PART 4: Tragedy and Loss
Geoff sat at his usual place at the bar, swirling a shot glass half filled with Jack Daniels as he mulled over what had gone wrong in his plan. I should have known better than to trust that idiot Conners, he mused to himself. It's not like I was asking him to do something that difficult. I practically handed him those kids on a platter and he couldn't even deal with them. Geoff chugged the remaining half of his drink and placed the shot glass on the bar top. "One more," he uttered, his speech barely coherent.
The bartender placed the glass in front of Geoff, but Geoff did not immediately drink it; he was too busy formulating a new plan, and this time, there was no way it would fail because Geoff Jones was taking the matter into his own hands. Satisfied with his plan, he took a celebratory swig of the drink and heaved a drunken, yet contented sigh. "Ever heard of that old saying 'If you want something done, you gotta do it yourself'?" he mumbled, to no one in particular.
The bartender nodded, but not because he was paying any attention to the man's drunken ranting.
"Well, it's truer than ya think, you know?"
The bartender shook his head. "What's on your mind, Jones?" he asked.
An evil smile played across Geoff's features. "Let's just say I'm gonna clean out my family's dirty laundry. I hate to do it this way, and it hurts me to do it this way, but my brother has left me no other choice."
None of the children particularly minded losing their freedom after the incident at the Ferguson estate. And although they were no longer allowed to go outside unsupervised, they were still allowed to go to each others' houses to play, but always under the watchful eye of an adult. It seemed that Fred's bravery-proving stunt was never far from anyone's minds, and deep in his heart, Fred knew that it would be a long time before he regained the trust of his elders.
On that particular afternoon, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Out of school for the summer, Fred often spent his days playing with the other children at either Shaggy's or Velma's house. On one occasion, he and the other two children had been invited to play at Daphne's house, but the invitation was quickly revoked after Scooby got loose and dug up almost every acre of the Blake's meticulously maintained garden.
Marilyn Dinkley sat at the kitchen table, occasionally looking up from her research to glance at the play area and watch the four children. Shaggy and Fred had somehow (miraculously) managed to convince the girls to join them in their play, and soon the four children sat engrossed in their game, lost in their own world of make-believe. Marilyn smiled as she watched them playing, remarking almost nostalgically how, only a few short years earlier, they had been but small toddlers. And now, here they were, ages five, six and seven, still playing together and relishing each other's company.
The doorbell rang, and Marilyn dutifully stood up to answer it. "Kim! This is a surprise! Please, come inside."
The other woman obliged. "Thanks, Marilyn. I'm sorry to barge in on you like this," she apologized, "but both Frank and I think Fred needs to spend a little time with his own family today."
Fred cringed at hearing the words 'spend time with his own family;' that usually meant having to do chores around the house or to accompany his mother on her errands. He could imagine nothing more boring than wasting a perfectly good summer day doing only what his mother wanted to do. "Aww, Mom," Fred protested. "Why? I hate shopping with you! It's so boooooring!" He drew out the last word to emphasize his disgust.
"Because you need to spend some time with us," Kim announced, "and I think we should give Mrs. Dinkley a little bit of a break. She has been watching you for the last four days, not to mention Shaggy and Daphne, plus her own daughter. I think she deserves a little break from you and your rambunctious ways." She smiled on the last comment, as though trying to soften the blow for her son.
"No," Fred whined, "I don't wanna go. It's not fun. I wanna stay here and play." The boy looked ready to throw a tantrum, but kept his cool in front of the other children.
"Oh, Kim," Marilyn countered, "I don't mind at all. And the children are all so well behaved that it is not a problem for me to watch them."
Kim hesitated. "Are you sure, Marilyn? I really would hate to impose on you. After all, Fred is my son, not yours, and it seems like he's practically moved in with you, he's always there."
"Nonsense, Kimmy. I told you I don't mind. You go run your errands in peace and when you are done, just come by and pick him up like you always do."
Kim considered the other woman's offer. It would make running errands much easier without having a seven year old boy in tow, she thought. "Well, alright Fred. But just today. Tomorrow, you should stay home with me and Dad, deal?"
"Deal!" Fred blurted.
"Don't make too much trouble for Mrs. Dinkley, okay?"
"'kay."
"I'll be by to pick you up this afternoon." She leaned over and gave Fred a quick kiss on his blond head. "Bye bye, sweetie."
"'Bye," Fred waved, a little too eager to see his mother out the door and to return to his game with the other children. In the years that would come, he would live to regret his rash behavior that day.
As Kim walked the short distance from the Dinkley residence to her own, the last thing on her mind was that someone would want to harm her and her family. Routinely climbing into her car, she paid no attention to the black, late model pickup truck parked about 100 yards down the street. The pickup truck's occupant kept a close watch on the woman, following and carefully noting her every move. As Kim turned the corner in the family station wagon, the pickup truck's engine coughed to life, belching a cloud of black smoke. Slowly, the driver began to follow her.
Kim walked nonchalantly across the parking lot of the supermarket, pausing for a moment to look behind her. Is someone following me? she wondered, briefly. Nah. It's just my imagination. She shook her head and dispelled the thought as a figment of stress. Taking a shopping basket, she entered the store, completely unaware that the man in the black pickup truck was still watching her. Once she had disappeared inside the store's aisles, the truck's driver shifted into reverse and pulled out of the lot. He turned the corner and came to a stop at the end of a dark alleyway.
Less than an hour later, Kim emerged from the supermarket, pushing the shopping cart across the lot. Fumbling in her purse for the car keys, she unlocked the trunk and began loading the groceries. The strange feeling that someone was watching her and following her kept gnawing at her mind, but she ignored it. Why would anyone be stalking in broad day light? she asked herself, and in a public place like the parking lot of a shopping center? She brushed the thought off and continued to load the last of the paper bags into the trunk.
From deep in the alley, hidden behind a trash dumpster, he took his aim, watching the bullet's trajectory to make sure it hit its target. It did. One more for good measure. He cocked the revolver, cushioning it with a towel and pillowcase to muffle its firing, then pulled the trigger again.
The bullet found its mark straight in the center of the woman's back. With a surprised "Uh," she fell forward, her knees and legs buckling underneath her, leaving her face down on the asphalt. A crimson pool of blood slowly formed on the pavement, flowing from the underside of her chest where the bullet had emerged. Satisfied at having struck his quarry, the hunter left, disappearing back into the shadows and retreated in silence.
"Oh my God! Somebody call the police! She's been shot!"
A stunned crowd had begun gathering around the spot where the woman had fallen.
"Murder? In this town? It can't be!"
"Is she still breathing?"
"No, she's gone."
"Things like this just don't happen in Coolsville; they happen in bigger cities, but not here."
The shrill screech of a police siren quickly dispersed the curious onlookers. As the police cruiser pulled up alongside, Officer Samuel Rogers stepped out and gasped in horror at what he saw.
Flashbulbs began popping as a hoard of local reporters from various newspapers arrived on the scene of the breaking story. From among the throng of reporters, Officer Rogers recognized Edward Jones, editor-in-chief of the National Exaggerator. Pushing his way through the crowd, Samuel Rogers took Edward aside to break the grim news to him.
"I...Is she alright?" the blond man asked, his normally jocular tone replaced by an oddly serious one.
Sammy Rogers shook his head. "I'm afraid not."
"She's dead?"
Rogers nodded.
"Well, do you have any idea who did this? Any suspects? Any clues? Any anything?"
"Right now, no, but we will let you and your family know the minute anything develops." He added as an aside, "I am bound by the department rules of confidentiality regarding homicide cases, but as a friend, I promise I will let you all know the minute I find anything out." He put his hand on the younger man's shoulder. "Keep your head up. I promise I won't let this one go unsolved."
Edward nodded in affirmation and returned to his job assignment. At the moment, though, reporting on the case was the furthest thing from his mind; what was on his mind was his nephew, Fred and how the boy would react to the grim news of his mother's death.
Samuel Rogers knocked on the door of the Dinkley residence. As she opened the door, Marilyn was surprised to see the man in his police uniform and surmised that, based on his current appearance, he had come for something more than just to pick up his son. "Samuel," she intoned, politely, "do come in."
"Thanks, Mare," he began, removing his cap as he spoke. "Mare, I need to tell you something, and I'm afraid it is not good."
The color drained from her face as Marilyn Dinkley gasped in shock at the man's revelation; she could not bring herself to speak, managing only to bring her hands up to her mouth. "Oh God," she breathed, though it was less of a curse and more of a prayer, "No, it can't be true. Tell me it's not true."
Officer Rogers shook his head, glancing downward at the floor to avoid the woman's shocked gaze. "I'm sorry, Marilyn. I know she was your friend."
Marilyn Dinkley gradually regained her composure. "Ha...have you told Frank yet?"
"No, and in retrospect, I should have told him before coming here to tell you, but that's not important. I came here mainly to retrieve Fred. I think that he and his father should be together when I break the news to them."
Marilyn nodded in assent. Taking a deep breath to hide her own sorrow, she walked into the playroom where Fred was playing with Daphne, Shaggy and Velma. Marilyn paused for a moment to listen to the sounds of happy laughter from the four children. She felt a knot develop in her stomach as she realized what she would have to do. They were so innocent, so happy. They were not supposed to know things as horrible as death at their young age. Mustering her courage, she walked into the playroom and announced, "Frederick, your father wants you home right now." She reached down and took the boy's hand.
"No, that's not fair!" he screamed in an uncharacteristic display of resistance, "I don't want to go home yet! We're not done!"
Marilyn Dinkley helped the boy to his feet and escorted him out of the room. Daphne, Shaggy and Velma momentarily stopped their game, not quite understanding why Fred was being so abruptly yanked away from them.
"No! It's not fair!! I wasn't done yet!" Fred continued to scream, but abruptly stopped when he saw Shaggy's father in full uniform standing in front of him.
Samuel Rogers reached down and took the boy's hand. "Come now, Freddie. Your father is waiting for you at home."
Fred Jones gingerly stuck his head around the corner as he listened to Shaggy's father break the horrible news. He could hear words and phrases such as "homicide victim", "murder" and "perpetrator," and although he didn't know exactly what they meant, something in his seven-year-old mind told him that these were not good words.
Samuel Rogers tipped his cap and added, "We'll be in touch," before turning and walking back to the squad car.
Frank Jones closed the door behind him and slid downward, using the door as support. Bringing his knees to his chest, he rested his elbows on them and buried his face in his hands.
Little Fred slowly emerged from his hiding place. "Daddy?" he began, his tiny voice sounding even younger when colored by the sad tone, "Daddy, what happened?"
Frank Jones looked at his son and motioned for the boy to come closer.
"What happened, Dad?" Fred persisted, although instinctively, he knew that something had gone terribly wrong. "Dad, when's Mom coming back?"
Frank swallowed a knot the size of his fist, and bit his lower lip to keep from crying in front of his son. "She...she isn't," Frank answered in a barely audible tone, hoping that the boy had not heard the reply.
He had. "What do you mean? Where is she?"
Frank Jones took a deep breath before beginning his next sentence. No one, he thought, should have to explain the concept of a parent's death to such a young child, and especially a death that had occurred under such violent circumstances. "She's in Heaven now," Frank began, "watching over you and me..." Frank knew in his heart that the response was contrived and insincere, but it was all he could muster. Although the Joneses were not a particularly religious family, there seemed to be no other way to explain such a sudden loss while comforting a child at the same time.
Little Fred looked up at his father, wistfully. "Where's that?" he asked, his voice full of innocence and wonder.
"It's...it's a very far away place, but a very special and beautiful one too. Some say that it is even more beautiful than it is here."
The boy remained wide eyed with wonder, and Frank was momentarily allayed by the fact that his contrived, pseudo-religious explanation had sufficed.
Then Fred asked, innocently, "Can we go see her?"
The elder Jones immediately regretted his hasty explanation, and he knew that he would now have to tell the boy the naked truth about death.
"No," he uttered, his voice quavering, "that's not possible. Fred, she's..." He choked on his next sentence, despite having chosen the words so carefully. "Your mother...will not be with us...any more."
The boy wrangled with how to make sense of what he had just heard, answering his father only with a bewildered look. "But you said that she's..."
"I know what I said, Freddie, but there is something that you have to understand." Frank thought carefully about how to explain the concept of death to his son, but could not arrive at a suitable manner to do so. Unable to think rationally, and overcome by his emotions, he blurted, "She's dead, and she won't be coming back." He turned his face away from his son and broke down in tears.
The little boy stood for a moment, doubly stunned by what he had just heard and by the sight of his father crying. What did it mean, dead? He had heard the word before, and knew what it meant, but up until now, he had conceptualized it only thought of it in terms of insects and plants, not humans.
"She's gone?" Fred asked, in a low, soft voice.
Frank nodded, still hiding his face from his son.
"But I thought you said..." Suddenly, the truth hit little Fred squarely. "You lied!" he screamed, stomping his foot down on the floor. "You lied to me! You said that she was someplace and now you're saying she's not!"
The accusation hurt Frank Jones almost as much as did the news of his wife's death. "Freddie, I..."
Little Fred continued to scream at his father, "You lied to me! It's all fake! It's all fake!" he yelled as he ran up the stairs to his room, screaming and crying at the same time.
Frank Jones put his head in his hands once again. I'm sorry, Freddie, he thought to himself, forgive me.
Requiem aeternam, dona eis Domine. Et lux perpetua luceat eis Domine. Under gray, drizzly skies, family and friends gathered to pay their final respects to Kimberly Jones. Little Fred, dressed in a white shirt with black trousers and a black jacket, sat in the front row between his father and his uncle, Edward. Max sat quietly next to his youngest brother. Flanked by two adults, Fred looked even smaller and more vulnerable than ever before. He swung his feet back and forth under the chair and put on a strict face, trying to look brave in spite of feeling so sad, lost and confused. One member of the Jones family, though, was not in attendance, and nobody seemed to remark his absence.
"...Though I may walk through the valley of the shadows, I shall fear not death..."
The other three children watched the burial in silence, though every so often, their eyes gravitated towards their grieving companion. Fred stared at his mother's grave, though his eyes didn't focus on anything. Small tears formed in his eyes and he quickly brushed them away with the sleeve of his jacket. He had to look brave; perhaps this was one of the occasions that his father had told him about.
"...May you rest peacefully, forever keeping vigil over those you have left behind—your loving husband Frank, your son, Frederick..."
Each mourner filed past the grave site to pay their last respects. As her family took its turn, the little red-headed girl did something very unexpected—she looked straight at her companion, took his hands in her own and squeezed them tightly. "I'm sorry," she whispered, just barely loud enough for the boy to hear her. No one quite knew whether or not the two children understood the significance of their gesture, but one thing seemed clear—they both knew and recognized the feeling called "sadness."
As the last of the attendees filed past, Frank Jones took one final look at his wife's grave. His gaze shifted to his son, who sat nearby on the ground, mindlessly shredding a blade of grass. Staring at the sky, Frank Jones waved unconsciously, before taking the boy's hand and leading him back to the car.
Later that afternoon, friends and family held an informal gathering at the Jones residence. Little Fred, however, didn't wish to be a part of the gathering, but preferred to observe it from a distance. Still wearing the suit from earlier in the day, he sat down on the floor, mindlessly pushing a toy car back and forth on the rug to distract himself. Engrossed in his play, he failed to notice a dark shadow that had just fallen over him. "Frederick," a deep adult male voice intoned, "what are you doing out here by yourself?"
Fred looked up to see his uncle, Geoff standing over him. "Go away," he blurted.
"Oh, Freddie, is that any way to talk to your uncle? Your uncle whom you haven't seen in a long time? You should be more respectful of your elders, Frederick."
Fred ignored his uncle's chiding and continued to play with the toy car.
"You know, Freddie, respecting your elders is very important, especially listening to them when they ask you to do something."
Fred shrugged.
"You know, maybe if you had been a good boy and gone with your mother that day instead of staying behind to play with your friends, maybe this might not have happened."
Little Fred started to cry. "I didn't want it to," he sniffled.
Geoff shook his head in mock sympathy. "No one ever wants things like this to happen, Freddie, but perhaps if you had listened to your mother, it might not have happened."
An immense burden of guilt began settling on the boy's shoulders. His mother was dead, and it was looking more and more like it was his fault. "What could I have done, Uncle Geoff?" he asked innocently enough.
"You should have listened to your mother," Geoff replied, coldly. "But since you didn't, there is nothing that can be done now."
Fred started bawling; his screams were loud enough to bring his father running to find him.
Frank Jones stopped dead in his tracks when he saw his younger brother in front of him. "Geoff?" he asked, both in shock and in anger, "what are you dong here?"
"Oh, come now, Frank, a man can't attend his own sister-in-law's funeral? She was family too, you know, and besides, you know how I felt about her."
Frank felt his blood begin to boil, but now was not the time to bring up old family grudges. "I know how you felt about her—you made no short effort to conceal your feelings for Kim, God rest her soul, but I still don't understand why you would choose this moment to come visit us—our moment of greatest pain."
Geoff laughed. "Family togetherness," he replied, "what ever happened to good old brotherly love?"
Geoff's sarcasm did not escape Frank's perception. "You didn't come here to pay your respects to Kim," he started, "you came here to harass me and Fred, and your doing so only confirms for me just how sadistic you really are." He pointed to the door and bellowed, "Get out, Geoff. You are not welcome here, now or ever! Now get out and just leave us alone before I file a restraining order against you!"
Geoff shook his head sarcastically. "Temper, temper, temper," he chided, before turning his back on his older brother.
Frank slammed the door in Geoff's face. "I don't ever want to see you again!" he bellowed, "Ever! Do you hear me? Ever! Ever!" Leaning against the door, he slid down and sat on the floor, taking his son into his arms. He drew Fred into a tight embrace, and Fred returned the gesture. "It's alright, Freddie," he whispered, wishing that he had to ability to console the boy as his wife had. "It's alright."
That night, Fred Jones lay on his bed, unable to sleep, his mind a jumble of unanswered questions. One thing though was perfectly clear to little seven year old Fred—this whole thing was his fault. Hadn't Uncle Geoff said it? Maybe if you had been a good boy and gone with your mother instead of playing with your friends, maybe this might not have happened. It was something he—Fred Jones--had done wrong. And this was his punishment. He cried himself to sleep that night, praying that maybe one day, things would be right again.