Holly beamed.
“Thank you.”
“My family’s recipe,” the Reverend said with a grin.
“It was fantastic,” Suzan concurred.
Another thank you from Holly.
Beckett was surprised at how good a time he was having at the Reverend’s place. But why wouldn’t he? After all, good food and good drink were two of his favorite things.
So long as they steered clear of the giant water buffalo in the room, they’d be fine.
“I’ll clear,” Holly offered.
“And I'll help,” Suzan said, rising to her feet. As the ladies started toward the kitchen with dishes in hand, Beckett looked at the Reverend with a grin on his own face.
What was the point of having a water buffalo in the room if you weren’t going to comment on it? That was like watching a unicorn shit rainbows and not search his butthole for a pot of gold.
“So, quick question: does curing death make you tired? Because, I gotta tell you, autopsies are exhausting.”
The Reverend shook his head and Beckett thought that he was going to come out and say that he couldn’t really cure death. That he was speaking facetiously, that he wanted to empower people to help themselves or some such nonsense. But the man stuck to his guns.
“No, no, I can’t cure death—that’s just the press talking—I can only do what the Lord empowers me with.”
Yeah, and you are staunchly against such fame, aren’t you? You and your hundred-dollar bottles of scotch and lavish living quarters. Whatever happened to being humble, hmm?
“Right, the Lord who chose you as his vessel to perform such miracles. Riddle me this, Reverend, how does a doctor become a priest, anyway? What ever happened to the burden of proof?”
“Throughout history, many doctors have moonlighted as religious scholars. You know, most people think religion and science are discordant ideas, but not me. I think they're one and the same, and I also believe that eventually medicine and science will be able to explain religion.”
Explain it? It's already been explained… religion is a crutch for the poor, and a tool for the rich. But first and foremost, it's a business.
“You were always religious, then?”
The Reverend hesitated.
“I always believed that the Lord was always with me, but it wasn’t until the event that I decided to devote my life to Him.”
Ah, and there it is, Beckett thought. As usual, when something good happens to us that we don’t understand, it’s because of God’s will. When something bad happens, however, it’s because of #humans.
Beckett had no idea how religion scored the default in this scenario, but he personally blamed spicy tofu for everything, good or bad.
“The event? Like the Big Bang?”
The Reverend chuckled.
“No, not the Big Bang. Holly; Holly was the event.”
Suzan suddenly appeared in the room and nudged Beckett away from his plate so that she could collect it. She also gave him a look.
Hey, you wanted to come here.
“You mean…”
The Reverend nodded.
“Yes, my wife Holly. She was sick a couple of years ago. Leukemia. Doctors gave her very little chance of living into her forties. I was involved with everything, of course, and did everything in my power to help her, but modern medicine failed. No matter what we did, she kept getting worse.”
Beckett didn't need to hear the rest of the story; he heard it before dozens of times. Hundreds of times.
It was a dangerous line of thinking that had no basis in fact.
“Poor Holly was near death when I decided to turn to the Lord and ask Him to spare her.”
“And let me guess: he answered.”
The man simply held out his hands as if to say, she's here, isn't she?
“I touched her forehead as I prayed, and she was miraculously cured. Three days later, we were back home. It was then that I decided that I could help more people using faith than I could with medicine. That was two and a half years ago. I've saved more than a dozen people that the medical community cast off as dead.”
“So you claim,” Beckett blurted. He couldn't help himself this time.
“Again, like I said in the church, I respect your cynicism and doubt. But I have proof, my good friend. Would you like to see it?”
Beckett felt a little like someone watching a lap dance that he didn't pay for, but he went along with it.
“Would I? Does the Pope shit in the woods?”
Again, the Reverend just looked at him. If his career as a death curist ever fizzled out, the man still had options as a staring contest champion.
“Of course,” Rev. Cameron said. He turned his head and hollered over his shoulder. “Holly, can you please grab the folder of the people I’ve saved?”
I’ve saved…
“Yes, Alister.”
Why can't Suzan be more like her? Beckett thought with a grin. Subservient, obedient, giant breasts.
A few seconds later, Holly appeared at Alister's side with a manila folder in hand. He took it from her, pulled a pair of glasses out of his shirt pocket and put them on. Then he opened and read the first two pages to himself before sliding them over to Beckett.
Beckett had no idea how this would prove anything, but he humored the man. He owed him that much for the scotch, anyway.
The pages were part of a patient file, which, confidentiality rules notwithstanding, portrayed a young woman who was positive for hereditary Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease. The genetic testing was clear: she had a prion protein gene V180I mutation. The next page was for the same patient, only this genetic test revealed no mutation. The mutation results were circled in red pen.
Beckett didn’t need to see the other cases; he assumed that these results were consistent.
He slid the pages back across the table.
“You still don't believe, do you?” Rev. Cameron asked.
Beckett considered lying, debated cajoling the man, but it just wasn’t in his nature.
“Incredible claims require incredible proof, Reverend. The truth is, you can put whatever name on the top of the page that you want, but these genetic results are from different people. Short of me taking the swabs myself, I'm just not gonna believe it.”
The Reverend laughed.
“I thought you would say that. Which is why I am offering you a unique opportunity. You can test my ability to cure people for yourself.”
Another surprise.
“Really?”
“Sure. Why don't you come by and visit the parish again tomorrow? I would like to introduce you to my most recent patient. If you feel so inclined, you can do the genetic testing yourself.”
Beckett was taken aback by this. Most charlatans kept the recipe to their secret potions to themselves. Otherwise, everyone would know that the tincture they just put under their tongue was a combination of goat semen and eel farts.
“It's only ten thirty; why don't we go check on your patient right now?”
“I appreciate your enthusiasm, Beckett, but tonight is not for medical talk. Not anymore, anyway.”
Medical talk? It never was…
“And what, pray tell, is tonight for, then?”
Without answering, the man stood and walked over to the bar.
“Why, drinking, of course. Tonight, is for drinking.”
Chapter 27
Sgt. Yasiv had just taken up residence behind his desk with a hot cup of coffee when there was a knock at his office door.
“Come in.”
It was Dunbar.
“Fuck, Dunbar, what happened last night?”
There was a welt beneath the man’s right eye, and that side of his face was swollen. Yasiv knew that had been a mistake leaving him there, given his state of mind at the time.
“Got into a little tussle at the bar,” Dunbar said matter-of-factly. “Nothing serious, though.”
Yasiv had his reservations based on the injury but decided n
ot to press.
“Come in and sit down.”
Dunbar almost collapsed into the chair across from him. The man was clearly exhausted.
“Is there something you want to tell me, Dunbar? Because I already told you about the DA breathing down my neck. Shit, the man called three times this morning to see if I’ve found Wayne yet. If he catches wind of a police officer getting into a bar fight? He won't hesitate to—”
“I was eleven,” Dunbar said in a voice that immediately caused Yasiv to give the man his full attention. “Boy Scouts; my third year, the second year I was staying over. It was pouring rain out and there was a hole in my tent. Water was pouring in and at first, me and the two other scouts—Darren Horner and Toby Wentz—thought it was hilarious. But it was damn cold. After a few minutes, when the rain wouldn’t let up, we ran to the main hall where the staff was sleeping.”
Dunbar took a deep breath and Yasiv felt his stomach twist into a knot. He knew where this story was going.
“Listen, Dunbar, I didn't mean to—”
Dunbar suddenly looked up at him, tears in his eyes.
“We went to the main hall where the staff slept and knocked on the door. I was hoping that it would be Mrs. Kimbrell who answered it—she was the nicest Leader and I must say she had a pretty sweet rack, too—but it wasn’t; it was Mr. Dennis. Mr. Dennis was the one in charge of swimming lessons. He didn’t say much, but nobody really liked him… he never did anything to us, it was just a vibe, you know? Anyways, he answered the door and we told him what happened. He let us in. We wanted to sleep in the cafeteria together—we were still amped up from the excitement—but Mr. Dennis said that it was against the rules. He gave us two options: we could either go back and sleep in the soaking tent or we could sleep with the different counselors. I thought it was a bit weird, but I was only eleven at the time. Anyway, I got paired up with a Leader who was only a teenager. He gave me the bed and slept on the floor. Darren got to stay with Mrs. Kimbrell—lucky bastard—while Toby went with Mr. Dennis. When I woke up the next day, I went to our tent and started to take it apart, try to dry it out. Darren helped, but neither of us could find Toby. We couldn’t find Mr. Dennis, either. I asked pretty much every Leader, but they had no idea where he was. And then, when swimming class came around that afternoon, Toby suddenly was there. Only, he didn’t look so well.”
Dunbar took another deep, hitching breath, and Yasiv waited for the man to continue.
“We asked him what was wrong, but he refused to talk about it. Then at dinner, he said that he'd been up sick all night before and that he still wasn't feeling well. I just remember him being all pale, you know? Toby was the one who was always red in the face, running around, being a goof. But not that night. He was frail almost, frail and—I dunno, twitchy. Mr. Dennis—who wasn’t at swim class that afternoon—came by our table and said that Toby might have the flu and that we should steer clear of him. The flu? At camp in the middle of summer? People got beaver fever if they drank too much pond water or got sick from potato salad left out in the sun. But the flu? Anyway, I was closer with Toby than Darren was so when he suddenly got up at dinner and ran to the bathroom, I hurried after him. He was crying in the stall. At first, I was embarrassed for him and didn’t want to go in, but eventually, I built up the courage and knocked. I asked if he was okay, and when he said no, I asked if he wanted me to get Mr. Dennis. He just fucking screamed. Just howled. I ran out of there… I was so scared. I just went back to my table and drank my juice box in one sip—I still remember the flavor: Hawaiian Punch. Five minutes later, Toby came out, saying he was sorry. I was so confused, but before I could ask him about it, I had to take a leak. I went to the bathroom and took the exact same stall that Toby had been in. That’s when I saw it.”
When the man paused to take a breath, Yasiv took the opportunity to cut in.
“Dunbar, if—”
“I saw the blood; the toilet was full of it. Hank, there was blood on the seat, blood on the floor, the water in the bowl was pink. I freaked. I ran to tell Mr. Dennis what I saw and you wanna know what he said to me? The fucking bastard told me that this was normal, that when you get the flu sometimes, there can be a little bit of blood in your stool. Then he pointed out that I’d pissed myself. You see, when I saw the blood, I didn’t pull my shorts down far enough. Mr. Dennis took me aside and started to talk about how things like blood in the toilet and pee on your pants could be embarrassing, that if people found out, they’d laugh and make fun of us. I was eleven, man. I didn’t say anything. Toby went home that night and I never saw him in person again. In fact, I forgot all about him, until I heard his name on the news nearly ten years later to the day.”
Dunbar suddenly cursed and wiped his face with the back of his sleeve.
“Toby committed suicide. Jumped off a fucking bridge. Apparently, he’d been a long-time drug and alcohol abuser. Shit, this whole thing with Wayne Cravat and Winston Trent… it just brought everything back. If I’d just said something…”
Yasiv swallowed hard. It was a horrible story, one that made you not want to have kids.
“I’m sorry,” he offered, knowing that it was a pathetic response, but he didn’t know what else to say.
“No, I'm sorry. I'm sorry because I didn't say anything. That little boy Toby was raped by Mr. Dennis and I didn't say a single word—not a single word. That ruined his life, Hank. Drove him to kill himself in the end.”
There were tears streaming down the big man's face now, and Yasiv had to look away for fear of him being overcome by emotion as well.
“It's not your fault, Dunbar. It's not your fault; you were just a kid, too. Don't blame yourself.”
“Yeah, I was a kid,” Dunbar said softly. “But I still should've said something.” He cleared his throat. “And now you know why I don't want a guy like Wayne to get away with that shit.”
Yasiv stood and grabbed his coat off the rack behind him.
“Nobody should get away with that.”
Dunbar’s eyebrows lowered.
“Where are you going?”
“We are going,” Yasiv corrected, placing a hand on the man's shoulder and squeezing tightly. “We are going to find Wayne to make sure that he doesn’t ruin anyone else’s life.”
Chapter 28
Beckett was fairly intoxicated by the time they got back to the Airbnb, and his lovemaking with Suzan was predictably sloppy. When they were done—much quicker than he’d anticipated, mind you—they lay in silence, and Suzan traced a line along his bare chest with her finger. She liked to do this often, outlining the contours of his tattoos. When she moved to the lines on his ribs, he instinctively pressed his arm against his side to prevent her access. But he was drunk and so was she; eventually, she pried her way in.
“I like these tattoos best of all,” she whispered. Beckett was drifting in and out of sleep now, and he barely heard her. “When are you going to get another one?”
She ran a finger over each of the eight lines and then drew one more after on his bare skin.
“Yeah, I think it's about time you got another one.”
Beckett turned his head away from Suzan and closed his eyes. He wouldn't dream tonight, or at least he didn’t think so. It wasn't just the booze, but a calm had come over him. A calm that had finally silenced the tingling in his fingers that had returned shortly after Wayne had finally stopped bleeding.
This had happened before, of course; it was something he liked to call the calm before the storm.
And this only happened right after he met someone that he was going to kill.
“One day,” Suzan said in such a soft whisper that Beckett wasn't sure if she’d spoken or if he just imagined it, “One day, I think I'll get one too.”
Chapter 29
“I’ve never told anybody that story before. Not ever.”
Yasiv remained silent as he drove. It was clear that Dunbar was mostly using him as part of this cathartic exercise, and he was fine with that. In truth, he
wasn’t sure what to say. Even with the most heinous crimes he’d investigated, the victims had always been at arm’s length. Yasiv wasn’t like some of the more seasoned cops who could compartmentalize and fully embrace the term ‘victim’ so as to avoid calling these people what they really were—human beings, mothers, daughters, sons, fathers—but none of the crimes as of yet had penetrated his personal life.
Until now, that is.
Yasiv considered Dunbar a friend, even though they’d shared little time together outside of work. But, given the fact that his life was almost exclusively devoted to his job now, this passed as friendship.
And he didn’t know how to deal with it. Some people might have been able to pass this sort of thing off, say that Dunbar just needed to man up, that he should be grateful that nothing had happened to him.
But Yasiv knew better. He’d known Damien Drake, one of the best detectives the NYPD had ever seen, fall apart from PTSD after his partner’s murder. It literally consumed the man.
Dunbar needed help; telling his story was a clear indication that he was begging for help. And Yasiv wanted to be the person to help him, but the job came first.
They needed to keep it together in order to catch Wayne Cravat and to make sure he didn’t hurt any other boys like he had Will Kingston.
Yasiv cleared his throat.
“Harvey Park Church?”
He knew the name of the church but felt the need to say something to break the silence.
“Yeah, on Chevy Chase Road.”
Yasiv nodded and took a right. Less than a minute later, he saw the billboard for the church and pulled into the parking lot.
Before exiting the car, however, he turned to his partner.
“You going to be all right in there?”
Dunbar nodded.
“I’ll be fine.”
His tone was unconvincing, reminiscent of the night previous when he’d ended up with a bruised cheek, but they’d already come all this way.
Yasiv just had to be ready for anything this time.
“Okay, let’s see what we can find out about these meetings.”
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