The Librarian Pt. 02

O.k., here it is. One more part, because I'm having trouble finishing it. There have been a few events in the Bear's lives that have taken preference. I write for my own pleasure. I do appreciate the comments. They are your opinions. I apologize for it taking so long. But a Bear's gotta do what a Bear's gotta do. (My apologies to John Wayne.) It is not an excuse, just a reason. I will say that it's easier writing in Sci-Fi than in Loving Wives. They love me more, I guess. The last part is coming. I promise. (I sound like a cheating wife with these excuses.)

Please, enjoy.

This is the second part. I hope the first was acceptable. It kind of grew while I was writing it, and I tried to keep it flowing. It got so long that I felt a second part was warranted. I hope this meets with everyone's approval. This should answer any questions. Please, enjoy.

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So I went home and pulled into my garage. The door came down and I was secure from the prying eyes of the world. I went in and upstairs to my guest room. I couldn't bring myself to sleep in the slut's bed. I had picked up a Reebow Gear Tactical backpack and proceeded to load clean clothes. Two pair of jeans, four pair under shorts, two pairs of khaki pants, four t-shirts, sneakers, and four pair of heavy socks. I took off my civilian shoes and put on a pair of heavy duty waterproof boots. Then I went through Lorelei's bedside drawers and found a ball gag.

(She would never play games like that with me.)

I packed everything up and left to go. I went out to the garage and started up the truck. The garage door went up, I backed out, closed the door, and left my life behind me.

First stop-Long John Silvers. Another fish and shrimp dinner and a coke. I pulled around and parked in the lot. I looked around as I ate supper. FINALLY!! There it was. An eighteen wheeler puled up next door, while the driver went inside to get some food. I got out, with the tracker in my hand and hustled to the cab of the truck. Florida tags. The trailer said "Key West Seafood" with a large fish superimposed on the words. It would have to do. I stuck the tracker on the inside of the frame rail and made it back to my truck.

I finished dinner, tidied the cab a little and waited for the driver to come out. Finally, he appeared and made his way to the cab. The tuck started and moved out onto the street, turned right up the entrance ramp to the Interstate, and headed South. Step one-check.

I got out and locked up the truck. Carrying my 'luggage', I walked to the storage lot as the sun was setting. I let my myself in and went to unit #243. Opening the door, I gazed upon my other baby. Now that Samantha is gone. I unslung my backpack and secured it to the back of the bike.

I sat down on the seat and spooled up my laptop and check out Jeremy Hun Chang's schedule. It was close to 5:00 p.m. and it showed he would probably be getting ready to go out 'hunting'. My data showed he was between conquests. I checked the route to his apartment and figured I had about thirty five minutes to get there.

Shut down my laptop and stowed it. I picked up the egg crate helmet and strapped it on, followed by gloves, a face mask, and goggles, and fire up the bike. I checked the odometer and knew I had enough gas and then some to do the job. I had opted for the over-sized gas tank figuring Lorelei and I would do a lot of highway traveling together.

Yeah, right.

I spooled out and stopped, closed the door and slipped the pad lock on. I moved to the gate and as it opened, I drove out.

Thirty two minutes later I was parked in the parking lot in front of the prick's apartment. I locked the helmet and the goggles on the bike, and pulled a stocking cap over my head. I made my way to his apartment unit and climbed the stairs to his door. I could hear the television in his apartment. I was about to knock when the t.v. went off and footsteps came to the door. I heard the rustle of keys, and the clicking of the locks. I was ready. The front porch light came on and the door opened. His head was down as he was fumbling with his keys. He walked right into me, stumbled slightly as his head came up. My right hand caught him in the throat and he choked. My left hand punched him in the face, hard and he blacked out. I caught him and dragged him inside. I sat him in a chair and zip-tied him to the arms and legs. The ball gag went in his mouth and I turned and locked the door. Then I went and took a 'tour' of his apartment. Ransacking the bedroom as I went, then his bathroom. Found it. Vials of heroin and some hypodermic needles. I filled one needle with water, then went back to the living room.

I went and got a glass of water, took a small sip, and threw the remainder in his face. It woke him and flushed the blood off his nose and his lower jaw. I peeled off the face mask and the stocking cap, and pulled the ball gag out of his mouth.

"Who are you, and what do you want?" he blubbered.

Pulling one of the 380's out of my waist band, I thumbed off the safety and stood staring at him. When he finally focused, terror spread across his face.

"You don't know who I am." A statement. He shook his head.

"You fucked, sodomized, and murdered my daughter."

A look of puzzlement spread across his face. "Who ....?"

"Samantha Starne. Ring a bell??"

"I don't know her", he stammered.

Holding up the hypo and the vials, I said, "And I suppose these are insulin?"

His eyes widened.

"One question. WHY? Answer honestly and I won't kill you. Lie and you die. Understand, I know more than you know. You don't get a second chance."

He was panting. Then he was crying.

"It was Wilkes. Him and that bitch lawyer."

Light bulb snapped on. "Lorna Duschense." Now I had everything I needed. Soon so would the FBI.

I put the ball gag back in his mouth while he tried to scream. I took the hypo and pressed the plunger, ejecting a small amount of liquid.

I stepped away from him and said, "I'm Samantha's father, prick."

If it was possible for his eyes to bug out more, he would have been blind. I pulled the 380 out and calmly shot him in both knees. He almost screamed loud enough to be heard around the gag. I pulled out two more zip-ties and put them around his thighs, just above his knees, tightening them securely. Then I picked up my foot and slammed his testicles. Once, twice, three times. He went limp. Just before he passed out, I stuck the needle in his arm, and shot him full of 'water'. Let him think about that while he wallowed in pain. He might bleed to death, or not. I really didn't give a shit.

I also didn't care about forensics. The guns were untraceable-at least to me. The authorities would eventually know who did this, but by that time I would be gone, or dead.

Or both. I didn't really care.

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I left, got on the Harley, and rode away. Two and a half hours later, I was ensconced in the woods above the FBI safe house with the Barrett set up on the bi-pod. I would have liked a laser dot sight, but I was almost 1500 yds. out from my target. Oh, well, when the first round hits, he'll have two or three seconds to think about his sins. I scoped out the house.

It was a ranch style house, about 1600 sq. ft. Brick exterior. So I would have to wait for him to come outside. Shit. This could take a while. I holed up with my pee bottle and six rounds of ammo.

The sun went down and lights came on inside the 'family room' (I assumed that's what it was), but the drapes were closed. I waited till the lights went out, then set my phone for 6:00 a.m. I sacked out. That's what training does.

Nine hours later, I woke up about seven minutes before my alarm went off. Canceling my phone and stretched a little bit, and loosened my fingers. I rolled to the weapon and squinted through the low light scope. Still dark. I was a little thirsty and hungry, but not like down in Venezuela. This might take a while ......

Suddenly lights came on in what looked like a kitchen. The curtains were not closed and I could see two figures. Then another light came on at the other end of the house. Frosted window-(bathroom?). Possibly. Then that light went out. There was movement in the 'family room', then the drapes opened, just as the sun came up. There stood a young man drinking coffee, talking to someone over his shoulder.

He turned and walked away. Not my guy. I slowed my breathing and flipped the safety off. My breathing stabilized as another figure came to the sliding patio doors. BINGO!! Target acquired. He looked around while he sipped his coffee, talking and laughing. Then he turned and said something to someone over his shoulder. He reached up and unlocked the door and slid it it open.

'Come on, you son of a bitch.'

He stepped out and walked to the edge of the patio. He smiled and stretched, sipping his coffee. Putting his cup down on a small table, he stretched and started to do some calisthenics. His legs were spread and he was stretching.

"Bye, bye fucker."

The first round took him in the balls. It picked him up and threw him backwards, crashing into some patio chairs. The second one hit him in the left hip, almost severing his leg. About that time, the first boom rolled across the hillsides and down towards the house. His screams obviously alerted his guards, but the third round was on it's way, impacting his forehead and blowing the top of his skull off. By that time, the two young agents were outside with guns drawn, looking for an assailant. One of them saw Wilkes's remains and promptly lost his cookies. The other one was on his radio, screaming for who knows what.

But I was gone, abandoning my weapon, scopes, and piss bottle, grabbing only my poncho. They would know who did it. I didn't care. I was disappearing. To quote Horace Greeley's purported dictum, "Go West, young man."

Last evening I had posted a letter to my attorney. In the heavy envelope was a missive to Lorelei, a letter to the FBI detailing Jeremy Hun Chang's involvement, and a letter to Alexander, apologizing for everything. Included was the DVD of Samantha's torture (That what I saw it as) I thanked him and bid him good bye.

Michael Starne disappeared. John Dorne was starting his life.

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He picked up the local highway and stayed low profile till he got to I-90. As he passed over the Missouri River, both pistols and the ammo were tossed. Then it was on to Sturgis, South Dakota. It took a little more than four days, just riding, eating, and sleeping. He arrived on the Saturday after the motorcycle rally started.

He rolled into town and drove around scoping things out. This was the place. His beloved bike would vanish with barely a trace. He motored out of town until he came across a truck stop, doing a land office business. Excellent.

Returning to Sturgis, he found a rather large mass of bikes just parked. A minimum of foot traffic, once you had parked your ride. Nobody seemed to be paying attention. He found a recently vacated spot and pulled in. Shutting it down, he drew a few appreciative glances as he undid the backpack and tent and gathered his coat and poncho. He surreptitiously left the keys in the ignition and calmly walked away. A good looking ride with New Jersey tags would probably be gone after four or five days. If not, it would be towed and the local cops would be chasing Richard Smith for quite a while.

He walked to a bar, had a beer and looked around. A lot of good looking women, or girls if you didn't discriminate. A lot of them were the beneficiaries of cosmetic enhancements, and were not adverse to showing them off. If you were an underwear or lingerie salesman, you would go broke. But if you were hawking leather vests, t-shirts, or bikini tops, jackpot. He paid for the beer and shouldered his backpack and headed out.

It was a fifty-five minute walk to the truck stop. He went inside and got a table by the window, setting up to watch the traffic. He ordered a steak, baked potato and spinach. The first decent meal he'd had in a week. The coffee was also better than the fast food places. (Sorry, McDonald's.)

While he ate, he divided his attention between the parking lot and the t.v. There was minimal coverage on the 'assassination' of a top government witness outside of Washington. Police had no clues to the death. The Chinese Consulate was deploring the treatment of their staff when the news broke about Peking's involvement with the abduction of an American technician in Venezuela. They categorically denied any knowledge of the event. (Of course. It's what governments do.)

Now, for those who are closet English Majors and nit pickers, we will return to other grammar and to the Washington D.C. area for an update.

The a-fore mentioned letter was delivered with the U.S. Post Offices normal fantastic service. 5 days to go about 40 miles. Marjorie received it and took out the letter to Lorelei, the report to the FBI, and the heavy envelope to Alexander Colton, C/O the CIA at Langley, Virginia.

She had the letter to Lorelei delivered to her lawyer, return signature required, to assure she got it as per his instructions. She had the other two envelopes couriered to the CIA and the FBI, also signatures requested.

The FBI received the report on the 'interaction' and confession from Jeremy Hun Chang. Agents and Metro P.D. were immediately dispatched to his apartment and discovered Jeremy's beat up body. Miraculously, he was still alive, though he would wind up loosing both lower legs and his balls. He was arrested and taken to the hospital.

Lorelei received the letter from Michael about two weeks after her divorce was final, and she got the letter while in the federal lockup, on her way to prison. She was under a psychiatrist's care after everything that happened. But the court order concerning her divorce mandated that any correspondences form her current/former husband be delivered immediately. So she was in the exercise yard when she opened the letter. Her mental demise was complete when she read the letter.

Lorelei:

By the time you read this, I will be gone. Away, or dead, it doesn't matter, as you have killed me, our love, our marriage, your fuck-buddy Jason Wilkes, and our daughter. Yes, you killed them all. It's on you because our marriage and my love was never enough. So live with it. Or not. I don't give a shit. Goodbye.

Michael

She stared at the letter as her mind snapped. She fell to the ground. Her destruction was complete.

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Back to Sturgis

That's when I saw a Peterbuilt tractor pulling a 53' trailer pull up to the pumps, and an older gentleman climbed down. Then a striking looking mature woman climbed down from the passenger side, came around, kissed him, and strolled up to the restaurant. She was a little bit of a thing but very attractive.

The older guy proceeded to fill the tanks and it looked like he was whistling. On the side of the rig was stenciled the words "The Lovebirds" and the legend Redding, California. An idea crept into my brain.

The lady came into the dining area after a while and ten minutes later the gentleman joined her. He sat on the same side of the booth and proceeded to reduce her to giggles by tickling her. They were laughing as they gave the waitress their order.

He was a good looking guy, about 6' 3", 250 lbs. or so, shaped like a wedge- w-i-d-e shoulders, tapering to a narrow waist and no gut at all.

She was striking. Only about 5' 2" tall, petite breasts, nice legs in tight jeans, LONG straight silver hair. They both looked to be in their 60's or so. And very much in love.

I turned my idea over in my mind as they chowed down on what appeared to be chicken salads and iced tea. Finally, as they appeared to be finishing, I figured I didn't have anything to lose.

I got up and threw down some money to cover dinner, and crossed to their booth. They were chuckling as the gentleman was reaching for his wallet to pay the bill.

"Excuse me. May I interrupt for a moment?"

The man looked at me like I was a swamp creature. His wife, on the other hand, regarded me like I was her favorite grandson just home from the war. He was about to say something when she blurted, "Of course, sugar. Please, join us".

I grinned.

"Thank you".

I slid into the bench across from them as the lady elbowed her husband gently in the side. He grumbled a bit, then locked me with a stare that told me to say my piece and move along.

I opened with a question. "Are you folks going to California, by any chance?" His eyes never left me but hers widened in amazement.

"Why, as a matter of fact, we are. We are on our way home after a cross country run, all the way to New York State". Her husband turned and leveled a stare at her, then snapped back to stare at me.

"Look, I don't want to cause a problem," I said. "I was just wondering if I could hitch a ride to the coast. I can pay. I just need to get there. I can give you my ID and you can possibly check it or get it to someone to check it. If it will be a problem, I'll buy you guys coffee and leave. What do you say?"

The husband's eyes were still boring a hole in me. But then he turned and looked at his wife. She had screwed her mouth up and appeared to be thinking of something.

"How about if you pay for coffee and apple pie, and sit and tell us why we should help you, son?" she said.

My eyes lit up and I smiled. "With ice cream??"

"Deal!" she said. Her husband sighed. "Not another lost puppy, Penny". She just smiled at him and kissed him.

"Thank you, Hiram."

He muttered and rolled his eyes. He motioned to the waitress and when she came over, said, "Three coffees, extra crème and sugar and some French Vanilla cremer if you got it. Three apple pies and three ice creams."

The lady leaned over and she introduced herself to me.

"My name is Penelope Lovebird. This my husband, Hiram Lovebird. We're ex-hippies.

"Well, I am. He married me to try and convert me. That was 45 years ago. We've retired for 10 years and co-driving for 8. We love it, in more ways then one." She wiggled her eyebrows and grinned at Hiram, squeezing his hand with hers. Hiram, for his part, rolled his eyes and looked at me.

"Viet Nam, 1971-1973. 101st Airborne. 1st Lt., Combat Battalion 12. What about you, son?", he said holding my gaze.

I felt I needed a little bit of honesty- and closure.

"Army Ranger, sniper. Four years, Afghanistan, Qatar, and other spots I can't talk about."

His look said he still hadn't given me too much credence. Okay, I needed to raise.

"I'm leaving a bad marriage behind. My wife cheated on me while I was in a 'foreign country' for business, with the company." I held his gaze and waited.

His eyes widened a tad and then he sat back. "Continue."

He had called, and raised me. Well, I'm all in now.

"I came back and had her arrested, then found out my daughter was killed by a drug pushing, limp-dicked college professor. I've had it with society and civilization. I divorced my wife and am leaving everything behind. I want to make a clean start. That's really all I can tell you. I'm sorry if I offended you, ma'am. "

His look at me now was one of amazement. His wife was aghast.

"Are you the one they have been talking about on t.v. and the radio?", she queried.

Well, I'm in for it now.

"Guilty as charged, ma'am."

Her husband now had a shit-eating grin on his face and new respect for me.

"Well, son, I don't know that I approve of your actions, but I understand why you did it. Just so you know, I would have done worse."