Jim Knighthorse Series: First Three Books

by J. R. Rain

  “One of them has a knife,” I said. “A big knife.”

  “Usually a machete,” said Fossil. He was standing by my side.

  Seagulls circled above. Other fish seemed to be churning the waters around the fishing vessel.

  “Why aren’t we fucking doing anything?” I said.

  “They’re in Mexican waters. We can’t.”

  “They’re going to kill it.”

  Fossil said nothing, and I leaned over the hull, out of the water, trying to get a better look. Two or three of the guys were pinning the shark down. I only caught glimpses of the creature. Its gray hide shimmered dully. The knife shimmered, too. Before it flashed down.

  The men fought the creature. I couldn’t see what was happening. Five minutes later, the man with the machete handed something flat and triangular over to someone else. The person he handed it to was grinning. He was a thick guy, as far as I could tell. The part down the center of his head was so prominent that I could see it even from here. He looked out towards us...and gave us the finger.

  “They just cut off its dorsal fin,” I said.

  “We see this too often.”

  “We need to stop them.”

  “It’s too late, my friend. And we can’t cross into a sovereign nation’s waters.”

  “There’s blood everywhere,” I said, feeling sick all over again. And there was, too. Flowing out of the boat. The pieces of shit had just cut off the creature’s tail fin. The animal was flapping a bloody stump. Still alive. In untold agony.

  “Why don’t they kill it?” I asked. My hands were gripped too tight around the binoculars; I could hear myself breathing. I had completely forgotten about my stomach.

  “Why waste the bullet?” said Fossil.

  “Fuck them,” I said. “We have any way of identifying their boat?”

  “We got its name. It’s called La Bonita. No doubt it hails from Ensenada where shark finning has become popular.”

  “Is shark finning illegal in Mexico?”

  “In theory. Unfortunately, there are many black markets where fins are sold.”

  I continued to watch the man with the machete go to work. He next removed each pectoral fin, carefully stepping around the massive creature. His machete gleamed with blood.

  “I can’t believe we’re just sitting here.”

  “I’m sorry, Jim.”

  I next watched as the entire group pushed the shark over the open railing. I caught sight of its beautiful, hammer-shaped head with its oddly human mouth convulsing in what had to be agony. The creature landed with a huge splash, and sank almost immediately. Still alive. Unable to swim. Unable to defend itself.

  Blood immediately bubbled to the surface.

  The fisherman who gave me the finger waved the pectoral fins at us, high-fived a friend, and then the boat chugged south.

  The seagulls circled, squawking loudly.

  And as they left, turning their vessel away from us, I caught sight of something that would doom them. Or doom me.

  I saw cages on the deck. Wire mesh cages.

  What was in the cages, I didn’t know.

  But I could guess.

  Chapter Nineteen

  As I pulled into the McDonald’s parking lot on Beach Boulevard, I saw him sitting alone in a front booth, sipping from his coffee.

  I parked and sat in my car for a minute or two and studied him. Heat waves undulated off the Mustang’s hood. Jack undulated with them, drinking his coffee slowly. He seemed to be enjoying his coffee. Even from here I could see the hint of a smile on his face. Or maybe it was in his eyes, the way they crinkled. Sweat rolled down my spine, between my shoulder blades. If I stayed in the car much longer, I was going to have to crack the window. For the moment, I ignored the heat.

  Who was he? Who was he really?

  How did he know I was going to be here today? I had only made the decision to come here, what, two minutes ago? I happened to be in the area and decided I needed to talk.

  And there he sat.

  Waiting.

  Maybe he really is God.

  Despite myself I laughed...and headed into the restaurant.

  “You knew I was coming,” I said after ordering myself a drink.

  “You knew you were coming here long before that, James.”

  “Not consciously.”

  He shrugged one shoulder, almost playfully. “Perhaps not.”

  “Whether or not I knew I was coming here hours ago, or just a few minutes ago, still doesn’t account for how you knew I would be here today.”

  “Maybe it was a lucky guess.”

  “Or maybe you’re God.”

  “Maybe I am.”

  “You’re very frustrating,” I said.

  “You could choose to see me that way. Or you could choose another way.”

  “What way?”

  He set his coffee cup down. Jack needed to shave. The hair on his face was peppered with gray. There was a dimple in his cheek I hadn’t noticed before. His eyes twinkled. Eternally twinkled.

  “Playful,” he said.

  “I think I would rather have God be serious.”

  “Because life is serious?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Life is damn serious.”

  He nodded and looked down at his coffee cup, which he held in both hands. “Life can be serious, Jim. That I will not deny. But life can also be full of joy.”

  “For some,” I said. “Not for everyone. And certainly not for everything. There is much suffering in this world. Too much.”

  “I agree.”

  “Then why don’t you do something about it?”

  “Sometimes you need to see the acts of violence, Jim, to appreciate the acts of kindness.”

  “But that does nothing for those suffering,” I said.

  “Then don’t let their suffering be in vain. Hear their cry and take action.”

  “I’m just one man.”

  “So am I,” he said.

  “You’re more than just a man,” I said.

  He tilted his head toward me. “And so are you, Jim.”

  Chapter Twenty

  I parked my van a few houses down from the address in question. It was late, just past midnight, and this was my first time here.

  Oddly, I felt nervous. Apprehensive.

  It had been nearly a month since my discovery. My discovery being, of course, that the son of the very man who had investigated my mother’s murder—the same investigator who had turned up zero evidence—looked exactly like the image in the age-progression photograph.

  I sat in my van and studied the single-story home. A home that wasn’t even four miles from mine. There was a white truck parked out front. The garage was wide enough to fit two cars. The lawn was manicured with a curved walk that led up to the front door. The home was fenced on both sides of the property. The fences were lined with hedges and roses. For all intents and purposes, a very normal-looking Orange County home.

  That just so happened to be four miles from my own.

  I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel. My stomach was roiling. Nerves. I had been sitting on this information for nearly a month. But since my mother had been dead now for twenty-one years, I figured I could wait a few more weeks to decide my next step. Besides, the bastard wasn’t going anywhere.

  Almost a month ago.

  A month to stew. A month to brood. A month to come to terms with this improbable piece of information.

  My mother’s murder was still technically open, although it might as well have been closed. Nothing had been done on it for nearly two decades. And to top it off, the key piece of evidence had been languishing in my father’s moving boxes for years.

  The pictures.

  My mother deserved better than this. She was a good person. A good mother. She had no family, just me. She had no friends, just me. I was a mama’s boy, admittedly. It’s hard not to be a mama’s boy when your father is ice cold.

  I watched the home for another ten minutes from th
e driver’s side, then slipped through the little doorway that led to the rear of the van. There, I got comfortable in one of the swivel recliner chairs, and through a heavily-tinted window, I watched the home all night long.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  I was certain I hadn’t fallen asleep.

  Then again, when you stare at something long enough, in a comfortable-enough chair, on a quiet-enough street not too far from the beach, well, you’re bound to slip in and out of consciousness.

  Except I was pretty sure I hadn’t slipped in and out of consciousness. I was pretty sure I had stared at that fucking house with its white Ford F-150 parked in the driveway, its seven bottlebrush plants following the curve of the driveway, its mostly green grass except for the dry spot in the middle, and its bright porch light that seemed to somehow reach through the heavily-tinted glass and straight to the back of my head.

  After what seemed like an eternity, the porch light finally turned off and a thirty-something woman with a nice-enough body appeared in the doorway. She wore workout clothes. She did a few stretches, appeared to crack her neck, then headed down the driveway, hung a right, jogged past my van on the opposite side of the street, then continued on.

  I watched her through the tinted rear window until she hung a right at the far corner and disappeared.

  There was barely enough light out to call this morning. The sun was still forty or fifty minutes away. I briefly marveled at morning people. I was fairly certain the woman had been smiling to herself as she passed me by.

  I checked my cell phone. A smile on her face at 5:43 in the morning?

  Who smiled at 5:43 in the morning?

  I marveled at this, and then let it go.

  The morning continued to brighten. Birds twittered with a little more energy. Somewhere an early worm was getting devoured. Somewhere in that house across the street, a killer was either sleeping or watching his kids. And somewhere not too far from here, my mother’s bones were rotting away.

  I rubbed my forehead, my eyes, my face, the stubble along my jaw. It was all I could do to not burst in there, guns blazing.

  Time and place, I thought.

  Besides, I still don’t know if he was the killer. His only crime to date was circumstance.

  Cars started appearing on the street. No one paid a roofing truck any mind. No one knew I was staring out the heavily-tinted window.

  The woman came back. His wife, I assumed. Looked pretty good for having three kids. Not perfect. But good.

  As my mechanic friend Charles liked to say: Good enough.

  I should have felt bad for her. I should have felt bad for her kids. I should have felt bad for them because one way or another—unless I was dead wrong about Gary Tomlinson—they were going to be without a husband and a father.

  I should have felt bad.

  But I didn’t.

  * * *

  I spent the day following Gary.

  He was a medium-sized man with a great tan. I wasn’t sure if he even worked. Maybe I had caught him on his day off. I followed him to his kids’ school, where he dropped off the twin girls and their brother. I followed him to Gold’s Gym in Newport. Then to Whole Foods in Huntington Beach. I followed him to the cleaners and then back home.

  At four in the afternoon, after Gary had picked up his kids, I peeled off and went home and went to bed, and willed myself to not dream of finding my mother’s body in a pool of her own blood, to not dream of her lifeless eyes and her cold flesh. To not dream of the deep wound in her neck.

  But no such luck.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  “So you’re really going?” Cindy asked.

  We were hiking on a wooded trail in Oak Canyon Nature Center in Anaheim Hills. Wooded trails in Orange County were not easy to come by, so we had to drive forty-five minutes to find this one.

  “Yes,” I said. We both carried water bottles. The water bottles were Cindy’s idea. She also shoved two Luna bars in her fanny pack, should we get lost on the well-marked trail and end up in someone’s shaded backyard gazebo without a snack.

  “To Ensenada to hunt shark hunters?”

  “Hunting the hunters, yes.”

  “How long do you expect to be gone?”

  “However long it takes to find them.”

  We broke through a tangle of trees and stepped out into the bright morning sunlight. By broke through, I meant we strolled forward on a dirt path wide enough to play a game of touch football on.

  Vibrant and prickly cacti crowded the trail, a reminder that the deserts of California were never very far away.

  “What are these cactus called again?” I asked.

  “Beavertail,” said Cindy. She was sweating. Her shades had slipped down to the tip of her nose. She sort of looked like a petite Susan Sarandon.

  “I’m sorry, what?”

  “Beaver—oh, shut up, Jim!” She slapped at me absently, apparently too exhausted from our nine-minute hike to put much effort into a full shoulder slap.

  Soon, we fell into step next to each other. I noted that my shadow was a good deal taller and wider than hers. As it should be. My shoulders were easily twice as wide as hers. So was my head. Jesus, I had a big head.

  She said after a few minutes, “The world is full of shark hunters, Jim.”

  I nodded. My shadow nodded, too. My head looked like a big block of cement nodding. Holy hell.

  She went on. “But I know you, Jim. I know those hunters made it personal.”

  Nod. Shadow nod.

  “It would have been better if they turned and split,” she said. “Rather than rubbing your face in it.”

  I didn’t nod. Instead, I thought of the poor creature being hacked alive, and thought of the cages. I thought of hooks in muzzles and paws and necks. I thought of the terror, the blood, the pain, the inhumanity.

  She looked at me and pushed up her glasses. They promptly slipped back down to the tip of her nose. She had a cute little upturned nose. Probably what kept the glasses from sliding all the way off.

  We turned up a path that led through a tangle of beavertail cacti. Soon, we were following a high trail that gave us a spectacular view of the park. Lining the rim of the park were many dozen million-dollar homes with stately back yards. At least half the backyards had a gazebo in them. Cindy led the way along this narrow, upper path. I let her since she was wearing my second-favorite shorts.

  “So what are you going to do if you find them?” she asked, glancing back.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Please don’t end up in a Mexican prison, Jim.”

  “I’ll do my best not to.”

  “Will Sanchez be going with you?”

  “Yes,” I said. “And I think it’s funny that you call him Sanchez, too.”

  “That’s what you call him.”

  “That’s what most people call him.”

  “So? Then why is it funny when I call him Sanchez?”

  I grinned. “It just is.”

  She might have rolled her eyes but from my position, all I could see were her snug-fitting shorts as we continued our climb up. “Anyway,” she said, stressing the word. “I feel better knowing he’ll be with you.”

  “Most people would.”

  When we had reached the shade of a rocky overhang, Cindy hugged me particularly tight, burying her face in my shoulder, and wouldn’t let go. I hugged her back and held her as long as she needed to be held. Her hair, I noted, smelled perfect. If perfect had a smell, it was her hair.

  From over her head, I could see the many back yards. “So what’s the deal with all the gazebos?”

  She laughed a little into my shoulder. “Oh, Jim.”

  “Well?”

  “Gazebos are pretty, Jim.”

  “That’s it?”

  She hugged me tighter. “It’s enough.”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  “So do we know these dudes’ names?” asked Sanchez.

  I shook my head. We were in line at the Mexican bo
rder. I hadn’t been to Mexico in twelve years, back when I was in college. Back when getting drunk in foreign places sounded exotic. Now I prefer getting drunk alone, in my apartment. Just me and my alcohol and sometimes copious amounts of Oreos.

  “So we’re going in there blind?”

  “I have the name of their boat.”

  “The La Bonita,” said Sanchez.

  “Yes.”

  “Any clue how many boats are fucking called La Bonita?”

  “No clue.”

  “Well, let me fill you in, kemosabe. Shitloads.”

  “Shitloads, huh? You know this for a fact?”

  “Supposition. Cops are good at supposition. Something you wouldn’t know.”

  “Since I ain’t a cop?”

  “Right.”

  “We’re both detectives, Sanchez.”

  “But only one of us has a real badge.”

  “I have a private investigator’s license.”

  Sanchez snorted and looked away. We were driving my crime-fighting van with its tinted windows and control station inside. By control station, I meant a desk with some electrical jacks, the world’s smallest bathroom, and a couple of comfortable chairs.

  I showed the guard at the checkpoint my visa. He checked it out and let me pass. Soon, we were traveling through Tijuana. Tijuana has a lot of good people living in absolute poverty. We moved through it steadily, following a single-lane highway past billboard after billboard selling something called Corona Light. Interspersed with the Corona Light billboards were smaller billboards for Pacifico and Tecate. Beer was alive and well in Mexico.

  The single-lane highway wound around Tijuana and soon followed the coast south. Here, we passed nicer homes with beautiful views of the Pacific Ocean and Corona Light billboards. Some of the homes even had graffiti on them.

  “What are the chances,” I said, as we passed what appeared to be an auto mechanic whose entire facade was painted to look like a giant Corona beer bottle, “of finding some beer somewhere?”