“This is your dream, Daddy, not mine. It was never my dream!”
“You are such a child. Look at yourself, you pathetic little baby. If it wasn’t for me, you’d be rotting in jail.”
“And my brother would still be alive,” Joey piled on.
If Craig had any energy left, he would have reached out and physically wiped the smug look off Joey’s face. He had used the death of his brother, Brad Lynch, to extort a career from King George. Brad had been Craig’s only true friend involved in the accident-he barely knew Thompson or the freshman kid, who was just another in a long line of hangers-on who had surrounded him throughout his life.
George put up his hand to demand silence. He then made a statement as if he were trying to define hypocritical, “We must worry about going forward and not look back.”
Joey had notes. “Lamar Thompson lives not far from here in Kitty Hawk. No wife or kids … at least ones he knows about. Parents are deceased-a grandmother still lives in Columbia. He’ll often visit her when he’s sober enough or needs money. I say we take him out. Make it look like an OD-wouldn’t be much of a stretch.”
George smacked him in the head, causing Joey to grab his ears in pain. “Can you stop being stupid for a moment? You think the media is harsh now-watch if something happens to this Lamar fella. Any ideas, Craig?”
“What do you want me to say? You’re the one who tried to buy him off, not me.”
“Do I have to explain to you, son, that the payoff you turn your nose up at is what kept you out of jail?”
“I have been in jail for twenty years!”
“Smarten up, boy!” he shouted, before declaring, “Nothing is going to hold back my dreams, especially not some drug addict cullerd boy.”
Chapter 12
The SUV bounced along the empty beach road that was lit only by eerie moonlight. The Oregon Inlet Bridge appeared in the hazy distance.
The officer pulled to the side of the bridge, just as he had been instructed. Moments later, the Kingsbury limo came to a stop behind him.
The officer got out of his vehicle and calmly walked back to the limo. He knocked on the tinted back window and it rolled down.
He flashed the badge that identified him as Officer Kyle Jones of the Rockfield Police Department and announced, “Senator Craig Kingsbury, you are under arrest for the murder of Marilyn Lacey.”
Joey Lynch immediately voiced his displeasure, “Do you know who you’re talking to?” It was the same superior tone he took earlier at the airport while performing a thorough background check on Officer Ron Culver, which delayed their trip by fifteen minutes.
Jones shot one bullet into his head with a 9mm Glock. This got everyone’s attention.
“Who are you working for?” George Kingsbury demanded, while unceremoniously removing Joey’s dead body from his lap.
“George Kingsbury-you are under arrest for the cover-up of the murder of Marilyn Lacey.”
The front door of the limo opened and the driver took off, attempting to make an escape over a sand dune.
The officer was in Batman mode now-a trance-like state with pinpoint focus on his prey. He got him in his sights and put one bullet in the back of his head. He collapsed into the sand and lay still. He didn’t feel good about it. But this was war, and the driver was collateral damage.
The elder Kingsbury remained defiant. “That was twenty years ago! They were kids-they made a mistake!”
“There’s no statute of limitations on justice.”
“Please don’t shoot me,” Craig Kingsbury whimpered.
A grin pursed Batman’s thin lips. “I’m not going to shoot you, Senator Kingsbury.”
The Senator exhaled with relief. Batman knew it would be short-lived, but he first had to make sure that he fully understood his crimes.
“Did you know almost twenty thousand people died last year in drinking and driving accidents? But they weren’t accidents-they were murder, pure and simple. You are a murderer, and Judge Buford isn’t around to save you anymore.”
“What do you want …
“It’s estimated that there will be over seven hundred traffic fatalities this holiday weekend. Half of those will be alcohol related. Did you try to solve this problem in your time in Washington, Senator-or were you more concerned with covering up your past?”
The officer pulled out a bottle of Everclear he stored in his holster. He unscrewed the cap, reached inside the limo, and began jiggling the bottle side-to-side, soaking Craig and George Kingsbury with the vodka.
“What do you want?” George demanded again.
“This is not about me. You killed with the weapons of alcohol and cars, and now you will become another example of how cars and alcohol never mix.”
He casually struck a match and flicked it into the backseat, setting the men on fire. They tried to scramble out of the vehicle, but he coolly shot out the door handles.
Batman watched as the two men tried to escape their burning flesh. They looked as if they were being attacked by a hive of invisible bees. The useless screams and smell of burning flesh was a sight the officer would never forget. Nor did he want to.
He flicked another match into the vehicle, and then another. Within moments, the entire limo was ablaze. It lit up the dark night like ten full moons.
The officer calmly returned to the SUV and left the scene. He drove the gravel-filled beach road, passing villages from Rodante to Buxton. He stopped in Frisco at a convenience store, where he bought a candy bar and a bottle of water.
As he drove toward Hatteras Village, Batman slowly morphed back into Officer Kyle Jones. He left the stolen SUV in the parking lot of the Hatteras Ferry, exchanging it for his red pickup truck, which he drove onto the ferry.
The ferry took him to Ocracoke Island. Upon reaching the island, he made the familiar drive. He passed the marina, noticing the mixture of locals and tourists that had gathered for the Fourth of July festivities. He could see the landmark lighthouse in the distance, feeling as if it were guiding him home like the North Star.
He turned onto his street, and took special notice of the house formally owned by the Not-so-honorable Raymond Buford. He saluted it, thanking Buford for leading him to the information that exposed the evils of the Kingsburys. Buford also introduced him to the identity of Ron Culver, and the messy secret that proved quite valuable in tonight’s mission.
He continued down the street until he arrived at his beach house. He parked the pickup truck under the covering and climbed the stairs. Home sweet home.
Chapter 13
The house was one floor, three bedrooms, two baths and a large open area that extended from kitchen to living room. Simple and neat-just the way he liked it. A sliding glass door led to a raised sundeck with a view of the Atlantic Ocean.
He opened a window and inhaled the salt air. Then took a moment to listen to the sounds of pounding waves in the distance and the booms of amateur fireworks shows. But now was no time to become complacent-there was much work to be done.
First, he changed out of Culver’s police uniform. He slipped into a pair of denim shorts and a Rockfield PD T- shirt.
