Vigilante

by Jessica Gadziala

  This didn't seem like it was going to be one of those nights.

  This was one of the nights where, no matter how much I tossed and turned, how many other memories I tried to use to fight those off, nothing would work.

  So, eyes the consistency of sandpaper, I climbed back out of bed and went back down in the bunker, firing up a new laptop from my stash, and setting out to do some research.

  I meant to look into this new bastard I needed to take out.

  That was my plan.

  Why then did my fingers type in Evangeline Cruz instead? Yeah, fuck if I knew. But that was what they did. And as soon as the search page loaded, I knew there was no going back.

  That was just how I operated.

  I was focused, methodical, painstakingly anal about details, thorough to the point of absolute obsessiveness.

  But in my particular line of work, I couldn't afford to be wrong. Unlike our fucked up criminal justice system, I actually did give a shit whether or not the man I was going to kill actually committed the crime. I checked and double checked and triple checked every fact. I retraced every step. I tried to find receipts or proof of their location near where certain events took place. I made sure their traces online went right back to where they were supposed to, not diverted somewhere in between to make a false trail for some other sicko to use the person as a pawn.

  I couldn't afford to fall asleep on the job.

  Not one man who made it down into my bunker hadn't been checked out until there was not even a shadow of a doubt of their guilt.

  Hell, just like Harold Grains, I often found proof of their crimes on their person. In their wallets or in their phones.

  It was like they couldn't afford to be away from their depravity for any length of time. They constantly needed it with them, like a security blanket for vicious, bottom-feeding filth.

  Statistically, one in twenty-five sentenced to death in the United States penitentiary system was innocent.

  Me, well, that would be zero.

  I've never fucked up.

  I spent weeks, or even months, looking into these people.

  I was hoping it wouldn't take me that long to find traces of the real parents of one Evangeline Cruz.

  There simply wouldn't be that long.

  She would be showing back up in no time.

  There was no way she was thinking I was yanking her chain when I told her someone was trying to kill her. What's more, I was actually being honest. Someone was most definitely trying to kill her. The only reason I didn't insist we figure that shit out right away was that I knew it wasn't going to kill her anytime soon.

  How she missed the signs were beyond me.

  My best guess was that she was so consumed with finding me and bringing me in that she didn't stop to think about her own well-being. I understood obsession, so I could see how she maybe missed something that was, for all intents and purposes, rather subtle.

  But she trusted my eye enough to know I wouldn't have been mistaken. And as soon as she maybe got some rest, got some food, and found some nerve, she would be back.

  I only had until then to find her mother at the very least.

  To do that, I had to trace her so-called father back to his whereabouts approximately twenty-two years before. If she wasn't his, if she was somehow stolen from her birth parents, it had to have happened before she was five, after which kids generally would remember something like being ripped from their mother. Hell, even five seemed like it was pushing it, but some kids just had crummy memories, and others had brains that needed to shut down and shut out that trauma, never to resurface again.

  If only all of us were so lucky.

  "Fuck," I growled, shaking my head at myself.

  I didn't do that; I didn't go all woe-is-me. It didn't matter that I had genuine reason to be hiding in a corner humming for the rest of my life. Those things were a part of my childhood. I was a grown ass man. I refused to be a mother fucking victim. I locked that shit down in a vault and I never, ever, let it back out except in times when my guards were down too much to fight it- right before sleep, and during my unconscious moments.

  Every other moment... Locked. The. Fuck. Down.

  That was the way it had to be, so that was the way it was.

  I took out whatever residual feelings, namely rage, that were left over, and channeled them into my own personal little mission in life. So far, so good. It kept me sane. It lifted a bit of the weight I had always felt knowing from such a young age what kind of vile filth existed within seemingly normal human beings. It felt like it was my responsibility not to expose it per se, but to exterminate it. I swear if I could round all the fucks up, stick them in a room, and set off a smoke bomb like you do to kill roaches, I'd do it in a fucking heartbeat. But with great fanfare came a greater chance of getting caught. And I needed to, as long as possible, keep going, keep ratting them out like a terrier, and taking them down one by one.

  If not me, who?

  That was what it came down to.

  Sure, every so often a rape victim will go apeshit and tear off the dick of her abuser and shove it up his own ass.

  But it was rare.

  And they tended to get caught.

  There were vigilantes spread out all over, operating right beneath the noses of local law enforcement. Hell, I knew of one who was a cop. Ten years on the job, and sick of there never being justice. So he took justice into his own hands.

  He was a pretty vicious bastard too.

  But while we did exist, we were rare. We had to be careful. It wasn't like when one cartel member gets taken out, another steps right in his place, getting his former boss's blood all over his shoes in his desire for power. When one of us was taken out, that meant more shitheads got away with what they did.

  If I was taken out, there was no one to step up in Jersey.

  I heard rumors of some new blood up in the city, but he had enough to deal with in that place. He wasn't coming down to Jersey to find child molesters and serial killers when he had plenty where he was.

  The longer I stayed around, the longer I was able to keep doing what I did, the better it was not just for myself, but all the unsuspecting potential victims in the area.

  I got up out of my chair, walking into the kitchen, and brewing a pot of coffee as I grabbed an energy drink out of the fridge and downed it while it brewed. I wasn't going to be sleeping, but I wasn't one of those people who did well without sleep either. My body never 'got used to it' as some claimed. It always brought about a general slowness and brain fog. So, to combat that, caffeine was mainlined until another day had passed, and it was time to try the sleep thing again.

  In the meantime, it was all about Alejandro's travels in the five-year window I figured there could be.

  African and Asian countries were automatically crossed off for obvious reasons. So that just left... shit.

  Argentina. Bolivia. Brazil. Chile. Colombia. Ecuador. Guyana. Paraguay. Peru. Suriname. Uruguay. Venezuela. Falkland Islands. Mexico. Cuba. Dominican Republic. Costa Rica. Puerto Rico. Guatemala. Honduras.

  And, well, let's not forget the lower United States just near the border.

  Alejandro himself had duel citizenship for both Colombia and the United States. Which was how Evangeline herself was considered a US citizen, despite barely spending any time in the states. I had copies of Alejandro's passport, along with all other incriminating information I had on him before I brought him in burned on a CD amidst my massive DVD collection. As I did with all my 'victims' who I was more likely to call 'marks' since they weren't victimized by me; they were brought to fucking justice. I could track back those stamps. It would be easier still if I had Evangeline's, but that was asking for too much. And there was really no way to track someone's passport movements save for from countries with exit visas or sharing agreements like the US, Canada, and Mexico.

  Bank statements could be used to track Alejandro, though he mostly dealt in cash, but that wouldn't help me narrow down
when he started bringing Evan along with him.

  But, no matter.

  Everything, literally everything, could be found out about a person if you dug long enough.

  Sure, scumbags like Alejandro were easier because they left a trail of victims. But I would find Evan's origins soon enough.

  Preferably before she showed back up.

  I figured I had about eight to ten hours.

  Plenty of time.

  I could even cut the time in a third if I maybe called in Barrett as well as some badass lady hackers he knew named Alex and Jstorm. And, sure, they knew who I was. They knew what I did. I also knew I could trust them, especially seeing as Alex and Jstorm were known for doing some cyber justice themselves, siphoning out money from certain assholes' Bitcoin accounts, and depositing them into the accounts for charities. Between all four of us, we'd not only have Evan's mother, but her back story, her grandparents' back stories, what diseases she might be pre-disposed to, and full fucking genealogy reports dating back three-hundred years.

  Yes, they were all that good.

  But I didn't want to call them.

  Why, you might ask.

  It was the most fucked up thing actually.

  I wanted the goddamn credit.

  I wasn't some dick who would say someone else's work was my own. So if I called the others in, I would need to tell Evangeline which parts I found myself, and which parts they had helped with.

  I wanted all the glory of finding out her origin story.

  It wasn't like me, but I was figuring it had something to do with the fact that I was responsible for the pain she was going through. Mix in the fact that I was ridiculously attracted to her, impressed by her, and maybe just had a slight desire for her gratitude, and you could pretty much understand the motive.

  Warped?

  Yeah, probably.

  Full of ego?

  Most definitely.

  But truthful nonetheless.

  I was nothing if I wasn't honest.

  The sun was streaking across the sky almost eleven hours later as the printer kept producing sheet after sheet for me which I was carefully stapling, arranging, and compiling into a folder. My hands were shaking slightly from the lack of sleep and overindulgence of caffeine. My eyes felt swollen and dry. My neck and shoulders had cricks. And, well, my stomach was twisted into a tight knot.

  Because I was so sure she would show up, that she would know I was being straight with her.

  But nothing.

  As I shuffled the last page into what was, apparently, a complete waste of my sleepless night, I finally heard it.

  See, I was down in the bunker.

  Why?

  Paranoia would likely be as accurate a description as any.

  My line of work made it likely that the cops would come find me eventually. If they raided my house, I was somewhat safe in the bunker. If they found the entrance to the bunker, well, I was working on that. I was slowly but surely digging out a small tunnel. Not for escape, because, quite frankly, I was too far in the middle of nowhere. There was nowhere to escape to. It was more like a place where I could hide out if they found a way into the bunker. Found a clever fucking way to hide the door too. But it was just meant to be a hiding place, a last ditch effort to remain a free man, free to continue my work.

  So I just... naturally gravitated to the bunker most of the time.

  Which made it hard as hell to hear anything above.

  But once the printer stopped spitting out paper, there was a definite tap tap tapping from a floor above.

  It was actually fucking embarrassing how fast I kicked my rolling chair back toward the laptop to check the outside camera.

  It was equally embarrassing, the ridiculous, borderline goofy fucking smile that threatened to split my face at seeing the ducked head of Evangeline standing there, her dark hair catching the sun, and making it look just as silky as it felt.

  Christ, I couldn't even remember the last time I smiled hard enough for it to pinch the muscles in my cheeks.

  Months?

  Years?

  Had I ever smiled that big?

  I slammed the file shut, tucked it under my arm, and went for the door to the upper floor.

  "You can't just tell a woman someone is trying to kill her, and then disappear, you jackass!" I heard her shriek through the door as her hand pounded into the thick wood. Actually, I was pretty sure I heard a goddamn kick too.

  If that wasn't the cutest fucking thing.

  "Keep your panties on," I called as I shut the door to the bunker, and moved across the floor to the front door. "Or, on second thought," I said, pulling the locks, "take them off, doll face," I added as I pulled it open to find her standing there, mouth parted comically.

  And, damn, there was the freaking goofy grin again.

  What the fuck?

  "Who is trying to kill me?" she recovered quickly, shaking her head, swallowing hard.

  I shrugged at that, leaning into the doorjamb. "Fuck if I know."

  SEVEN

  Evan

  I had a hard, okay nearly impossible, night of sleep.

  First, because, well, even when I tried to close my eyes, the image of my father and his buddies and those poor, abused women kept flashing across my mind.

  When I had gotten back to my room, I had needed to close out the tabs of the image, making dry heaves rack my body almost violently for another ten minutes before I finally got myself under control.

  Then, y'know, there was that other issue to deal with.

  Someone was trying to kill me?

  Of course, my knee-jerk reaction was to say he was bullshitting me, getting a bit of petty vengeance, screwing with my head further. After all, maybe that was just how the freak got his kicks.

  After sort of having his way with me.

  Ugh.

  That part did not factor in. Nope. Not at all.

  The sleeplessness was totally about the sudden and heart-wrenching reality of my father's life, and, well, the possibility of my far-off or maybe imminent death.

  Because it was hardly more than five minutes of back-and-forth in my head about it, I knew Luce wasn't screwing with me. If anything, the man seemed truthful to a fault. If he was saying someone was trying to kill me, then someone was trying to kill me. So, if he could see that someone was trying to kill me, then the evidence had to be on me somewhere.

  That sent me running into my bathroom, ripping my drying towel and robe off the back of my door to expose the long mirror standing there. With frantic fingers, I practically clawed my shirt, shorts, and panties off, looking myself over.

  But I couldn't seem to find anything amiss.

  That didn't mean it wasn't; it simply meant that Luce's eyes just managed to see more than mine did.

  It was not easy to sleep while considering your own mortality.

  I wondered how patients managed it when given only a couple months to live. I would be drowning in coffee and doing all the things I never made time for before I got sick.

  All in all, my life was better than most. I got to travel. I got to see the most beautiful, winding, light-sanded, piercing blue beaches in the world. I have tasted fruit no one north of the equator even knew existed. I had learned, and forgotten, several languages. I had known the touch of a man who wanted nothing in the world but to bring me pleasure. I had had the satisfaction of turning away a man who only meant to bring me pain. I had danced in life-changing festivals. I had lived. I had, as the saying went, lived deeply; I was full-up of the marrow of life.

  That didn't, however, mean I was ready to die.

  Hell, I hadn't gotten laid in a year.

  I couldn't go to my grave while in an epic dry spell.

  No way.

  And, you know, it would be nice to see my thirties.

  Or forties.

  Maybe explore the US a bit more.

  Find someone to will Diego to, seeing as it was looking more and more likely that he might outlive me.
/>   Ugh.

  Pathetic, I decided as I climbed out of bed, the sun peeking through the blinds, Diego already squawking his morning 'give me food' scream, I was being absolutely pathetic.

  What's more, it was for no reason.

  There was no reason to stress about it like there were no answers. I wasn't suffering from some debilitating and unknown illness.

  Because whatever was wrong with me, Luce had the answers.

  I was going to drag my ass back up his hill, and get them.

  After a shower, a clothing change, and making sure Diego couldn't cause too much trouble while I was away.

  It was almost noon by the time I finally reached the top of his godforsaken hill, walking through the woods for a couple minutes before I came across the low, dark cabin. Oddly, my thoughts as I walked up to the door, were that it didn't seem like a place that suited him. He was the kind of man who should live in, like, a renovated warehouse, all cement floors, brick walls, drafty windows, and maybe one of those abandoned industrial areas they use to mix big vats of liquids. You know... where he could dispose of bodies. I figured he was of the melting, not burying, sort. Burying was too sloppy, too traceable. He melted the bodies; I was sure of it. So, yeah, those big vats would come in handy.

  But yeah, this place was meant for some crotchety old man who drank shitty beer, and had the belly to prove it, while bitching about how the world was going to come to the end or some nonsense like that, some angry, backward loner with no one left in the world to care about them.

  There was a weird sinking feeling in my stomach at that thought though, wondering if perhaps that was the life Luce was going to lead. He was absolutely a loner. Was there some buried anger as well?

  How else would someone be able to do what he did in life?

  Normal, well-adjusted people did not become what was, essentially, a serial killer. Sure, he perhaps did it for the right reasons, but a killer was a killer. And judging by what I had seen about him online, the number of people he had put in the ground, or down the drain more likely, 'serial' definitely applied.