(2012) Officer Jones Page 8

  The gruesome twosome inched closer. When Sutcliffe got close enough to sting my senses with his heavy cologne, he reached out with his clammy hand and attempted to shake, but I pulled away. I could tell that Lauren was repelled by the sloppy chicken I held, which saved me from a fake hug—the best investment I’d made in a long time.

  “I would go to the ends of the earth for my favorite GNZ employee,” Sutcliffe said with a salesy smile. He theatrically sniffed the air. “And I think I have—is that pleasant odor cow shit I smell?”

  “I don’t know if you forgot to read the fine print on my contract, but as of August I’m no longer a GNZ employee.”

  It felt good to say it out loud.

  “My sources tell me you are thinking of signing on with CNN—please tell me this isn’t true, John Peter?” Lauren belted out. She received a dirty look from Sutcliffe for venturing off the script.

  “I don’t know anything about this CNN stuff, but if your sources said so, then it must be true,” I replied.

  Lauren soaked in the “compliment,” as usual not picking up on the sarcasm.

  Sutcliffe got their orchestration back on track. He winked at Lauren, before asking if he could talk to me alone. Lauren flashed her blinding, toothy grin, as if she was trying to lock up this year’s Razzie award for bad acting.

  I tried to walk away, but Sutcliffe was easily able to keep up with me. He attempted to put his arm around me, but I managed to pull away.

  We eventually sat down at an empty picnic table. He looked at me as if his job were on the line—it probably was. He reached into a stylish leather briefcase and pulled out a thick bound document, which he laid on the table. It looked like the tax code.

  “What do I have to do to get your JP Hancock on this contract?” he asked like a sleazy used-car salesman.

  “I told you, Cliff—I’m done. I don’t have it in me anymore. I shouldn’t have been in Serbia. I almost got Byron killed.”

  “How is Byron?” he asked with a look of insincere sincerity, as if he’d taken lessons from Lauren.

  “He’s paralyzed.”

  “I know that. I mean, can GNZ do anything to help him along in his recovery. He won’t take any calls.”

  Translation: Sutcliffe’s bosses were worried about a lawsuit.

  “I taught him well then. Can we get to why you’re here?”

  He smiled. “Nightly studio show in prime-time. You and Lauren—The Warner and Bowden Show! Point counterpoint stuff. Politics … pop culture … hell, I don’t care if you two spend the hour singing karaoke. It’s your show, you’ll have complete control.”

  “Why is Lauren pushing for this? She’s already got her own prime-time show.”

  “Honestly?”

  “It would be a nice change of pace.”

  “We overrated her appeal. What people liked most about her was her relationship with you, and we misread the ratings that spiked during your capture. It was great drama.”

  “Yeah, a real fiesta. I’m thinking about going back next year, maybe invest in a time-share. Listen, Cliff, I really don’t want to spend an hour with Lauren, in a television studio or anywhere.”

  “If you want Lauren out, then she’s out! Between you and me, JP, she’s been totally screwing up the whole Kingsbury investigation. The other networks are beating us to the punch on every break in the case. And she couldn’t even get an interview with you after your release … and she was sleeping with you!”

  “It’s easy to hire a bubble-headed beauty queen when the sea is calm and the boat will drive itself. But when the water gets rough you need an experienced captain.”

  “I don’t know what kind of mind-altering stuff they gave you in Spain, but…”

  “I was in Serbia.”

  “Either way, I’m talking about news and you’re talking about boats.”

  “GNZ used to do news. And they didn’t need swimsuit models to deliver it.”

  “Which is exactly why we need you to come back as News Director. Forget the studio show—this is much bigger. You’ll have final call on what we report and who we hire to report it. We are offering you a blank slate to bring GNZ back to where it belongs—tabula rasa.”

  He reached into his left breast pocket and pulled out an envelope. He handed it to me.

  “I know our last offer was insulting. You know how negotiations work, JP. But the contents of this envelope will guarantee you are the highest paid person in the history of the news industry.”

  I’m sure he figured J-News couldn’t turn down that kind of offer. He probably was right. But unfortunately for him he was talking to JP.

  I stood and began to limp away. Sutcliffe followed after me.

  “I got more, JP.”

  “That’s the thing—I don’t.”

  He remained undeterred, pulling a small plastic doohickey out of his pants pocket and attempting to hand it to me. I again rebuffed him.

  “Do you know what this is?” he asked desperately.

  “I don’t care.”

  “It’s a JP Warner action figure!”

  I was speechless—more like frozen in horror. And like someone unable to avoid looking at a gruesome car crash, I accepted the small piece of plastic. The figure wore camouflage and carried a M-16 rifle, depicting me like some sort of GI-Joe superhero reporter.

  Once I got my bearings, I tossed the action figure down on the littered fairgrounds next to a garbage can, where I thought it belonged. Sutcliffe desperately scooped the figure off the ground and hurried after me.

  “The action figure is just the beginning, JP. We’re going to market you like the sizzling hot superstar you are, beyond the scope of news!”

  I kept walking without a word. And when it became obvious that I wasn’t interested, his tone predictably turned “sore loser.” “You’ll be back,” he grumbled.

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Because it’s who you are, Warner.”

  I wish I had a quarter for every time I’d heard that one.

  Lauren carefully navigated toward us. She looked at Sutcliffe and immediately knew it was bad news.

  “I can’t believe you, John Peter,” she spat at me like a child who didn’t get her way. Her sixth sense was the sense of entitlement.

  “When everyone told me not to be seen with you because you were a washed up has-been, I stuck with you. I told them that with a new agent and PR firm, you could be somebody again. Then you get this lucky break of being captured by terrorists and you just throw it all away!”

  I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. What I really wanted to do was run, but that wasn’t an option. So I said the only thing that made sense to me at that moment, “I’m going on the Ferris wheel. I’ll see you guys around.”

  I turned and limped away to the distant shouts of, “John Peter, get back here! John Peter!”

  I went to the nearest garbage can to throw away the envelope. But for some reason I decided to hold on to it.

  Chapter 24

  I’d finally escaped the clutches of Maloney, Bowden and Sutcliffe. I don’t think it was a coincidence that my enjoyment level picked up.

  I rode the Ferris wheel and ate some more chicken. Despite my attempts at remaining low profile, a few people recognized me. But capturing the spirit of the day, I politely posed for pictures and signed autographs. My father ended any last attempts to meld into the background by dragging me to judge a baking contest.

  Eventually I got out on my own again. I soaked in the sunny Saturday and breathed in the barbecue chicken/cow shit odor. It was the smell of peace … the smell of returning home. It took me a long time to get back here and I planned to make it last.

  I stopped by numerous farming equipment exhibits, including the FFA from the local high school. I realized that farming might be a lot more difficult than I’d thought. Maybe I’d get back to the original plan of writing for a small newspaper. Gwen returning as editor made it an even more tantalizing thought. I walked around, searching for
you-know-who, hoping she was here. But at the same time, scared that she might be.

  As the sun began to set behind the large oak trees in the distance, I sat down on a wooden bench to rest my weary body. Shuffleboard and three o’clock dinners couldn’t be far behind, I mused. I aimlessly watched people stroll by, and then I spotted a girl I knew. It wasn’t Gwen. It was my niece, Ella.

  Ella was Ethan’s eldest daughter—it was hard to believe she was already ten. Sticking with the family naming tradition, she was named after Ella Grasso, the first woman governor of Connecticut.

  There were a lot of whispering and finger points in my direction. I could tell the presence of her television-star uncle made Ella the star of her group of friends. She led the troops toward me, and I was soon surrounded by a group of fourth graders.

  Ella played proud spokesman, introducing each wide-eyed friend. I smiled and shook their nervous hands. They spent a few minutes questioning me about my capture. The Q&A session boiled down to fifteen different ways to ask me, “Were you scared?” Which was pretty similar to how the grown-up media works. I answered with heroic cool, but the truth was, hell yeah I was.

  I sensed it would impress Ella’s friends for her famous uncle to call for some one-on-one time. This also fit nicely into my agenda, which was to figure out why her father was avoiding me. The kids scrambled away, but not before making plans to meet Ella at the bumper cars in twenty minutes.

  “So how come you guys haven’t come over to see me?” I asked calmly.

  Ella just shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  I had extracted answers out of those who had refused to talk under torture, but Ella Warner was more difficult to crack. “Are your parents mad at me?”

  Shrug. “I don’t know.”

  “Have you guys been busy?”

  Shrug. “I don’t know.”

  “What did you think of the game last night?”

  “It was awesome,” came an excited response. I thought I might be making progress.

  “Did your dad say anything about me after the game?”

  Shrug. “I don’t know.”

  Back to the drawing board. I knew I needed a more direct source. “So where is your dad?”

  Ella turned all the way around twice, viewing the fairgrounds. I couldn’t tell if she was looking for her father or trying to make herself dizzy. Then she pointed. “Over there!”

  I followed her gaze, which led me to my brother. He was chatting with two burly flat-topped football players. Also present was my sister-in-law, Pam.

  “Let’s go see your dad,” I said to Ella, already limping in his direction.

  Chapter 25

  Ella, on a probable sugar high, left me in the dust.

  “Look who I found! Look who I found!”

  Ethan’s eyes left his daughter and locked on me. I wasn’t getting a “happy to see me” vibe.

  I led with the headline, “I felt compelled to come over and thank you for all your get-well wishes. Your kindness has been excessive.” I was going to clear the air or add another broken bone to my medical résumé. Maybe both.

  Ethan told Ella to run along and get some ice cream. Not a good sign. He reached into his faded jeans and pulled out crinkled money and instructed her to take the younger children, Sandy and Eli, with her. He then hastily sent his players on their way.

  Pam, sensing the imminent showdown, gave her husband a quick kiss on the cheek, perhaps intended to diffuse the situation, and departed with the children. She glanced back twice with a concerned look on her face. Only Ethan and I remained—the battlefield was clear.

  He turned to me. “I’ve been busy, I apologize. I know you’re used to the world revolving around you, JP, so it must be a shock to your system to learn that you’re not the center of the universe.”

  “Cut the crap, Ethan. You’ve been avoiding me like the Bubonic Plague.”

  “I’m a history teacher, JP. The Bubonic Plague was caused by rats, not egomaniacs who think they can drop in and out of everybody’s lives whenever they feel like it.”

  “I’m sorry you chose a life where the only time you leave the safe confines of Rockfield is on a school bus. I didn’t choose it for you.”

  “Nobody said anything about your job.”

  “Spare me.”

  “Spare you?” Ethan asked with disbelief. “The key word is you. It’s always about you, JP, isn’t it? You couldn’t care less it kills another little piece of Mom every time you run off trying to get yourself killed. How about sparing her?”

  “I don’t have to defend my career to you.”

  “That’s because you aren’t the one who has to go over there in the middle of the night. You should have seen her expression when she turned on the news and saw a photo of her son plastered on the screen with a face beaten purple by a bunch of terrorists. And you weren’t the one who sat with Dad after he came out of cancer surgery.”

  “I got him the best care and doctors possible.”

  “Writing a check isn’t the same as being there.”

  I tried to speak, but Ethan evoked his big-brother rights and talked over me, “And you weren’t the one who had to talk Noah down off Samerauk Bridge last year. He was going to kill himself. But did you care? You took us to France, so I guess everything is fine.”

  I knew Noah was in a bad place, but the depths shocked me. Kill himself? I filled with guilt. “I didn’t know.”

  “Because you weren’t here!”

  “I’m not the first child to move away from the nest.”

  He shook his head like I just wasn’t getting it.

  “Proximity has nothing to do with it. Just because you take off to God-knows-where doesn’t stop Mom and Dad from thinking about you … worrying about you … contacting you. Their love for you is unconditional. Sometimes I wonder if it works both ways.”

  “That’s not fair.”

  “You want to talk about fair? Dad gave his heart and soul to this town, and when it came time to dedicate a field, who does the school board vote to name it after?”

  I knew where this was headed, but I let him continue venting, “That’s right, they named it after JP Warner, a man whose main contribution was getting the hell out as fast as he could and never looking back. You didn’t even show up for the ceremony.”

  “Stop playing this off on Dad,” I shot back, angrily. “This is about you and your fragile ego. You chose a life, just like I chose a life, but the only difference is I don’t need an award for it.”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  We were now face-to-face, a crowd had gathered around us like when a fight was about to break out in junior high. We had become the most popular exhibit.

  “Maybe you can get a Mr. Perfect award. The perfect life with the perfect wife. The perfect family man who always does the perfect thing with his perfect kids. When you receive that honor, I promise I’ll show up!”

  I was getting close to adding missing teeth to my medical résumé.

  “Why don’t you go do your usual leaving act, JP? It’s going to happen sooner or later, anyway. There will never be enough attention and spotlight here for you.”

  “You better get used to me, big brother, because I’m going to be here for a long, long time.”

  As if she sensed a calamity about to happen, Pam returned with the children. She was a lot like a UN peacekeeping force—good intentions, but not enough firepower to stop anything significant from happening. She hugged me—I was unable to determine if it was a warm greeting, or she was trying to protect me—and then after we traded a couple pleasantries, she invited me to a barbecue at their house on Labor Day.

  Ethan turned and began walking away in a huff.

  I stood awkwardly with Pam and the children. We made small talk about the weather, and I discussed the impending return to school with my nieces and nephew. Acting as if what just happened didn’t happen, seemed like the best way to proceed.

  Finally, Pam broke the delus
ion, “JP, you just have to understand that Ethan puts in all the blood and guts around here. He’s done all the dirty work with your mom and dad, and Noah is no picnic, either. Then you walk in like the prodigal son and he gets shoved to the side like yesterday’s news. Can you blame him for being a little hurt? He’s only human.”

  I nodded.

  “He really is glad to see you. Just give him some time, okay?” she asked with an encouraging smile.

  “I will.”

  “Are you really planning on sticking around?”

  Our shouting must have been heard all the way to the ice cream stand. Which meant everybody within shouting distance heard my claim to drop anchor in Rockfield. I doubt anyone believed it.

  “Why is that so hard for people to believe?”

  Pam shrugged, while simultaneously pulling a cloth from her purse and wiping spilled ice cream off the shirt of her youngest son, Eli. “I guess it’s hard to believe someone would want to drive a minivan after driving a Jaguar.”

  “Problem with Jaguars is that they’re always in the shop.”

  Pam smiled, but talk of my physical condition made me think of Byron, so I changed the subject, “That was a great game last night, huh?”

  Pam looked off into the distance. “There’s one of the coaches—why don’t you ask him about it?”

  Chapter 26

  I stared at Noah, who was in many ways a spitting image of myself. He just dressed a lot different with his ever-present denim jacket, black boots, and cigarette hanging from his lips. He reminded me of the young Serbs partying on the river.

  We made eye contact at long distance, and then he began heading right toward me in a slow jog.

  “Dad tells me he’s been working two jobs, besides volunteering as a coach, and he’s even going back to school,” I said to Pam.

  “He’s made great strides. I worry about him though, especially on this day.”

  “This day?”

  “Today is the anniversary of Lisa’s … well, you know…”