Vigilance's Solution: Bedlam's Heroes, #3

By Jeremy Michelson

After fifty years, the original Vigilante's secret is revealed.

 

A mysterious manuscript arrives from Suni's long dead father, Thomas. In those pages, he tells the tale of a secret episode from the original Vigilante, Blake Trumbull's, colorful past.

 

Blake and Thomas have been wrongly accused of the brutal murder of their colleague. Forcing Blake to reveal his secret identity to his friend. Together they must track down the true murderer.

 

But the truth turns about to be even stranger than they could believe. A plot so twisted and depraved that it leaves them reeling.

 

One man's senseless death could trigger the deaths of thousands.

 

The Vigilante has only one chance to save the city.

 

But the villains behind the deadly plan have an advantage he didn't count on.

 

Can the Vigilante and his impromptu sidekick, Thomas, somehow prevail against diabolical, merciless forces?

 

The exciting tale in the Bedlam's Heroes series that couldn't be told until now.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jeremy Michelson
• Release date: Feb 20, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224276271

Book preview

1

Judson and Suni, present day

The man walking down the diner’s central aisle looked like a lawyer. Charcoal gray suit. Expensive looking leather briefcase. Precisely trimmed hair. Glasses with silver designer frames.

Judson paused, metal spatula held over the ancient flattop grill.

The rich scent of cooking burgers and grilled onions wafted up around him.

Through the long, narrow window between the kitchen and the dining area, he watched the lawyer slowly make his way down the aisle. The man turned his head left and right. Looking for someone.

Lawyers weren’t a common fixture in Frank’s Diner. The north end of Bay Avenue might have become less seedy the last few years with the addition of the Naval base. But the diner’s clientele still ran more to sailors and business people (mostly insurance agents) from the old downtown area.

The man with the suit and the briefcase had an uptown look to him. Like he belonged in the big, shiny towers at the southern end of New Bedlam.

For a moment, Judson's gaze flicked to the big windows lining the outside of the diner. Korbahn Bay, which the city of New Bedlam nestled around, was tossed with white caps this afternoon. The sky at the horizon, where the bay met the ocean was gunmetal gray. The winter storms seemed to be coming early this year, it only being early November.

What kind of storm was this dark gray individual with the briefcase bringing?

The lawyer reached the end of the diner. Stopped at the final booth. What Judson considered the family booth.

Suni sat there, a laptop computer in front of her. Most likely catching up on the accounting.

Judson was good with numbers–and a great deal of other things–but his beloved wife, Suni, had a better head for business than him.

Three decades plus of marriage had honed them both to an efficient and inseparable team.

So his hackles instantly came up when a man dressed like a lawyer walked up to her.

Ponderosa, he called to his hired cook, Take over.

The tall, thickly muscled and bearded Ponderosa moved to the grill, taking the spatula Judson held out to him.

Got it, boss, Ponderosa said.

Judson wiped his hands on a white kitchen towel and threw it over his shoulder as he moved through the swinging door to the dining area.

Even after all these years, tossing the towel over his shoulder reminded him of the diner’s original owner, Frank. He’d seen Frank make the same gesture thousands of times.

History liked to repeat itself.

Ms. Suni Thompson? The lawyer asked.

Suni looked up at the man. Her expression was pleasantly neutral.

I go by Suni Barnes, these days, she said. Her eyes flicked Judson’s way as he approached. So far there wasn’t any warning in her look.

Still. He slipped his right hand into his pocket. Clasping the slim electric stunner he kept there. The device could knock a grown man flat on his back. And keep him there.

In his and Suni’s line of work, one never knew when trouble would show up.

Though trouble usually didn’t come looking like a lawyer.

Judson stopped at the edge of the long, black topped counter that ran the length of the diner. The lawyer didn’t seem to notice him.

If the guy tried anything, Judson would be right in position to stop it.

Up close, the man carried a light scent of expensive cologne. He was older than Jud first thought. Judging by the lines on his face and his neck, probably in his seventies. The man carried himself well, his shoulders back and his spine straight. He was in decent shape, with maybe a slight bulge around the middle that his tailored suit hid well enough.

The lawyer cleared his throat. You are the only daughter of Thomas Nicholas Thompson, are you not?

Suni’s expression instantly closed up. Her eyes narrowed. The lawyer shifted from foot to foot.

Who are you? She said. There was a hard note in her voice. The man might not have recognized the significance of the tone. But Jud's spine stiffened. The guy was pissing her off.

Mr. Lawyer Dude most likely didn’t understand how dangerous that was.

Jud glanced around the aisle. The booths lining the windowed wall were mostly empty. As was the long lunch counter. The lunch crowd was mostly gone by this time of afternoon.

That was good. Witnesses could be problematic.

The lawyer nodded to her. He reached into his coat.

Judson tensed. Pulled the stunner from his pocket. Held it ready, down beside his leg.

He noted Suni tensed, too. Her hand had dipped below the table. A handy weapon was secured beneath the tabletop. It was fingerprint keyed to three people. Only he, Suni, or their daughter, Nora, could unlock it.

Luckily for the lawyer, all he pulled from his coat was a business card. He handed it to Suni.

My name is Phinneas Mountlake, Esquire, the lawyer said, I’m a partner in the law firm of Mountlake, Norville, and Smith. I…

The lawyer paused. His gaze moved over Suni’s face. He let out a small sigh. A whisper of a smile lifted his lips.

I was a friend of your father’s, he said, You look like him, around the eyes. Though I see much of your mother, too. They were both lovely people.

Suni lay the card on the table.

Why are you here, Mr. Mountlake? She said. Her voice still had a hard edge to it.

Any talk of her parents was a touchy subject for her. He thought of warning the lawyer. But the man had to know.

The lawyer shifted from foot to foot again. He glanced around the diner again. He jumped a little when he noticed Judson behind him. Glaring at him.

Mr. Mountlake, Suni said, This is my husband, Judson. He’s a lot more patient than I am. But if you don’t explain yourself, immediately, I’ll have him pitch you into the bay.

Mountlake stiffened, turning his attention back to Suni.

There is no need for that, Ms. Barnes, he said, I am here to fulfill an obligation your father charged me with.

Suni’s eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. She leaned toward the lawyer.

My father has been dead for almost my entire life, she said, If this is some sort of scam, Mr. Mountlake, you will regret it.

Maybe the icy tone finally got through to Mountlake. A shudder went through him. He put his briefcase flat on the table. Flicked the locks with a precise snap. Swung open the lid.

Judson leaned in. A large manila envelope sat on top. It looked to be filled with a lot of papers.

Mountlake lifted the envelope and closed the case. He held it out to Suni.

She glanced at it, but didn’t touch it.

What is this? She said.

Mountlake sighed and set the envelope in front of her.

This, he said, Is a manuscript your father gave to me. He asked me not to look at it. And I haven’t. I don’t know what it is, or why it was important to him that I hold onto it for fifty years.

Fifty years! Suni said.

The lawyer nodded. Fifty years. Those were his exact instructions. He wanted me to give it to his closest living relative. Preferably one of his children. Though, at the time he gave me this, he did not have any children. He and Rachel hadn’t even married.

Suni stared at the envelope in front of her. The look on her face made it seem like the thing was a live hand grenade.

What am I supposed to do with it? She said.

The lawyer shrugged. I don’t know. There weren’t any instructions about that. I imagine reading it might give you some clue. Or not.

Mountblank snapped the locks closed on his briefcase. He lifted it off the table and half turned to leave, then pause.

Tom was a good friend, he said, A good man. I still miss him. I’m very sorry you never got to know him. Or your mother. They were both good, lovely people.

Mountblank nodded to Suni.

Good day, Ms. Barnes, he said, I hope whatever is in there was worth waiting fifty years for.

With that, the lawyer pivoted on his heel and hurried from the diner. The bells over the door jangled as it closed behind him.

Jud went over to Suni and put her hand on her shoulder.

Let’s take it home, he said, We’ll read it together.

She nodded, her lips pressed to a thin line.

He could see her pulse throb at her throat.

It was racing.

A trickle of anticipation tightened his chest as his eyes returned to the thick, manila envelope.

Fifty years it had sat.

Waiting to be read.

2

Blake will be mad if he finds out I’m writing all this down. But too bad. This is a story that deserves to be told. It just can’t be told to anyone other than the (very) close circle of people who know what he did.

Not for a long time.

Once this little manuscript is done, I’m going to stash it with a lawyer buddy of mine. We’ll do something more formal later, but for now, he understands that under no circumstances should this be released until at least fifty years after my death. I’ll leave the details up to him.

Fifty years should be long enough.

Hopefully.

Maybe not long enough to forget. But long enough for the truth to finally be told.

The only place to start this is with the murder of Cyrus Rand.

I wasn't the one who found the body, thank goodness. What I was told was that a custodian found the body in Cyrus' office on the second floor of the Engineering Sciences Building.

He’d been tied to a chair.

Then someone had taken a long time killing him. Using a very sharp knife.

I usually showed up early at the first floor Electrical Engineering lab. That morning was a typical foggy one at the Korbahn Bay University campus. The fog would roll in from the ocean, crawling over the bay in long tendrils that would sneak into the city of New Bedlam in the hour just before dawn.

I walked the concrete pathway toward the Engineering Sciences building, muscle memory carrying me through the sea scented mist. The leather messenger bag I carried my books and papers in bounced against my thigh with a steady beat. It was getting close enough to Fall that the mist had an extra bite to it. Not quite cold enough to pull my warmer jacket out. But still chilly enough I tugged my brown sport coat a little tighter around me.

I’m a professor in the Electrical Engineering Department at good ol’ KBU. Yarrr Pirates! Thomas Nicholas Thompson is my name. If I were a wet behind the ears fratboy I might call myself TNT. But I’m thirty-one and almost married. Tom is what I go by with my friends. Though part of my still cringes when the kids I teach call me Mr. Thompson.

Am I really that old?

Hopefully, I'll get to be older than Cyrus.

As I pushed through the mist, and the red brick bulwark of the Engineering Sciences building loomed in front of me, I stopped.

There was a small crowd gathered around the wide steps leading up to the arched entrance.

I recognized a few students. Juniors or Seniors who often showed up early at the lab to run–or check on–experiments. There were also a couple faculty members, including Colt Jennings. He was a professor in the chemistry department and another friend of ours. The other faculty member was Otto Hennigar. Who was definitely not a friend.

Otto was Mechanical Engineering. He was in his fifties, though he looked seventy. His face seemed to be set in a permanent scowl, and his shoulders were always slumped in what seemed like defeat.

He also exuded an odor similar to raw fish, gone slightly bad.

I can’t ever recall a kind word coming out of his mouth. About anything.

From what the students told me, he wasn’t all that great at teaching. Telling them to read the damned books and do the stupid lab work.

He had tenure, though. Unlike me. So I guess he could get away with coasting.

It would have been a mistake to think he was a pushover, though. He wasn't a big guy, but he had muscles under that shapeless, gray, patched at the elbows, cardigan he always wore. Once at one of those mind-numbingly boring faculty mixers, I'd seen him trying to impress one of the new, female English teachers. He'd lifted one end of a sofa.

One loaded with three portly Life Sciences professors. Who cursed him as they spilled their drinks and paper plates filled with finger sandwiches and Swedish meatballs on toothpicks.

The female English teacher hadn’t been impressed.

Otto’s face had turned bright red. So had the top of his head. Which was bare scalp with a scruffy fringe of hair running above his ears.

I might have been the only one to notice the look of seething hatred he sent after the woman.

So, as I stood there in the swirling fog, maybe I could be forgiven for wondering if Otto had finally snapped and hurt someone.

After all, the rest of the crowd consisted of uniformed police officers. Off to the side, half hidden by the rhododendron bushes near the corner of the building was a tall, broad shouldered man in a crisp, black business suit. He had a craggy, cruel face under close cropped, blonde hair. He seemed to be observing the situation. Not having seen him before, I assumed he was a plainclothes police officer of some sort.

None of the officers were paying any attention to Otto. Nor was he in handcuffs.

I was a little disappointed at that.

With a sense of impending doom twisting my gut, I got my feet going again. Slowly I approached the small knot of people.

It was Colt who spotted me first.

He broke away from the group, hurrying toward me.

Which made two of the uniformed officers snap their heads up and look my way. Immediately my face burned and my gut twisted into knots.

I certainly wasn’t guilty of anything. That I was aware of.

But in the City of New Bedlam, that wasn’t a prerequisite for being on the wrong side of the law.

New Bedlam was a lovely city, located in a gorgeous location along the northern Pacific Coast. It was nestled against flanks of the old Cascade range, and stretched out around the rim of Korbahn Bay like enfolding arms.

It had grown up over the decades since The Event had sheered off large sections of the western coast of the United States.

But now parts of it were in decay.

One of which was the New Bedlam Police Department.

I’d heard too many stories of citizens being shaken down for cash after reporting crimes. Or being arrested for no sensible reason. And having to pay bail to get out of jail.

I’m sure there were still good men and women on the police force.

But out of an abundance of caution, I would have preferred to avoid any and all New Bedlam police.

I didn’t quite come to a stop again, but I slowed as Colt hustled over. Halting as he met me. He glanced back at the uniformed officers. Whispered to me in a low voice.

Did you hear?

Hear what? I said, What’s going on?

He glanced back at the officers again. Which made me want to grab him by his ill-fitting sport coat and slap him. The officers were staring at us now. Naked suspicion in their eyes.

Rand, Colt said, Someone murdered him.

For a few seconds, I just stood there, blinking like an idiot. It was like Colt had started talking an alien language.

Cyrus? I said, He’s dead?

Colt nodded. Again looking back at the police officers.

Murdered, he said, Janitor found him.

Custodian, I said, automatically correcting him. Colt wasn’t the most socially astute individual around. Things tended to fall out of mouth before he gave them much thought.

Whatever, Colt said, waving a hand to dismiss my political correctness, I overheard the cops talking to the guy. Sounds like it was pretty gruesome. Blood everywhere and Cyrus carved up like a Thanksgiving turkey.

My stomach flip-flopped.

I wasn’t unfamiliar with violence. At least being on the receiving end. I’d grown up with a stepfather who hated my guts for no other reason than that I existed. There was a long scar on my back, and a slightly crooked right arm from an imperfectly healed break that were my badges of that passage through hell.

Since I achieved adulthood and my freedom, I'd been careful to arrange my life in such a way that violence would be unlikely to thrust itself upon my world.

At least, I thought I had.

An instant later, I felt ashamed for thinking about myself. It was Cyrus who was dead, not me.

Cops are wanting to question everyone, Colt said, Just play it cool, Tom-man

I considered Colt to be a friend. He was about the same age as I was. We had started teaching at KBU the same year. He had even sort of introduced me to the future Mrs. Thompson, the beautiful and whip-smart Ms. Rachel Miller. Or maybe I'd be the future Mr. Miller. We hadn't decided on whose surname we were going to use.

But Colt had a few annoying habits. One of which was giving everyone nicknames. At various occasions, he had addressed or introduced me as Tomboy, Tomarosa, Tom Collins (after the drink, I guess?), Tomasita, TomTom, Tom da Bomb, Tomaroo, Tommy Gun, and The Tominator.

It got old after a while.

Colt straightened up, looked back at the cops and flashed them a big smile and a thumbs up. The officers exchanged a couple words with each other, then one of them started walking toward us.

Instantly sending my heart rate into pound-through-my-ribs territory.

Play it cool, my ass. Thanks, Colt.

Despite my desire for non-violence, there were times I’d like to punch that guy in the nose.

He ran a hand through his thick, blondish brown hair. The guy was fairly handsome. Not very tall, just a bit under medium height. Most of the (many) women he went out with were able to look him straight in the eye. Without heels.

But he was a failure when it came to dressing himself. He wore loose fitting, mismatching clothing that made me cringe whenever I saw him. I’m no clothes horse, but at least I put a little thought into it.

Today he was wearing a blue and green plaid sport coat and red corduroy trousers. With dark brown sneakers.

Somehow he still managed to have an active dating life.

Though I had no idea how many ladies returned for a second helping of Colt Jennings.

Maybe they slapped him and walked away.

Much like I wanted to do right about then.

The uniformed officer came up to us in an eye-watering cloud of aftershave. The cheap kind he probably bought in gallon jugs down at the Dollar Mart. His silver and blue badge was shiny enough to give me a funhouse view of myself. Making my normally narrow face flat and wide.

I tried to tell myself I didn’t look suspiciously nervous in it.

The officer, whose name badge proclaimed him to be R. O’Shea, was a good head taller than me. His shoulders were broader than mine, and I while I wasn’t built I like a linebacker, I wasn’t skinny, either. He scowled down at me

"Your name. Sir," he said.

Oh, this is Dr. Tom Thompson, Colt said, Remember, I was telling you he worked with Dr. Rand?

I clenched my teeth together. Tried to project innocence as I looked up at the officer’s unfriendly countenance.

"We’re gonna need you to come with us, Doctor Thompson," the officer said.

Thus began my not-so-entertaining journey into the New Bedlam Criminal Justice System.

3

I was arrested and booked into the municipal jail before I’d even had my coffee.

A dead-eyed officer stuck me in a holding cell with seven other men. The room was dank, smelling of urine and stale sweat. On the gray, cinderblock walls were carved a great deal of unimaginative graffiti. Most of it along the lines of Spike was here, and crude, anatomically improbable drawings of male and female genitalia.

Overhead, a single lightbulb in a metal cage illuminated the sorrowful place. The lines of the cage cast a spiderweb-like image on the bare, concrete floor. Metal benches, their blue paint worn bare in many places, lined two walls. Along the third wall was a stainless steel commode, out in the open.

Actually, I was glad I hadn’t had my morning coffee.

I stood there, stunned and blinking, as the iron bars slammed behind me with a resounding clash of metal. A heartbreaking sound now that I was inside the cell.

My poor head was reeling. It had all happened so fast.

One moment I was standing on the pathway to the Engineering building. The next I was thrown on the damp grass, my arms wrenched behind my back. I was cuffed. Thrown into a squad car and rushed downtown.

The scowling officers hadn’t even read me my rights.

At the moment, that was the least of my concerns.

I scanned the surly, hard looking men in the cell. Most of them eyed me like I might be a nice, juicy pork chop. Their beady eyes glinted in the shadowed light. Their scarred hands clenched and unclenched.

Except for one large fellow hunched over in the corner.

He was bigger than any of them. A massive figure in a black coat and a familiar mane of dark, slicked-back hair.

My blood seemed to freeze in my veins.

Blake? I said.

The large man’s head came up, turned my way. The force of his gaze hit me so hard I nearly staggered back.

Blake Trumbull.

My friend and colleague. Director of the Engineering Sciences program at KBU. And all around genius.

Having him look at you was like having one’s face thrust close to the sun. His gaze was so intense that there was only one person I knew of who could hold it more than a couple of seconds.

Blake’s lips turned up ever so slightly. He stroked his closely cropped beard.

Ah, Thomas, he said, I wondered if they might snag you too. This is precisely why I have waited here.

Waited? Blake Trumbull, all four hundred and something pounds of him was waiting? For me?

I shook my head. Keeping up with Blake’s multiple and fast moving trains of thought was challenging in the best of times.

And this was certainly not the best of times.

Blake! I said, Why are you here?

He gave me a rueful smile and a tired sigh.

I suspect we are here for the same reason, my friend, he said, The overzealous and woefully incompetent police force of New Bedlam have decided to charge us with the murder of our friend and colleague, Dr. Cyrus Rand.

Even though a part of me already suspected why he was there, I still couldn’t believe it.

That’s ridiculous, Blake, I said, You wouldn’t kill anyone. You won’t even stomp on a spider.

Blake held up one finger. His hands, though encumbered with fat as the rest of his body was, had long, delicate fingers. Fingers that were clever and quick. If he tired of engineering and the sciences, he could just as well become a magician, so skilled was he at sleight of hand.

Though he clocked in at well over four hundred pounds, Blake carried it well. He was large framed and broad shouldered and a bit over six feet tall. His enormous poundage really only showed around his belly and his face. He still had a neck below his multiple chins–which themselves were somewhat hidden by his well trimmed facial hair.

He stood, his black clothing rustling around him. For such a large man, he moved with surprising lightness and grace. Like our other colleague, Otto Hennigar, Blake carried a great deal of muscle under his impeccably tailored suit.

Spiders are quite useful, Blake said, Also, they are marvels of natural engineering. I’ve studied them extensively. One day I hope to replicate some of their wondrous talents.

I let out my own sigh. The man seemed to have a million experiments going on at all times.

Which was also irrelevant at the moment. I dragged the conversation back to where it belonged.

Let’s put spiders aside for the moment, I said, Why did the police think you murdered Cyrus?

He raised an eyebrow.

"Why do they think you murdered Cyrus, my friend?"

The wind went out of my sails. My body slumped, teetering on the verge of being unable to support itself.

Me? Murder someone?

Unthinkable.

I don’t know, I said, I walked up to the Big Brick and was immediately tackled.

I straightened up, giving Blake a hard look.

They didn’t try tackling you, did they? I said.

A Mona Lisa-like smile crossed his face.

I fully cooperated with the officers, he said, I offered no physical or verbal resistance.

That seemed unlikely. Blake was more than capable of physically defending himself. I was a witness to that fact.

If he went with the police, it was certainly because he allowed them to do so.

Blake was a man of many talents. A mastery of self-defense being one of them.

I threw up my hands.

Why did they arrest us, Blake? I said.

That’s obvious, he said, They suspect us of murdering our dear colleague, Cyrus Rand.

But we didn’t!

He arched an eyebrow and stroked his beard again. Which in this situation gave him an uncomfortable look of villainy. He began pacing the length of the holding cell. Marching to the iron bars, spinning, then marching to the stainless steel commode and spinning again.

How such a large man could have so much energy always baffled me. Just being around him