This is the second part of my ending to Just Once - If You Don't Mind by Kalimaxos. You really need to read the first part of this conclusion to fully appreciate the story. You can find that first part here. - https://literotica.com/s/just-once-once-is-all-you-get
I'm not sure I will ever do a follow on to someone else's story again. While this has been fun, it was also a lot of work. Enjoy.
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The sunrise over the Gulf of Mexico was spectacular. Rick sat in the beach chair in front of the well-used travel trailer parked on the sand with his pickup parked behind it. In front of him, the slow rollers coming in off the Gulf of Mexico created a peaceful and relaxing rhythm. He held a cup of fresh coffee as he felt the first stirring of the sea breeze begin coming in off the blue waters. He was as content and as relaxed as he had ever been.
The past 8 weeks have been an adventure. When he left that airport on D-Day (divorce day), he had pointed the pickup westward with no clear thought as to where he was heading. Over the next 800 miles he had systematically disposed of his original cell phone, his old laptop computer, and a lot of the stress and anger that he had held. He had finally decided to visit Texas and made his way slowly toward the Panhandle and Amarillo. He spent time working his way south and west toward El Paso. Turning East again, he visited San Antonio and headed South to Corpus Christi. The beach was on his mind. He found himself driving down long empty stretches of pristine Texas beaches where only the occasional beachcomber or surf fisherman was to be found.
Rick stopped when he recognized the MIA flag flying from the fiberglass antenna on the cab over camper on the old Dodge truck. He introduced himself and was soon having lunch with Bill and Florence Tittle. Bill was a retired aeronautical engineer and had worked for Sikorsky his entire career. When the two found out they both had history with the Blackhawk helicopter, there was nothing that would do, but Rick had to spend the night. The two men had talked until the wee hours of the morning, sitting on the beach around a driftwood campfire.
Rick slept in the back seat of his pickup and woke up a bit stiff and sore. After breakfast, he questioned Bill and Florence about their lifestyle. Bill explained that they owned a home in Connecticut, near the Sikorsky headquarters. They kept the old Dodge truck and camper in storage and flew into Corpus each August and spent the winter months living on the beach. Rick learned that they could stay 14 days on the beach, then they had to pack up, leave the park for 24 hours, and then they could return for another 14 days. On the day they spent off the park, they typically went to Corpus Christi, did their grocery shopping, found a laundry mat to clean clothes and took care of any other errands that needed to be handled. The Tittles then usually overnighted in a Walmart parking lot that was friendly to RVers.
Rick was enthralled. That afternoon he drove back to Corpus Christi, found a hotel and spent the rest of the evening online. The next morning, he had a list of phone numbers and began systematically calling, making contacts, and eventually shopping. By that evening he was the proud owner of a 22-foot 10-year-old camper trailer. His next stop was Walmart.
Rick was in the store bright and early. He had a list and worked systematically through the store. By the time he approached the checkout lane, he had recruited one of the Walmart sales associates to push one of the three full baskets. $857 later, he was loading the baskets into the back of his pickup and into the travel trailer. He tipped the associate with a $50 bill and received a massive grin in return. He spent the night again in the Walmart parking lot and left early the next morning, headed back to the national park.
&&&&&
It was nearing the end of his second 14-day beach life sojourn. He had visited with Bill and Florence several times. Bill had clued him in on tips and tricks for surf fishing the Gulf of Mexico, and Rick had soon begun to supplement his store bought pantry with fresh seafood.
Rick looked over the surf at the sun that was now fully visible. He drained his coffee cup and headed into the small camper. In minutes, he was back outside with running shoes, a thin t-shirt and shorts. On his back was a rucksack filled with 4 one-gallon bottles of water. That added a little over 30 lbs. to his total weight. He set off down the beach toward the ranger station. His pace was considerably faster than when he had started this regime about 3 weeks ago. His legs no longer ached and cramped when he returned from the 14-mile round trip. On the outside of his backpack was a small DOP kit that contained his personal toiletries.
At the ranger station were public showers and facilities. His habit had become to run the 7 miles to the ranger station, visit with the rangers, buy what small items he needed from the meager inventory of the camp store, take a hot shower and shave in the free showers. He would then jog less strenuously back to his trailer.
Back at the trailer, he returned his backpack to its place. He was quickly getting back into his old military habits. Everything had a place and there was a place for everything. He was back in the habit of making his bunk each morning, keeping the small space in the trailer neat and clean, and learning that there was not much he required past a few basics. His one extravagance was a mobile hotspot that allowed him to have internet in all but the most isolated places. He was spending a lot of time reading using his tablet and the Kindle reader app.
He was just preparing to pull out his beach chair, and set up a couple of surf fishing poles, Rick was ready to spend a day with Winston Churchill's History of the Second World War when an alarming and annoying sound filled the small trailer. It took him a moment to realize that it was his cell phone. He finally found the phone in the drawer where he kept some odds and ends. He looked at the number and realized it was his attorney. Rick pressed the answer button and spoke.
"Weston."
"Rick?"
"Yeah."
"Where the hell are you?"
"Texas."
"Where in Texas? That is a damned big place."
"On the beach. Why?"
"The fallout from the nuclear bomb you set off at the airport is starting to settle, The FBI wants to talk to you. You need to get back here ASAP."
I was a bit astounded. However, my new relaxed and stress-free self answered almost jovially.
"I'll be there in two days."
&&&&&
I did manage to get home late on the second day. It was well after working hours, so I called my attorney on his private cell phone and told him I was at the Ambassador Hotel at the airport. He asked me to be at his office promptly at 9 am. I agreed and headed out to get something to eat and find a cold beverage.
You have to understand. I had been virtually incommunicado for the past 8 weeks. At the beach, I had no television and the only radio I had was the one in the truck that I never turned on. I did have the internet, but it was mostly used to connect my tablet, so I could download books. Looking back, the world could have come to a finale in a great crescendo of fire and brimstone, and I probably wouldn't have had a clue.
As I sat in my room, I causally flicked on the TV. I scrolled through the various channels and found myself quickly getting bored with the usual fare until I happened into an evening newscast from a local station. Imagine my surprise when the lead local story was about a federal investigation into the international charity Doctors Without Borders. I was soon to learn that my lawsuit against the DWB organization apparently led to a federal investigation into the whole organization. I saw a video clip of the esteemed Dr. Bernardo Viratelli as he testified before a Senate committee. It didn't take long to learn that DWB was not just undergoing scrutiny from the Feds, but also the World Health Organization and half a dozen other governments. I began to laugh as I leaned back in the chair. It occurred to me that my small tactical nuclear bomb had been a bit more powerful than I realized.
I was waiting at the front door of my attorney's office when he arrived. He wasn't his usual jovial self. In fact, the look he gave me was more of an 'eat shit and die' expression. He held open the door and I followed him into his office. No one else was there. The first order of business was to make two cups of crappy coffee in the Keurig coffee maker. Whoever decided those things were the epitome of coffee had no taste. Once we were in his office, he looked at me.
"God damned, Rick. I hope you're satisfied. This thing has mushroomed into an Armageddon of sorts."
"How so?"
"The past week I have had the FBI in my office no less than 3 times. The Medical commission investigators have basically taken up residence. Not to mention the press. There are crews from every major news agency and about a thousand free agent blog writers and pod casters looking for anything they make the next sensation out of. The Feds want to talk to you."
"Why the hell do they want to talk to me? All I did was file a few lawsuits."
"Yeah. Those lawsuits opened up the biggest can of rotten worms I have ever seen. When the Feds got into the malfeasance side of Cardoza's dealings with DWB, things really began to unravel. Your lawsuit against DWB exposed a whole culture of bizarre and almost deviant behaviors. Things just kept coming out, and the whole house of cards began to implode."
"That still doesn't explain why the Feds want to talk to me?"
I watched as my attorney took a deep breath and then slowly looked around his office. It was only after his eyes had surveyed the entire room that he spoke.
"I am not exactly sure what they are looking for. I just know they have made it extremely clear that they want to talk to you officially. To that end, I am going to call the local FBI office and let my contact know that you are in my office and available."
I realized then exactly what was happening. His exaggerated expressions and the way he phrased that last part of the conversation all but told me outright that he was sure his office was bugged. I nodded as he reached for the phone.
"Yes. This is William Casey. I need to talk to Agent Fullingham."
"Agent Fullingham, Rick Weston, is in my office. When would you like to talk to him?"
"He and I will be there in about 15 minutes. Will you take my word that my client has told me that he will not sit for an interview without me present."
Bill hung up the phone with a grimace.
"That got his hackles up. He wanted you to come alone. He said this was just an informal interview and there was no need for me to attend. I assumed that you would not be in favor of that."
"You assumed correctly. I guess we better get going."
Twenty minutes later, we walked into the Federal Building across the street from the courthouse. Of course, we had to go through the standard screening before we got through the vestibule behind the front door and by the time we had produced our ID's, and they had run us through the metal detectors, what was clearly an FBI agent was waiting at the other end. He introduced himself as Agent Terry Fullingham. He offered his hand and I looked at him straight on.
"Let's just get this over with."
He frowned a bit but turned on his heel and led us to the elevators and up to the 4th floor. We followed him through a host of chest high cubicles to an interview room in the interior of the building. It had no windows, a steel table bolted to the floor and three chairs. As we crossed the room, a third agent slipped in behind us. We were all four soon in the interview room. I looked at Fullingham.
"Where is your monkey going to sit?"
As I spoke, I pulled one of the chairs to my side of the table and nodded to Bill to sit down as I took the other chair. That precipitated an almost Keystone cops routine as the agents worked their way back out of the tiny room and brought in another chair. We were all now sitting almost elbow to elbow around the small table. I leaned back in my chair and folded my arms across my chest. I presented a very closed body response, and I let my face assume the best poker expression. Rick sat, with his arms tightly folded across his chest, silently waiting for them to start.
Finally, Fullingham looked at his note pad.
"Ugh. Rick... "
I cut him off.
"Mr. Weston."
