Vigilante Dead

by DV Berkom

  Just past the small town of Brinnon, the van slowed and turned right down a gravel drive, toward the water. I drove past to see where they were going before hooking a U-turn to head back. A short distance from the driveway I killed the lights and pulled to the side of the road. Grabbing a penlight and my black coat, I slid my phone into a side pocket and the semiauto into the holster underneath my shirt, and exited the vehicle.

  Careful to keep away from the ditch but remain close enough to the woods to hide, I picked my way through the darkness, silently cursing when a clutch of blackberry vines snagged my coat. Keeping my fingers clear of the brambles I released the vines and continued on. I stopped for a moment to let my eyes adjust to the lack of light and made a mental note to store a pair of night vision goggles in the console. Luckily, the moon was full so I had its blue-white glow to guide my way.

  The air was cool and damp with the distinct aroma of cedar mixed with briny salt water. Gravel crunched underfoot as I followed the road down a slope toward the canal, all while staying alert for signs of the white van.

  It wasn’t long before I spotted it parked next to a small cabin on the shore of the canal. There weren’t any lights on, so I skirted the building, staying in the shadows in case one of the van’s occupants decided to take a stroll.

  The sound of low voices floated through the night air as I crept toward the water. A long wooden dock stretched into the canal. The two men were on the dock, struggling to carry a large bundle between them. Moonlight glinted off the plastic they’d used to conceal what I assumed was Bobby’s body. They made it to the end of the dock and dropped the bundle at their feet. One of the men broke away and headed back toward shore. I ducked behind the thick trunk of a fir tree as he walked to the van and climbed inside.

  A few minutes later he reappeared with a coil of rope and something heavy in his hands and retraced his steps to the end of the dock. One of the men half-lifted the body, while the other secured the heavy object to its chest with the rope. Finished, the man let go of his half of the body, and they rolled it over the end of the dock into a small skiff. Water lapped at the sides of the boat from the impact. The shorter of the two jumped in behind it and started the motor. The rpms increased, humming through the quiet night air as he drove away from the dock. The second man watched him go for a moment and then turned back toward the van.

  Just then, my cell vibrated against some loose change in my pocket.

  Shit.

  The man on the dock froze for an instant before he turned. Heart in my throat, I slipped farther behind the tree and silenced my phone. Then I eased my gun out of the holster.

  “Who’s there?” The man reached behind him. The silhouette of a gun appeared in his hand. He started walking toward me.

  My finger curled around the trigger, but then I thought better of it and released the pressure. If I shot at him from this distance in the dark, I’d likely miss and give up my position. On the other hand, hitting me while moving would be a lot harder to do, especially since I was dressed in all black. Besides, the sound of the gun going off would carry farther since we were near the water. I didn’t think he’d want to wake up the neighbors.

  I decided to chance it.

  Pivoting, I sprinted back the way I’d come, ramping into a flat-out run by the time I cleared the cabin. A round splintered a tree next to me, spraying bark, while another thudded into the dirt a couple of feet away. Adrenaline mixed with fear spurred me on. I crested the drive, and a sharp stitch wracked my side. Gasping, I clutched at my ribcage and slowed to catch my breath. I didn’t hear any footsteps behind me.

  Then the van’s engine turned over.

  The stitch eased enough so that I covered the rest of the ground between me and the Tahoe in a matter of seconds. I jumped in, turned the key, and roared onto the highway.

  It wasn’t long before the van’s headlights appeared behind me. Casting furtive glances in the rearview mirror, I shoved the accelerator to the floor and the SUV shot forward.

  The lights of the van grew smaller, and I breathed a sigh of relief. I kept up my speed and scanned the road ahead.

  My headlights illuminated a curve in the road. I eased off the accelerator with a glance in my rearview.

  Lights. And they looked close.

  Accelerating out of the curve, the Tahoe screamed past mailboxes and darkened waterfront cabins. No one was out this time of night.

  Where the hell was the sheriff?

  I dug in my coat pocket and brought out my cell. I pressed the first number, but there was a loud crash as the van slammed into the Tahoe’s tailgate. The SUV juddered forward. I lost my grip on the phone, and it launched onto the passenger floor.

  The van rammed me again. Struggling to keep hold of the steering wheel, I floored it and the gap between us widened.

  And then closed.

  There was only one thing I could think of to do. I checked that my seatbelt was secure, and took a deep breath.

  And hit the brakes.

  The tires squealed in protest, filling the cab with the acrid scent of burning rubber. My arms, legs, and head shot forward, while the rest of my body stayed put. Everything that wasn’t secured in the cargo area took flight, slamming into the windshield and pelting the back of my seat.

  Then the van plowed headlong into the back of the SUV and my head snapped into the headrest. Metal twisted and groaned and splinters of shattered glass flew through the air. The crunch of metal drowned out my moans as the joined vehicles shuddered to a stop.

  Heart galloping in my chest I did a quick inventory, feeling for broken bones and lacerations. A lot of body parts promised to ache for days, but nothing seemed broken, just a bunch of little cuts and soon-to-be bruises. Fighting back a wave of nausea I pivoted in my seat to survey the damage.

  The Tahoe’s cargo compartment had been replaced by the front end of the white van. What was left of the driver lay across my back seat, having entered the Tahoe through the van’s broken windshield. The grisly scene would have been a good poster for what could happen when you didn’t use a seatbelt. The van’s one remaining headlight lit up the blood and brain mixed with shards of glass lacing his dark, matted hair. Swallowing the bile rising in my throat, I waited to see if he moved, but he didn’t. Reality hit and another wave of nausea roiled through me. I unbuckled my seatbelt and tried to take a deep breath. Sharp pain lanced across my ribcage.

  Shallow breaths, Kate.

  Shouldering open the door, I fell out of the SUV onto the blacktop and groaned, my right hand gripping the doorframe to stay upright. I felt my torso but the gun wasn’t there. After a quick search, I found it underneath the steering column. I staggered around the Tahoe to better assess the damage. The result was a crudely smashed together SUV-van hybrid.

  I wasn’t going anywhere.

  Unable to open the passenger door, I climbed into the driver’s side and gingerly leaned over the back seat, careful not to graze the tender areas on my chest and abdomen. Even though I knew the gesture was futile, I wedged myself in between the two front seats and felt the man’s neck for a pulse. Warm, sticky blood from his head wound covered my fingers. I’d been right—there wasn’t a beat.

  Satisfied that he wouldn’t come to life á la some bad teenage horror film, and still fighting the nausea, I wiped my hand off on his jacket and turned around to search for my phone. It was still on the front passenger side, wedged underneath the floor mat. I grabbed it and looked at the screen.

  Sam had sent a text.

  Come home. It’s Lisa.

  Stomach twisting into knots, I hit speed dial. The call didn’t connect and I checked reception. No bars.

  I slammed my hand on the steering wheel, tears of frustration pricking my eyes. “Dammit!”

  Walking up the road didn’t help. I was in cell phone hell. I texted Sam my location and a cryptic description of the accident and crossed my fingers that the message would make it through.

  ***

  Sam got the
message, and half an hour later two deputies from the Jefferson County Sheriff’s Department arrived, followed by a tow truck and an ambulance. After the paramedic checked me for injuries and cleaned and patched the cuts on my hands and face, I gave a detailed statement to the detective who arrived shortly afterward. Once the detective cleared me to leave, I hitched a ride back to Hoodsport with the tow truck driver.

  As soon as I had bars on my cell phone, I called Sam.

  “Lisa’s had a turn for the worse. You need to get to the hospital, now.”

  “Can you come and pick me up? I had to have the rig towed.”

  “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  ***

  When we arrived at the hospital, a nurse took me straight back to Lisa’s room. Dad and Maureen were already there. Dad gave me a hug, but Maureen turned away when I walked in.

  Nice.

  Dr. Patel was off that evening, and the attending physician in the ICU was busy with other patients. By the looks of my sister, it was obvious that things weren’t good. Lisa’s blood pressure had dropped significantly, and they’d had to intubate her to help her breathe.

  “What happened to you, love bug?” my dad asked, referring to the bandages on my face.

  “Nothing to worry about. Just a fender bender.” I didn’t feel like going into my harrowing evening. I was still processing.

  We sat silently. With her eyes closed, Lisa looked peaceful, even though a machine was breathing for her.

  Feeling helpless and unable to take any more of Maureen’s glares, I walked back out into the waiting room where Sam was reading a magazine. I sat down next to him and leaned my head on his shoulder. He put his arm around me.

  “Lisa’s stable, at least.” I sighed, holding back tears. The adrenaline from the evening had dissipated, leaving me weak and empty.

  Sam turned me to face him. He ran his finger lightly over one of the bandages on my face. “How are you doing?”

  The concern in his eyes was comforting. I clung to it like a drowning woman would a breath of air.

  “I’m fine. Sorry about the rig. I’ll pay for a new one.”

  “Don’t worry about it. Insurance will probably take care of most of the damage.” Sam raised an eyebrow. “You mentioned a ‘minor’ accident when you called. Imagine my surprise when I show up to find a hunk of twisted metal.” He shook his head. “I’m just glad you’re all right.”

  I gave him my best rendition of a smile. Remembering the pill I’d found on Dora’s living room floor, I pulled the baggie out of my pocket. “I found this at Dora’s. Looks like the same kind that was in Lisa’s purse.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “I’ll drop it off at the lab first thing. What happened to Bobby?”

  “Somewhere in the Hood Canal. I don’t think the guy driving the van was the killer. Another man helped weigh down the body and roll it into a skiff. Then he got in and motored away. Obviously, he was going to dump it somewhere. I think there’s a good chance that he was the killer. I told the detective, but without the body, what can they do? It’s six hundred feet deep in places.”

  “I imagine there’s more than just Bobby’s corpse floating around out there. It’s a good place to dump someone.”

  I gave him a look. “Since when did you start thinking about good places to hide a body?”

  He shrugged. “Police work. You have to think like the bad guy.”

  I stared at him. Of course. I’d been going about this all wrong. I needed to think like a criminal. I had a lot of experience in that department. Why not use it?

  An idea began to form in my mind, but I didn’t want to share it with Sam. Unless and until I’d thought it through and could present a coherent argument for doing what I was thinking of doing, I’d have to keep quiet.

  I just hoped I had enough time.

  Nine

  THE NEXT AFTERNOON, Sam’s contact at the lab called with the preliminary test results for the pills I found in Lisa’s purse. Not only did the screening identify an excessively large dose of poor-quality fentanyl, but the lab picked up significant amounts of lead and other contaminants, including arsenic, matching what Dr. Patel said.

  “We have to find out who manufactured these counterfeit meds, and where they got their ingredients.” Sam tossed the Whitmore file on the desk. Earlier in the day Jax, our IT guy, had emailed a report on whatever information he could recover from Jason’s laptop. There wasn’t much that looked promising.

  We’d regrouped at the office after the harrowing night at the hospital. Lisa was still hooked up to a machine and she still hadn’t recovered from the earlier blood pressure drop, but she was alive, and for that I was thankful.

  “Ian gave me his dealer’s contact information, so that’s a start.”

  “Have you given any thought to calling Chance?”

  Chance was retired Drug Enforcement Administration supervisor Chance Goodeve. I’d made his acquaintance when he helped me get out of Mexico and escape from my ex, Roberto Salazar, and I trusted him implicitly. He had extensive contacts that could prove useful in our search for the source of the drugs.

  I nodded. “Chance is the one person I trust, but I don’t think Mac would like having the DEA in his face.”

  “Then again, he might welcome the help.” Sam studied me for a moment, his dark eyes boring into my soul. Uncomfortable under his scrutiny, I shifted in my chair.

  I hadn’t told him that I’d been thinking about what I could do to find the source myself. By necessity, the wheels of a police investigation turned slowly. If the DEA got involved it would take even longer. Not only were the police answerable to the state of Washington, the DEA was beholden to government oversight, and going off the reservation opened the agency up to public scrutiny and harsh penalties. Additionally, either agency had to build a watertight case that would hold up in court. I, on the other hand, had no such restrictions.

  “What’s going on in that beautiful, devious brain of yours?”

  Like I said, Sam was spooky.

  Shrugging, I looked him in the eyes. “I’m trying to figure out a way to help them in their investigation. You know, speed things up a bit.” Which wasn’t really a lie. I just didn’t elaborate.

  Sam leaned across the conference table and took my hand, his expression grave.

  “Go through the proper channels, Kate. If you don’t, you know where this will lead. You’ve dealt with these types before.”

  “It’s my sister. I have to do something.” I stifled the emotions threatening to overwhelm me. The thought of my baby sister lying in a hospital bed oblivious to the world around her wasn’t a memory I wanted to keep having.

  He released my hand and leaned back in his chair.

  “I know. But think long and hard before you do anything that might compromise their case.”

  “I promise.”

  ***

  Deciding that it might help bring a faster resolution to the ongoing police investigation, I sent an email with my contact information to Chance’s former assistant, requesting that he contact me. Two hours later, my phone rang. It was Chance.

  We played catch-up for a few moments—I asked him how retirement suited him (he was bored), and he asked me how life was without Salazar and Anaya. Surprisingly, the first answer that popped into my head was similar to his.

  “What can I do for you, Kate? I assume this isn’t a social call.”

  “No, it isn’t.” I paused, thinking how to frame my request. “I need to talk to someone I trust. Obviously, I’m still leery of going directly to your old organization.” When I was on the run from Salazar and Vincent Anaya, the man who took over Chance’s supervisory role when he retired turned out to be a mole on Anaya’s payroll. He was still out there, somewhere, although both the DEA and the FBI were looking for him.

  “Understood. What have you got?”

  I told him about the Jason Whitmore case, my interview with Bobby and his subsequent murder, and concluded with my sister’s overdos
e. Then I told him about the Seattle PD’s ongoing investigation and my frustration with the lack of results. I left out Ian’s role in Lisa’s overdose, although told myself I’d give the DEA the information after I found out more about Ian’s dealer.

  “The attending physician mentioned a spike in fentanyl overdoses over the last couple of weeks. Sam’s contact in the SPD confirmed it.”

  “I’m sorry about your sister, Kate. That’s a terrible thing. But I’m not sure how I can be of help.” Chance’s voice had turned cautious. “I can certainly give your information to my contacts at the DEA, but unless the SPD requests their help with the investigation, there’s not much more I can do.”

  “Thanks, Chance. I appreciate whatever you can manage.” The information would be taken more seriously coming from Chance than it would from me. “I can’t sit around waiting for the SPD to take action. I need to do something for Lisa.”

  “I get it. Your little sister’s hurting and you feel responsible. But you need to remember, these things take time. Every little bit of information helps these agencies build a case, helps them find the major players. Each operation is different, with myriad details that need to be taken into account and looked at as a whole.” Chance paused. “Don’t work at cross purposes with them, Kate. Things aren’t always as cut and dried as they were with Salazar or Anaya. The SPD could be working on someone higher up in the food chain that you don’t know about. Any interference could at the very least cause a distraction, delaying the case. Worst case scenario, an agent winds up dead because you didn’t know the whole story.”

  “Don’t worry, I won’t. I only want to help.”

  We ended the conversation with Chance’s promise to give the information to the person in charge of investigating the fentanyl overdoses nationally, as well as suggesting the DEA assign a contact I could call in case Sam or I came across anything in our investigation for the Whitmores.