landslide.
My mother, Sandra Warner, also met me at the airport, but not with the same enthusiasm. She gave me the brief hug of a stranger, followed by deafening silence. Her passive-aggressive protest wasn’t very subtle. For years she’s questioned why they paid for my Columbia education, only for me to repay them by making a foolish and dangerous career choices. The silent-treatment was a new weapon in this ongoing battle. She was mysteriously absent whenever my father called me at Landstuhl, either babysitting Ethan’s kids, or at an event at her historical society-excuses that even Lauren Bowden could have seen through. I understood the grief I’d caused her, but that being said, I really could have used a hug from Mom.
After deplaning, Carter and I bid each other adieu-no hugs, just a manly handshake. I attempted to thank him for all the years by my side in the face of danger, but he mocked my retirement plans with a laugh. “Just get better quick, so we can blow open this Kingsbury case. Go to this Rock place and get that broad from high school out of your head, then you’ll be the old JP again.”
The “old JP” had a nice ring to it, even if it wasn’t what Carter had in mind.
We left Norfolk in a convoy, bypassing the horde of media, and headed northbound on I-95. As the morning sun began to appear in the east, we barreled up the coast, and out of habit I checked my phone messages. A mistake. There were angry ones from Lauren-something about being contractually obligated to be interviewed by her-ass kissing tangents from Sutcliffe, and one from Christina that breezed over the whole “glad you’re not dead” thing, before complaining about the wall of media camped outside the brownstone, trapping her inside. She actually had the nerve to describe it as a “hostage situation.” I erased them all in the spirit of a new beginning.
That spirit turned to reality when I saw the wooden sign that read:
We arrived at a familiar crossroads. Continuing straight on Main Street would take us to the Warner family home. It was the longer route, but also safer. The faster option was the curvy, mountainous drive of Zycko Hill Road, nicknamed Psycho Hill. It was convenient that it rhymed with Zycko, but the name really derived from the infamy associated with the many drivers it had felled over the years, including Noah Warner.
The convoy chose the conservative route. After a few slow miles of country driving, we took a right off Main onto Skyview Drive. The gradual rise of the road provided a breathtaking view of the countryside, which was dotted with farms and church steeples. I observed the children playing along the road, and for a brief moment I felt as if I’d traveled back in time. I could picture playing wiffle ball or kick-the-can with my brother Ethan and our friends, or riding bikes with Gwen. And I could still smell the summer barbecues.
When we arrived at the steep driveway that led to the house my parents had lived in for the past forty years, I was slapped back to reality. The bottom entrance was being guarded by a crowd of media, armed with a small battalion of news vans and satellite trucks. It gave me a flashback to when I returned home after Noah’s accident. At that time, I wasn’t sure that this place would ever feel the same again. Admitting that I’m wrong had never been my strength, but in this case I’m glad that I was.
The military escort showed no intention of stopping, and the media gave way. I smiled-it was good to be on the other side for once.
“Hey, Warner, suddenly you’re camera shy?” shouted a reporter as we sped by. My inner J-News wanted to get out and introduce him to my cane, but JP just kept smiling as the vehicles came to a stop in front of the house.
I took a long look at the cozy A-frame that I grew up in, and then glanced back at the pack of media. I could feel the “JP versus J-News” battle raging inside me, but for the first time I felt that JP might have a chance to win the war.
Chapter 18
That afternoon, Rockfield Police Chief Rich Tolland was called over.
No introduction was necessary, since I’d known Rich since we were in diapers. But when we greeted each other, I felt like I was meeting him for the first time.
Rich then revealed the main purpose for his visit-me, and the circus I’d brought to town. He’d assigned two officers at the bottom of the driveway to disperse the crowds. He referred to them as “those damn bloodsuckers.” He must have then remembered that I was one of those bloodsuckers, because he quickly apologized.
“None taken,” I said, choosing not to explain that as of August my bloodsucking days had ended.
My father hadn’t grasped the concept that years and distance had turned Rich and me into virtual strangers, and began recounting tales of our childhood. In his eyes, we were still those twelve-year-old kids playing in the backyard. The stories led to the league championship game back in high school, where Rich Tolland-nicknamed The Toll Booth for his large size, and having to pay a price to pass through him-delivered the crunching block that allowed JP Warner to score the winning touchdown.
Rich and I sat politely through story-time, but we both knew it was a different lifetime. I’d been to over two hundred countries since graduation, while Rich lived two houses down from the house he grew up in. If my father didn’t mention it, I would never have known that Rich’s parents had both passed away, or he married a schoolteacher named Cassie, and they have two adorably chubby children who mirrored their father. Different lifetimes.
Suddenly another police officer entered the house. He introduced himself as Officer Jones, and politely stated, “Sorry to interrupt, folks, but I need to steal the Chief-we have some important police business to get to on the other side of town.”
There didn’t appear to be anything special or unusual about Officer Jones, yet his presence sent a shock wave through me. I studied him as he led Rich to the door.
I was unsure of what to make of my strange reaction, and too tired to try to analyze it. Probably some sort of psychological damage resulting from my capture, that I will be too stubborn to see someone about.
After a quiet dinner, my father got me caught up on all the local gossip, while my mother continued to give me the silent treatment. When I announced that I was headed for bed, she did briefly break her talking-strike to inform me that my old room in the “new house” was made up for me.
“It’s good to have you home, son,” my father said as I limped off.
I smiled. “It’s good to be home.”
Mom remained silent.
With the help of my cane, I exited the house and strolled down a lighted path of slate squares. My body creaked, and I felt a thousand years old as I hobbled along-even the soothing sounds of the rushing brook and chirping crickets couldn’t ease my pain. The bright moon reflected off the classic colonial known as the “new house,” although it had been there for a quarter of a century. My parents built it when Noah came along, believing that our family had outgrown the A-frame. The house was a replica of the Smith-Harris House, now a museum in East Lyme, Connecticut, which was a favorite of my mother. But it never had the same homey feel, and my parents eventually moved back to the cozier A-frame when all the kids had left the nest.
The smell was the first thing to hit me upon entering. It was the smell of my youth. It was the smell of safety. It was the smell of having all your dreams in front of you. And it was as intoxicating as ever.
I was so weary that I wondered if I would make it up the stairs. The most activity I had in the last six weeks was walking down the halls of Landstuhl, and occasional physical therapy sessions that almost made me beg to be sent to Guantanamo.
I hadn’t been in my childhood bedroom in years, and I immediately felt as if I were in a time warp. A few boxes that contained my mother’s history books were stored there, but besides that, it could have been 1990 all over again. Michael Jordan and Bon Jovi posters still hung on the walls. My Rubik’s cube still sat unsolved on my old desk next to a prom picture. Even though I tried to fight off the temptation, my eyes instinctively moved to the ancient picture of Gwen and me, posing in front of the A-Frame on an alluring spring afternoon.
I picked up the picture and studied it. She looked beautiful in a purple, formfitting gown with her long raven hair falling on her bare shoulders. I couldn’t help but to chuckle, noticing her glowing orange-ish skin that was the
