Officer Jones (24 page)

Carter looked up from the disturbing scribbles with a look of disgust. He decided he would wait until Jones returned and rip his head from his body.

Suddenly his sixth sense perked up again.

Then everything went dark.

Chapter 56

Batman remained stoic as he applied the sharp snap of the stick to the back of Jeff Carter’s neck. The behemoth dropped to the floor like a wounded Woolly Mammoth, barely conscious. Two more blows put him out cold.

Taking no chances, he placed masking tape over his mouth, and handcuffed his arms behind his back.

He reverently caressed his vibrating necklace. Once again it didn’t let him down. But he was angry with himself for not securing the room—too drawn by the temptation of Gwen. He vowed that would be the last time he would fail that test.

“Kyle, are you okay? What was that noise?” his temptress called from the kitchen.

He thought for a second. Was she working with Carter? Did she use her seductiveness to lure him away from the house so that her partner could search it? She did plead with him to stay out on the boat.

He would get his answers. And when he did, he would take the pleasure in adding her to the wall with an X slashed through her pretty face. But for now, he saw how she could be very useful to him.

He didn’t have time to get rid of Jeff Carter. He would have to return for that. When he gave him one last kick in the ribs, the unconscious giant didn’t even flinch. This time he made sure the room was secured and headed toward the living room.

“It was nothing—are you ready to go? The taxi is here,” he told Gwen in an emotionless voice.

“Kyle—I am so sorry—please, let’s stay.”

He refused to even look at her. They walked out to a waiting cab in silence. Within half an hour, they were on a flight heading back to Rockfield.

Chapter 57

Charleston, South Carolina

October 2

I drove the Humvee along the cobblestone streets of Charleston, passing horse drawn carriages and stately mansions. I finally gave up the idea of finding parking along the street and entered a parking garage north of Broad Street.

With help of my cane, I headed by foot toward the Waterfront Battery Park on an idyllic seventy-five degree October day.

From the quaint alleyways to the majestic steeples, Charleston gave off the historic feel of another era. I passed a pineapple-shaped fountain that welcomed me to the park. My steps were slowed by apprehension, spotting the white gazebo where I was to meet Byron.

The sight of him trapped in a wheelchair tainted the perfect day for me. It just didn’t look right. And I was struck by the irony of the strongest man I knew, both physically and mentally, constricted by a chair.

Behind the chair was his mother, known affectionately as Mama Jasper. Standing to Byron’s left was his long time girlfriend, Tonya. It didn’t surprise me she stood by him in such a troubling time. It would have surprised me if she hadn’t. Not only was she beautiful—often mistaken for Tyra Banks—but also one of the most loyal and supportive people I’ve met. It’s not easy to find someone who understands the crazy business that we chose. Byron found a good one.

Mama Jasper was a large woman, but she wore her weight proudly. She was the first to spot me and gave me an enthusiastic “over here” wave. I felt a fleeting sense of relief to see the friendly smiles. When I reached the group, Mama Jasper gave me a big hug that knocked the breath out of me. Tonya followed with a much gentler one.

The last embrace came from Byron. Attempting to get my arms around a man strapped to a chair was an awkward movement, but even more so for me, since I knew I was the one responsible for him being in that chair.

Because he always thought of others first, he first said, “I’m so sorry about Noah.”

I nodded a thank you, but was unable to shake my feeling of guilt, which Byron picked up on. “Do you remember what we talked about in the hospital?”

“I just wish it happened to me instead of you.”

Byron laughed so hard I thought he was going to tip over. “JP, God only gives people what they can handle. You couldn’t handle this.”

He was right.

“Besides, I can still beat you one-on-one. When you can beat me on the basketball court,
then
I’ll be handicapped.”

Everyone laughed, except Mama Jasper. Overcome by emotion, she was busy wiping tears from her cheeks.

“Thank you so much, JP, for what you and Carter did with the renovations. I don’t know how I can ever repay you,” she said in a deep voice, seasoned with a southern accent.

I tried to speak, but she wrapped me in another affectionate hug, crushing my diaphragm. “You don’t have to repay me,” I replied the best I could.

“Maybe not, JP Warner, but you ain’t leaving Charleston without gettin’ a meal at Mama Jasper’s … on the house.”

Byron had bought the restaurant for her—her dream—when he signed his first NFL contract, allowing her to leave her job as a seamstress. I kept saying for years that I would make a trip there, but instead, I found myself eating with her son in places like Beirut and Sarajevo.

Tonya, with her gentle style, pulled Mama Jasper away. “What do you say, Mama, that we leave the boys alone and go do some shopping?”

She agreed, but not before delivering last words, “I expect you two at Mama Jasper’s at six o’clock sharp.”

We nodded our heads like obedient children and watched the two women walk away.

Always the reporter, I had noticed the large rock on Tonya’s finger. “Is there something you’re not telling me, my friend?”

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” he played coy.

“Are you getting married?”

“I almost forgot that I was talking to the great J-News. Yes, we got engaged the night before we left for Serbia,” Byron said, unable to hold back a grin. “I would have told you on our trip, but those terrorists tied my gag a little tight.”

We slapped hands—it was the best two crippled men could do to celebrate.

“I’m taking the plunge,” Byron said, as I took the pushing position behind him. “I guess I couldn’t run away anymore.” He tapped the sides of the metal wheelchair to make his point, and then snorted a laugh.

I was too conflicted to see the humor. I was glad he couldn’t see my face, and notice the tear roll down my cheek. After collecting myself, I asked, “So what did Mama say when you told her?”

“When the hugging ended, she said it’s about time.”

“I’m happy for you two, and
it is
about time. She’s beautiful, smart, and loyal. There are like six of them in the world.”

“Is Gwen Delaney one of the six?”

I wasn’t going to touch that one. “Somebody’s been talking to Carter. Let’s get out of here.”

I handed Byron my cane and pushed him toward the waterfront. “Don’t you need it?” he asked.

“Not as much as I thought.”

I looked out at the calm, beautiful waters of Charleston Harbor—a refreshing sea breeze filled the air. We traveled through the battery and began to move up Meeting Street. We stopped for a moment to admire Calhoun Mansion, one of Byron’s personal favorites.

We then returned to South Battery Street and went east two blocks, passing one old mansion after another. We stopped for a moment so I could rest my still-healing lungs. I used the time to dial Gwen’s number, but once again received no answer. I still couldn’t believe she was out on the lake with that lunatic, and not having heard from her since our brief call, she was making me more nuts than usual.

We took one last view of the harbor before heading north. As we made a right on Church Street, Byron spoke excitedly about the foundation he started to try to cure spinal cord injuries. By the time we passed Catfish Row, I was convinced that he would.

“If anyone can it will be you, Byron.”

He shook his head. “No JP, I will play a role, but you should have seen these brilliant doctors I talked to yesterday. They’re getting close!”

“But I’m sure, like anything else, it’ll cost money. I’d like to help out with the fund-raising.”

“Appreciate it, but I will only accept it on one condition.”

“You’re putting conditions on my money?”

“The condition is that you let me help solve your brother’s murder.”

The request sobered me. “If I can think of anything, you know I’ll call you. A lot depends on…”

“What Carter and your girl find in Ocracoke?” Byron cut me off in mid-sentence. “I can hear the anxiety in your voice, JP.”

“I’m just worried about her. It was a crazy idea to try to bait him. Jones has killed before, and you know as well as I do, if you kill once then you’ll kill twice. She’s lost her mind.”

“Just a dumb enough plan to sound like something JP Warner would have come up with.”

I had no argument for that one. “This guy Jones is a mystery. I feel like the answers are right in front of my face, but I just can’t see them.”

“Sometimes you just need a fresh set of eyes, which I can provide. And JP...”

“Yeah?”

“She’s going to be fine.”

I sure hoped so. “It’s almost six. We better get to your mother’s restaurant.”

“Or we won’t be fine.”

As I began to push him toward Mama Jasper’s, he added, “And one more thing.”

“Which is?"

“If I ever catch you shedding a tear on my behalf again, I’m going to give you a reason to cry.”

I nodded.

While holding back a tear.

Chapter 58

I pushed Byron toward Mama Jasper’s, which sat on a popular congregating spot along the busy Meeting Street. At Byron’s urging, we stopped for a moment to watch the spectacular sunset over Charleston Harbor.

“So why did you decide to call it Rubber-Band Foundation?” I asked him.

“My old teammate Leonard Harris with the Cardinals. After he was in the accident that killed those girls, he dedicated his life to them. His philosophy was that since he was responsible for taking their lives, it was his duty to live their lives for them in a symbolic way.

“He wasn’t a perfect man by any standard, but well-intentioned. He wore a rubber band as a symbol of the accident. The elastic reminded him of how fragile life was and how it could snap at anytime. I think that’s a good symbol for our organization,” Byron said, snapping the red rubber band around his wrist. It broke, which made his point.

We entered Mama Jasper’s to the aroma of she-crab soup mixed with sizzling fried chicken. My senses were in overload, reminding me that I hadn’t eaten since yesterday.

Mama Jasper’s was a converted warehouse. It was a casual, but elegant restaurant that still had the feel of a small diner. On Sunday night, it was dimly lit and very full. Or as Byron referred to it—the usual.

Mama Jasper met us at the doorway with a smile. Her smile was Byron’s smile, and it swelled with pride. She paraded us through the restaurant as if we were foreign dignitaries. Byron shook hands with numerous patrons like he was running for office. Many he knew, some he didn’t, but everybody knew him. I continued to be ignored, but gained instant credibility by the company I was keeping. The Jaspers were like Charleston nobility, and Byron was a rock star here.

The walls were lined with grand oil paintings of Charleston history, with an emphasis on the black history of the region. The highlight of my tour was a rare meeting with the chef, which according to Byron, was the highest honor given by Mama Jasper. It was like I was knighted. Sir JP and Sir Byron were then seated in the large VIP room in the back. Tonya was there waiting for him.

“Are you tired, baby?” she greeted him.

“Why would I be tired? JP did all the pushing.”

I moved toward the wall, where I could get a closer look at the large framed team photos of Byron’s football teams, displayed chronologically. This was the unofficial Byron Jasper Hall of Fame.

The team photos ranged from when he was in Pee Wee League to his last season with the Cardinals. The early photos were taken in black and white film. I got a kick out of the size of Byron’s afro in the photos from high school. In college he met Tonya and the hair got cut off.

I casually studied each one until I came upon the photo from 1995. I was drawn to a particular man in the photo. He wasn’t in uniform, so perhaps he was one of the many coaches or trainers. I realized that of all the people who looked at that photo over the years, probably none of them noticed the nondescript man hidden within a group of professional football players.

At first I didn’t believe what my eyes were telling me. So I took a closer look. Byron and Tonya stopped their lovey-dovey conversation and focused their attention in my direction. I’m sure I looked strange putting my face right up to the photo.

“You need glasses, man?” Byron called out.

I ignored the comment and took a step back, feeling dizzy. I looked under the picture where the names were listed from left to right. I traced my index finger across the line of typed names until I got to the man.
Grady Benson
.

“Are you okay, JP?” Tonya asked.

My mind was spinning so fast that it sounded like she was miles away. “Byron get over here.”

“Can’t exactly walk, man.”

“Get over here!”

He gave in and wheeled his chair to where I stood. “What’s going on?”

“Who is Grady Benson?”

“Grady Benson?”

I impatiently pointed at the man in question, jabbing the photo.

It rung a bell. “Oh,
that
guy
. Remember when I told you about how Leonard was trying to turn his life around after the accident?”

“Yeah?”

“Leonard convinced the Cardinals he needed to travel with his ‘spiritual adviser,’ who was Benson. He gave him credit for turning his life around.” Byron rolled his eyes. “Listen, I said he was a good dude, not a sane one. Anyway, Leonard led the league in sacks that year, so the Cardinals bent over backwards to please him. They gave this Benson guy a job with some made-up title like Assistant Equipment Manager or something like that, so that he could travel with the team. Personally, I think he was some crackpot trying to take Leonard’s money. He was always attracting those types.”