Vigilante Dead

by DV Berkom

  About an hour later, there was a sharp knock at the door. Engrossed in my new book, I jumped at the intrusion. Frowning, I set my tablet down and went into the bedroom to grab the Beretta. Checking to make sure there was a bullet in the chamber, I slid it into the waistband of my jeans.

  The door had no peephole, so I angled myself near the window to get a look at who was standing outside. It was the guy I’d passed on the beach.

  I went to the door and cracked it open, keeping my foot jammed against the bottom. A gust of wind raced through, and I moved behind the door.

  “Sorry to bother you, but I’m afraid my power’s going to go out, and I can’t find any matches to light a fire.” Two pools of water had formed near his feet from rain dripping off his Columbia raincoat.

  “Oh. Sure. Hold on a minute.” I closed the door to give him the idea I wasn’t open to visitors, then grabbed a handful of matchbooks from the kitchen drawer. I walked back to the door and cracked it open again. “Here you go,” I said, handing him the matches.

  “Thanks.” He leaned forward and glanced at the bottle of wine on the table, his expression telling me he’d be open to an invitation to share.

  I pushed on the door, narrowing the gap.

  “Anything else?” My body language and actions screamed leave me alone. Was he that dense? Finally, he got the drift.

  “Uh, no. These should do just fine. Have a good night—”

  I shut the door.

  After checking through the window to make sure he was gone, I walked back to the table and poured myself another glass of wine. I placed the Beretta on the couch, within easy reach. Earlier, when I’d gotten back from my walk, I looked through the windows of his locked car but didn’t find anything noteworthy. The curtains on his windows were drawn, so I wasn’t able to peek inside his cabin.

  Oh, stop it, Kate, I chided myself. He’s probably a really nice guy who’s getting over a divorce or a layoff or something like that. He’s probably just lonely.

  I wasn’t here for lonely. I was glad that the third cabin appeared to be empty.

  I read for a couple more hours before deciding to call it a night. The storm still raged, but I’d gotten used to the sounds and found them oddly comforting.

  As I was getting ready for bed, I glanced out the bedroom window. A light shone from a small window in the other cabin. Assuming the structures all had similar floor plans, it would have been the bathroom. The idea of someone staying in one of the other cabins didn’t sit well with me, even though he seemed harmless.

  I slid the Beretta under my pillow.

  Fifteen

  I’M IN A hallway in a hospital, peering into each room as I pass by, looking for Lisa. All the beds are full except the last one I come to. It’s a private room, with people crowded around an empty hospital bed. Relieved to see my father and Sam, I enter the room. Two doctors, two nurses, and my two older sisters are there. I walk over to ask them where Lisa is but they morph into Maureen, who is wearing the most hideous makeup I’ve ever seen—dark green eye shadow, exceptionally pink cheeks, yellow lipstick. Instead of her hair, a nest of vipers sway hypnotically around her head, their forked tongues flicking in and out. Their slit-pupiled gazes latch onto me as though honing in on their next meal.

  Shuddering, I turn to Sam, who is now sitting at a card table, immersed in a game of poker with my dad and the two nurses. The doctors look on, making side bets on who has the best hand. I try to get Sam’s attention, but he doesn’t hear me. I yell and scream, but no one pays me any mind.

  A loud banging, like the sound of a pile driver, can be heard down the hall. I turn to see what’s causing the noise, but Chance blocks the doorway. He grabs me by the arms and shouts “Wake up, Kate. You need to wake up.”

  Swimming back to consciousness, I opened my eyes to inky black. The banging hadn’t been a dream. Every few seconds a loud slam from outside the cabin punctuated the stillness.

  The glowing red numbers on the bedside clock read 3:34.

  I threw back the covers, grabbed my raincoat and the Beretta, and slid on a pair of jeans and my shoes. Peering out the window was no use—I couldn’t see anything. There were no perimeter lights, which had been part of the appeal of coming to this secluded section of the coast. At least it appeared that the worst of the storm had passed.

  Rummaging through the kitchen drawers, I found a small blue Maglite. I slid the gun in the front of my jeans and partially zipped my coat, allowing me access if I needed it but also to keep the material from flapping in the wind. I opened the door and stepped onto the dark front patio. The rain had stopped, leaving a brisk wind in its place. The air had a fresh, briny scent. Waves crashed below me, near the base of the cliff. The banging sound was coming from my right, near the other cabin. I peered around the corner but couldn’t see anything.

  Sweeping the beam of the flashlight on the ground in front of me, I followed the noise to the back of the other occupied cabin. A loose shutter slammed against the outside wall. Hoping for an easy fix, I walked over to inspect the problem when a rock skittered behind me. I turned, shining the flashlight toward the sound.

  The guy from the beach held his hand up, squinting in the beam. I lowered the light so it wasn’t directly in his eyes.

  “Is it the shutter?” he asked.

  “Yeah.” I turned back around and shined the Maglite at the loose mounting bracket. “Have you got a screwdriver?”

  “Something better.” There was a click and a bright light washed over the side of the cabin.

  “Thanks.” I turned off the Maglite and stowed it in my pocket as I inspected the shutter. “But I still need a screwdriver.” When he didn’t answer, I turned around and squinted at the bright light.

  “Put your hands behind your head.” The friendly voice was gone. “There’s a .45 pointed directly at your chest. If you do as I say, I won’t have to use it.”

  Fear rocketed up my spine. It wouldn’t matter if I screamed. No one would hear me. He hadn’t killed me yet—something he could have done easily. The Beretta felt solid against my stomach underneath my coat, but I didn’t dare draw attention to it. Not until I knew what he had in mind.

  “Put your hands behind your head,” he repeated.

  I did as instructed, averting my eyes from the larger flashlight’s beam.

  “Who are you?” My voice wavered from the combination of adrenaline and fear marching through my veins.

  Ignoring my question he said, “Start walking toward the beach.” The light spilled past me into the darkness beyond. I took a tentative step.

  Play for time, Kate.

  “Listen. I’m sure we can figure something out. I have money. Who do you work for?” My first thought was he could be a remnant from my past with Salazar and Anaya. Maybe this guy had been contracted to kill me and didn’t get the memo that they were dead. Kind of like the Japanese soldier who’d been living in a cave on an island in the South Pacific that wasn’t aware World War II had ended.

  No answer. I continued walking.

  “Who sent you?” I had to yell over my shoulder—we were nearing the bluff. The waves pounded angrily against the beach. Slowing my pace I added, “If someone wants me dead, then why don’t you just shoot me?”

  “My employer prefers to make it look like an accident.”

  That wasn’t good. Think, Kate. He doesn’t know you’ve got a gun. The waves grew louder. Time was running out. Either he’d break my neck and then roll my body over the cliff, or he’d simply push me onto the rocks below and hope the fall did the job. I didn’t think a professional would take the chance, though.

  He’d go with the first scenario.

  The flashlight beam bounced in time to his gait, making it difficult to navigate the uneven terrain. Walking with my hands behind my head didn’t help. I tripped over a rock and barely caught myself in time.

  Okay. That could work.

  Maybe.

  I didn’t have long. The split-rail fence materializ
ed in the beam of his flashlight. It was only a couple of yards ahead. Beyond was the cliff.

  It’s now or never, Kate.

  I took a step and pretended to twist my ankle. With a yelp I brought my arms down like I was trying to regain my balance. Crouching, I reached under my jacket, my fingers closing around the Beretta’s grip. I slid it free as I stumbled the rest of the way to the ground. Dropping my shoulder, I rolled onto my side and then up to a sitting position, keeping the gun hidden behind the folds of my jacket. I squinted into the beam of the flashlight, aimed the barrel of the gun where I thought he stood, and squeezed the trigger.

  The Beretta bucked as the brass ejected and I fired twice more. There was a groan and the flashlight toppled to the ground. Shaking, I scuttled backward, away from the cliff and the gunman, and climbed to my feet. I waited for the hot, searing pain of a round from his gun.

  None came.

  Blood rushed through my ears and I grew lightheaded, a physiological reaction to the adrenaline racing through my veins. The crash of the waves below sounded like the cymbal section of an orchestra. Salt water stung my eyelids and nose, and the cold, damp air sank into my skin. Violent shudders I couldn’t control coursed through my body. My synapses, overloaded from the adrenaline dump into my bloodstream, felt like firecrackers going off in my head. I took a deep breath to calm myself.

  That worked well.

  Still holding the pistol and shaking even harder now, I stumbled over to his flashlight. I tried to swallow, but my mouth had gone dry. I picked up the light and did a sweep. A few yards away, the gunman lay on his back, his arms splayed out like a snow angel.

  He wasn’t moving.

  Not sure if he was dead, I edged closer to the body. His .45 lay a few inches from his outstretched hand. I kicked it out of the way before I nudged him in the ribs with my foot. Hard.

  No reaction. I aimed the light at his chest and waited. No telltale rise or fall of a living, breathing man. The left front of his shirt to his shoulder was a mass of blood.

  A lot of blood.

  Hot bile climbed my throat. Turning away from the body, I bent over and put my hands on my knees, sucking in large gulps of air.

  Eventually the feeling passed. I straightened and turned back to the dead gunman.

  Just to be sure, I leaned over and felt the carotid artery in his neck. There was no pulse. Gingerly, I checked his pockets for ID. Nothing.

  Was he from Salazar’s or Anaya’s organization? It didn’t make any sense. Both of them were dead. Their people had more than likely scattered to the remaining cartels. It’s not like they could run things from hell.

  Right?

  Shaking off the visual of Roberto Salazar and Vincent Anaya ordering demons to do their bidding from a fiery cell in Hades, I picked up the .45, slid it and the Beretta into my coat pocket, and walked back into the cabin.

  I went straight to the open bottle of wine. My arm shook as I poured myself a glass, and red wine splashed onto the table. Ignoring it, I sat on the couch and stared at my reflection in the window. My hair was mussed from having woken in the middle of the night, and my jacket was askew. Other than that, I was looking at a normal, thirty-something woman.

  Who’d just shot someone dead.

  Again.

  I drained my glass and set it on the table. That made at least three people where I’d personally pulled the trigger: the commando in the Yucatán, Roberto Salazar, and now the nameless hit man. Murder was beginning to feel a little too much like a habit.

  I pushed aside concerns regarding my homicidal tendencies and ran through the options for contacting the outside world. It was no use trying to call out on my cell phone since there was no service, so I turned on my tablet, connected to the internet, and called Sam via VOIP.

  He answered on the third ring.

  “I was just thinking about you.”

  My heart rate slowed just hearing his voice.

  “Me, too.”

  “What’s up?”

  I cleared my throat. “Would you call the sheriff or the police or whichever agency has jurisdiction out here and have them come to the cabin?” I surprised myself with how calm I sounded.

  “Wait—what? What happened?”

  I paused. “I just shot a man.”

  Silence. “You what? Jesus.”

  I imagined Sam was having a hard time wrapping his mind around what I’d said. I told him about meeting the guy on the beach and then waking up from a sound sleep to the banging outside the cabin. Then I told him what the guy had said about making it look like an accident.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah. A little shaken up.”

  Another pause. “Who was it? And why the hell was he after you? There’s no reason for Salazar’s or Anaya’s guys to come after you anymore.”

  “You know, I didn’t check for ID and he didn’t tell me before I shot him, so I have no idea.”

  Sam ignored the sarcasm. “I think the sheriff has jurisdiction over there. I’ll contact them and then jump in the car. I should be there in”—there was a brief pause—“a little under three hours. Lock the door and close the blinds, if there are any. You have a gun, right?”

  “The Beretta.” I forgot to mention the .45.

  “Good. Get some rest if you can. I’m not sure how long it will take before the sheriff shows up.” There was another pause. “And Kate?”

  “Yes?”

  “Don’t worry. We’ll figure this out.”

  After the call ended, I felt marginally better. Although, a dead body outside on the ground wasn’t exactly conducive to getting any rest. Making sure to have the gun handy, I went outside to check the guy’s car. It was locked. Not wanting to disturb evidence in the cabin, I resisted the urge to go inside and look around. I doubted I’d find anything except maybe more weapons. Although still open to question, if this guy was actually a professional hit man, he wouldn’t have ID. At least not anything with his real identity.

  I spent the next half hour wondering two things. First, who had the resources to hire someone to kill me? And second, who wanted me dead? Aside from the fantasy of Salazar and Anaya reaching out from the grave, I couldn’t think of anyone other than Luis. Even he was a stretch, since I’d already handed over the incriminating information to the FBI linking him to Vincent Anaya’s operation. Yes, he was on the run, and yes, he might be angry enough to kill me, but he wouldn’t waste time or precious resources on revenge. Not when both the DEA and the FBI were looking for him. And he certainly wouldn’t care if it looked like an accident.

  Then the penny dropped.

  Chacon.

  Of course. The night I’d been at the house and saw the drug shipment in the laundry room, the guy in the hoodie had grabbed me right as I was about to get into the Jeep. Anyone could have written down the license plate number. It wouldn’t have taken much digging to figure out who owned the vehicle. I had no doubt that Chacon had the resources as well as the inclination to hire a hit on the woman who sent the DEA to his door.

  My face warmed, and the self-recrimination started. How could I have been so stupid? The sad excuse of being messed up because of Lisa’s condition rang hollow in my mind.

  Once again I’d put someone I loved in danger. What if I hadn’t taken the trip out to the ocean? Would Chacon have sent someone after me in my own home? Sam’s home?

  Of course he would. Criminals didn’t play nice.

  I got back on my tablet and fired off a message to Chance Goodeve, telling him my suspicions. He’d hear about it eventually. I looked at my watch. There was no sense trying to contact Sam again; he was already on his way. I’d bring him up to speed when he got to the cabin.

  Sixteen

  THE SHERIFF ARRIVED within the hour. The two detectives assigned to the case weren’t far behind. I gave my report and answered questions while law enforcement taped off the crime scene and gathered evidence. One of the detectives confiscated the Beretta, since that was the only gun that ha
d been discharged. I handed over the .45 giving them the excuse that I felt safer not having a firearm lying on the ground where anyone could grab it. It was my word against a dead man’s regarding who pulled a gun first, although the autopsy report would show that I’d been near the ground when I shot him, which would help substantiate my story.

  Sam showed up a little while later. He had a word with the lead investigator, who came over to tell me they’d gotten what they needed and that I was free to go. Sam and I walked back inside the cabin to gather my things. I’d already packed, so it was more a matter of making sure everything inside the cabin was as I’d found it. The owner had been notified, but she lived in California and wouldn’t arrive until the next day.

  Thinking about what to say to Sam, I straightened up the living area, making sure nothing was out of place. Sam carried my suitcase out to the car and came back inside.

  “I need to tell you something.”

  He looked at me expectantly.

  “I need you to hear me out before you get pissed off. Do you remember the night I came home late?”

  He crossed his arms and leaned against the door. “Sure.”

  “Well, I didn’t exactly tell you everything.”

  The corner of his mouth twitched. “Really.” The sarcasm wasn’t lost on me.

  I took a deep breath and let it go. It was unnerving that he knew me so well.

  “Yes, really. Smart aleck.” I lifted the bag out of the kitchen garbage can and tied it closed. “That night, the two men I followed in the van had just done a drug deal. They ended up at the same house where Bobby the Barracuda was murdered.”

  “Chacon’s place?”

  I nodded.

  “And?”

  “And they offloaded a shipment of pharmaceuticals—I assumed they were counterfeit. I think that Chacon’s place was a distribution hub for the bad fentanyl. Anyway, I watched them through a window.”