Scott moved as fast as he could to his pickup and jumped in the cab. He closed the door behind him and slunk down low in the seat.
The blue lights of a police car lit up the darkness as it flew up the hill and parked sideways across Ridgway’s driveway. An officer sat inside his prowler for a minute, then emerged with a flashlight in one hand and the other resting on his gun.
Scott watched him approach the wide-open front door cautiously. He stood to the side of the light coming from inside, then called out, “Police!”
A moment later, he disappeared inside.
Scott turned the key and the Luv started on the first try. He shifted into first gear and coasted past the house as quietly as possible.
He checked his rear view mirror anxiously until he was out of sight of the blue flashing lights behind him. Before he got to the bottom of the hill, he saw more sets of flashing lights—a combination of red and blue this time—approaching him.
Before they reached him, he switched off his lights and turned into the driveway of a darkened house. He waited until the two squad cars and an ambulance had passed him, then got back on the road and drove to the motel.
Inside his room, he checked the knife wound, which was throbbing now. It was a stab wound, not a slash, so it was deep but only an inch or so wide.
During his vigilante years, he had been injured enough times that he always carried medical supplies with him. The lips of the cut were clean and needed stitches, but there was no way Scott was going to go to a hospital with a knife wound—especially when he had left the hunting knife at the scene. Knife wounds were reported, and there was every chance that someone would eventually put two and two together.
He gritted his teeth and dabbed an antibiotic ointment all around the wound. The bleeding had slowed to an ooze. He applied a double-folded bandage, then added several layers of medical tape. Finally, he took an ace bandage and wrapped it all the way around him three times.
That should keep my insides on the inside and hopeful absorb any blood that makes it through the bandage.
He rolled up the bloody flannel shirt he had been wearing and stuck it inside a plastic laundry bag.
What he wanted more than anything was to lie down on the bed and sleep for twelve hours.
Self-preservation told him that what he needed to do was put as many miles as possible between him and the crime scene.
He popped three aspirin to help with the pain, checked out of his room and got back on I-5 heading south. He drove straight to PDX, the Portland, Oregon airport. Parking the pickup at a convenience store, Scott left the keys in the ignition and walked away.
No time to sell it, but this will be just as good. Someone will steal it within a few hours and it will be gone.
He grabbed a taxi to the terminal, bought a ticket to Chicago and collapsed into an uncomfortable chair until it was time for his flight.
Chapter Fifty-Eight
The next three years played out much like the previous ten. Scott spent most of his life on the road, doing his best to right the wrongs that he knew were coming. Spiritually and emotionally, he was more centered. He had made peace with his life’s work, and he now had two home bases to work from—Evansville and Middle Falls.
When he got banged up from a confrontation, he made his way as quickly as he could to one of them. Both the Werbeloffs and Joe Hart became adept at sewing and bandaging him up.
Physically, he was starting to wear down. He had never fully recovered from the wounds he had suffered lifetimes earlier in Vietnam. Add in more than a dozen years of brawls with bad men who knew they were fighting for their lives and the picture becomes clear. Even when he wasn’t recently injured, Scott walked with a limp and he woke up to an entire menagerie of pains every morning.
He looked over the remainder of his list and knew he would likely never get to all of them. In the end, the body could only do what it could before it broke down completely.
Each time he went to Middle Falls, he and Joe traveled to the edge of town where their dream project had taken physical form. When Scott had made the initial suggestion, he hadn’t had a specific form in his mind, but long conversations with Joe had solidified the idea.
They had created a small village of its own, with tiny houses modeled on the guest house Joe had in his backyard. Those were for vets who needed solitude, peace, and quiet to get their heads straight. There were bunkhouses for those that desired company and socializing.
There was a huge community center with pool tables, card tables, an industrial kitchen, and a massive great room where everyone could gather to hear a speaker or watch a movie. There was also a counseling center, manned during the day five days a week, for those who wanted or needed someone to talk to.
Joe’s favorite part was the no-kill animal center he had built right in the middle of the complex. It served a number of purposes. It saved animals and helped them find their forever homes, of course, but it did much more. It gave the vets who were staying there a place to work and bond with the animals. It also gave the townspeople of Middle Falls a reason to come onto the property and learn that it was a positive thing for their community.
It all sat on twenty wooded acres with walking paths, a duck pond, and benches to sit and contemplate the world.
The one thing Joe couldn’t figure out was what to call the whole enterprise.
A few months before the place was ready to open, Scott took Sam aside for a meeting. They walked through the grounds, inspecting the finishing touches on the buildings and landscaping.
“Come up with a name, yet?” Scott asked her.
“Yeah, but nothing great. Nothing that quite fits.” Sam shot a sideways glance at Scott. “You’ve got an idea, don’t you? I know you.”
“Joe’s dad Rodrigo was a vet, you know. Korea.”
“Right. He did mention that one night.”
“So then, what about ‘The Rodrigo Hart Oasis for Veterans.’”
Sam stopped. She stared up into the tops of the trees that ringed the project. “The Rodrigo Hart Oasis for Veterans. Scott, you are a certified genius.”
“Nope. I have a lot of time to think when I’m traveling.”
‘I’ve been meaning to ask you. What do you do when you’re traveling? What are you looking for?”
“Peace, love and understanding?”
“Okay, fine. Don’t tell me. I still think you’re a genius. And now I’ve got an idea. I’m going to put a little side project together and get a sign made up for the Oasis. We’ll surprise Joe with it.”
“You’ll surprise Joe with it. Me? I’m hitting the road again. I think this place is about ready for some occupants, don’t you? I’m gonna go look for them.”
And that’s exactly what he did.
As he had so often, he traveled to the four corners of the country, crisscrossing the middle states over and over. This time, instead of dealing out vigilante justice, he looked for veterans living on the fringes of society.
Unfortunately, they weren’t hard to find. The difficult part was picking the right person. The truth was, some of the homeless vets were homeless by choice. They never felt like they fit in when they returned home, or they didn’t fit in with their families, or a thousand other reasons. They chose to live without a roof over their heads every night and found a certain amount of freedom and contentment from the lack of commitment. On the other end of the spectrum were those who were almost beyond help—so mentally ill or drug-addicted that Scott knew a few weeks or a month at the Oasis wouldn’t be much help.
He looked for people more in the middle. Vets who hadn’t ever gotten a break, who had been abandoned by the system, but were still fighting to get back on their feet.