The story was complete fiction, based on others he’d gone to war with, but it captured Harris’ attention. “What came to you?” he asked in a soft voice. It was as if they were the only two souls in the room.
“How important life is. The knowledge that we have to live every day to its fullest, and anything less is unacceptable.”
Tears began to stream down Harris’ face once again. “No matter what I do, I can’t bring them back. I stole their lives!”
Batman moved closer to Harris and hugged him. “It will never be good enough to live your life to the fullest. You also have to live
their
lives
to the fullest. That’s why you need to get better, so you can live for them.”
The passionate speech closed the deal. He wiped the tears and rose to his feet. “My name is Leonard and I’m an alcoholic,” he said in a firm voice. The group clapped.
Batman walked out of the meeting, feeling satisfied with his first encounter with Harris, having laid the groundwork of trust.
He put on dark sunglasses to hide his eyes from the triple digit temperatures of early September in Scottsdale. The sky was painted aqua, with just two noticeable clouds. They crisscrossed to form an ‘X’, looking like vapor trail from a missile. It was as if the heavens approved of his work.
He strolled across the sizzling blacktop of the parking lot toward his vehicle. He wouldn’t have to chase Leonard Harris. He would come to him—it was a fait accompli. And if there was any doubt in his mind, it was erased when he heard Harris’ voice.
“Hey Batman … wait up.”
Chapter 44
Rockfield, Connecticut
September 28—present
Outside the New York Public Library there are two iconic marble statues of lions. Their names are Patience and Fortitude. It wouldn’t be very hard to figure out which one is my favorite.
It had been three weeks since Noah’s death. Patience wasn’t getting me any closer to justice, so it was time for the roar of fortitude.
I walked into the restaurant of the Hastings Inn, an elegant dining spot on the north side of town, which fit in with Rockfield’s general disdain for the 21st Century. My father once tried to bring a McDonalds to town, which sparked the locals to form an Attica-like uprising. Murray referred to my father in the
Gazette
as “Mayor McCheese.” He received only 85% of the vote in the next election, his all time low.
As a tuxedo-clad waiter walked me past a crackling fire to my table, my eyes locked on Gwen. She wore a sequined dress held up by spaghetti straps. The slit up the leg was almost too much for me to take.
Somehow her date was not clinging to her every breath, allowing us to trade a quick glance. Officer Jones was focused on the burly man at the bar who was slinging back shots like they were water, and spouting lewd remarks in a drunken slur.
Suddenly the man at the bar turned in my direction and shouted, “Just the man I wanted to see!”
He hopped off the bar stool, almost falling in the process, and rushed me like an angry bull.
“Carter … ugh … how’ve you been?”
“Don’t give me that shit, Warner,” he lashed out—he was actually slobbering—and poked a strong finger into my chest that was going to leave a mark.
“We risked our lives for you, and now you’re throwing us out like yesterday’s trash! You told me you were leaving the business, but now I hear you used our capture to get a better offer—leaving Byron and me behind!”
“That’s not how it happened. I’ve meant to call, but I just…”
“Are you denying the offer to become the highest paid person in the news industry?”
When I didn’t respond, Carter gave a two-handed shove into my chest and I fell to the ground. The uppity dinner theater crowd gasped.
I used my cane to prop myself up, but as soon as I reached my feet, Carter sent a too-close-for-comfort punch glancing past my chin. I fell to the floor again. He stood over me and glared menacingly. “Get up! You’re not so tough when you have to face the music, are you?”
I stumbled to my feet and attempted to hit him with my cane. He grabbed it from me and tossed it away. He then picked me up. A shocked look came over my face, and the onlookers gasped once again. This wasn’t in the script.
He carried me to the mahogany bar and sent me for a ride, as if the bar top was a bowling alley, my body knocking over drinks and plates before I crash-landed on the hard floor.
“Had enough!?” Carter shouted.
I had. These fake fights sure felt real.
He obviously hadn’t. Once more he raised me over his head.
“I thought you promised no body-slams?” I spoke softly into his ear.
“We gotta make it look good,” he whispered back.
“If we make it look any better, I’ll be dead.”
More shrieks and clamors filled the room. The panicked patrons scattered—and Carter sent me flying.
I crashed violently, landing on top of a half-eaten baked potato with sour cream. A sharp fork scratched my back.
“Agh,” I screamed out.
He put me in a headlock, and said for my ears only, “I take back what I said—that Gwen is a prime piece of ass.”
I let fly a “for real” elbow back into Carter’s midsection that knocked the wind out of him. I’d awoken the grizzly—not a smart move. He let out a primal scream and picked me up like a rag doll. I sensed that the “no body-slam” rule was off. He tossed me to the floor, knocking me dizzy.
Before I could begin to beg for mercy, Jones became involved. Although, a little late for my taste. He couldn’t help himself, which is what we were banking on—hero syndrome. He flashed a badge and began rattling off different types of assaults Carter had committed.
Carter laughed at the off-duty police officer and stormed out the front door. A few moments later, I could hear the screech of the Coldblooded Cruiser leaving the parking lot.
Jones informed Gwen that “duty called” and he must leave. She begged him to stay, but the thought of a potential drunk driver on the road was too much for Jones. How any man could leave her in that dress was a mystery of Area 51 proportions to me.
He kissed Gwen on the cheek and promised to make it up to her. She acted upset and looked away.
Jones put his hand on her chin and lifted it to meet his eyes. “I promise, Gwen. But I have a job to do. You understood that when you met me.”
I wanted to puke.
She returned a cold, “I guess,” and looked away again.
He kissed her on the cheek. “I’ll call you tomorrow,” he said, before rushing away.
Once the coast was clear, Gwen turned her attention to the injured guy on the floor. She knelt beside me while I continued to writhe in pain.
“Are you okay, JP?”
Despite my pain, I had to admit that things were starting to look up.
Chapter 45
Carter was dragged into Chief Tolland’s office by his arresting officer, Kyle Jones. The cuffs were removed and Tolland instructed him to take a seat across from his desk, and for Jones to close the door.
After leaving the restaurant, Carter had taken off in the Coldblooded Cruiser—a luxury tour bus that was the closest thing Carter had to an official residence. Back in the day, the Cruiser was a destination of debauchery for his groupies and followers that made Vegas seem like a trip to the monastery. But he had matured greatly since those days, he thought to himself, as he placed his feet up on the chief’s desk and listened to the many charges against him—disturbing the peace, assaulting JP Warner, and taking a thirty-five foot bus for a drunken joyride through town.
Jones had a superior look on his face that Carter wanted to rip off. In fact, he wanted to remove his entire head. But as he attempted to get up to confront him, he winced in pain. He would have to take care of Jones in a battle of wits, instead of his preferred method—a battle of fists.
Tolland demanded he remove his feet from his desk. He almost equaled Carter in size, and commanded respect, reminding him of his military father. JP had spoken highly of him. The two men glared at each other, before Tolland asked, “What do you have to say for yourself?”
“First of all, I’m not sure when knocking the snot out of JP Warner became a crime. Who in this room hasn’t wanted to do that? You should be sending me flowers.”
“I don’t know how you conduct yourself in other places, Mr. Carter, but Rockfield is not the Wild West, or worse, an arena for professional wrestling. We don’t take the law into our own hands in this town.”
Carter shot a look at Jones. “Oh, you don’t?”
Jones looked ready for round two, but this was Tolland’s show. “We can debate the merits of your assault in a court of law, but drinking and driving is much less subjective, once you’ve received a Breathalyzer test.”
“I am not, and never was drunk. I have been falsely accused.”
This finally sent Jones over the edge. “Stop the lies! I saw you consume at least eight drinks in under an hour.”
“How do you know what I was drinking?” Carter fired back.
“People in the next state knew what you were drinking! You interrupted everyone’s dinner!”
“You’re just mad because that hot number you were with was checking me out.”
“Enough!” roared Tolland. “Jones, you sit. Mr. Carter, Officer O’Rourke will now take you for your Breathalyzer.”
Carter was not going to make it easy on them—he needed to stall for time. He declared any physical or eye tests at the scene inadmissible, claiming he wasn’t made aware of his right to refuse. He added that he wouldn’t take further sobriety tests without a confidential call to his attorney. His claims were legally accurate, and Tolland knew it. Unlike Jones, he didn’t play by his own rules.
Once Carter’s requests were met, he continued to stall, requesting a sample of his breath be preserved for independent testing. He also demanded to be released for an independent blood test following the completion of the necessary paperwork. It made him seem like a guilty man seeking a technicality, and as a bonus, it looked as if Officer Jones might blow a gasket.
When he ran out of material, Carter headed off for his test. He returned fifteen minutes later with the results. They ran the test twice. Both times Jeff Carter registered a zero point zero. He had no alcohol in his system.
Carter smirked. “I guess I’ll be on my way.”
Jones was livid. He pointed an angry finger in Betsy O’Rourke’s direction, accusing her of doctoring the test, and made the claim that she’d altered the test because she’d succumbed to Carter’s charm.
Tolland admonished Jones, declaring that he had no proof that the test wasn’t properly administered, or that Carter had any charm. He then turned his attention to the accused. “Not so fast, Mr. Carter, I’m going to hold you on the assault charge.”
Before he could pretend to argue, a knock rattled the door. They looked up to see Officer Williams, who informed the room that the bus had been towed to police headquarters and searched. He held two objects in his hands. “Chief, we found this camera in the bus. We think it possibly taped the entire arrest.”
“Oh yeah, I forgot to tell you guys—I’ve been taping my life for a documentary for GNZ. I’ll bet it caught the whole thing … looks like I’m
busted
.”
Jones squirmed in his chair like he had been attacked by a swarm of nerves.
Carter grinned from ear to ear. He placed his feet back on the desk and announced, “This should be good—I love reality TV. Can somebody make some popcorn?”
Tolland cleared the room of everyone except Jones and Carter, closed the blinds, and played the video on his computer.
It began with Carter driving the bus, noticing a police car in full pursuit from behind. He looked into a camera and recited the alphabet to prove his sobriety. He missed the “Q” and “R,” but he appeared sober. He just didn’t know the alphabet.
The camera angle then changed to outside the bus, where Officer Jones approached the driver’s side after the bus had pulled over. Jones demanded that Carter step out of the vehicle. Carter responded with, “If you want a ride, try putting a jackhammer up your ass.”
Jones didn’t look happy at the comment, but it didn’t make what he did next any less shocking. He pulled out his gun and shot out the window of the bus, glass shattering everywhere.
This time Carter took the threat seriously, and exited the bus with his hands up. After Jones handcuffed him, he began mercilessly punching Carter in the ribs. He fell to the ground, where Jones sent vicious kicks into his midsection.
Tolland had witnessed enough and angrily ejected the disc from the computer.
Carter grimaced as he re-lived the worst ambush he’d been involved with since an unfortunate encounter with his old nemesis Rowdy Roddy on Piper’s Pit. But he still found joy in his victory.
“I thought this wasn’t the Wild West and you play by the rules here. Or worse … professional wrestling.”
Chapter 46
The Hastings Inn shrunk in the rear-view mirror as Gwen and I drove off in the
Rockfield Gazette
van.
Jones lived in a remote north section of town not far from the restaurant. The drive would only take five minutes. I sat in the passenger seat, unable to take my eyes away from Gwen’s long legs as she alternated between gas-pedal and brake.
Her attention was split between the road and the cut just above my left eyebrow. She reached her hand over to gently wipe a spot of blood, and asked again, “Are you okay, JP?”
“I’m fine,” I responded curtly.
“What’s wrong? This was your idea, if you remember.”
“Nothing,” I said. But I think jealousy had gotten the better of me. When I saw her in the restaurant with Jones, images filled my head of Stephen DuBois taking Gwen Delaney to swanky Manhattan restaurants, while I ducked bombs in some war torn country nobody ever heard of.
“I’ve known you since you were five years old, JP—I can tell when something is bothering you.”