CHAPTER 41: AFTERMATH

Fabian.

From the journal of George Miller Clarke.

He wrote that before all three of his journal entries. Why? Once would be enough. Right? Even that was overkill. Write it on the first page or something. Every subsequent entry would automatically be assumed that it was yours, George.

I held the faux-leather notebook in my hands. It was just a simple, black booklet with a series of blank pages inside with college-rule lines. The majority of the pages were empty but the first dozen or so were filled with the final scrawlings of a person I had known. A man that I had been friends with for years. It was rare that I would be taken by surprise but as I sat there in a police station next to a uniformed officer’s desk fiddling with the journal, I admit…I was surprised.

“Mr. Ness, I don’t want to take up too much of your time, but if you could just answer a few questions, we should be able to wrap this all up and get you on your way.”

I looked up, numb inside. There was a strange humming buzz in my ears. What causes that, you think? Shock? I feel like that might be close but perhaps not quite there. Maybe it was a combination of shock and an iron-hard will to not accept a horrible truth. Was it that? I felt like I was getting closer but still not quite there.

“Mr. Ness?”

The voice of the police officer finally broke through the shell of disbelief, shock, and outright denial. I looked up into his stately, kind face. Sharp, but empathetic, hazel eyes stared back at me expectantly as he gripped a pen in his left hand. The tip hovered over his own notebook. Shockingly, it was very similar to the one I still held in my hands. His, however, was much smaller and ideal for sticking in a pocket somewhere.

“My apologies, Officer Brady. You were saying?” I am not usually this absent-minded but I couldn’t seem to help it either. There weren’t a whole lot of things that really shook me the way this was shaking me.

George had killed himself.

“I was just explaining that there are a few questions I wanted to ask you. I don’t want to take up too much of your time. Is that okay with you? Do you need a day or two before speaking with us?” Officer Brady asked.

“No,” I answered immediately. More time was the last thing I wanted. What George did needed to be put as far behind me as possible and as quickly as possible. Delaying this, even by a day or two, was unacceptable. I put George’s journal back on the desk and stared at the policeman, waiting expectantly. “Please, go ahead. What would you like to ask?”

“Were you aware of George Clarke’s mental state yesterday? Did he try to contact you or reach out in any way before he…uh…decided to take his own life?” Officer Brady asked, his eyes peering at mine. “We’ve had someone look over his journal. It appears he admitted to conspiracy to commit murder as well as inciting another to take violent action. This includes successfully shooting you once before and then attempting to shoot you and a Myla Carter again a few days ago. The incident at Roseforce, correct?”

“That is, apparently, correct,” I replied. The words from George’s journal floated across my mind, making the feelings of shock and complete bewilderment intensify.

George had incited the lunatic, Douglas Duncan, into trying to kill me? To be fair, he was actually trying to get this Doug (who was indeed the same man that had accosted me in my office and claimed to be Myla’s boyfriend) to go insane and kill Myla but the man went after me instead. He was willing to have someone die! And just to cover up his embezzling. I’ve known for a while that George was going down some pretty undesirable roads, but I never once suspected he let things progress this far. To try and incite a man to murder the source of his obsession is incredibly evil.

You can’t say you’re not evil, George, I thought to myself. He tried to vindicate himself with these pathetic passages scrawled hurriedly in a cheap notebook he found but they did nothing of the sort. If anything, they made his actions even more disgusting. Even more abhorrent. How did I not see how far down the dark rabbit hole George had gone down? I blinded myself and all because he was someone I had considered a friend. I wouldn’t go so far as to call him a brother, but if there had ever been any non-blood-related people to consider family, George would have been at the top of the list.

“I’m sorry,” I said, suddenly sick of being here in this police station being questioned about the man’s suicide. I was wrong, I admit that. This was too much and despite originally wanting it put behind me as soon as possible, it suddenly felt too overwhelming to try to do that. “I don’t think I am up for this at the moment after all. If you would care to try another day, please schedule something with Adrianna Cole, my assistant. I’ll be more than happy to answer all of your questions once I am feeling more…myself.”

“I understand but this would honestly be over in a few short moments, Mr. Ness. If you could please? I would like to have this matter closed as soon as possible so everyone involved might find some measure of peace, including yourself. I also have two bodies from out of state that will need to be dealt with. The sooner I can close this investigation and determine that the conspiracy began and ended with these two men, the sooner I can have their bodies released to their next of kin. It is also for your own safety as well,” Officer Brady explained. “For all we know, George Clarke could have made the decision to hire someone to kill you pending Douglas Duncan’s failure, or Duncan could have persuaded someone to harm you. We honestly cannot rule anything out at this point. For your own safety, I wouldn't recommend leaving the station by yourself. At least for the time being.”

“While I do appreciate your sentiment, right now, I am not in the right state of mind to be very helpful to you at all. We could stay here for hours and you will not get anything useful out of me simply because of my highly emotional state,” I explained to him. It was a well thought out, well spoken argument. My voice was calm. Maybe even soothing. I think, in retrospect, that might’ve been a bit misleading for the policeman. I think I was perhaps a bit too collected. All of the intense, emotional whirlwinds I’d been dealing with over the last several weeks were not exactly bubbling to the surface. That was mostly my own fault. Spending so many years making sure to keep a tight grip on my emotions has given me a somewhat inhuman countenance to others.

“This is highly emotional for you?” Officer Brady pressed, a bemused expression on his face. “You’re calmer than anyone I’ve ever met who’s been shot, threatened with a gun, faced with a conspiracy from a person you thought was a friend, and then found out that person committed suicide. To be blunt, Mr. Ness, you’ve been put through the wringer and apparently have come through the other side as if nothing ever happened.”

“It doesn’t pay to be emotional in my line of work,” I replied. “There is a time and a place for all things, Officer Brady. I am sure that at some point, the emotions you say I don’t have will come out. I just choose not to share them with a perfect stranger, even if that stranger happens to be a police officer.”

“That is understandable, of course.” He rose out of his chair and stood up. With his eyes locked on mine, he held out a hand. “I truly am sorry for what’s happened to you and what you are still going through with your fri…uh…Mr. Clarke’s death. I will reach out again in a day or two. I know that you are not a resident of our fair city so until this investigation is closed, it would be best if you stay in town. Is that something you can arrange?”

“I still have work to do in town so yes, that is fine. Again, just reach out to my assistant in a few days. She can arrange a meeting to go over whatever questions you may have,” I said. I took his hand in my own, both of our grips firm, and shook it. “And thank you. I do appreciate the sentiment.”

I released his hand after that. He said good-bye and then that was it. I’m not really sure I understand my motivations in not wanting to answer his questions. It was true I didn’t really feel up to them but I could have forced myself to suffer through the process. I contemplated that as I walked outside the police station.

Stefan was waiting for me. I’d notified him that I was done and needed to be picked up as soon as I got finished with Officer Brady. I’m not sure where he’d been the whole time I was in there (which amounted to about an hour and thirty minutes) but judging by the fact that I didn’t even have to wait for him, my guess was not far.

“Sir,” Stefan said as he opened the door for me.

“Thank you,” I said and ducked inside.

A few seconds later, Stefan was behind the wheel again and pulling into traffic. I sat there in silence, staring out the window. My thoughts were still on the why of my unwillingness to finish this mess and be done with it all. George was gone. Douglas Duncan, the psycho that shot me, was dead. George had, through his own admission, been instrumental in my getting shot and then later being held at gunpoint by the same maniac.

But both were gone.

So why hadn’t I been okay with answering the questions and getting it all over and done with as soon as possible? What was holding me back?

I thought that maybe, just maybe, a tiny part of me didn’t want it to be over. It didn’t want the finality of closure. Doing so would mean having to move on. I would have to admit that George was truly gone. I hated him for that. I really did and I tried very hard not to hate anything. It’s a strong word. A word a lot like love. They were both powerful, meant to convey the height of a person’s feelings toward certain things but I often find them both being abused. Love and hate. Hate and love. They’re thrown out into the world without care or consideration of the effects they may have. I take that very seriously. I’ve only ever told my parents that I love them or my sister and brother (although the latter two because they were family and I was obligated to). I’ve had maybe a dozen girlfriends over the years and never said “I love you” to any of them either. Myla, however, was the only person outside of my family that I ever felt actual, genuine love for. George had been perhaps the only other person close and as soon as I caught on to his stealing, that had switched almost immediately to hatred. He was perhaps the only person on the planet that earned my full hate. Now, with everything that happened with him and finding out the truth about his involvement with me getting shot and then later held at gunpoint, that hatred deepened even more.

And then on top of that, he commits suicide? Robs me of my chance to ever forgive him? What he did was evil and despicable, but they had been the acts of a cowardly man. A frightened man. It made him irrational and lead him down destructive paths. I would never forget what he’d done but I had thought, through time, I might be able to forgive him.

That chance was gone now.

Because he was gone.

Tears welled up in my eyes, fell, and rolled down my cheeks. I didn’t bother wiping them away.