Serpent Point

By Robby Robertson

SERPENT POINT: A Contemporary Vigilante Novel

 

In the grip of a nationwide opioid epidemic, one man's quest for justice becomes a rallying cry against corporate greed run amok.

 

Scot Allen's life is shattered when he loses his wife Claret to an opioid addiction triggered by routine pharmaceutical drugs. While on a trek in the Himalayas, Scot receives the life-shattering call that Claret didn't make it.

 

In his shame, anger and thirst for accountability, Scot posts a chilling online statement: "Anyone who harms my family while irresponsibly seeking wealth – be aware. I will pledge retribution. Whatever, be assured, you will pay." The message strikes a nerve across a nation brought to its knees by the opioid crisis.

As moguls in Big Pharma's ranks start turning up dead, Scot finds himself inadvertently at the head of a growing vigilante movement. To some he's a crusading hero; to others, a dangerous extremist. One thing is clear: Scot is on an uncompromising quest to make the ones who value profits over human lives answer for their crimes, no matter the cost.

 

Inspired by gripping real-life events, Serpent Point is a haunting exploration of how far is too far when the elite operate beyond the reach of the law. In a world where the rich and powerless play by different rules, has justice already become a serpent that turns on itself? Brace for a pulse-pounding, thought-provoking thrill ride.

 

Buy Serpent Point now to experience this uncompromising adventure!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dennis Robertson
• Release date: Jul 11, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223921110

Book preview

CHAPTER 1, IT BEGINS

THE VERY RICH, slightly overweight doctor skipped walking the extra hundred feet to the crosswalk. Probably because the West Virginia town had a population of 2,907 and only two street lights. Traffic wasn’t much of a problem.

Unfortunately, for a significant portion of the town’s population, opioid addiction was. The doctor’s well-known, combination pain center and pharmacy had prescribed enough pain pills to average at least 7,172 pills per year for every man, woman, and child in the town. For the past ten years.

Half way across the dusty street, the doctor noticed an old pickup headed towards him. He slowed to let it pass, but it pulled over just before it got to him. Now ignoring the truck, the doctor continued on his way. He had an important meeting with a real estate agent. One who had flown all the way from San Diego’s exclusive Mission Hill neighborhood. The agent claimed he had the perfect retirement homes for the doctor, his wife, and his sons’ families.

The passenger’s side window in the battered truck cranked down. A fit-looking man in his early sixties leaned out holding a pistol grip Mossberg 500 Special Purpose shotgun. In a loud roar, the doctor lost his life. A two-inch wide hole blown through his arm, side, and chest.

A couple dozen of the town’s citizens were in the area. When interviewed by the state police, none could recall the make, model, year, or color of the pickup. They remembered there were two men in the truck, but couldn’t describe either with any certainty.

CHAPTER 2, IT'S ALL RIGHT

SCOT GLARED AT the gear piled on his sleeping bag. The small backpacking tent was a mess, littered with clothes and high altitude trekking equipment. Clenching his teeth, he went back to rolling socks and trying to make sense of his feelings. Guilt seemed appropriate. But why’d he have so much goddamn anger?

He was near the end of Bhutan’s legendary Himalayan Snowman Trek, and it had been long and difficult. Especially the extra exploring Scot snuck in. He’d enjoyed and bonded with the other trekkers, too.

None of that mattered.

Word of his sudden loss half a world away had shaken everyone. They kept coming to his tent in small groups to say they were sorry. That bad things happen.

Scot jammed socks into his pack. He paused, staring at the last pair. They were old gray ones, somewhat like him and Claret. The socks looked worn, but they were good boot socks. Should he discard them? Bhutan was a poor country. A guide might have a use for old socks. His fingers fumbled, and he dropped them.

Scot? The head guide stuck his head into the tent.

Yes?

We have a hard hike ahead. We’ll have to take the shorter, much steeper smugglers’ trail to get you to the airport on time. The guide’s head disappeared after he gently added, Let’s get you home.

Scot shivered. He wasn’t worried about the fast hike or the dangerous Druk Air flight out of the tiny Himalayan airport. His thoughts were focused on the guide’s last word. Would it ever be home again?

Gritting his teeth, Scot rolled his new sleeping bag as tight as he could. It was wider, softer than his old mummy bag because sleep didn’t come easy these days. Not since he’d turned sixty-two.

Oh God. Would he ever sleep again?

He remembered the Kilimanjaro climb last year. The happy time afterwards he spent shopping for a big chunk of blue-violet Tanzanite in Arusha. Claret loved. . .had loved jewelry. He’d planned to buy her a trio of baby blue sapphires in Bangkok this trip.

Scot glanced around looking for anything forgotten and saw the new earbuds Claret had given him last Christmas. He’d need those on the long plane ride. Listening to music was how he stayed detached.

Detached…

He was such a dumbshit. How could he have not seen something was happening to her?

He remembered the Sara Hickman song called, It’s Alright. A song Claret put on his phone after he’d returned a week late from the contract in Los Angeles.

He’d been proud. It was the biggest realty firm in LA. They needed his legendary COBOL and IMS skills to fix their ancient sales tracking system. It took longer than expected because just repairing the broken code was never enough. He had to understand why it broke and make sure it didn’t break that way again.

Instead of being home for a full week before his Bhutan trek, he’d only had a few hours. Just enough time to grab his climbing gear. He’d given Claret a quick kiss and was gone.

Why had the song been so important? Was it related to the accident and her parents’ death?

The accident on Seattle’s Floating Bridge had happened six months ago. Claret had wrenched her back and needed minor surgery. Her poor parents died horribly, jammed inside the back seat of Claret’s crushed Prius. The driver of the garbage truck that rear-ended them hadn’t been injured.

Scot wanted to track down the young truck driver who’d been texting. Claret wouldn’t let him, reminding him of their commitment to nonviolence.

He should have stayed home to help her more. Help her get through her parents’ deaths, her back injury. But he’d called, or texted whenever possible. She’d always answered with short GIFs and crazy handwriting script from her iPad.

Puzzled about the song, ‘It’s Alright’ he’d even called when he first landed in Bhutan. Asking if she wanted him to cancel the trip and return home. She said she didn’t need him. She’d said she’d be all right.

Scot picked the earbuds up, remembering the Hickman song. The song sounded beautiful, but he kept wondering why Claret gave him that particular one? The lyrics were about always being there and now she wasn’t.

Claret hadn’t explained. She simply transferred the song from her iPhone to his at the airport before giving him a shaky hug and kiss.

He hurled the earbuds across the half dome tent. They bounced off the ripstop nylon, sliding into a far corner.

Scot, it’s time to go, the guide said from outside.

Grabbing the earbuds, Scot jammed everything into his pack and crawled out.

He scanned the small bright tents on the high mountain meadow. The other trekkers, mostly in pairs, were nodding or waving. They wore wool sweaters or fuzzy, long sleeved pullovers and nylon pants. That was normal for a Himalayan trek, but everything seemed so surreal.

He reached into his pocket and touched his phone. Unfortunately, it was real. Just like the message he’d received when the trek had wandered close enough to a high mountain cell tower.

Susan, his sister, wanted him to call. He did. She cried and stammered that Claret had died three nights earlier. It would never be all right. Susan said there’d been no warning. Claret had died in her sleep. Maybe from an accidental overdose.

Overdose of what?

Scot checked the date on his watch. Wednesday, September 13th. He’d had three whole days without Claret. Now nothing and everything seemed different. She’d had minor back surgery and used a painkiller for a few weeks. But that was six months ago?

He shouldered his backpack, dreading, no, wishing for some kind of feeling. Something other than anger.

---

It was late evening, and so dark Scot didn’t recognize much. Dark was good. He had a window seat on the 747 and shut the shade when the lights of Seattle appeared. He’d always watched for them on his return flights. Not this time.

The taxi ride to the condo seemed way too short. He had so much to do and nothing to look forward to. Scot paid. Ignoring the driver’s thanks for the tip, he hoisted his pack and headed for the second floor, far right condo. It was warm inside and a single table light lit the living room. Someone, probably Susan, had tried to make it feel friendly.

Scot dropped his pack and looked around. The bed was made in the bedroom, Claret’s computer table in her workroom appeared neat, the kitchen spotless, every room smelled of antiseptic. The modern, slick leather furniture carefully placed, just where Claret always kept things. He glanced at the metal framed, colorful screenshots from her most successful game conversions hanging on the wall. She loved creating the graphics as much as she did making the Windows games work in a Mac environment.

Hands clenched in fists, he spun in a half circle and noticed the shiny metal dog dish was missing from the kitchen floor.

Scot hurried to the condo on the far side of his building. The one where Susan had said someone named Angel was taking care of Willy.

He heard a TV and knocked. The TV clicked off, and it was quiet, for a second. Then a dog growled on its way to the door.

Willy.

Scot waited silently while Willy continued to growl against the other side of the door. Willy was always one to protect his family. He’d never failed to do his duty, so protective of Claret. What happened to her?

The door opened a couple of inches as a young, feminine voice said, Be quiet. Go sit.

It’s all right, Willy, Scot murmured.

The dark human eyes trying to peer around the door’s edge were shoved to the side. A fiercely sniffing black nose replaced them. The dog, on its hind legs, forced his head through the opening.

Scot reached his hand in and touched soft black and white fur. It’s me, Willy. I’m home. At least that’s what he’d wanted to say.

No words came out.

The girl opened the door wide and the sixty pound English Pointer flew past, throwing himself into Scot’s arms.

He held the two-year-old dog, his face buried in its warm fur. Scot collapsed to his knees, clutching the frantically whining, jumping, licking dog tight.

The man and dog calmed, and a steaming cup of tea appeared, held out by a shy young woman.

Ignoring the tea, Scot scrambled to his feet. Sorry. Guess I’ve been traveling too long.

You must be Scot.

Yeah, was the best he could do.

She stepped back. Would you like to come inside for a moment?

No thanks. Willy and I should head to our place. There’s a lot I need to do.

---

Seven days later, it was almost over.

His sister Susan had driven from Kittitas to help. She’d done all the paperwork and arrangements for their father’s death five years earlier. So Scot told himself Susan was best suited to do it for Claret.

Besides, even though Claret and he had been married thirteen years, he didn’t know much about what she did when he was off traveling on business, or his frequent trekking adventures. He mumbled something about being a lousy husband, but stopped when Susan glared across the table at him.

He didn’t know where to look for her friends and business associates. Or who to invite to the funeral. He just knew people had to be invited and her business and websites shut down.

Scot remained calm, detached. Tried to get his sister to decide things. Because of her experience.

Susan fumed.

She pushed everything back across the kitchen table at him. Even the decision on the flowers for the funeral. At one point, frustrated with his detachment, she’d shouted, You’re so cold and sensible about everything! Even the most emotional details. She touched his arm. This isn’t the time for that. Planning your wife’s funeral isn’t supposed to be calm. Aren’t you going to let yourself cry? Sometime?

Fighting for control of his feelings, Scot headed into the kitchen for another cup of coffee.

On one corner of the table, hidden in a dark brown folder, lay the coroner’s report and multiple copies of Claret’s death certificate. The report said Claret Allen had died of a fentanyl overdose. Scot only read the report once. On the first day back. After that, he’d rifle past it, quickly pulling a certificate an agency needed for proof of Claret’s death out of the folder. Then he’d close and bind the dark folder without touching the coroner’s report hidden in the far back.

A very subdued Willy lay close to Scot’s chair through it all. He got pats and kind words, but not a single long walk that week.

The third day Scot and his sister dealt with Claret’s software business. They’d finished working through the bank accounts, bills and accounts receivable when Susan asked, What do you want to do with the website she used to advertise her business?

I’m not sure at this point. Scot looked thoughtful. You said a young woman living two doors down, someone named Frankie, maintains it?

Yes.

I’ll have her turn it off after a month’s worth of displaying a brief message.

"Okay. What about the personal website Claret called, ‘ASolemnPromise.’ What do you want to do with it?"

Scot muttered, Let’s wait on that.

Susan took a deep breath. Okay, now for the hard questions. What do you want to do with her clothes, her personal possessions?

Scot shrugged, started to say something, but didn’t.

Want me to go through them? She didn’t have any close family. Not anymore. But her clothes are nice . . . Goodwill would love to have them.

The best Scot could do was nod.

And…

He gritted his teeth.

Susan took a deep breath. Do you want me to clean out her part of the medicine cabinet in your bedroom bathroom?

Scot wanted to nod again. He needed to get on with things. He’d never use or need her medications. No. He whispered. I’ll look at them later.

---

The next evening Susan tried to get Scot to talk about his loss. She tried to get him to talk about grieving.

He wouldn’t.

Frustrated, Susan yelled, You don’t understand, let alone recognize, you’re in the first step; denial and isolation.

Scot turned his back on her. Grumbling he’d learned everything he needed to about grieving from his parents’ deaths.

That was years ago. This is so different, Susan said, exasperated.

How? Scot asked as he refilled his coffee cup before returning to a kitchen table covered in neat piles of paperwork.

Claret was your wife. You were making plans for a new, different life. A retired one where you’d spend real time with each other. You bought this condo eight months ago to retire in, together. Susan tapped her fingers on the table. You were in love from the first moment you met, partners in everything for God’s sake!

Didn’t stop her from leaving me.

She didn’t leave you. Her mother and father died in a terrible accident. She got despondent, took something, and accidentally overdosed. Susan slid out of her seat and put an arm around her brother’s shoulders. That’s what the coroner’s report says. That’s what you should tell yourself and your friends.

Shrugging free, Scot stood and left the kitchen, ignoring his sister’s caring eyes. Once he was far enough away, he murmured too soft for her to hear, I don’t know what really happened. Don’t know why, either.

CHAPTER 3, REALLY BAD

THE FUNERAL WAS crowded, almost two hundred people. Staring across the church, Scot realized he’d barely met a quarter of these people. All but ten were Claret’s friends.

However, five couples were his. Close buddies and their wives. Guys he’d stayed in touch with since college. The guys had shared a boarding house at the University of Washington and been through a lot together in the forty years since. Scot had enlisted in the Air Force right after college. VietNam was over and jobs were hard to find. One of his buddies even became an Air Force Red Berets, now retired after a long, secret career.

The funeral service ended and Scot stood by the door. He was careful to not make eye contact, or say more than, Thank you for coming, while shaking hands. The long line wound down. The last handshake was over.

After pleading with her brother one more time to come stay with her in Kittitas, Susan drove home.

The wives of Scot’s five buddies went shopping at the local mall. They planned a quiet dinner afterward, then a long wait until their spouses made it back to the hotel they were all staying at.

Six men and a dog went drinking.

It was a Thursday night, so the bar was only a quarter full, mostly of regulars. Scot and his buddies found a table in the back. Other bar patrons, the scruffy ones who looked like they needed a shave and a reason to still be alive, took one look at the big dog and six somber men and moved to the front. Or left the bar altogether.

After two quick rounds that didn’t begin to fill the hollow feeling in his chest, Scot glanced at the retired Red Beret sitting across from him that’d been quiet. Riley, what’s new in your life?

Riley shrugged. Not much. Not much good anyway.

Sounds like mine, Scot commiserated.

No. Mine’s not near as hard as yours these past two weeks. But still not good.

Scot flinched, then asked, What happened?

Lost another cousin in my sister’s family in West Virginia. A boy I liked.

Scot grimaced. Car accident?

Nope. Riley finished his drink and motioned to the server. It’s the all too common, pathetic story about no job, too much oxycodone for a fake injury, and on to heroin and an overdose.

That’s the shits.

Yeah, only ones who gain in this story are the pharmaceutical assholes, Riley answered in a soft, scary as hell voice. Some of us are beginning to feel like living that old eighties rock song, We’re Not Going to Take It."

Staring at the drink in his hand, Riley started singing, ‘We’ll fight, you’ll see,’ while the other five guys nodded and mumbled along.

Rich, the chubby friend that hadn’t gone in the service, added, Wish there was something a guy could do. But there isn’t.

Riley froze, then twisted to face his friend. After a long, hard look, Riley muttered, Yeah, you’re probably right.

Nothing but quiet drinking happened until Riley forced a laugh. Scot. My wife once shared a pretty wild story. One about how you and Claret met. Her version was a little different from the rescue one you told us guys a dozen years ago.

Oh? Rich asked. Did Claret have to protect Scot? Stop the tall, skinny geek from getting beat up by an angry husband?

Scot raised a hand, interrupting the laughter. What d’you hear Riley?

Something about a hallway in Munich. How Claret got slapped by an angry husband. How you grabbed the big asshole and stumbled around bouncing from wall-to-wall trying to hold on to him.

That’s kinda what I told you, Scot mumbled almost loud enough to be heard over the laughter and nasty comments. Ones about how Scot always was a nerd, couldn’t fight his way out of a McDonald’s hamburger wrapper. Shouldn’t take on pissed off, big husbands. And something about a fight with a fraternity during their college days. A fight they’d been arguing about ever since. There were six views about how it started and maybe ten or twelve about who was standing when it ended.

The chatter ceased for a moment while the waitress brought another round. She had a tight, short skirt, and shapely legs. Everyone but Scot was pre-occupied during her walk back to the front.

Scot, not even noticing the curvy server, stared at a dark wall across the room, lost in memories.

My wife said Claret told her she started the fight, Riley reached across the table, punching Scot’s arm. I thought she was a non-violent person, like you?

Scot shook his head and drained his shot glass before answering. It was a little after eight in Munich. I was over there for Octoberfest. I’d just come off a Kilimanjaro climb. So I decided a week of Octoberfest might give me time to celebrate, sit around and drink a little beer.

More likely you were looking for a cute fräulein, Riley cajoled with a leer.

Scot ignored him. Let’s set the record straight. He took a slow breath while he remembered. "I’d been drinking beer, full liter mugs all day, and gone back to the hotel to clean up. It was time to go find dinner. I’d just left my room when a suitcase came flying my way. It bounced off the wall and landed at my feet in the hallway.

I glanced at the doorway it’d come from and saw a curvy brunette with tears in her angry, pissed off gray eyes."

That was Claret? someone asked.

Yeah. Scot laughed; for the first time in almost two weeks. She screamed something like screw you and your stupid ass ideas on what real women do. Grinning, he shook his head. God she looked good when she was angry.

Scot’s grin slipped into a frown. "A big guy. Maybe six foot four, shouldered past me, yelling something about—about Claret being a poor excuse for a wife. He almost tripped on the suitcase as he rushed to grab her arm.

I remember Claret rocking side-to-side, trying to twist out of his grasp. She couldn’t. Then he slapped her."

Scot took a quick breath. I bellowed, ‘Back off,’ and hurried over. The guy’s face was an angry, pinkish red when I grabbed him. He let go of Claret. I guess the two of us bounced off walls for a while. Then Claret stepped in and landed a hard right on the point of his nose. The big asshole yelped like a tiny chihuahua.

In a satisfied voice, Scot added, I mentioned, calmly I’m sure, that it wasn’t nice to hit girls. Then I body-blocked him and his face into a wall leaving blood all over it. He grunted and collapsed. I grabbed and ran him down the hall to the elevator, punched the button, and shoved him in. I stepped back, waiting, ready—and his suitcase flew in, landing at his feet, just before the door closed.

Scot took a small sip of scotch.

That’s it? That’s the story? the guy on his right asked.

I don’t think the story’s finished, Riley said from across the table. What’d Claret do besides save your ass?

Scot laughed. I was catching my breath, staring at the closed elevator door, thankful no one was hurt. I mean, I was in a foreign country. Then I remembered the curvy, gray-eyed woman I’d just rescued. I spun, hoping for thanks, a grateful hug, or a teary kiss like in the movies.

Never happens that way, Riley muttered. The others nodded in sad agreement.

Scott shrugged again. "She stood just behind me. Her arms folded, calm gray eyes studying me, from my toes to the top of my head. Finally, she asked, ‘Who are you?’

I stalled, wanted to sound cool, couldn’t think of anything witty. I dumbly answered ‘Scot.’"

None of us were any good with women, Rich mumbled. Again, lots of nodding from the others at the table.

Scot, nodding in agreement, went on with the story. She studied me a moment longer before saying, ‘Thanks for the help, Scot.

His eyes closed in memory, Scot added, I saw a drop of blood dribble from her nose to her lip. She wiped it away, grimaced, and walked back down the hallway to the open door. I’ll always remember how long those legs looked.

Scot took a deep breath. "No way was I going to let her walk away. I said the only thing I could think of. A dumb, ‘Want to get a drink?’

I remember her pausing in the doorway, then turning around. Her beautiful, questioning gray eyes focused on me again.

Somehow, I found the courage to add, ‘There’s an ice machine on the floor below, for your nose.’

She nodded, smiled, and told me her name was Claret. We ended up staying another week in a different hotel.

And my life got better. She was okay with my work travel, even the trekking and guided climbing I did. Said she liked being with me, but when I traveled she enjoyed her space, too. And my life was a lot better for almost fourteen years. Better until ten days ago when I got my sister’s call in Bhutan."

Sitting under the table, Willy leaned in harder against Scot’s leg.

Everyone ordered another drink.

One of the guys asked Scot what he was going to do next.

Don’t know.

Most told him the wise thing was to make no decisions right away. Like their wives had told them to tell him.

Many drinks later, Riley, a little too loudly, murmured something about Claret. How a tough, healthy woman didn’t sound like one that would die accidentally. Not unless something had gone bad. Really bad.

CHAPTER 4, REAL HUNTING

CLARET AND SCOT had purchased their condo in Tukwila, a small town south of Seattle, eight months earlier. Claret liked it because it was close to Seattle and its online gaming world. She had to be the least likely game creator ever. Well, she’d once admitted she didn’t actually create computer games. Rather, she adapted Window’s games to the Mac platform. But she was good at it and had a huge social media following.

Scot had agreed to the new condo because it was a short, two-hour drive over the mountains to the farmlands in Kittitas where his parents had lived and his sister still did. A place where he and Willy could pheasant hunt.

The condo was only half a block from a twenty mile long strip of wild land on the Green River. The cities along the river had planted a two hundred yard wide belt of big trees and brush to protect it. Both Scot and Claret liked trees, and it was somewhere they could let Willy run.

That’s what Scot and Willy were doing. Scot wandered along the river trail, pretending he didn’t have a morning hangover. The young bird dog worked back and forth, fifty feet in front, pretending there were pheasants hiding somewhere. Neither dog nor man were getting very far with their fantasies. Scot stopped. He’d had enough pretending.

He whistled Willy in. The dog was at his side in a flash.

Riley, one of the guys last night, didn’t believe Claret was the kind to just up and die. Neither do I. Scot remarked out loud, his eyes out of focus as he stared through the forest of trees in front of him. Willy waited, watching his troubled master.

The man took a deep breath and stood tall. It was the first time in a week. Time for him to stop pretending ‘why’ wasn’t important. Time to go do whatever was necessary. Find what happened and why. Then do something about it.

The dog’s eyes stayed focused on his master.

Let’s quit this walk, mutt. Head back to the condo and do some real hunting.

The dog led the way.

Back home, Scot pulled the chair out from Claret’s computer desk and sat. He studied her huge desktop iMac as Willy, ignoring his comfortable bed in the far corner of the room, curled tight against the square shouldered man’s feet. I don’t know where this hunting trip will lead dog, but I’m ready. How about you?

The dog stayed alert, his head twisted up, his yellowish-brown eyes on Scot.

Claret had told him her new secret password sentence last summer. Scot had been teasing her for buying password software that needed a whole secret sentence, not just a random eight plus characters. It guaranteed better security. But the sentence was easy to remember. Scot keyed, A deep, purplish-red wine from Bordeaux. into the security app.

A whole long list of logins popped up.

Scot chose the one for her personal Gmail account. He created a Word doc and began copying names, dates, and a brief note about each email’s content on to the Word file. After an hour he swore, loud and long.

Willy looked up.

Well, she emailed a lot.

The dog re-curled. The man printed last year’s emails that looked interesting. That took a couple of hours. Happier, he studied the printout, jumping back and forth between emails, crossing most out, circling a few. Occasionally doing searches on what he found.

When he finished, he’d found a bunch more of her friends and business contacts he didn’t know existed. But nothing else.

Scot sat up straight, stretching a cramped back. Willy stretched his back, too, before nudging Scot’s leg.

Hungry? Have to pee? Or both?

The dog glanced toward the kitchen. He was hungry.

A half hour later both dog and man were back in front of Claret’s iMac.

Next thing, her calendar.

Scot found something interesting and shoved his chair back. She had a number of doctor appointments while I was out of town. The dog stood, glancing at the front door, hopefully.

She’d had