Ghost Ship (The Ghost Files Book 9)

by Chanel Smith

  “Sure thing,” I said.

  Vance throttled his bike and took off in a flash as I began my slow trudge toward my home where who knows what in God’s name awaited me.

  ***

  It was unexpected that I had come home in the middle of my dad firing our hired man.

  My dad paused his tirade at Jesse to look at me. Then he cleaned the cut on my arm, taped it together with butterflies, and bandaged me up with a roll of gauze and tape.

  After I put the first aid kit away, I hung out with him in the kitchen, mostly because my bedroom faced west and it was hot as blazes in there. Also because I wanted to know what the hell was going on.

  “Jesse, you will always be part of this family,” my father now said with bushy brows covering the tops of his eyes in displeasure.

  Dad just sat there with a mild frown, leaning back in his favorite chair at the kitchen table, crossing those meaty and hairy forearms of his over his rising chest and belly. He was as hairy as he was responsible and caring.

  During my senior year, I remembered my history teacher saying Mexicans were mostly Mestizos. Basically, we were Europeans mixed with Indians who were originally Asians who had crossed a land bridge during the Ice Age. I didn’t remember everything from the lecture. I wasn’t a great student. But dad was hairier than any Asian I’d ever seen and had much darker skin tone than any white guy I’d ever met. I didn’t pay much attention during biology class either, because I still didn’t understand how genetics worked.

  Across from Dad sat an annoyed Jesse Castro, who at 69 years of age, was still itching for justice. From what I’d gathered from the conversation in the room, on one of his so-called freedom patrols, Jesse had just been caught snooping around the Central Valley Correctional Facility for the third time by Wheatville’s longest-tenured cop, Deputy Carson Walls.

  Jesse lowered his head and stared defiantly at my father. The small bump on the middle of his crooked nose kept a pair of square-shaped lenses from clanking onto the aluminum tabletop below.

  “Wait a minute, Frank,” he said, as it began to sink in what was happening. “This ain’t right. You’re… firing me?”

  I stood behind them, against the fridge, silent. Jesse turned to me and raised one of his graying eyebrows. He clearly wanted my help, but all I could do was shrug and cross my buff, sunburnt arms.

  “Jesse,” Dad barked, forcing his attention away from me and back to him in an instant. “How many times did I warn you? I said not to use work hours or my gas money for these spy trips of yours to go snooping around the correctional facilities.”

  Outside the large window above the sink, Dad’s black and beige-trimmed F150 and its frayed timing belt whirred, filling the short pauses between the men’s stove-side chat. Behind Dad’s truck, Deputy Walls’ squad car sat empty. Its cherry lights spun off the shadows cast by the sun that winked at us from behind the golden foothills guarding the Pacific.

  Jesse widened his lips at Dad and looked like one of those angry political cable show guys right before they opened their traps and began yelling about stuff they couldn’t control. But he stopped there. Jesse remembered we weren’t the only ones inside the house and instead, spoke to Dad in a strained whisper, “Frank… Pacquito… you need to believe me. The town’s being hijacked. It’s happening.”

  Dad drew a blank stare and sighed. His mind had been made up. I could see it in the way his forearm muscles twitched and torqued. The usual forgiving smile and mild demeanor were gone, too.

  With desperation squeezing out sweat beads from his forehead, Jesse turned to me again and said, “Miguel, tell him everything you’ve seen. Everything we’ve discussed.”

  Before deciding if I should answer Jesse’s question, I glanced over at Dad. He replied silently, with a head shake—a not-so-subtle hint that I needed to keep my mouth shut. After all, he, too, was my employer and responsible for feeding me and keeping a roof over my head.

  I definitely had more to lose than Jesse at that particular moment, so I stayed quiet. I turned my back and opened the refrigerator door to look inside. I was damn hungry.

  As soon as I started rummaging for something to eat, I gave up the idea of making a sandwich when the loud whoosh of a toilet flush gave me pause and the second flush really killed my food-finding mission. Deputy Walls had finished his long and lawful deposit after graciously asking to use our guest bathroom. And by guest bathroom, that meant the one where you didn’t have to jiggle the handle afterward. Or use the plunger.

  Both Jesse and Dad stood from their chairs, anticipating Deputy Walls strutting in any second, wearing a brown Stetson and talking in a familiar and folksy style he’d picked up from a time when Wheatville looked more like him than like us.

  I heard his boots coming.

  The door swung open and the 70-something year old lawman stepped into the kitchen with shades still on. The taps from his boots on the linoleum complemented the buzzing from the idling vehicles outside, creating a beat that’d make a head bob.

  He took off his hat and placed it on the table before wiping his brow of sweat. The deputy then removed his Ray-Bans—revealing his baggy-lidded blue eyes—and rubbed the sunglasses lenses with his handkerchief.

  “Well, Mr. Hernandez, what have you decided to do?” he calmly asked.

  Dad stood tall and fixed his eyes on Jesse and held out his hand. “Jesse. I need the truck keys.”

  I wasn’t shocked. It was lame though, really lame, but not surprising. Dad’s auto insurance premiums had gone through the roof and even in old age, Jesse was still a tad too reckless for comfort.

  Upon hearing Dad’s answer, Jesse quickly handed over the keys—one for the ignition and the other for the garishly green camper shell—and proceeded to slump back into his chair, shooting an empty gaze toward the cracked linoleum.

  Sadly, Jesse still felt productive and wanted to continue being part of something, even though all he did was run errands and deliveries for Dad and keep the watering schedule for the avocado trees. And now, with Jesse no longer having access to a vehicle, I felt he’d just been condemned to a dull and trapped existence at home.

  Deputy Walls put his hands on his hips and said, “Really, Frank? I wasn’t asking you to f—”

  “It’s okay, Carson—it’s fine,” Dad said to him. “Even if Jesse hadn’t been caught sneaking around the prison or been perfect from there on out, it’s something that had to be done, regardless.”

  I knew our business was struggling, but not this much, so I asked, “What ya’ mean by that, Dad?”

  Again, he shushed me. This time, though, with a wave of his hand. “Miguel, we’ll talk later.”

  Jesse lifted his head from the palms of his hands and pleading eyes looked up at Deputy Walls. “Carson, I know we’ve had our differences throughout the years, but this… I mean, do you protect and serve profits now, or are you still looking out for the taxpayers?”

  Deputy Walls chuckled. He then placed his thick, sun-spotted hands on his blue-jeaned thighs and leaned in close to Jesse. “If I’ve accepted the changes that have swept Wheatville, I’m sure you can, too. Remember? You were at Mr. Chavez’s side almost 50 years ago… at the forefront… sparking the change?” Deputy Walls said, somewhat sarcastically. “When that gay magician couple bought that almond villa, I didn’t give a shit. We’ve got the lowest crime rate in 30 years. Walmart’s got a new supercenter up the highway. These prisons are adding jobs. Quit obsessing over loony conspiracy theories. Of course I still serve and protect the public at large.”

  Jesse smirked and leaned back in his chair, as it was his turn to cross his arms. “Conspiracy theories, huh?”

  If there was one thing that upset Jesse the most, it was when someone discounted what he knew, or at least what he thought he knew. He happened to be correct most of the time, or least some parts of what he knew usually proved to be correct… after much deliberation, of course.

  Once again, his lips widened, but this time, instead of narro
wing and closing them with cowardice, they spewed out what Jesse was best known for: his impassioned appeals for truth, justice, and the American Way.

  No cape required. Just a thick, gray goatee and a faded T-shirt from one of the many folk festivals he’d attended over the past four decades.

  Then they came. His words, his thoughts—even the swearing—poured from his mouth fast and smooth, like machine gun fire. To most, it was crazy talk, like the ramblings of a desert prophet way past his prime. To some, his speeches were an assault—not necessarily on anyone’s pride, but on the senses. To me, whenever Jesse Castro freaked out, it was as if I were staring out a window to the past when men and women fought passionately, putting their words and convictions and even themselves on the line. Not for their favorite sports team, their preferred brand of Smartphone, or their favorite, two-bit, lying politician—but dissent for the common good.

  Yes, it was a spectacle of sorts, and we became hypnotized by the memorized and regurgitated trivia. Most of it was beyond my understanding. But his view on things and the way he said them sure felt important. Words like: Corporate, private prisons, military-industrial complex, and police state. Stuff I knew Jesse was on top of, but also the kind of stuff I’d hear from the schizos panhandling near off-ramps whenever I drove into Bakersfield.

  “Don’t you see?” Jesse said to everyone in the room, followed by a deep breath and a long pause. “Prisons and shareholders don’t mix.”

  Deputy Walls raised his Stetson off the table and fitted it back on his thick head. He took a step back away from the table and said, “Society has given into your whims, Jesse, and you still want more? Kinda greedy, don’t ya’ think? Stop defending those who don’t need defending.”

  “They’re bad people, Jesse,” my father added. “They’re in prison for a reason.”

  “So, if I’m caught with a little weed, I’m as bad as some rapist? I know there are guys serving time there because they got caught with an ounce,” Jesse said.

  Deputy Walls sighed and didn’t engage Jesse’s claim. He walked to the back door and turned to Dad and said, “Mr. Hernandez, I appreciate you letting me use your bathroom.”

  “Of course, Carson,” Dad replied, as he tossed the keys my way. “Thanks for the help and leniency.”

  “I’ve cut both of you some slack. I know he means well,” the deputy added, pointing and winking at Jesse. He then looked to me and said, “Kid, tell him to knock off the suspicious behavior. Next time, he’s gonna alert a state official or the feds, and they ain’t gonna buy his act that he’s an investigative journalist and blogger.”

  Blogger? If Jesse had a blog, that was news to me.

  “I ain’t done nothing illegal, Carson,” Jesse said boldly.

  Deputy Walls held the screen door open with one hand and smirked. “I didn’t say you’re breaking the law. You’d be in cuffs right now if that were the case. Please Jesse, let the law do its thing, okay?” he said. “No one’s rights are being violated here.”

  As we watched Deputy Walls exit our kitchen and step into his squad car, Dad said to me, “Miguel, take Jesse home. Come back right away. We need to go over a few things.”

  I nodded my head silently and headed to the door. He put a cell phone down on the table and pushed it toward me. “Take this with you. You’re going to need it from now on.”

  I guess Jesse getting fired by Dad was what it took for me to finally get my own cell phone.

  Jesse stood from his chair fast and the legs scraped the floor.

  Dad looked at him, wiped the sweat from his hands on his rolled-up shirt sleeves and said, “I’m sorry, Jesse. We’ll talk later this week, when things settle down—is that all right with you?”

  Jesse remained silent and stubborn and refused to make eye contact with Dad as he followed me out the door and into the idling F150.

  Zombie Party

  is available at:

  Amazon Kindle * Amazon UK * Amazom AU

  About the Author:

  Chanel Smith was born and raised in Los Angeles, California. She has since moved to Portland, Oregon, where she lives with her husband and two dogs. When not writing, she spends her time training dogs, hiking, biking and anything else that will get her outside in nature.

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  Please visit her at www.chanelsmithbooks.com.

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