State of time, p.1
State of Time, page 1
STATE OF TIME
VIRGIL JONES MYSTERY THRILLER SERIES
BOOK 20
THOMAS SCOTT
Copyright © 2024 by Thomas Scott. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without written permission from both the publisher and copyright owner of this book.
This book is a work of fiction. No artificial intelligence (commonly referred to as: AI) was used in the conceptualization, creation, or production of this book. Names, characters, places, governmental institutions, venues, and all incidents or events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, locales, venues, or government organizations is entirely coincidental.
For information contact: ThomasScottBooks.com
For Debra Hizer-Johnson,
and her late husband, Christopher Patrick Johnson
— Also by Thomas Scott —
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Epilogue
Next Book Quick Look
Also by Thomas Scott
About the Author
Time /tīm/
The continued sequence of existence and events that occurs in an apparently irreversible succession from the past, through the present, and into the future.
“Da story da story, no matter when it get told.”
—Delroy Rouche
“Time isn’t really real.”
—Mason Jones
“Fat chance, Mister. You’re stuck with me until the end of time.”
—Sandy Jones
CHAPTER ONE
Despite all the good things still with them in their lives…the rescue, the healing, and the continuity of nearly all that mattered, the past was somehow without color, as if everything was made solely of black and white that blended together into varying shades of gray; a bleakness where the future was benign, lost to those who looked at it with any sort of hope or a prophetic eye that might hold answers to questions not yet posed.
The casket was covered with an American flag, and Sandy knew her dreams of a brighter future had just died, any promise of normalcy forever lost. Uniformed men, many of whom she knew and considered family—she’d actually shared meals with them at her home—stood at attention, tears streaming down their faces, their jaws quivering with such intensity that Sandy could actually hear their teeth clicking together.
The preacher held a bible in his hands but he didn’t look at the written passages when he spoke, the words coming from memory instead of the printed page. Once finished with his prayers, he looked directly at Sandy and spoke of heroism, dedication to family, and the fearlessness that was part of the one man Sandy had loved more than anyone else in her entire life.
She wept openly, her own tears dotting her dress, her head down, her shoes resting atop the fake green carpet made to resemble grass. Though nearly everyone in attendance was there for her and what was left of her family, Sandy felt utterly alone, the people around her like wax figures, ones that would, she knew, eventually melt their way out of her life. In her moment of desolation, she thought if it was possible, she’d rip the flag away and let it fall to the ground, then crawl inside the casket to be with the man she couldn’t imagine living without.
She wiped the tears from her face and looked up, not at the flag-draped coffin before her, but at the dull gray sky. When she looked back down, Sandy let her gaze come to rest…not on the casket that held her father’s remains, but on the boy he’d given his life for when he rescued him from the fire.
The boy’s name was Virgil Jones, and while no one knew it at the moment—and wouldn’t for decades to come—in his death, Sandy’s father, Andrew Small, had given them all what they needed. It was a gift…one that would, over time, change the outcome of countless lives in ways no one could yet imagine.
A murder of crows took flight amidst the sorrow of the day, the flap of their wings like laundry snapping in a stiff afternoon breeze. Virgil and his mother, Elizabeth, along with his grandfather, Jack Bellows, all turned and watched the birds fly off. There were so many that for just a moment the sky seemed to fade from gray to black, the day somehow turning darker than it already was. When Virgil looked back, it didn’t escape him that other than his mom and his grandpa, the only other person who seemed to take notice of the crows was the daughter of the man who’d saved him from the fire. He didn’t know her first name, but he caught the lack of expression on her face when their eyes met. To Virgil, she looked like a china doll that hadn’t yet been graced with a painted brush.
Virgil reached up and covered the bandage on his jawline with his hand before looking away in shame.
Virgil’s father, Mason Jones—a sheriff’s deputy with Marion County—didn’t attend the funeral of the man who had saved his son. He rationalized his absence by telling his wife and father-in-law that he was required to work that day, and there simply wasn’t room in the roster for him to take any personal time off. But the truth of the matter was this: Another man had given his life to save Mason’s only son, and while Mason had always been the type of person that others looked up to and admired for the kind of man he was, he simply couldn’t face the fact that someone else had died in his place.
Bottom line? As Fire Battalion Station Chief Andrew Small was memorialized and laid to rest, Virgil Jones wasn’t the only one looking away in shame. Mason was as well. They just went about it in different ways, as fathers and sons are often wont to do.
And then, as if time wasn’t real, Virgil was back inside himself, the man on the opposite side of his desk wearing a quizzical smile on his face.
Virgil pulled an envelope from his desk drawer and slid it over to Jim Wilson, the newest member of the Major Crimes Unit, of which Virgil was in charge. The MCU had just wrapped up a case and shut down a major illegal drug manufacturing operation—the case itself cracked wide open by one of Virgil’s senior detectives, Tom Rosencrantz. But the whole thing had come with a cost when Rosencrantz himself had been captured, beaten, and almost killed. Rosencrantz would survive, but in the meantime, Wilson—a former Elkhart County sheriff’s deputy who’d worked the case with the MCU—would serve as a temporary replacement for the next six months or so while Rosencrantz healed.
After Wilson opened the envelope, he pulled out a gold Indiana State Police badge that had the words Major Crimes Unit front and center.
Virgil looked at Wilson and said, “You’re a hell of a cop. Welcome to the family, kid.”
But Wilson’s smile began to fade, his head tilting slightly to the left. “Excuse me, sir? I mean, uh, Jonesy…are you okay? You look a little pale, or something.”
Virgil sat back in his chair without really meaning to, and after a moment, he rubbed his face with both hands, then said, “Uh, yeah. I’m fine. Haven’t been sleeping very well lately, and I was just thinking about something that happened a long time ago. It sort of hit me right out of the blue.”
“I know we don’t really know each other all that well—at least not yet—but is it something you want to talk about?”
Virgil let a natural smile form. “No, but thanks, Jim.”
“You bet. It has been a long couple of days,” Wilson said. “Probably chalk it up to stress, huh?” When Virgil didn’t respond, Wilson looked around the office for a beat, and said, “So, where would you like me to start? Hey, Jonesy…did you hear me?”
But time had sailed away again, and when it did, Virgil went with it.
Jacob Avery walked over to Virgil’s bunk and shook him awake. Virgil wasn’t pleased. They’d been out all night on patrol, keeping an eye out for any of the Iraqi Republican Guards, who occasionally, but not often, tried to close in on their camp. “Ah, Christ, Ave, I just fell asleep. What the hell is it?”
“For starters, don’t kill the messenger. The CO wants you and Wheeler in his office. Said to double-time it.”
Virgil and his adopted brother, Murton Wheeler, were nearing the tail end of their tour in the gulf, and Avery had been with them the entire time as part of their recon unit. They’d all formed an unlikely bond with each other, the bond coming from a mistake that Avery’s father had made before his son, Jacob, was ever born. Mason had arrested Joe Avery after he’d managed to kill three men in the span of less than ten minutes. Some tried to call the whole thing an accident, but one of the men who ended up dead was a cop, so Avery’s old man got the chair. Given all that, Virgil and Murton thought Jacob Avery might give them problems while they served together in the Army, but as it turned out they became friends during their time i
Virgil rubbed the sleep and sand out of his eyes and said, “Did he say what he wanted? The CO?”
“Yeah, he did,” Avery said. “And I just told you. He wants you and Wheeler in his office…like two minutes ago. Get moving, will you? The guy’s got some sort of hard-on for me as it is, and I’m hoping you won’t make it worse by draggin’ ass.”
“Where’s Murt?”
Murton cleared his throat, then kicked Virgil’s bunk from the other side. “I’m standing right here. As usual, I’m waiting on you. Let’s go already, huh?”
Virgil and Murton hurried over to the command post operations center, gave their CO a casual salute, then Virgil said, “Ave said you wanted to see us, sir?”
Their commanding officer had a telephone receiver in his hand and it was pressed tight to his chest. Instead of answering Virgil, he reached up and ran his free hand across the top of his buzz cut, then put the phone to his ear. “I’m sorry for the wait, sir. They’re here now. Yes, sir, I understand. They’re in good hands, I give you my word. One moment, please.”
The CO stood from behind his desk, handed Virgil the receiver, then said, “I’ll give you some privacy. I’m sorry about this, boys…I truly am.” Then he walked out of the office.
Virgil and Murton looked at each other, both young men thinking the same thing. Murton visibly swallowed and said, “Mom?”
It was a valid concern. Both of them knew their mother was sick with cancer, but the last time Virgil had spoken with his father, he’d been told that Elizabeth had a fighting chance.
Virgil put the phone up to his ear and held it at an angle so Murton—who’d moved in close to his brother—could hear what was said. “Hello?”
The static on the line was so bad that Virgil could barely hear who was on the other end.
“Virgil? Is that you? It’s your father. Can you hear me?”
“Just barely,” Virgil said. “Speak up if you can. What’s wrong? Is it Mom?”
“Is Murton with you, Son?”
“I’m right here,” Murton said. “What’s going on?”
“Your mother and I have been trying to reach you boys for over a week.”
“It’s the Iraqis, Dad,” Virgil said, his relief evident at the mention of his mother. “They don’t put up much of a fight, but they sure know how to sabotage things. They’ve got the oil wells lit up as far as the eye can see. The sky is black as night, even during the day. They also manage to cut the phone lines on a regular basis. I’m surprised you were able to get through at all. Are you and Mom okay?”
Mason paused before he answered, and Virgil could feel the relief slipping away. “No, Son. We’re not. There’s no easy way to say this, so I’m just going to come out with it. It’s your Grandpa Jack, boys. He died last week of congestive heart failure. I’m so sorry to have to tell you like this, but we couldn’t reach you. His funeral was yesterday. Hello? Virg, Murt? Did you hear me?”
“I heard you,” Virgil said. He sort of snapped it at Wilson without meaning to, because in the moment he wasn’t quite sure who he was speaking with. He raised his hands, palms out, then sort of chuckled and said, “Sorry. I might be more tired than I realize. Why don’t you, uh, get with Sarah and get started on the paperwork. As a new employee of the state police, there are about a billion forms to fill out. You’ll be partnered with Ross until Rosencrantz comes back, and as you know, once that happens, you’ll be transferred over to Jon Mok’s unit as part of the SWAT team. So, when you’re done with the paper, track down Ross and he’ll get you set up with your weapons and other gear. Sound good?”
“You bet,” Wilson said.
“Listen, do me favor?”
“Sure.”
“Send Murt in, will you?”
Wilson said he would, and a few minutes later Murton walked into his brother’s office. “What’s up?”
“Mind covering for me today?” Virgil said.
“Of course not. You got something going?”
Virgil rubbed his eyes with the heels of both hands. “No, I think I’m just tired. I’m going to go home and take it easy for the day...do a little yard work, or something. Maybe entertain the fish for a while.”
“Are you sleeping okay?”
“It’s that obvious, huh?”
“In case you’ve forgotten, I’m familiar with the effects.”
“I haven’t forgotten,” Virgil said. “But this isn’t that. I’m not having the same dream every night. In fact, I don’t think I’m dreaming at all. Wait, let me rephrase that. I know I’m not dreaming because I’m not getting enough sleep to even make it to that stage.”
Murton turned the corners of his mouth down. “Well, there’s nothing wrong with a little ‘me’ time every once in a while. Go home and take a nap. We’ve got everything covered here.”
“I might just do that,” Virgil said.
“But, if you’re going to do yard work, feel free to mower on over to my place.” Then, with a whiff of skepticism: “You’re not secretly meeting with gate installers, are you?”
Virgil and Murton both lived out in the country, just south of Indianapolis, on the same plot of land…their houses located at the tag end of a three-mile gravel road, their yards separated by a fishing pond and a helicopter landing pad that had been installed at the behest of Virgil’s friend, Hewitt (Mac) McConnell. Mac was not only a friend, but Virgil’s business partner, and the former governor of Indiana.
Virgil’s wife, Sandy, had been the governor for a short period of time after Mac stepped down to run Said, Inc., and since neither Virgil nor Sandy wanted to move out of their home and into the governor’s mansion, a deal was made to turn their gravel road into a private drive. So now Virgil and Sandy, along with Murton and his wife, Becky—who worked as a researcher and computer guru for the Major Crimes Unit—had what was arguably the longest driveway in the entire Midwest. And all that meant Virgil wanted a gate for security purposes. Unfortunately, Murton didn’t. He thought there were too many potential problems to justify the whole thing, and he and Virgil had been going back and forth about it for months. So far the women had managed to stay out of the whole thing…though they were secretly calling it The Great Gate Debate.
Despite how he felt, Virgil let out a little chuckle. “No, I’m not meeting with any of the gate companies. But you’ll be the third to know if I do.” He stood from behind his desk and said, “Anyway, thanks for covering. I’ll catch you later tonight…or tomorrow morning.”
Murton—who knew his brother better than anyone else in the world—heard the false note of the chuckle and the tone of voice Virgil had used. He turned in his chair as Virgil walked toward the door. “Hey, Jones-man?”
“Yeah?”
“Everything okay?”
CHAPTER TWO
Virgil took more than the afternoon. He took the week, though it didn’t seem to make any difference. The sleep, it just wouldn’t come. If he had to put a number to it, he thought his nightly average was somewhere in the neighborhood of two hours, tops.
But no matter, Virgil told himself it was time to get back to work. He’d just parked his Range Rover in the MCU lot, and didn’t even make it to the entrance before his phone buzzed in his pocket. He thought about ignoring the damned thing because he was almost inside anyway, but Virgil had a wife he dearly loved and two young boys who seemed to be growing up much faster than he wanted them to. So as a faithful family man, Virgil knew he needed to at least check the screen to see who was, in all likelihood, about to change his plans for the day…or ruin them altogether.
He let his shoulders slump without really meaning to when he saw who was calling, and though he desperately wanted to let the call go to voicemail, he knew if he did it would simply be the equivalent of kicking the can down the road. Besides, if he didn’t answer, Murton would end up getting the call. So with that thought firmly embedded in his brain, he tried to drop some cheer into his voice as he hit the Answer button. He wasn’t sure if he pulled it off or not.
