Special Election

This I would like to thank Lastman for his advice and initial impression. Both were a tremendous help in finally getting this out. This went through more drafts than any previous story, and I finally managed to crack it. This was the longest time between Chase Kramner stories.

For those who read the last chapter of The Order of the Shattered Cross, you know I had surgery right after I posted that. Mostly healed up, still some physical therapy to complete.

The is the 10

th

Installment of what is known as the Criminal Affairs series, and the 9

th

featuring the Chase Kramner. The order of those stories is listed below.

Criminal Affair (ten-part series)

The Sorority

The Irishman at the End of the Bar

A Shoulder to Cry On

A Perfect Match

The Second Booth at Horseshoe Diner

If You'll Believe In Me

Without a Whisper

Five Stories

Special Election

--

Thursday - July 4, 1997

-Quintin Kramner-

I was expecting a fight before I left. My father isn't happy with me and hasn't been for a long time. I couldn't tell you how many times I've been slapped across the face for my grades. Kramner's don't get Cs, let alone Ds or outright failures. Kramner's

don't

fail. The name Kramner matters. I've been told this my entire life. My father was told that by his father his entire life, and so on and so on throughout the generations.

When I told him I was going to jump into a car and vanish down the coast all night with Logan and Victor, the friends he's never approved of, I was expecting to have to sneak out in the middle of the night. I was prepared to climb out my window and wake my father up by having Logan burn rubber, screeching his Mustang down the street as we shouted, fists pumping into the air as we vanished into the moonlight.

Dad doesn't shift in his seat as I tell him my plans. He doesn't even look up. He's reading over documents from a court case, his eyes peering through the glasses resting on the tip of his nose. I'm pretty sure those glasses are cosmetic, as he never wears them otherwise. I'm not important enough to have his undivided attention.

"Quintin, do whatever you want."

I'm taken aback. No argument? No locking me in my room and making me study all summer to maybe turn my Ds into Cs? No talks about the importance and prestige of our name? Nothing? Did he even hear me?

"I said I'm going to jump into Logan's car and leave the state..." I begin to say, but he raises his hand to stop me without looking up from the work on his desk.

"...I heard you. Do whatever you want."

At first, I was overwhelmed with joy to hear that. For the first time in my life, I can just do anything. No studying, no excessive scheduling, no feeling his breath on my neck even when he wasn't in the room. I left his office, and that joy I just felt vanished. When he controlled everything I did, at least I knew he cared in his own distorted way. When he said he didn't care what I did, it felt more like he had said he didn't care about me. That hurt worse than a slap.

I walk through the living room and see Chase sitting on the couch doing what I'll assume is his summer homework. It's hard to imagine he's twelve now. He's getting taller and leaner, like the rest of us. We tend to get chubby right before a growth spurt. Last year before I left for boarding school, he was a full foot shorter than me with thick cheeks; now he's only three inches shorter than me, and the baby fat appears to have melted off his face. Same soft black hair as me, and a perpetually solemn expression.

Chase doesn't talk much. It would be easy to say he doesn't because of what happened with mom, but he was already a quiet kid before that. When he does talk, it helps the silence make sense. You can tell he thought about those words and spent that time in his own head gathering them. He speaks when he has something to say; He doesn't talk just to talk.

I love the little guy. I wish I saw him more, but nine months out of the year I'm at a boarding school in New Hampshire. I hope Nichole has been taking care of him. Next year she'll be at Princeton, so Chase will be all alone. All alone with him.

I sit down next to him and look at his schoolwork. I must be slipping if I'm looking at the homework for a six-grader and I can't tell what it is. I'm not the most academically gifted, but I should be able to help him with sixth-grade math.

"Is this algebra?" I ask, and he shakes his head and drops the pencil on his notebook. I pick up the textbook from the table and flip it to the cover. "Calculus?"

"I got bored," Chase says with a slight shrug.

"Holy hell bro," I say with a small laugh. He has to be fucking with me. There is no possible way he's getting these questions right. I pick up his paper and flip to the back of the book for the answers he's already solved. Every answer he's solved has been correct so far.

"Don't distract him, go do whatever you planned on doing," I hear dad say. I look up from the paper and see dad standing with his arms crossed. He couldn't be bothered to look at me earlier, but now he's fully left the office when it involves his second son. I look at Chase, but he doesn't look up. He takes the notebook from my hand and continues to work.

Now it makes sense. Dad doesn't care what I do anymore. He has a twelve-year-old who can do calculus, so what need does he have for a son with a D average?

I want to warn Chase. I want to protect him from what he doesn't know dad has planned for him. Chase is not going to have a life of his own ever again. That burden. The unbearable weight he puts you on. Can he carry it? Can I live with myself, handing off the weight to Chase and letting it crush him without even trying to fight dad?

I look at our father and clench my fist in rage. No. He can't do this to him. Not again. No more. It ends now.

"Dad," I say, slowly standing up from the couch. "Leave him alone."

I'm ready to throw a punch. It's time to find out if I can. Dad's a lawyer, not a fighter. I think I can take him.

"Maybe when you get back, he can help you with your homework," dad says, and my fist releases. I look over my shoulder and down at Chase who is looking up at me. I don't know who I want to punch anymore. I forgot dad fights with words. In one sentence he crippled me. In his eyes, I'm inferior to a twelve-year-old. The worst part is, he might be right.

Without another word I leave out the front door, respectfully closing it, because now I'm too ashamed to slam it.

--

I sit quietly in the passenger seat of the Ford Mustang convertible while Logan drives. The wind is blowing my hair back, and a stray breeze occasionally sweeps it into my face, but one swat with my hand and it's gone. The radio is tuned to 80s rock and roll and it's blaring so loud I can barely even think. Victor's hands slap the sides of our seats, slightly out of beat with the music, but I barely pay him any attention.

"How fast did you have to run to get away from your dad?" Logan asks. My mind was still in the living room, but I snap out of it and look at him.

"He can't catch me. Too fast," I brag. Victor slaps my shoulder and laughs. I look away from them and I feel my smile sag.

"Fourth of July boys!" Victor cheers, and Logan joins him with a sustained holler. "We're gonna find them! We're gonna finger them. We're gonna fuck them. Then we're gonna forget them!"

"F-F-F-F Fourth of July!" Logan screeches as he steers us onto the highway. We cross Chesapeake Bay and enter the state of Delaware. Victor's cousin told him about a town here. Apparently, the beach parties are wild, and the house parties at night are even crazier. Just what I need. At least, what I thought I needed before I told dad. Now I kind of want to study.

It doesn't take long before we see the sign for the town. Logan turns off the radio to listen for music outside of the car. Where there is music, there is a party. He turns onto a narrow road. The beach is on the other side of the houses, and we hover at every cutaway which has a trail to the beach.

"Hear that?" Victor asks, the excitement in his voice evident. At one cutaway it gets loud, and Logan backs up to find street parking.

"South Bethany, the Maryland Marauders have arrived!" Victor shouts, standing up in the back and leaning over against the top of the windshield. "Hide your daughters, because we're gonna..."

"...Find them!" Logan joins and slaps my shoulder for me to join as well.

"We're gonna finger them. We're gonna fuck them. And then we're gonna forget them!"

"F-F-F-F Forth of July!"

Logan finds a place to park the car less than a block away. We all jump out, me slower and less enthusiastically. Logan pops open the trunk and Victor helps him pull out an ice chest. Knowing Victor it's full of booze. They carry it together to the beach while I carry the chairs and a bag with the blanket and towels. We zigzag our way around the partygoers already established on their blankets and under umbrellas.

"Looking fine ladies," Logan says as we walk by one group. They roll their eyes, but also giggle and give him a cutesy wave in reply.

I didn't even notice that Logan and Victor had already taken their shirts off. They're the star athletes of Georgetown Preparatory. Logan himself is a varsity level athlete in three sports, and he just completed his Sophomore year of high school. Logan is half a foot taller than me, putting him just below six and half feet. In the fall he's the starting tight end for the football team. In the spring he's the shortstop for baseball. In the summer he's a decathlete. He's at least thirty pounds heavier than me, and he's all muscle. His brown hair drapes over his shoulders like the mane of a lion.

Victor was a wide receiver for the junior varsity football team and should be getting promoted next school year to varsity. He is ungodly fast. He's not as bulky as Logan, but he has compacted muscle for his size and incredible economy of strength. Pound for pound he's probably stronger than Logan. He keeps his dark hair short, the longest I've ever seen was last year at Christmas break when it reached his eyebrows.

We set up our spot with a large beach blanket and three chairs.

"Kramner," Logan says as I sit down. "We're gonna jump into that football game, you coming?" I look around them and see a group of shirtless guys playing a game of beach football.

"I need to pre-game first," I say and open the ice chest. I dig through the cold and pull out a can of Miller. "I'm just gonna chill for now."

"Alright. At least be useful and start scoping it out. If we leave with our dicks dry, what the fuck was the point of coming out here?" Victory says before they jog off together toward the football game. They don't seem to have any issues inserting themselves into the group. They have that kind of energy. They can be friends with anyone.

I crack open the beer and lean into the chair. I close my eyes, trying to force dad out my head. Maybe if I black out, that's how I can stop thinking about him.

"Fuck you dad," I say and crush the beer in one pull.

I prep the next beer, take a drink, and create a cup holder by burying it in the sand. I scan the beach, taking inventory of everyone around me. Buff guys are playing football and volleyball shirtless. Girls are sunbathing. Mixed couples are playing volleyball in doubles. I take another drink and see more of the same in the other direction.

"Where are you from?" I hear, and I turn my head toward the sun. Someone is standing in front of it, and it takes my eyes a second to focus, even after I hold my hand up to block the brightness.

A brunette girl is standing next to me. Her brown hair sparkles like the ocean behind her. She's wearing a blue beach shirt hanging off one shoulder, and I can see the orange straps of her bikini top and the tie-offs from the matching bottoms beneath her jean shorts. The kind of shorts with the pockets four inches deeper than the frayed seams. In her left hand is her flipflops, and I look at her feet and see orange nail polish on her toes with the sand between them.

When my vision finishes adjusting, I notice she's very attractive. Cute as hell. Tanned white skin, freckles, but only on her nose, but maybe she has makeup to hide the rest of it. She looks tall, like if I left the chair, I'd still be looking up at her. I don't think my self-esteem could take much more abuse at the moment, so I stay in my seat.

"What makes you think I'm not from here?" I ask, and she smirks.

"May I?" she asks, and gestures to Victor's chair. I nod, and she sits down. "Thank you."

"Well?" I ask. The girl takes the beer from my sand cupholder and takes a drink.

"When it isn't the summer, South Bethany has less than five-hundred people. I'm from here, so I know when someone isn't," she explains, and I chuckle a little.

"Maryland," I say.

"Where in Maryland?"

"Bethesda," I reply.

"Rich kid. Summer slumming?" she asks, and I shrug. "You can say it. It takes a lot to offend me."

"Anything to get away from my dad right now."

"Rich kid with daddy issues? How far does the cliché go? He never hugged you? Mom's a trophy wife who can't escape?" she asks.

"You're half right," I admit.

"Which half?"

"Never hugged me. Most of the family net worth is actually from mom. Dad was plenty well off on his own, don't get me wrong, but mom was the big earner."

"Was?" she asks. "She did get away then."

"She died, four years go," I reply, and she looks at the sand.

"I'm sorry...Fuck, I'm sorry. I was trying to play around, poke at stereotypes. It's easy to forgot it's never that simple," she says, and I nod, accepting her apology.

"We haven't really introduced ourselves yet. I'm..." I start to say, but she reaches over and presses her index and middle fingers against my lips to silence me.

"No names," she says, and I must have expressed my confusion with my eyes. "I just went through a breakup. First crush, thought I loved him, that kind of shit, you know."

I nod.

"My ex hates the summer kids who come here. I'd love to see his face if he sees you talking to me," the girl says. "You mind playing the part?"

She lets my lips go and I laugh a little.

"What do I get out of it?" I ask.

"Depends on how pissed you make him."

"What you doing talking to my girl?" I hear and turn to see who I assume is her ex. Fuck me sideways. No question this guy is above my weight class. He's half a foot taller and built like Logan.

"Casey, you broke up with me the moment you put your dick in Jules," she says, but he ignores her and knocks me and the chair backwards with his foot. "What the hell is your problem?"

"Get up you little bitch," Casey says, and I sigh and roll off the chair so I can get to my feet. My guess on his height is unfortunately correct.

"Casey, stop," she says, stepping between the two of us, but he grabs her arm and throws her to the side. "What the fuck..." she starts but freezes when she watches me punch him across the face. He didn't see it coming either. Casey stumbles a few feet before catching himself. He rubs his check with his fingertips, and I can see his tongue pressing against it on the inside of his mouth.

"Is that the best you got?" he asks and stands upright again. He swings, but he telegraphed too much, and I step out of the way. "Stand still you little shit..." he begins but is tackled to the ground from behind by Logan. He tries to push Logan off, but Logan has his shoulders pinned. "Get the fuck off me!"

"Eat sand shithead," Logan says and forces his face into the beach. Apparently, Casey brought friends, because I see two more guys start running toward us. One doesn't make it because Victor intercepts him with a push from behind that sends him rolling into the sand. The third I tackle to the ground before he can get Logan. I fully mount him and start raining down punches.

"Hey!" I look up to see the rest of the football team coming. I find it funny they were fast friends only a few minutes ago. The guy beneath me takes the opportunity to get a punch in, so I return fire.

"Bail," Victor says and starts running. He has to run back to pull me off the guy whose head I've pushed a foot into the sand one punch at a time. "Let's go you fucking psycho."

I run and pause for a moment to look at the girl. She's almost laughing. I smile at her.

"Ocean drive, eight o'clock. House party, you'll find it," she says, and I hear the team behind me. I dart back to grab our beach bag and run after Logan and Victor. Victor was the second to start running but he's halfway down the cutaway when I enter it.

"What about the ice chest?" Logan asks as Victor jumps into the back of the car. He jumps on the trunk, barely even breaking stride as he plops down into the driver's seat.

"Fuck the chest, go, go, go," Victor shouts. Logan scrambles for a moment.

"Fuck! The keys were in the bag," Logan says as I exit the cutaway. He sees I have the bag and reaches out for it. "Throw it!" Logan shouts, his hands posed like he's ready to catch a football. I throw the bag underhand and dive headfirst into the Mustang on top of Victor.

"Go, go!" Victor shouts as Logan starts the car and peels away.

They were close enough behind us to slap their hands on the car before he picks up speed down the road. They keep running but after a few seconds they stop when they realize we've escaped. Victor stands up and flips them off before showing them his bare ass.

"Kiss my white ass bitch!"

Logan turns the car and Victor almost flies out, but I catch him by his shorts and pull him back into the car. He starts laughing hysterically while pulling his shorts back up to his waist.

"You're a maniac Kramner!" Victor screams and slaps my arm like I just won the Superbowl.

"I've been waiting for fight! Waking up, praying to throw down. Fuck yes!" Logan shouts and pumps his fist into the air. "I mean, you do owe Vic like, two hundred for that chest, but fuck yes!"

"Now what?" Vic asks. "We heading home? Town's pretty hot now."

"There's a party tonight. On a street called Ocean drive at eight. Didn't get a house number, but shouldn't be hard to find," I say, and Vic slaps my arm again.

"Look at this fearless fucker!" Victor says and climbs into the passenger seat. "Let's find a place to lay low, then we'll find that party. You in Logan?"

"Maybe get into another fight? Fuck yes, I'm in."

"My man," Victor says. "We're gonna find them. We're gonna finger them. We're gonna fuck them. And we're gonna forget them."

All of us say it at once.

"F-F-F-F Fourth of July!"

--

Monday - May 3, 2021

-Chase Kramner-

It took several months and more failed attempts, but I finally have sprouts growing in my garden. I'll allow them to grow until they're ready to be transplanted into a larger pot. When they're ready, I'll move them into the garden proper. I can't wait to eat some vegetables I grew myself.

Over the last six months between cases, I built a makeshift greenhouse on the side of our house. It was shockingly easy to build once I knew enough to not screw it up. It can get cold in the winter where we are, but this will allow us to grow all year long. Ten feet tall and built with a simple amalgamation of timber, plexiglass, shade-cloth, soil, and PVC pipe. I was utterly convinced a hydroponic set up was the element I was missing. I devised an overly complicated system that exploded in a wet torrent of embarrassment the moment I turned the water on.

Jenn told me something her brother would say frequently after he enlisted in the Navy. K.I.S.S. or, Keep it Simple Sailor. Or, Stupid. The true sign of a genius is making the complex, simple. The true mark of stupidity is making the simple, complex. It confounds me that I'm simplistic in my approach to investigations, but I complicate everything else in my life. I can put murderers in prison, but building a garden is driving me insane.