Officer Jones (6 page)

He continued down the street until he arrived at his beach house. He parked the pickup truck under the covering and climbed the stairs. Home sweet home.

Chapter 13

The house was one floor, three bedrooms, two baths and a large open area that extended from kitchen to living room. Simple and neat—just the way he liked it. A sliding glass door led to a raised sundeck with a view of the Atlantic Ocean.

He opened a window and inhaled the salt air. Then took a moment to listen to the sounds of pounding waves in the distance and the booms of amateur fireworks shows. But now was no time to become complacent—there was much work to be done.

First, he changed out of Culver’s police uniform. He slipped into a pair of denim shorts and a Rockfield PD T-shirt.

His forehead broke out with beads of sweat, and his stomach felt as if it were being strangled by nerves. This moment was always so overwhelming, yet so satisfying. He grabbed a magic marker and entered the closet of the master bedroom. As he did, he felt the weight of every life that had been taken, and those who were left behind. It was a burden he was honored to carry on his broad shoulders.

He separated a wall of hanging shirts and removed a piece of wood paneling from the back of the closet, exposing a door handle. He then maneuvered the numbers of the combination lock. The numbers were significant.

He entered an 8 x 8 windowless room that was encapsulated in a steel structure. The door was fourteen-gauge steel mounted in a steel frame and secured by three dead bolts. It swung inward.

The contractor had guaranteed him the room would provide protection from 250mph winds and projectiles traveling at 100mph. Safe rooms were common in beach houses to reduce loss of life and injury during a major storm. His use of the room focused on loss of life, but had very little to do with storm safety.

He walked to the wall that displayed the pictures of Craig and George Kingsbury. He methodically drew an
X
over them with the magic marker. He felt sparks shoot through his body, and he tried to make the pleasure last as long as possible. When he finished, he took a step back, feeling dizzy, and a rare smile leaked from his lips. Another mission completed successfully.

He didn’t savor it for long—his attention diverted to the photos still awaiting an
X
. His mood turned melancholy—realizing the job would never be finished. He had so much still to do, and time was rapidly slipping away. He was overcome by emotion, and tears began to trickle down his face.

He wiped the tears, ashamed of them. He took one last look at the picture of Craig Kingsbury, which now had a large
X
scrolled across his perfect smile. His eyes wandered to another newspaper article taped to the wall, which had faded to a dull yellowish color. When he locked on the date of the article, it confirmed that it wouldn’t be long until the twenty-year anniversary of the event. A reunion would take place in Rockfield, Connecticut, where Kyle Jones was a police officer.

After a couple of deep breaths, he was able to pull himself from the shrine. But before leaving, he tested the alarm—when it was tripped, it was programmed to buzz the medallion that hung around his neck, to indicate that the closet had been penetrated. It was on the same necklace that contained a locket with pictures of lost loved ones. He caressed the necklace, vowing to get them justice, or die trying.

After he secured the lock, he moved to the kitchen. He grabbed a diet soda from the refrigerator and retired to the outside deck.

The humidity felt soothing, and his swirling emotions slowed. He sipped his drink and watched the fireworks over the beach as he dozed off to sleep. His dreams were peaceful.

The next morning, he would fly back to his Connecticut home and begin the meticulous preparation for his next mission.

Chapter 14

Landstuhl, Germany

August 31

Except for the occasional roar of a plane taking off from the adjoining Ramstein Air Force Base, Landstuhl Hospital was a quiet setting amongst the peaceful forests of western Germany. But ever since a certain television reporter was flown in from Belgrade, a large blockade of media had set up camp across the street from the medical center. Since I hadn’t been able to leave my hospital room the past six weeks, I was only getting this information from my television.

While my stay had been long, my list of medical maladies was even longer. Concussion, broken eye socket, broken rib, torn knee ligament, and punctured left lung. But the most painful injuries of all were my wounded pride and badly bruised ego. My face was still splattered with dark scabs, although the doctors told me that they were healing, and my face would return to its “TV standard” in no time. I decided not to let them in on the scoop that my television days were over.

Contrary to what my critics often say, my biggest professional nightmare has always been becoming the story. But that’s exactly what happened. What the media dubbed
The Capture of JP Warner!
was the second biggest story of the summer, only topped by the unsolved murder of Senator Craig Kingsbury.

As the world looked on for twelve long days, we were held captive in a remote eastern section of Serbia, near the Bulgarian border. Perhaps the terms “exclusive interview” and “tortured hostages” got mixed up in translation. Our living quarters were in a small, dilapidated house, where we were chained in sauna-hot, windowless rooms.

The leader was an eerily calm man named Qwaui—one of the top lieutenants of Mustafa Hakim, the leader of Al Muttahedah. He wore desert camouflage and spent most of his time playing chess with another bearded soldier who was decked out in matching attire.

Zahir, the man we sought for an interview—although, in hindsight, it was clear that they were seeking us—was also present. He wore traditional Islamic garb, and his clean-shaven Western looks from his Chicago days were long gone. He was a loose cannon, often going off on violent tangents about the “infidels,” which I brilliantly deduced was us.

I found Zahir’s act a little contrived, fearing the quiet Qwaui much more. A deep look into his eyes revealed an unwavering zealotry. I knew there would be no reasoning with him.

To make matters worse, our hosts played the incessant, and usually inaccurate, reports by Lauren Bowden on a small black-and-white television that looked like a relic from the 1970s. Lauren seized the moment to take advantage of my martyrdom, usually referring to me as her “soul-mate” during her reports, and I’m sure to Sutcliffe’s delight, often cried crocodile tears into the camera as she begged for my release.

On the twelfth day of captivity, I was summoned before the group and instructed—with machine gun to temple—that I was to deliver a statement to the Western World. The camera rolled and I swallowed hard. Logic said they would kill me anyway, so I should refuse to spread their propaganda and die with a little dignity. It’s hard to explain to someone who has never had the cold steel of a gun poking into the back of their neck, but survival instincts kick in, dignity goes out the window, and the only thing I could think of was to survive the next second. For such a natural act, dying doesn’t come very naturally.

I completed the anti-American monologue like I was the keynote speaker at an Al Muttahedah convention, and signed off as I had so many times before, “JP Warner … Global Newz.” The camera was shut off and I braced for my throat to be slit.

But nothing happened.

I was still alive, but things were different. There was a distinct change in mood—Qwaui’s normally meditative demeanor had vanished. He began pacing like a lion stalking its prey, and barking orders to Zahir in Arabic. We were blindfolded again, and whisked into the Serbian night.

The details of what happened next are a little foggy. The therapist I’d been assigned at Landstuhl believed that I wanted to suppress them—he was probably right—but no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t remove the familiar screams from my memory bank.

My relationship with the military had always been complex. My job was to uncover information, while they, understandably, wanted to keep things under wrap. So naturally things became strained at times between us. So while they were forced to be nice to me publicly—my capture having turned me into an American hero—they were able to show their disdain in more subtle ways. For example, they claimed that the only room they could find for me was in the “Labor and Delivery” section. For six weeks, my nights and days were filled with the sounds of screaming babies. My nurse, Lieutenant Colonel Knight, told me that I fit in well.

But that didn’t compare to the torture of the television, which was left constantly running in my room, playing the GNZ coverage of my demise. If it wasn’t bad enough to be forced to watch the endless coverage of my downfall, Lauren was the lead reporter on the story. It was like she had been in my room with me for six weeks. There was no escape.

Today, she stood in the rain outside Landstuhl, doing her best to try to fill up the 24-hour news cycle with another non-story about nothing, but of the most importance, looking good doing it.

“I’m coming to you live from Landstuhl Medical Center in Germany where we have
breaking news
. My sources tell me that GNZ’s JP Warner will be discharged today.”

This was news to me, although I wouldn’t argue if it were the case. But I didn’t exactly trust Lauren Bowden’s sources.

Then as if she’d angered the heavens, the light mist turned into a downpour. But being a trooper, Lauren continued shouting through the rain, “When JP is released, I’ll conduct an exclusive interview with him, seen only on GNZ! If you want to hear JP Warner’s first words since bravely escaping from the clutches of Al Muttahedah—turn to GNZ!”

I wasn’t planning on giving anyone an interview, and if I did, it certainly wouldn’t be with Lauren. But that’s not to say I didn’t respect the effort. She had made repeated attempts to get in to see me over the past month, only to be repelled by the cranky Lieutenant Colonel Sharon Knight, on the orders of her even crankier patient, JP Warner. It was probably the only thing we agreed on during my stay.

Speaking of the Lieutenant Colonel, she stormed into my room like it was the beaches of Normandy. She was a short, humorless woman who was the chief nurse of the facility. Without asking for any type of consent, she stuck a temperature gauge in my ear, and recorded the results on a chart. I knew the drill, and stuck out my left arm and rolled up the sleeve of my hospital gown. She attached the Velcro blood pressure cuff too tight around my left bicep and pumped.

“Is it true I’m getting out of here today?” I asked.

“You’re the smartest man in the world. Why don’t you tell me?”

“Seriously.”

“That’s classified,” she said, before moving on to my daily breathing exercises. “Sit up … take a deep breath … okay, hold it … release,” she commanded and I obeyed. I had learned my lesson about crossing her.

“Do I at least get a Purple Heart when all this is over?”

“You’re lucky you don’t get a kick-in-the-ass and a bill.”

When she finished recording all the pertinent information, she coldly stated, “You have a visitor.”

“Let me guess, the firing squad?”

She didn’t rule it out, which concerned me.

But as she left the room, she passed Jeff Carter on his way in. It was like two battleships passing in the night. I let out a sigh of relief at the sight of the one-man rescue team. I hoped he was here to save me again—sling me over his shoulder and carry me home to New York.

“Tell me I’m going home,” I greeted him.

“You are,” he got right to the point. But before I was able to look up at the pink ceiling of the maternity ward and give thanks skyward, Carter added, “But first we must make a return trip to hell.”

Unfortunately, I knew exactly what he meant.

Chapter 15

“I’m not ready—I need a couple minutes,” I said, overtaken by fright.

Carter shook his head. “There is no amount of time that’ll make this any easier. You just gotta tear the scab off.”

That was the problem—it wasn’t a scab yet. It was still an open wound. A wound that would likely never heal.

“You got two minutes,” Carter stated. “Do you want me to sing and dance, or do you wanna do small talk?”

“I was hoping for a lap dance.”

“I hate to get you all worked up for nothing, but I left my G-string home, so it’ll have to be small talk. What’s next, Mr. American Hero … book? … Movie? … Talk show circuit?”

I smiled serenely at him, and I could tell it freaked him out a little. “I just want to go back to Rockfield.”

“So what do you plan on doing when you arrive at this glorious field of rocks?”

“I want to go to the Rockfield Fair.”

“Who wouldn’t? Please tell me that it has something to do with alcohol and women.”

“It’s a country fair that’s held every year on Labor Day weekend. They have great food, carnival rides, and livestock contests. And it’s a showcase for a lot of the newest farming equipment. Since I’m going to start a farm, I need to learn more about that sort of stuff.”

Carter burst into laughter. “J-News the farmer, now that I gotta see.”

He reached in the back pocket of his faded jeans and pulled out a rolled up
TIME Magazine.
He tossed it softly on my chest. I winced—even the light magazine felt like an anvil.

“So you are telling me you have no plans to capitalize on your hero status?” Carter pushed.

I picked up the magazine and viewed myself on the cover. It was an out-of-focus screen-shot taken from the video Qwaui released to the worldwide media. The picture portrayed me in a way his audience rarely saw me—tired, haggard, and with a look of vulnerability. The caption under his photo read:
With the capture of journalist JP Warner, we ask the question: Has the media gone too far?