Justice Dig (Chris Seely Vigilante Justice Book 9)

by Rex Bolt

  Chris drove around for a couple hours and passed by again, and he wondered if anything happened for lunch, meaning maybe everyone spread out and you could work in a little private time with the guy, but that was impossible.

  So what could you do? Strangely enough there was a Barnes and Noble bookstore about a half mile back across the tracks to the left, which came up on you quick, one of those deals where the neighbors are a Target and Petsmart and the normal related franchises Chris figured you didn’t need -- but B & N did have some comfortable chairs and he could stretch out and read, though when he went to the cafe for a snack there was a homeless guy in his comfy chair when he came back . . . confirming that was an issue even in a pristine town such as Beacon.

  Chris kept looking out the window checking the weather, but it was a clear sunny day and you figured, they start at 6, they’re probably off at 3 . . . and he passed by again at 2:45 and sure enough they’d about wrapped it up and some of them were already boarding the bus.

  This was pretty brutal . . . and he followed the bus in reverse, you’d assume back to the headquarters . . . except the thing stops for gas at a diesel station a couple miles the wrong way . . . and the driver fiddles around and then gets into a conversation with a trucker pumping gas who he apparently knows.

  Mercifully they get back to Strawbridge Junction and they unload . . . and then there’s a long time where no one comes out, like close to an hour, and Chris is thinking, do they have like an arcade in there? Pool tables? What the heck. Wouldn’t you want to go home?

  Guys start to trickle out, and they head to the back parking lot and Chris determines now that White is driving a 1990’s blue Chevy pickup, and the thing’s making a fair amount of noise.

  Anyway, White’s by himself so you tag along, and the guy’s making rights and lefts and at one point crosses a bridge over a decent sized river, and then he’s driving at least 35 through an older neighborhood, and then hits the brakes hard, a little screech, and hooks it into a driveway.

  Little crackerjack house, more like a 2 bedroom cottage, and there wasn’t anything more brilliant to do than drive around the neighborhood. There was another pickup in the driveway in front of White’s so ringing the bell wasn’t your best choice.

  It wasn’t a bad neighborhood actually, when you took White out of the equation, and after three or four loops White got back in the truck and Chris followed him again . . . and the guy gets on 99 now, Jeez, and we’re talking 75 miles an hour in a 55 zone, and the last thing Chris needs is a ticket for trying to keep up with the guy.

  Fortunately after about 5 miles Chris still barely has him in sight way up ahead and the guy takes an exit.

  And what did we have here -- In n Out burgers -- and White heads inside . . . and now this is too much for Chris to handle and he goes in and gets in line as well . . . not recalling actually eating much today except for the little snack at Barnes and Noble.

  White orders two double doubles, a shake and an animal fries -- and that seems like a lot, when you factor in the heavy sauce on those animal fries, and the guy of course picks up his order ahead of Chris and wolfs the sucker down and pops up and buses his tray . . . and Chris has to grab half his burger to go and hustle back in the car.

  So where to now?

  The guy gets back on 99 -- the right way, back toward Beacon -- except he passes the three Beacon exits and gets off on Covina Parkway West . . . and there’s a major mall up ahead, and this can’t be good if the dick-head is going to shop.

  Maybe worse, when they get inside Chris notices him studying the directory . . . and the place is probably open until 10 . . . and this could be a long evening.

  A couple stores into it White starts walking funny, and Chris realizes he’s trying to find a men’s room, and when he does, that takes a while . . . and Chris figured his instincts were correct, even real big guys can overdo it at In-n-Out.

  An hour and half went by, the guy browsing but with a purpose, like he’s on the hunt for something particular -- but mercifully he was finally done, and empty handed no less, and Chris figured he’s going home for the night. There simply hadn’t been a reasonable opportunity to confront the guy, and you had to accept that . . . and Chris wondered if he’d be too late getting back to the Super 8 to catch any more of the NCAA tournament and at least salvage something today . . . since otherwise it had been a complete washout.

  Then White throws him a curveball. Instead of getting back on 99 and assumedly heading home to the little house in the older neighborhood, he hangs a left out of the mall and then left again on Hammerjam Road.

  You’re surprisingly out in the country again, it’s dark now but you can feel open spaces, and after a couple miles he goes left once more and now it is more residential again, and this feels like a sprawling modern apartment complex, a series of identical buildings . . . and there are sets of car ports on the other side of it, down a little hill off by themselves . . . and White slows at the third one and sticks it in a space.

  Chris is scratching his head now, and wondering is he paying someone a visit, and could that take all night . . . except he notices the carport slots are marked . . . and you’d assume the markings pertained to specific units.

  Chris sort of knew the drill with that one -- the year he’d spent in Teaneck, New Jersey, he’d lived in a place similar to this, and the bottom line was if people didn’t park in their assigned spots -- or if there were no assigned spots -- all hell could break loose.

  So it was established, tried and true -- and likely here too -- meaning . . . now this guy is either visiting someone, and is in their spot . . . or son of a gun, he lives here . . . and was visiting someone earlier, at the little house Chris assumed was his.

  The third option of course, he’s visiting someone here but doesn’t give a shit whose space he’s parked in . . . but the way he slowed down and turned into it, it seemed like he’d earmarked a familiar spot.

  Though either way . . . the mope could be done for the night, and that car wouldn’t move until 5:30 in the morning -- in fact with tomorrow being Sunday, it could sit there all day.

  Chris circled the complex a few more times and was getting ready, for the second time, to call it a night -- when White shows up again and gets in the car.

  So . . . maybe he was just visiting someone, and it didn’t take long, and Chris tails him once more, and this time White pulls up at a neighborhood liquor store and moseys on in.

  Except now . . . he’s got sweats on, comfortable baggy stuff, and Chris’s first thought was he’s on his way to a fitness place, that they’ve got 24 hour gyms all over now.

  But maybe not.

  As you thought about it . . . the fact that he changed clothes, period, made you think he might live in that apartment after all. And anything’s possible, but guys don’t typically hard liquor-it-up before they pump their iron.

  At this point there wasn’t a whole lot to lose except for a little more time, and Chris headed back to the apartment complex ahead of White -- you could see him through the glass at the counter making his purchase -- and Chris pulled into White’s same spot under the same carport overhang.

  He remembered it because there was a green Jeep in the adjacent space to the right, and the space to the left was currently empty, and if that didn’t change it could come in handy.

  Chris turned off the engine and waited.

  It felt like it was taking about 5 minutes longer than it should, meaning the a-hole was going somewhere else.

  And then White pulled up behind him.

  Chris waited, studying him in the rear view mirror. White didn’t honk, Chris had to give him credit for that, but he was waving his arms, the engine running, the lights on.

  Chris didn’t respond, and after a minute White gets out and Chris opens the window.

  “Yo Bud,” White said, “if I’m not disturbing you or nothin’, you mind shifting your ass outa my spot?” You could smell liquor on the guy already.

  Chris
got out now and said, “I’m happy to. But can you give me a lift?”

  “Say what?” White said.

  “Over there,” Chris pointed. “I left my keys.”

  And Chris went around the side of White’s pickup and started getting in, and White stood there a second and then got back in the truck as well, either reacting automatically or deciding it wasn’t worth trying to figure out what this guy meant.

  When both doors were closed, before White threw it in gear, Chris said, “Johnny Cash, right? The song?” Referring to ‘Folsom Prison Blues’, an oldie but one that you’d assume Folsom inmates would have heard of, especially the white guys from small towns like this.

  White smiled a fraction, and it was clear he connected, and Chris said, “What about Gilda? The acoustic guitar-maker gal you’ve been writing to? How’s that going?”

  Chris waited and again there was recognition in this guy’s expression, the grin in fact getting a little wider now, and White started to say something, no doubt some kind of wisecrack, and Chris pulled the Czechpoint out of his pocket and shot him in the head.

  What you did now . . . it seemed simple enough, things pretty quiet out there, not a lot of bright lights . . . and the firearm admittedly made some noise, but you hoped the combination of the truck engine running and the windows shut provided some decent muting . . . and Chris got out of the pickup and got back in the Camry . . . and again, the fortunate part being that space to the left was vacant . . . and he had to maneuver a three-point turn, and for a second it looked like one of the carport posts might be in the way, but he slid past it . . . and luckily he’d thought ahead, hadn’t left anything in the room at the Super 8 just in case . . . and twenty minutes later you had the 152 cut-off at Chowchilla, and that meant you were pointed toward Los Banos . . . and soon enough traffic picked up and you could hear the hum of the interstate up ahead, which meant Highway 5 and home.

  Chapter 16

  Chris didn’t wake up Sunday until around 1 and he showered and ate something but he still felt in slow motion. He was counting it on his fingers and it didn’t seem like it but he’d been gone a week.

  He decided he better shake the cobwebs out, not to mention he’d gotten very inconsistent with his routine, so he put on some shorts and tennis shoes and made the left out of the Cheater Five, and first you had those couple of uphills, and then the commanding view of the ocean and coastline, and he zigzagged his way into town.

  He hadn’t been on the pier since the swim-race incident with the guy, and it was a bit like deja vu all over, and the last thing you needed was to actually run into that guy again . . . but it seemed a little late for that, based on the timeframe last time, and Chris stopped halfway to the end and took a look at the beach.

  Always plenty going on, the water temperature rising, spring in the air. This had to be one of his favorite all-time places, it didn’t ever wear out its welcome.

  He never had consummated that Sunday brunch with Ned and Rosie, which got interrupted last time, first by the swim guy, and then by Finch . . . and Chris figured why not, and he gave Ned a call, see what’s cooking in general . . . and specifically with Kenny.

  “Hey my man,” Ned said. “Meet me over here, why don’t you.” And it sounded like Ned had to go and Chris didn’t have anything else on the agenda so he wandered down the Strand the half mile or so to the infamous house.

  Chris rang the bell and Ned opened the door himself. “Come on up,” he said. “We’re working today.”

  “Is that right,” Chris said . . . “I’m kidding, I appreciate it, but I’m gonna take a pass . . . but . . . any updates? I mean Chandler mentioned you were looking into it.”

  Ned took a second, glancing at the ocean and then back to Chris. “I worked it out,” he said. “If you’re asking about Ken.”

  “Wait . . . Kenny’s back? You’re not saying . . .”

  Ned nodded. “He checked in from wherever he was holed up at, and I gave him the good news. Should be back at work this week.”

  Chris felt his mouth dropping open. “Jeez then . . . just like that?”

  “What we had,” Ned said, “the husband first reported that your friend Emma came at him with a garden hatchet. Meaning she arrived with the tool in her bag . . . That of course would be illogical.”

  “Of course,” Chris said, not meaning any part of it but waiting for where this was going.

  “Much more logical,” Ned said, “would be she shows up to have a civilized discussion with the guy. But things get out of hand, and she grabs whatever she can.”

  “Which just happened to be a garden hatchet leaning up in the hallway.”

  “Or on the kitchen sink, whatever. The main point here, it was his, not hers.”

  Chris had the idea now. If Emma hadn’t officially shown up with the thing . . . and had procured it from inside instead . . . then you didn’t have Ken driving the getaway car, or whatever accessorizing they were charging him with . . .

  Because all he was doing was riding over there with her while she talked to her ex.

  There would of course be the issue of him running . . . but innocent people did that too.

  Chris said, “The one small problem being, the guy reported it the other way though.”

  “He did,” Ned said, “but he was in shock and doped up in the ER when he talked to the cops. More recently, he recalled the events more clearly, and revised his report.”

  “You don’t say,” Chris said, scrutinizing Ned for any crack of a clue. “And how did that all get precipitated?”

  “You know . . . a little friendly persuasion. Which everyone can appreciate. Things have a way of coming full circle, and we all move forward.”

  “That apply to Emma? The moving forward?”

  “No. Not that I’ve heard.”

  “Hmm,” Chris said, and he absorbed this fairly amazing development, and you weren’t going to launch into a celebratory dance or anything . . . but dang.

  “So there you have it,” Ned said.

  “Except,” Chris said, “when I asked you if there were any updates, you said if you’re asking about Ken . . . That implies there’s some other update too. Is there?”

  Ned did that gaze at the ocean thing again. “No big deal. Just one of the New York guys is in town, is all . . . You know, clarifying your thing you helped me out with. Back in Yonkers.”

  “Ooh boy,” Chris said.

  “We’ll figure it out,” Ned said.

  THE END

  *****

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  The Chris Seely Vigilante Justice Series:

  Who Needs Justice? (Book 1)

  Justice On Ice (Book 2)

  Dirty Justice (Book 3)

  Justice Squared (Book 4)

  Justice Wrap (Book 5)

  Justice Blank (Book 6)

  Justice Redux (Book 7)

  Justice Spiked (Book 8)

  Justice Dig (Book 9)

  Contact: RexBoltAuthor@gmail.com

  Copyright © 2019 Rex Bolt

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, organizations, events or locales, or to any other works of fiction, is entirely coincidental.