The Virgil Jones Mystery Thriller Boxed Set

by Thomas Scott

  “No, thanks. I’m good. Delroy’s great. We’re doing well. He misses your old man. I do too. So, are you going to tell me what’s going on with you or do I have to guess?”

  Virgil took a bite of chicken and chewed as slow as possible. When he spoke, he thought his own voice sounded foreign. “I sort of wanted to talk to you about my dad.”

  “What about him?”

  “Remember what Delroy told me the day you guys showed up at my place with that willow tree? After my dad died? You had his bloodied shirt and when we put it at the bottom of the hole he said something like, The ground water will soak through the paper and into that shirt. Your father’s blood will flow through that tree, just like it does your own heart. Do you remember that?”

  “Of course I remember. We just wanted you to feel better man, that’s all.”

  “I do…or at least I did.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I saw him this morning. I actually…sort of spoke with him.”

  “Who?”

  “My dad. He was standing under the willow tree.” But Virgil couldn’t look at him when he said the words, his gaze drifting around the room as he spoke. “He was dressed exactly the same way he was the day he got shot behind the bar. I’ll tell you something else, Murt, he wasn’t wearing a shirt. I think he wasn’t wearing his shirt because it was at the bottom of that hole where we put it before planting that tree.”

  Murton turned his attention to the bar as well and a long time passed before he spoke, but when he did, his eyes were focused directly on Virgil. “You talked to him?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Did he talk back?”

  Virgil let his eyelids droop a fraction. “Yeah, Murt, he did.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He said I was hitting the pills a little too hard.”

  “Are you?”

  “Don’t change the subject.”

  “I’m not, Jonesy. Are you hitting the pills too hard?”

  Virgil took a drink of his soda, which gave him a few seconds before he had to answer. “I don’t know, okay? I know my leg hurts like hell unless I take the medication.” Then he said something else, something that surprised him, as if the words were not his own even as they spilled across his lips. “I like the way they make me feel, Murt. They make me feel alive. They make me feel well and normal and happy and able to do just about anything I want. They make me feel like I have no regrets about anyone I’ve ever had or known or lost in my life, even though deep down I know that I do. Have regrets, I mean. I don’t know if this makes any sense to you or not, but when I feel the meds starting to wear off, I tell myself I know they’re wearing off because I can feel my leg start to hurt again. But I think that’s backwards. I think my leg starts to hurt so I’ll go ahead and take the pills. I think the pills are making my leg hurt. Does that make any sense to you? I’m not in control of it anymore.”

  “You have them with you?”

  “What?”

  “The pills.”

  “Yeah…why?”

  “Let me see the bottle.”

  “Why?”

  “Just show me the damn bottle, will you? I’m not going to take them from you.”

  Virgil reached into his pocket and pulled the bottle out and set it on the table. Murton picked it up and studied the label, counted the number of pills, did the math in his head and replaced the lid before he handed it back. “Looks like you’re only taking what’s been prescribed.”

  “Yeah, I’m mostly staying on schedule. But it’s getting harder and harder. I’ve called the doc twice in the last two weeks alone and had them up the dosage. They’ve gone along so far, but that ship is getting ready to sail, if you know what I mean.”

  “One day at a time, brother. One day at a time. When it’s time to quit, you won’t question it. You’ll know for sure. You might not want to admit it to anyone, maybe not even yourself, but you’ll know. Somewhere deep down inside in that part of you that’s safe from everything and everyone else in the entire world, that part of you will tell you to stop. All you have to do is listen.”

  “It’s that easy, huh?”

  “Hell no. It’s a bitch with a capital B. But it’s a ride you’ve got to take or we’ll be planting a tree for you on the other side of that pond sooner than you’d like.”

  “We?”

  “Yeah, asshole. Me and Sandy.” Then he smiled, wiggled his eyebrows and said, “I think she’s sort of hot for me lately.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Yeah, fuck me,” Murton said, and they both laughed like they were young boys again.

  After a few minutes of silence Murton looked at Virgil and said, “So…heard you got sacked this morning. Who get’s fired on a Saturday, anyway?” Then before Virgil could answer, he said, “Sit tight, Jonesy. I’ve got to get a cup of Blue.” Virgil watched him walk behind the bar and pour a cup of Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee. A minute or so later he sat back down, cocked his head slightly and let his face form a question.

  The more he thought about it, the more Virgil realized that most of the cops in the department probably knew about his termination before he ever walked through the back door of his own bar. “I guess some news travels faster than others.”

  “Every badge in this room has got your back, brother,” Murton said. “I guarantee it. Hell, probably every badge in the city.”

  Virgil wasn’t up for anyone’s shame or pity. “I appreciate it, Murt, I really do, but could we talk about it some other time?”

  Murton had his hands wrapped around the sides of his coffee cup, pushing it around the table in small circles. “You’re gonna dick around and burn yourself,” Virgil said.

  He smiled. “You sound like your mom.”

  “My mom didn’t swear.”

  “Sure she did,” Murton said. “Just not in front of us.”

  Virgil let a few seconds tick by, then looked across the table at his friend. He was someone who had almost gotten him killed during their time together in Iraq, but had also managed to save his life…more than once. The thought clicked in the back of Virgil’s mind if maybe he was somehow asking Murton to save him yet again, only this time from himself. “Ever wish you could go back?”

  Murton thought about the question for a minute before he answered. When he did, what he said reminded Virgil why they considered themselves not just friends, but brothers. “Go back to what, Jonesy? Back to sand-land to kill more innocent Iraqis? Back to my old man beating the shit out of me when he was drunk? Back to watch your mom suffer and die all over again? Or how about this? Back to your first day riding solo? What would you do? Shoot Pope in the leg this time? Get out of your own head, Virg. We might be shaped by our past, but the future is wide open and we get to define it. The choices we make? The ones we think about right here, in the moment? A year from now they’ll be gone and good or bad, we can’t go back. No one ever gets to turn the lights back on and replay the last inning. Is that what you’re looking for?”

  Virgil didn’t answer. “You got a little time to spare?”

  Murton looked at his watch. “Maybe. How much time are we talking about?”

  “Probably an hour or so. I’ve got something to show you.”

  But Murton had never been the kind of guy to let someone get the drop on him. “You know what I was just thinking?”

  “What?”

  “Those Underdog cartoons we used to watch when we were kids? Do you remember what Underdog did just before he chased down the bad guys?” He was smiling when he asked the question. It took Virgil a minute to remember, but when he did, he smiled as well. “That’s right, Jonesy. He popped a pill. It’s what gave him his power.” He took a drink of his coffee, stood from the table and said, “So, where we going?”

  8

  The governor’s chief of staff, Bradley Pearson and executive director of the state’s lottery, Abigail Monroe, sat across from each other in the living room of Monroe’s condo. The
ir conversation had deteriorated to the point where they were hissing at each other like a couple of alley cats. Pearson pointed his finger at her. “Let’s not forget who got you this job, Abby.”

  “How could I, Bradley? You remind me every time you want to get laid.”

  Two years ago, the position of executive director opened up when the then current director—Abigail Monroe’s soon-to-be ex-husband, Lee, opened up one too many bottles of scotch before taking his car out for a midnight spin. He drove the car—a sporty little Mini Cooper—right off the road and through two backyards before he stopped. Unfortunately for Lee Monroe, what stopped him was the in-ground pool in the third yard. The Mini slid right into the deep end of the pool at three-thirty in the a.m. and sank just slightly slower than a lead balloon. As any good drunk driver would tell you, the formula for survival in this type of situation was simply one of time divided by lung capacity. Regrettably for Monroe—a two pack a day bureaucrat—he was short on both and the math didn’t work to his advantage. He was dead before the pool owner crawled out of bed and dialed the third digit of 911.

  Over the course of the two days that followed Lee Monroe’s accident, he was buried and properly mourned by Abigail. The mourning itself took the better part of two full minutes and even that was about a minute and a half longer than she would have liked. With that accomplished, Abigail set her sights on her dead husband’s job. She used every tool in her bag—ample tools that they were—to secure the position. Besides, who could possibly object to the grieving widow coming to the aid of the state, not to mention its people in their time of need? She might not have been the best candidate for the job, but Abigail knew someone who could help her with that.

  It didn’t take long before she had her hooks in Bradley Pearson, who, to his discredit, melted just a tad slower than a candy bar on the sidewalk in the middle of July at high noon. Pearson lobbied for Monroe’s appointment long and hard with the governor, the investigation into Lee Monroe’s death was quietly set aside—a drunk is a drunk after all—and at the end of the process, the appointment was hers.

  The end of the process also meant the end of her romantic involvement with Pearson. Monroe had what she wanted and Pearson wasn’t it, not that he ever had been. Unfortunately for Pearson, he’d been a little too busy to notice. After Monroe got the job, Pearson had quietly called in every single political favor he was owed and had the state’s legislature attach a provision on to a highway expansion bill that steered unclaimed lottery winnings into a fund designed to help pay for the completion of the state’s first private prison in neighboring Hendricks County. Monroe didn’t care in the slightest. Her job was to take the money in. What the state did with it wasn’t her concern.

  What was her concern though was the bomb Pearson had just dropped on her, said bomb being that her head programmer, a young man by the name of Nicholas Pope had just been murdered. “It’s too much scrutiny, Abby. The police, not to mention the press are going to be all over this.”

  Abby shook her head. “Try to get a grip on yourself, Bradley. We have no involvement in Pope’s murder. Besides, he was a pot hound, a doper. I overlooked it as much as I possibly could because of his talents, but in the end, he got himself killed over it. Another drug deal gone bad.”

  “Oh for Christ’s sake Abby, nobody gets killed over a little weed. Even I know that and I know the cops know it too. I’ll tell you what’s going to happen…the police are going to look at this and when they do they’ll discover that not only was I present when Jones shot James Pope, they’ll discover my connection to his son, Nicholas, through you. Some hard questions are going to be asked and if we don’t get in front of this there will be consequences. Serious consequences. We need to get on the same page here, Abby. We need some damage control.”

  “We are on the same page, Bradley. What else can we do? It really is just one big coincidence.”

  Pearson stood up. “I don’t believe in coincidence. I’m managing this thing on my end. What I need you to do is to not make any moves unless you run them by me. Can you do that for me, Abby? Both our careers are on the line here.”

  “How are you managing it?”

  “That doesn’t concern you.”

  “You’re asking for my cooperation, but you’re not willing to tell me what you’re doing?”

  “It’s not that deep.”

  “Then tell me.”

  Pearson sighed. “I knew the Major Crimes Unit would be investigating this mess. I’ve had the governor relieve Jones of his position. It wasn’t that hard. He’s got a little drug problem of his own. I can control the new guy.”

  “You’re sure?”

  Pearson tugged at an earlobe and wiggled it back and forth. “He’s already on the hook. I’ve been doing this a long time, Abby. There isn’t much that gets by me. Maybe you should remember that.”

  Monroe stood from the sofa, walked to her front door and held it open. When Pearson moved through, she brushed her hand lightly across the back of his neck. “I got by you though, didn’t I?”

  He turned to say something, but Abby closed the door on him.

  9

  Virgil let Murton drive and gave him turn-by-turn directions. When they turned the last corner Murton pulled his car to a stop in front of Mason’s house, the same house where they’d both grown up. They sat for a few minutes before Murton glanced over with a ‘what gives?’ look on his face. “Let’s go inside,” Virgil said.

  They got out of the car and made their way up the front walk. The house was a small three-bedroom bungalow with a detached garage and wood siding that Mason had always kept meticulously white with regular coats of paint every other year. When they stepped onto the porch Virgil watched as Murton ran his hands across the railing next to one of the support beams. He looked out at the front yard and Virgil knew, or at the very least suspected what he was thinking about.

  It had been the year they redid the front lawn…the very next summer after the fire. Virgil and Murton had only been friends for a year or so, but the foundation of a lifelong bond had been poured and they both knew it.

  Virgil’s father had just been elected as Marion County Sheriff and to say that he was a busy man was an understatement. His days were long and his nights held an unpredictability that only a mainline gambler could appreciate. As a result of his hectic schedule he’d let the front lawn go without fertilizer that spring and by the time the heat and humidity of the summer arrived, the crabgrass had taken hold so wide and deep that he could barely push the lawnmower through it without stalling the engine. When he’d finally had enough and decided it was time to address his own disregard, he did so with a vengeance.

  He began with a rented sod cutter and ripped out the entire front lawn right down to the dirt. Murton and Virgil—both of them only seven years old at the time—helped him carry the heavy pieces of cut weed to the end of the drive. It was a dirty, laborious job that took most of the entire weekend. On Sunday, with freshly raked dirt in place and leveled just so, they began to plant the new seed. The seed had to be sown by hand and then raked into the soil. They were almost finished when Virgil saw Murton’s father, Ralph Wheeler, walking down the middle of the street, right toward them. He wore his work clothes—a dingy T-shirt beneath blue and white striped overalls, the fingers of his work gloves sticking out of a side pocket. He walked across the freshly raked front yard as if Mason’s efforts of the past two days or their intended results meant nothing to him. Virgil and Murton were at the other end of the yard so they couldn’t hear what was said between their fathers, but Virgil had an impression that something was terribly wrong, the first indication when Mason extended his hand to Murton’s dad, then slowly let it drop to his side when his greeting was not accepted. Instead, Murton’s dad covered his face with both his hands, let out a sob and then fell to his knees in the dirt.

  Virgil’s mother had just walked out onto the porch carrying a tray that held a glass pitcher of lemonade and plastic cups. When she saw M
urton’s dad go to the ground and heard his sobs, she dropped the tray and ran, not to the men, but to the boys. She had no idea what was happening, but she knew in the moment her job was to protect the children from whatever sort of drama was playing out before them. Virgil and Murton watched over their shoulders as Virgil’s mom ushered them up the porch steps and past the broken glass of the lemonade pitcher, their fathers still in the front yard, out by the street. Murton’s dad was on his knees and he was bent forward from his waist, his forehead pressed firmly into the dirt. He was wailing and sobbing and when he raised his head from the ground his face was covered with dirt and grass seed that had mixed in with the spittle that ran from the corner of his mouth. What he said next was something no young child should ever have to hear.

  By the time they made it inside, Murton was already crying.

  Almost a full week went by before Virgil saw his friend again. The funeral was simple, attended by only a handful of mourners. Afterward, when Virgil tried to speak with him, Murton turned and ran away without saying a word, his sense of loss and anger pointed in the only direction that felt safe. This went on for just over a month. The very next night Virgil found out what kind of people his parents were.

  Shortly after dinner the three of them walked a few blocks over to the city park where Ralph Wheeler coached Murton’s soccer team. The team played twice a week but this would be the first time that Murton played since the passing of his mother. It was the first time his father would return to coach as well.

  The night was mild, filled with the promise of sportsmanship and laughter, and regardless of the tragedy Murton had been forced to endure, Virgil remained hopeful that the night might be a turning point in his friend’s life, a frame of reference he might one day be able to look back on and recognize when his healing began. As it turned out that is exactly what happened, just not in a way anyone expected.