Justice Rain (Chris Seely Vigilante Justice Book 11)

by Rex Bolt

  Author’s Note:

  This series works best if the books are read in order.

  That said . . . if you are reading one at random, here is a brief

  BACKGROUND SYNOPSIS:

  Chris Seely is a relatively normal 42-year-old who goes to the doctor with what he assumes is a routine ailment, and receives a terminal diagnosis.

  When the shock wears off, Chris decides he’s going to make the most of the time he has left, and just go for it . . .

  As well as tie up loose ends . . . which in Chris’s case, means possibly killing off a few people who deserve it.

  So he makes a list, and he takes it from there.

  A few months in, he’s not getting any worse, and his bartender Shep suggests they may have made a mistake in the lab.

  Chris concedes that has crossed his mind too, but at this point he’s in too deep and doesn’t want to know.

  He continues to address the list with mixed success--taking into account new developments and making revisions as necessary.

  The story alternates between San Francisco and Manhattan Beach, and a couple times Chris is forced to lay low, once in Bingham, Nevada, and once in Eclipse, Arizona.

  Eventually he approaches the one-year mark with still no symptoms, and he’s reasonably convinced he’s going to be okay.

  His idea is to retire his list . . . and relax on the beach . . . but something always gets in the way.

  1 Days Go By

  2 Closer to the Edge

  3 Raised Just Like You

  4 Like Crazy

  5 Gabriela

  6 Middle of the Night

  7 Share this Dance

  8 Barbed Wire Fences

  9 Trouble Right Here

  10 Bad Days Over

  11 In School

  12 Choose Or

  13 Cherry Pie

  14 Simple Tune

  15 Swimming Pool

  16 Rehearsal

  17 Valerie Drive

  18 Summer's In

  19 Around

  Chapter 1

  When the cop with the cowboy hat and the gut hanging over the belt asked Chris if he had a second, Chris thought here we go again -- even though we’re not supposed to be.

  They were at the Hallmark Left Golf Course, a pristine 18 holes, sprinklers currently doing their thing all over the place.

  As opposed to the Hallmark Right 18 holes, which were over the footbridge and across Sunscape Road. Chris’s understanding was the left course favored the big hitters, but the right course was technically trickier.

  This was Eclipse, Arizona. The Rancho Villas Gold Star Residential Living and Resort.

  Once again.

  Chris said sure he had a second. What else could you say?

  The cop asked if he’d heard about the dead body overnight.

  “I have,” Chris said. “Before we get into that though . . . something I’ve been meaning to clarify -- is there any restriction on watering around here? I mean you have to transport in your water, right?”

  “I hear ya,” the cop said. “all for the snow birds. On account-a which, my personal water runs me over three bills.”

  “A month?” Chris said.

  “You bet. Any idea what happened last night? What we got?”

  Meaning back to the body. A woman unfortunately. Discovered by Jose and Alberto around 5am, driving around with a maintenance truck, adding sand to the sand traps. A foot was sticking out of the chihuahuan sage bramble near the 11th hole.

  “All’s I know,” Chris said, “I get up, grab a coffee in the lobby on my way to the fitness center, everyone’s on edge. An hour later, we get the word the gal was a prostitute. Allegedly . . . Everyone relaxes a little.”

  “Human nature,” the cop said, his eyes following an attractive woman decked out in high-end yoga pants, heading to the next station of the par-course workout thing they had paralleling the golf.

  “I guess,” Chris said. “Whenever there’s a bad crime where I’m living -- in the newspaper, or on TV, the first thing I always want to know -- was it random, or was it self-contained.”

  “How do you know this one was random?”

  “I think you missed my point. I don’t think it was random. At least I’m hoping not.”

  “I know what you meant,” the cop said, unwrapping a Juicyfruit gum stick and putting it in his mouth. “I’m playing with you . . . why do you think it wasn’t random.”

  Okay, this was about enough. Chris was rambling like an idiot, mainly because he was relaxed speaking to a cop for once, not worried about being accused of something.

  Of course he was Jeff Masters here, and if the guy checked -- really ran his name through -- that could be an issue. But before the guy got to him he’d similarly questioned a couple other golf course employees, and Chris was pretty confident it was routine canvassing, and in fact so far the guy hadn’t asked him for any name.

  The employment part being, Chris was working the noon to 5 shift at Hallmark Left under an awning, checking out golf carts, clubs, driving a modified vehicle around now and then that scooped up loose balls off the practice range, grabbing beverages from behind the counter for the exhausted golfers, microwaving nacho-type snacks as well.

  It wasn’t bad. $10.50 an hour, Arizona minimum wage, not a penny more, but that wasn’t important. Last time he was here -- and that would have been January, when he found out from Ned in the middle of the night that he possibly needed to be on the run from the authorities -- he landed a job passing out towels in the fitness center. And also bartending a few shifts in the Rancho Villas in-house restaurant.

  None of that was available this time, but you wanted to keep busy, and the golf gig was just right, now that they were into May, highs in the low 80’s, lows in the mid-60s, perfect conditions to be outside out here in the Salt River Valley surrounded by all the cactus and red rock.

  Ned had come to him this time, not in emergency mode, but in strong-suggestion one, and convinced Chris to take a little break.

  The translation being, if there was a repeat -- or escalation -- of the fallout from New York that involved Ralph, and now the Bucks County guy, The Tank -- Ned said he’d feel better personally if Chris had a little distance on the situation.

  Meaning . . . if someone really needs to find you they normally will . . . Chris had learned that . . . but don’t put it right in their lap, Ned was saying.

  Chris explained to Ned that he wasn’t particularly afraid of another guy showing up -- and what he left out, was he was more afraid of being apprehended and electric-chaired himself, for something he might have done -- though Ned had him pegged pretty good by now, and likely was thinking along with Chris.

  Ned’s point was simply take a little vacation, let’s see what happens . . . and they were in the Crow’s Nest following a somewhat contentious meeting of Finch’s writing group, where Holly really went off the deep end with her inciting incident assignment, and even Finch told her to maybe start over, and Holly ended up in tears and Rosie had to run outside after her and talk her back in.

  Ned had gotten to the key point pretty quick though in the Crow’s Nest, and he looked Chris in the eye and nodded, and there was no act connected to it this time, a rare serious side of Ned . . . and Chris said he’d think about it, and Ned said he’d be by in a couple hours with some plates.

  Ned was true to his word, tapped on the door after midnight, handed Chris the license plates, Virginia ones. Chris wasn’t sure how necessary that was, and he figured he’d leave his own CA plates on for now but keep a screwdriver in the trunk just in case . . . and Ned told him to stay safe and don’t rush bac
k . . . and that was it, and Chris was on the road the next afternoon, everything happening pretty fast.

  He figured he’d start off on I-10 and see what destination ideas might come up, and there were none so far, past Riverside or Palm Springs either, and kind of like a magnet the Malibu stayed straight and drove itself to Phoenix.

  At that point Chris debated it for about five minutes -- that he had admittedly been active out here last time -- but the resort lifestyle sounded so good, and really, all you had to do was stay there, right? Meaning don’t re-visit Scottsdale, don’t get involved in road rage business on any county back roads either . . . and things should be fine.

  So he rented another condo. It wasn’t complicated. This time he used better judgement, and leased the thing month-to-month . . . unlike last time when he got fancy and pre-paid 3 or 4 months upfront to save a few bucks . . . and then got burned by Pat trying to recover it.

  That was something he was afraid of too, running into her again -- and especially having to do business with her -- and she was still working here, her name plate was on the sales office door, but a friendly new gal explained that Pat spent most of her time these days selling pre-construction units at Phase 3 up the road.

  So Chris got out of there unscathed, key in hand, Unit 512, an upper one this time, the square footage a little tighter than back in January, but you had a little deck with a view, though it was of the pickleball courts.

  But overall -- fine. And now two weeks later Chris was gainfully employed and a cop was chewing gum, taking a couple notes, and you could smell garlic in the mix too.

  And Chris was finishing answering the guy’s question. “I’m thinking it wasn’t random because . . . our manager made an announcement to that effect.”

  “What did he say?” the cop said. Jeez, this guy was good at asking questions, but Chris was starting to wonder if it ended there, that the guy may never have experienced a homicide and doesn’t know what to do next.

  Chris said, “He said it was apparently a relationship.” Which the manager hadn’t exactly said, he’d said ‘hopefully there’s nothing to worry about’, but same difference. More or less.

  “Well that’s how we’re working it,” the cop said. “You familiar with the Haliday Jay Express? Down in Merritt?”

  “No,” Chris said, though that may have been wrong too -- dang, that could have actually been the place where he trailed Monica and the Kyle guy that time. Small world if it was. “But why?” he said. “They’re known for some of that activity?”

  “They are. Thing of it is, what’s up to us now to put together . . . did someone dump her there?”

  It seemed kind of obvious to Chris that’s what happened -- as opposed to a poor gal strolling around the 11th hole of a golf course in the middle of the night and running into trouble -- but hey, let the guy do his thing.

  “Anything else?” Chris said.

  “Nope, for now that’s a wrap,” the cop said, a strange way to put it, and the guy added, “these things start complicated, but they end up going simple on you.”

  And the guy extended his hand and moved on, and Chris noticed a bunch of the maintenance guys now on the patio near the first tee, waiting to be questioned, and Bob, the manager who made the ‘hopefully nothing to worry about’ comment, sort of supervising.

  Chris figured he could have set the cop straight on one thing . . . that yeah, they may start complicated . . . but they never end up simple . . . but that would be way out of line.

  And meanwhile, when today’s golf-rental shift was over, you had one of the nice perks of this place, a little Tuesday night social out by the main pool, barbeques going, the whole bit, everything on the house.

  Chapter 2

  Wednesday morning Chris was in the hot tub bright and early. That was another thing here, there were four of these, spread out over the complex. The claim was that the big one sat 40, and billed itself as the largest spa in the valley, but Chris preferred the 8-person job outside the fitness center because it stayed hotter. The other two he’d never sampled, and wasn’t even sure where they were.

  One guy was in ahead of him, a burly man about 35, unshaven, real broad defined jaw, rolling his neck around.

  “Morning,” Chris said.

  The guy opened his eyes a slit and nodded the same to you.

  Chris battled it for a minute, where have I seen this guy, and then he remembered, the golf hat and outfit that day throwing him off . . . but this was the guy who got mad after a poor shot and threw his 9-iron -- we’re talking really fired it -- out over the fairway into a stand of cork oaks . . . and one of the maintenance guys tried to climb up and get it, but they ended up needing one of those trucks with a bucket.

  At any rate, it had been a powerful display, there on the 2nd hole, and Chris had a good view of it and asked someone later and they said they’d heard the guy played in the NFL.

  So . . . what the heck. Chris said, “If I’m bothering you, let me know.” Which he figured he was, but there was something about the guy that didn’t rub you quite right, so why not bother him.

  The guy didn’t say anything. He kept his eyes closed and was done rotating his neck and dipped everything into the water up to his lips. Chris said, “Pro football, huh? Now that’s really something.”

  The guy opened one eye and said, “You try it sometime.”

  “Well,” Chris said, “you’re more honest about it than I pegged you for.”

  “How’s that, then?” the guy grunted.

  Chris said, “I figured, if you did play in the league, you’d be strutting around letting everyone know it.” Which the guy sort of was, but still.

  “Brother, I got aches and pains,” the guy said. Chris introduced himself -- Jeff of course, from Jeff Masters -- and the guy said Waylon. Chris didn’t recognize an ex-NFL guy named Waylon, but he was admittedly a casual fan and would have to look it up before you questioned the guy’s integrity. The guy was hoisting himself up on the side now, legs hanging in the water, and he was built thick, no doubt about it. Not like a tackle maybe, little more flexibility to him, but man, everything oversized, look at those forearms alone.

  Chris said, “I don’t want to sound like a dumb fan, but what . . . you played like, defensive end? Linebacker?”

  “Quarterback,” Waylon said.

  “Oh.”

  “Backup. Made the rounds. Drafted by KC. Lasted a season. Then Miami, the Bills, Jaguars. Finished my career with the illustrious San Diego Chargers.”

  “Gee.”

  “8 years in the league. I got in at mop-up time. I started one game, Miami in ‘09.”

  “What happened?”

  “Why’d I start? Or how we did.”

  “Both, I guess.”

  “We had two guys who could air it out pretty good. Chad Henne, and Chad Pennington . . . see now, we were already in trouble, they pick two knuckleheads with three quarters the same name.”

  “I remember both those guys, actually,” Chris said, “I mean not real clearly, but they ring a bell.”

  “I was the back-up to those dips. They used to call it taxi-squad. Anyways, the Denver game, the one guy tweaks a finger in practice, the other guy commits a curfew infraction. So they start me.”

  “How’d you do?”

  “1 for 3. They pulled me the 4th series.”

  “What -- they stuck in the guy they were supposed to be disciplining?”

  Waylon nodded, slid back in the water and closed his eyes. “Ain’t it a bitch?” he said.

  Why bug the guy any more, you didn’t want to behave like a dumb fan, except Chris admittedly was a bit in awe of this Waylon, how could you not be . . . though when he had his stint at The Chronicle way back when, he was working the city desk news, but they rotated him in and out of sports briefly, and he did interview some of the 49ers, and he’d see them in the bars on Union Street.

  Still, we all want to dream we could play in the NFL, Chris supposed.

  A new guy showed
up, eased into the spa, and Waylon opened his eyes and they gave each other a minor fist bump.

  They didn’t say anything further, and soon Waylon had had enough and left, and Chris said to the new guy, “Interesting chap.”

  “He is,” the new guy said. “I’m McBride, by the way.” Easygoing and friendly. The guy seemed around Chris’s age, so both of them 8, 10 years older than the NFL guy.

  Chris said, “This is something I recently got into with a friend.” He couldn’t remember who that was . . . and then yeah, okay, it was Finch. “The last name business. Should I be Masters then? Forget the Jeffrey part? Or it doesn’t matter.”

  McBride laughed. “It rarely matters, when it comes down to it. All this stuff we think’s important -- my mom was mixed up her last 20 years, was always losing her purse, sending her bill payments to the wrong companies -- she never straightened any of it out, and it didn’t make any difference.”

  This guy going off on kind of a weird tangent there, but Chris got the idea, leave people alone, what they want to be called. He said, “How about the homicide, huh?”

  “Tough thing,” McBride said. “Not unexpected anywhere I suppose these days . . . but you don’t equate hard crime with Eclipse.”

  “How long you been here?” Chris said, pretty sure this guy wasn’t around in January, during Chris’s previous stint.

  “I’m a month in. Hopefully it’s my last stop for a while . . . You?” The guy did the same as Waylon had, dipped himself in up to and even a bit over his lips.

  “I guess I’m a return-ee,” Chris said. “Not sure if it’s my last stop though, I doubt that . . . On the homicide deal -- this might not be the worst place to commit one . . . if someone needed to. I mean I spoke to one of the cops on it, he didn’t evoke a ton of confidence.”