watch. The network was doing two a night for five consecutive nights. Jonathan was ready the night they focused on Zane.
It started with a little family history; he’d been born in Iowa, had a very violent father, abused mother, and was one of three children. He had gotten in trouble early, dropped out of school and entered the world of crime at a young age. By best accounts he’d killed his first victim by the time he was seventeen. From there it went down hill fast. Robbery, murder, the whole nine yards became his M.O. Most of his crimes occurred in the mid-west and he always seemed to find someone to harbor him. He was of medium height, stocky, thick head of hair and a severe looking face.
All the old feelings came flooding back. This man, this animal, had beaten his mom and killed his great grandparents. It didn’t seem real. Here he was on national TV, what about his victims? No media coverage for them, just anonymous statistics. No one cared, other than his family, that this guy had killed and beaten his family members. And what about all the other victims, who were they, what happened to their families? The police weren’t even sure how many people Zane had killed, how many lives he’d destroyed.
When it ended he got up and turned off the television. He was sorry he’d watched it. It opened up old wounds and made him feel uneasy. He went to bed, but couldn’t sleep; kept seeing that face. He lay awake for hours, wild thoughts racing in and out of his mind. He finally got up and decided to try writing again. He was too tired and couldn’t get the program out of his head.
He awoke the next morning, lying on the couch. He wasn’t even sure how he'd gotten there. For some strange reason he needed to find out more about Jack Zane. He didn’t know exactly why, but he did. He decided to devote the day to designing a plan. He was, after all, a mystery writer, and there were still mysterious things about his past that bothered him.
The first and most obvious question was, what happened to Zane? He shot himself, then what? Where was he buried, who claimed the body, did he have family and who and where were they? As he began writing down questions, it suddenly struck him, “Why not do a book on the guy? There were plenty of books on other serial killers, maybe no one had done one on Jack Zane. After all, he’d destroyed part of the family, so why not try and make some money off of it.
He began by calling the county coroner in Kansas. They told him they’d have to dig through the old files and would get back to him. He then decided to start digging through the newspaper archives and gather as much information as he could about the guy. He would then try and follow that up with interviews, if he could find anyone who wanted to talk about him. That would give him a good start, and as he’d learned writing fiction with his character development, one contact leads to another, then to another and so on. Once he’d put all t
his together, he was sure he’d have enough for a book.
As he began to read through all the old articles, he was horrified. The killings, mutilation and brutality, how in the world could anyone be this deranged? As Zane had made his was across the mid-west, he’d left a trail of terror and tears behind him. From Indiana to Nebraska he’d robbed, raped and killed without discretion or remorse. He’d wiped out an entire family in Seymour, Indiana while robbing their country store. In Chillicothe, Missouri he’d shot and killed two service station attendants in cold blood and then burned the station with them in it. He’d raped and murdered a schoolteacher in Waterloo, Iowa. It went on and on and Jonathan began to feel sick to his stomach. He thought to himself, how does this happen, how does someone’s life get so far out of whack he can do these things? Right then he didn’t know, but he was going to try and find out.
Having gathered all the information he could from the papers and magazines he waited for the call from the coroner’s office. With that in hand he could hopefully start some interviews. Sure enough, the coroner called back. He was told that Zane’s brother, Jeffery Zane, had claimed the body but they didn’t know what happened to it after that. When Jonathan asked them if the brother had left a forwarding address they told him yes, Minot, North Dakota.
The country was in the throes of a heavy winter, and North Dakota was suffering under massive snowfall and arctic freeze. There was no chance to go there and, he really didn’t want to. He was afraid to call, for fear the brother might disappear or refuse to see him. He’d have to wait for a break in the weather and then chance it.
He continued his writing, inspired by a good response to his third novel and hopeful the fourth would have some success as well. Winter’s grip never let up, and he knew he’d have to wait for spring. The fifth novel, his biggest so far, was coming along well, and he’d put the Zane file on the back burner, waiting for the spring thaw.