by Thomas Scott
Virgil grabbed Bell’s shirt with both hands and pulled him close, ready to scream at him. Sandy reached up and put her hand on Virgil’s arm. When she spoke, it was with such effort that every word came out like its own sentence.
“Virgil. Save. Wyatt.”
Virgil was shaking his head, like a child who didn’t want to hear what the adults were saying. “No, no, no. This isn’t happening.”
Then, with surprising strength, like a lightbulb ready to burn out, Sandy pulled Virgil close one final time. “Love. You. Forever. Virgil Jones.” Then her grip went soft and her arm fell away and her eyes focused on nothing at all.
Virgil leaned down and put his forehead against Sandy’s, his tears running across her face. He kissed her lips, her eyes, her nose. He ran his fingers along the sides of her face, put her hair in his mouth and wept openly in front of Murton and Bell. Outside, the helicopter’s rotor blades were beating furiously and the back door flew open, unable to withstand the blast. Leaves and grass and small bits of debris sailed through the kitchen and swirled around the house.
Virgil crawled away from Sandy on all fours and heaved as if he might vomit. When nothing came up, he turned back and sat flat on his ass, his eyes empty, like someone had just switched him off.
Murton, who’d been to war, who’d watched men suffer and die, who thought he’d seen the very worst of what any man should ever have to see, was suddenly certain he’d just witnessed his best friend lose his mind.
Three minutes later, thanks to Bell’s quick work, a tiny baby boy named Wyatt Andrew Jones was born. His right eye was as green as the ocean waters of Montego Bay, his left, a deep crystal blue that was as bright and clear as the sky right outside the door.
34
The funeral didn’t take place for another week. Virgil spent the entire seven days in complete isolation at the hospital with the only family he had. Jonas was present as well and even though they were stuck there, the nurses all chipped in and helped to keep Jonas occupied, entertaining him when Virgil needed the rest. Wyatt was going to be okay, but they had him under constant watch in the Neonatal intensive care unit due to the nature of his birth. He’d suffered no visible trauma from the beating and all other intensive tests came back normal. The biggest concern was the stress of the birth because of the attack, and the fact that he was almost a month early.
The nurses all agreed his eyes were unlike anything they’d ever seen. He was going to be special and—more than one nurse had commented—quite the ladies man when he grew up. Virgil held him constantly, only allowing the nurses to take him when he needed to sleep or tend to Jonas.
Cora ran the overtime budget through the shredder and made sure they had round the clock protection with two ISP troopers stationed at every entrance and four on the NICU floor itself. No one got close. No one tried.
Murton sat in the office above the bar and watched Becky, waiting for her to give him the information he needed.
“I’ve got it,” she finally said.
“Moving or stationary?”
“Stationary…for now anyway. There’s some historical data, but I’d have to run a different sub-routine through their system. Leaves a bigger footprint.”
“Let it go then. You can tell me if he moves?”
“Of course, but there’s an easier way.” She handled Murton a nondescript computer tablet. “I’ve downloaded the tracking information on that. You’ll have real-time updates on his movements…if he moves, that is. I’m surprised he hasn’t.”
“I’m surprised he isn’t dead. Cool said he shot him. He was sure of it.” He took the tablet and turned to leave. Becky grabbed his wrist and held him in place. “There’s other ways to do this.”
“Not this time, there isn’t.”
“Are you sure, Murt?”
Murton looked at her for a long time before he spoke. “I’m as sure as you are.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning you knew it was going to come to this. That’s why you never asked Cora to get the subpoena. We’re a lot alike, Becks. It’s why I love you.”
“I love you too.” Becky let go of his hand and handed him a burner phone. “Destroy this and scatter the pieces if you have to use it.”
He gave her a look that said he knew how to handle a burner. She pretended like she didn’t notice.
“I will.”
“If you go now, you’re going to miss the funeral.”
“Can’t be helped. We’ve been waiting for a week to get a ping on Decker’s phone. It’s now or never. My guess is he’s finally called for help. I’m going to go help him.”
“You could arrest him, Murt.”
“You’re right. I could. But what about Jonas? I know what Virgil would want. Sandy and Pam too. They’d want me to take care of business so that’s what I’m going to do. It’s what I’ve always done, and what I’ll always do. You know who I learned that from? Mason. It’s time to return the favor and pay the debt I owe to my real family and take care of my brother.” He kissed her hard on the lips then walked out the door.
“Be careful,” she said, but he was already gone.
The service was held at a small chapel on the outskirts of the northwestern suburbs. While the chapel itself was packed full with cops, their spouses, and a number of politicians, Virgil thought that there would have been more people present. It seemed like there were a lot of people because every seat was filled—there were even people lined up along the back and side walls—but the chapel was smaller than most, so it was an illusion. Virgil didn’t care. The measure of your life was in how you lived it, not who showed up when you were gone.
The casket was closed, draped with a simple, almost shear white cloth. The pallbearers were all ISP Troopers, hand picked by Cora. Virgil had enough on his plate and Cora knew it, so she’d planned almost all of the service by herself.
Virgil sat in the front row, Jonas and Becky on one side of him, Cora and the governor on the other. The preacher spoke of a life well lived, of sacrifice, dedication and commitment to others. He referenced passages from the bible that he thought fitting, and steered well clear of the violent manner of death that had occurred. He finished with a prayer, then asked if anyone in attendance wanted to say a few words about the deceased. Virgil felt the eyes of the entire chapel turn toward him. He’d known this moment would come and he’d been dreading it. But something wonderful and amazing happened in that moment. When everyone turned and looked his way, their looks weren’t heavy and weighted as he thought they might be. Instead they seemed to lift him up and give him strength. He stood, ready to approach the pulpit when Jonas reached out and took his hand.
They walked up together.
“My father once told me something that was so basic, so fundamental and elementary in nature, that I let its true meaning slip past without ever knowing it. In fact, I don’t think I realized it until today.” He paused for a moment and looked down at Jonas, who was staring at his shoes. There were tears running down his little cheeks. Virgil squatted down next to him and whispered into his ear. “Look at all these people, Jonas. These are our people. Every single one of them. They’re not here for themselves…they’re here for us. Our lives have been changed, but we’re going to move forward, the way she would have wanted. That’s how you honor the ones you’ve lost.”
Jonas wiped his face and looked out at the crowd of people, then he turned and looked up at Virgil and squeezed his hand tight.
Virgil stood up and continued. “What my father told me was simple. He said, ‘everything matters.’ I think what he meant was this: While everything matters, every choice, every decision we make, every direction we turn leads us down a path that we rarely have any control over, even though we think we do. When Sandy and I had that party at our house almost a year ago, I made a choice. The choice was to take Ed Donatti with me to go and look for Murton. It was a simple choice and even though it cost Ed his life, and cost Jonas his father, I believe it was the correct
one. And that one little choice all those months ago has led us to this very moment, a moment where we’re all here, together, because this is where we are supposed to be right now, whether we like it or not.” He shifted his gaze and looked directly at Becky. “For those who couldn’t be here today…I believe they are where they’re supposed to be as well.”
“Today we are saying goodbye to a fine woman, a woman who gave everything of herself in service to not only her husband, but a son she’ll never get the chance to see grow up, a woman who endured pain and suffering at the end of her life so that others could have the very best of theirs. I can’t think of a better tribute for a wife and mother.” He stared at the crowd for a moment, then took Jonas and walked over to the casket. He laid his palm on top of the cloth, then traced the edges lightly with fingertips. He choked back a sob, whispered, “Forgive me,” then sat back down. Becky leaned her head on his shoulder. Jonas climbed in his lap and Virgil could feel the moisture of his tears soaking through his shirt and against his skin.
Murton turned into the abandoned airport and pulled his car behind a gatehouse, out of sight from the other buildings. He had a long wait ahead. He wouldn’t make his move until in was dark outside.
The funeral procession left the chapel and snaked its way to the cemetery. A small tent was set up over the gravesite and it was cold enough that tiny ribbons of steam were rising from the freshly dug mound of soil. The preacher waited until everyone had parked their cars and walked over to the grave.
Once everyone was in place, he said a few more encouraging words about life, the fragility and finite time they all shared on earth, and wrapped everything up by saying, “In sure and certain hope of eternal life, we commend to Almighty God our sister; and we commit her body to the ground; earth to earth; ashes to ashes, dust to dust. May the Lord bless her and keep her and give her peace. Amen.”
Everyone stood silently as the casket was lowered into the earth where finally, Pam Donatti’s body was laid to rest, next to her husband, Ed.
35
When Virgil and Jonas got back to the hospital, the medical staff had Sandy awake for the first time. They’d kept her in a medically induced coma to aid in her healing. She was in considerable pain, because the doctors didn’t want her over-medicated due to the amount of blood she’d lost. She was still weak, but getting better every day. The doctors assured everyone there were no neurological concerns and they were pumping her full of antibiotics to ward off any infections that might try to creep in. Jonas moved to the bed and took her hand, then crawled up and laid down next to her. Virgil moved to stop him, but Sandy shook her head and told him it was okay.
Virgil leaned in and kissed her, then told her he’d be right back. When he returned, he carried a tiny bundle in his arms. “Say hello to your miracle baby.” He placed Wyatt in Sandy’s arms. Wyatt opened his eyes and looked at his mother.
Sandy saw his eyes and found she had trouble with her words. When she finally got them out, they were as simple as ever. “When do we get to go home?”
It had happened like this: While Virgil was saying his final goodbyes to his dying wife, Bell took out a scalpel, cut Sandy open and brought Wyatt into the world. He clamped and cut the cord, wrapped him in a blanket then handed him to Murton who got him stimulated and breathing. When Bell saw that Murton had Wyatt going, he turned his attention right back to Sandy. Because everyone there was either a cop or a doctor, they all knew their own blood types. Murton had to physically move Virgil out of the way. He grabbed him by the shoulder with his free hand and shook him hard.
“What’s Small’s blood type?”
Virgil looked at all the blood on the floor and didn’t respond.
Murton slapped him, hard, and screamed at him. “What’s her blood type?”
Virgil finally told him and when he did, Bell’s shoulder’s slumped. She was O-negative. Bell was working furiously to get Sandy’s incision closed up, but when he spoke his voice was calm, his thought process clear and completely focused. “O-negative is one of the most rare. People who are O-neg can only take blood from others who are O-neg donors. I’m type B. That means I’m out. Murton, what about you?”
Murton was putting two IV lines into Sandy, one in each arm. He held the lines, one in each hand and shook his head. “Same.”
“Virgil?”
“I’m type A.”
Of course you are, Murton thought.
Bell had Sandy as closed up as he was going to get her with the equipment he had on hand. “Come on, let’s get her on the chopper. I honestly don’t think she’s going to make it, but we’ve got to try. She’s not dead yet, but she’s knocking on the door. Virgil, get your shit together and grab your son. Let’s go.”
They went out the back, Murton and Bell carrying Sandy’s limp body. They got her into the chopper, and Bell kept saying “Easy, easy,” and Murton kept responding, “I am being easy. I am.”
Virgil followed them in and handed Wyatt to Murton so he could get right down next to Sandy. Bell climbed into the front seat next to Cool who was just about to pull up on the collective and get them airborne. He leaned over and shouted. “Cool…what’s your blood type?”
Sixty seconds later they were flying away, the air traffic controllers clearing the flight path direct to the hospital. Cool had a line in each arm and he was flexing his muscles as hard as he could to get the blood flowing into Sandy. In the end, it saved her.
The story eventually got out. The governor’s helicopter pilot had made an emergency medical run to the hospital while having his own blood transfused during the actual flight. When the word started to spread everyone began referring to him as that Cool Motherfucker. The rumor, it turned out, was started by the governor.
Sandy spent over eight hours in surgery to repair the damage from the gunshot wound. She also had to have a full hysterectomy from the damage to her uterus. She’d never have another child. When the doctors who’d performed the surgeries told her, she nodded and said, “I know. I’ve always known.”
Then they put her back under with the meds, to let her heal. Out in the hall, one of the docs said. “Did you hear that? About always knowing. I think it was the drugs talking.”
The other one stared at him blankly. He wasn’t so sure, though he didn’t know why.
36
Nightfall came and Murton made his way across the abandoned airfield and moved toward the large Quonset hut. He opened the outer door and stepped into the darkness, pausing to let his eyes adjust. A portable half-wall was at the far end of the hangar, a dim light barely illuminating the far side of the interior space off in the distance. He took the gun from the holster on his hip and moved forward, slowly, silently.
Decker was unconscious. He never heard him coming.
Murton picked up the weapons and moved them well out of reach, then pulled a chair over by the cot. Decker was on his back, shirtless, a large bloodstained gauze pad taped over his shoulder. It was yellow and brown and smelled of rot. The infection was spreading rapidly, the skin puffy and stretched tight. He sat for a few minutes waiting for Decker to come around, and when he got tired of waiting, he pressed the barrel of his gun into the wound. Decker screamed and tried to sit up. Fluid gushed out of the wound and filled the air with his stink. Murton punched him in the face with his free hand and that flattened him back out on the cot.
“Time to wake up sleepyhead.”
Decker was sweating heavily, the fever raging through his body. “I need a doctor.”
Murton nodded. “Yeah, you sure do. Funny thing about gun shot wounds, even the minor ones will kill you if you don’t tend to them right away. You’ve got to get the bullet out and all the little bits of fabric that followed it in. If you don’t…well…” He pressed the barrel against the wound again. “Exhibit A.”
Decker screamed again. “Please, you’ve got to help me.”
Murton wiped the barrel of the gun on the edge of the cot then sat back in the chair and crossed his legs,
the gun pointed casually at Decker. “See, that’s where you’re wrong. I don’t have to do anything. You know, you sort of remind me of my old man.” When Decker didn’t respond, Murton kept talking. “He was a miserable prick just like you. He thought he could bully his way through life, rolling over anything and anyone he wanted, whenever he liked. Treated me like I was a possession. His possession. If I got out of line…”
“He beat you.”
Murton nodded. “With some regularity.”
“What’d you do about it?”
“Nothing. I was a kid. But I had another man in my life, a real man who came to our house one night and set my father straight. He was a cop. I guess that’s why I became one. He beat the hell out of my old man and that seemed to take care of the problem. I never saw dear old dad again.”
“So a cop took his boy from him. I know how he must have felt.”
“I doubt it. He didn’t do anything to try to get me back. The upshot is, I’m glad. If he had, I might have ended up just like him. Just like you.”
“Thanks for the trip down memory lane. Are you going to help me or not?”
“No. Maybe I’ll just sit here and watch you die.”
“You can’t do that. You’re a cop.”
Murton tipped his head in thought. “You’re right. I’m a cop. It’s my job to protect and serve. I’m about to do both at the same time.” He pulled the hammer back on the .45 and pointed it at Decker’s chest. He began to tighten the pressure on the trigger when he felt the air move behind him. It took him by surprise.