Injecting Faith

by Patrick Logan

  “Well, Grant lied, and he manufactured these genetic results. No, that's not it. I don't know how the hell he did it. But the Reverend did something.”

  Suzan stood up, still chuckling.

  “Where do you think you're going?” Beckett asked. “We need to brainstorm. We need to figure this out. We need to get this guy.”

  “No,” Suzan said as she started towards the door. “What we need to do, is head to the church.”

  Beckett shook his head.

  “No way. No fucking way. I'm not going there, I refuse. I'm not doing it.”

  Suzan reached over and grabbed Beckett by the arm and dragged him to his feet.

  “Yeah, you are. You told the man in front of everybody that if he cured death, you'd praise the Lord. And I'm going to videotape the whole damn thing.”

  Chapter 48

  “I don't care; toss the entire place if you have to. I want receipts, notes, tickets of any kind. I’ll even settle for the man’s journal. But we gotta find something,” Detective Crumley told them as they entered the trailer.

  This was a different man from the one Yasiv had met a couple of days ago, but he didn’t mind. The man was friendly and helpful but also got down to business.

  As he started to search, his mind wandered back to what the manager had said, about how people took advantage of Wayne. She was the second person to say something like that, and Yasiv knew firsthand how manipulative some people could be.

  Is it possible that Winston and Brent somehow coerced Wayne into killing Will Kingston?

  It was a stretch, but this whole damn thing was like lukewarm taffy.

  “You find anything yet?” Crumley hollered.

  “Nothing. I got some comic books—Dogman—but not much else. Oh, I also found this.” Dunbar held up a vintage Playboy. “Doubt it was his though, given his taste. This prick doesn’t even have a computer.”

  Yasiv thought about the evidence presented at Wayne’s trial; mainly, the videotape.

  “Hey, Crumley, did you ever find the original tape of Wayne discovering Will’s body?”

  Crumley swept his arm across the counter, sending several plates and sets of cutlery to the floor. Yasiv cringed at the loud noise.

  “We looked but could never find the source.”

  Yasiv took the cigarette out of his pack and put it to his lips but didn’t light up.

  “The guy doesn't have a computer, so I doubt he knows how to upload something to YouTube. Someone else must have done it.”

  Crumley nodded.

  “Yeah, that’s the conclusion we came to, as well. It just proved impossible to trace.”

  Dunbar finished clearing the family room and wandered off to search Wayne’s bedroom. When he was out of earshot, Yasiv approached Crumley.

  “What’s your gut feeling about Wayne, Bob? You think he did it? You think he killed Will Kingston?” Yasiv wasn’t fond of this sort of speculation, but he was grasping at straws. Dunbar was certain of Wayne’s guilt, and he was on the fence. It was up to Crumley to break the tie.

  “I don't know. But… well, there’s something wrong with Wayne Cravat. But I don’t think this is right for him.”

  Yasiv nodded and left it at that.

  Then he set about searching himself, going through a stack of papers by the phone. Most of it was just ancient TV guides, but there was a bunch of things from Wayne’s time in school, as well; old tests, an English paper, other random nonsense.

  “Well,” Dunbar said emerging from the hallway, a grin on his face. He raised his hand and showed them a video camera, perhaps the only new-looking thing in the entire trailer. “Bob, you might just want to change your mind about Wayne Cravat’s guilt.”

  Chapter 49

  “I'm not gonna say that, Suzan. You’re being a dick about this, and don’t seem at all concerned about how this guy managed to hack the genetic tests. Like, what the hell! We use this shit to convict murderers, and somehow, he hacked it? This doesn’t bother you?” Beckett asked, incredulous.

  He had refused to drive to the church, but that hadn’t worked; Suzan just took the keys and forced him into the passenger seat.

  “You promised you would say it.”

  “Nuh-uh. What I said was that I would admit that he beat the test, that's it.”

  Suzan laughed.

  “No, I believe your exact words were—”

  “Whatever, this is bullshit and you know it.”

  Suzan laughed again, a sound that was suddenly grating. Under normal circumstance, she had such a cute laugh, but now it was sinister and evil.

  “You promised, Beckett. Don't make me take back the things I said about you last night,” Suzan warned.

  “And what part is that?”

  “All of it,” she said with a chuckle. “All of it.”

  For the entire drive to the church, Beckett was trapped in his own head, trying to figure out how he might have messed up. It wasn’t Grant, it wasn’t the buccal swabs, and it wasn’t the FedEx guy. So that left him. Somehow, somewhere, Beckett had fucked up.

  He suddenly snapped his fingers so loudly that Suzan jumped. Clearly, her mind was occupied as well.

  “A twin,” he said, with a proud smile. “That's it, I've got it. She has a twin. Brittany Laberge porch has a twin, that's the only way this could have happened. In the church, he used twin A who has cystic fibrosis, and in the Reverend’s home, he swapped her out for twin B.”

  Suzan pulled into the church parking lot, and Beckett couldn't help but notice how swollen it was with cars.

  “Really? Like identical twins?”

  “Of course, identical twins, I saw them. I couldn’t even tell the difference. I—shit. Shit!”

  “And you're the doctor?”

  Beckett immediately knew his error; it was impossible for one identical twin to have CF and not the other.

  Duh, simple Mendelian genetics.

  He threw up his hands.

  “I don’t know then. I. Just. Don’t. Get. It.”

  There were no free parking spots, so Suzan pulled over alongside the curb, leaving just enough room so that cars could dangle by if need be.

  “It's the power of the Lord, Beckett. It's the power of the Lord.”

  Before getting out of the car, she leaned over and gave him a big hug. This was so surprising, that Beckett didn’t immediately embrace her back.

  “What was that for?” he asked as she led the way toward the line of people in the front of the church.

  “Oh, I don't know. I just felt like hugging you before you were a broken man. I want to remember what you felt like before your pride was shattered.”

  Beckett scowled.

  “You're enjoying this a little too much, you know that?”

  “Oh, I do; trust me, Beckett. I do.”

  Chapter 50

  Yasiv stared at the video camera with wide eyes.

  “Didn’t you say that Brent Hopper was arrested for stealing a video camera?” he asked. His throat was suddenly very dry.

  Crumley nodded.

  “Yeah, that's why he was on parole. Where did you find it?”

  “Well, everything I’ve heard about Wayne Cravat suggests that he’s like a child, so I looked where every kid keeps the stuff they don’t want their parents to see.”

  “Under the mattress,” Yasiv said quickly.

  “Under the mattress,” Dunbar confirmed.

  They all gathered around while Dunbar switched the camera on. Then the detective turned the viewfinder, so they could all see and searched the internal memory. It didn’t take long to find what they were looking for: there was only one saved file, a video labeled as ‘Will’.

  Yasiv’s heart started to race.

  “Play it,” he said hoarsely.

  Dunbar was also clearly affected by the discovery, and fearful of what was to come, because it took three times for him to click the play button.

  Eventually, he managed, and they were greeted by a solid black screen.
<
br />   “Is it—”

  Yasiv shut up when he heard a voice from the camera’s tinny speaker.

  “How the fuck you work this thing?”

  “Take the lens off, you tool.”

  Light suddenly filled the aperture as the lens cap was removed. The image was blurry until the iris contracted, and then it focused directly on a man's face.

  Brent Hopper’s face. The man swatted at the camera.

  “Not my face, you idiot.”

  Whoever was operating the camera swung it to the left, passing the face of another man as he did.

  Winston Trent.

  “Hey, retard,” Winston said, clearly addressing the man holding the camera. “Don't start recording yet. We got a little surprise for you… just you wait.”

  “A surprise? What kind of surprise?”

  Even though Yasiv had never heard Wayne's voice, he knew without a doubt that he was the person holding the camera.

  Brent laughed.

  “Yeah, you fucking pervert. You gonna love this. Me ‘n’ Winston got somethin’ to show you.”

  Winston joined in with the man’s laughter, and Yasiv suddenly felt sick to his stomach.

  “Hey, you’re not recording this, are you?” Winston suddenly snapped, growing serious again. He snatched the camera from Wayne and turned it around.

  Wayne looked terrified.

  “This shit on?” Winston growled. Brent came over and tried to help with the camera, but neither of them could figure it out.

  “Here,” Wayne said softly. He somehow managed to get the lens cap back on. But Wayne didn't stop recording. There was no video, but there was still sound.

  Yasiv's eyes darted to the timestamp, and he saw that the video clip was nearly seven minutes long.

  During the entire run time, neither he, Crumley, or Dunbar said a single word. They barely breathed.

  It was clear that the three of them were walking through the woods, based on the near-constant crunching of dried leaves.

  Every once in a while, either Winston or Brent laughed or uttered some disparaging remark about Wayne.

  At one point, Yasiv heard the click of a cigarette lighter.

  At about the six-minute mark, the camera jostled as if it was being passed around, and then the lens cap was removed again.

  “You gotta film it, Wayne,” Brent said. “This is your time to be a star.”

  “Yeah, only you, Wayne.”

  Wayne appeared reluctant, but he eventually took the camera from Brent.

  And then he started to move. Yasiv could hear Brent whispering directions to Wayne—turn this way, no over there, look down, idiot—the entire time.

  Eventually, the image focused on a maroon backpack half-buried in the leaves. The name ‘Will’ was stitched just below the zipper.

  Yasiv had to avert his eyes for a moment when the camera was directed at Will Kingston’s naked body.

  “Move the leaves away from his face,” either Winston or Brent hissed.

  For some reason, instead of running, Wayne listened to the other men. He brushed the leaves away from Will’s face and focused on the boy’s milky eyes.

  Then the camera flipped around, and Yasiv found himself staring at Wayne. His eyes were wide, and his lips were twisted into an expression that was difficult to describe.

  And then the video ended.

  Yasiv just stared at the black screen for several moments, breathing heavily.

  It was Dunbar who eventually broke the silence.

  “He wasn't smiling,” the detective said softly. “Wayne wasn't smiling; he was terrified. Terrified of what Brent and Winston were going to do to him.”

  Crumley cleared his throat.

  “We had it wrong,” he admitted. “Wayne didn’t kill Will, Winston and Brent did.”

  Yasiv finally understood. The part of the video that had been uploaded started only after Wayne was walking toward the backpack. No one had ever seen the first six minutes. The part in which Winston and Brent incriminated themselves.

  Dunbar turned off the camera and then pushed the viewfinder back into to place. It snapped loudly, and Yasiv jumped.

  “Let’s go,” Detective Crumley said, his voice acquiring a more stable timber now. “Let's go get this Brent Hopper and charge him with the murder of Will Kingston.”

  Chapter 51

  “Can’t we just go home?” Beckett begged. He was sweating, and his headache had returned. “Please, Suzan. Don't make me do this.”

  Suzan didn't answer. Instead, she just dragged him through the doors of the church, and then proceeded to pull him through the throngs of people all the way to the front. It was slow going, and a dozen times Beckett thought that they would be stopped and that would be the end of it.

  But Suzan had particularly sharp elbows, and they made it all the way to the stage.

  Beckett felt like shit. He did not want to do this.

  But when Rev. Cameron appeared, his eyes seemed to be seeking for Beckett. It was like the man knew, like he knew that Beckett had overnighted the swabs, that he’d gotten the results back, and that he'd cured Brittany Laberge of cystic fibrosis.

  That he'd cured death.

  “Fuck me,” he grumbled as the Reverend pointed at him.

  Beckett almost turned and ran at that moment, but Suzan held fast. She was enjoying this, but he couldn’t blame her.

  She finally found a way to get back at him for all of his petty teasing, his sarcasm, his sheer refusal to be serious.

  “Welcome, welcome, everyone!” Rev. Cameron cried as Beckett reluctantly hopped onto the stage. “Before I introduce you to my friend here, I would also ask for Brittany Laberge to join us.”

  Beckett was looking for the teenager in the wheelchair, but he couldn’t find her. What he did see, was a young woman who practically leaped onto the stage.

  What the fuck?

  When he’d taken the swab yesterday, Brittany looked much better than the day before. But now she looked like she could run a marathon.

  Brittany Laberge definitely did not look like someone suffering from cystic fibrosis.

  The crowd’s cheers intensified and were now punctuated by several shrill whistles.

  “Just two days ago,” the Reverend shouted over the noise. “Brittany was dying. Conventional medicine gave her only a couple of months to live, but the Lord saved her. The Lord used me as a vessel to heal this young woman!”

  The roar was deafening now.

  Beckett couldn’t believe it. If he didn’t do anything to stop it, in a week, Rev. Alister Cameron would become a worldwide phenomenon.

  And it was partly his fault.

  Eventually, after a half-dozen requests from the Reverend, the crowd quieted.

  Beckett was sweating buckets now, and his headache had gone from a dull throb to searing pain behind his eyes.

  And his fingers were tingling.

  “Please, please, most of you will remember our friend Dr. Beckett Campbell from New York City who arrived with the sole purpose of proving that what I’ve done here—what the Lord has done—is truly, and verifiably, a miracle.”

  Oh, for fuck’s sake.

  “Dr. Campbell, can you please tell everyone what your tests have shown?”

  The smug expression that graced the Reverend’s face made it difficult for Beckett to resist strangling him right there.

  If he can cure death, I wonder if he can stop me from choking the life out of him.

  “It's true,” he said quietly.

  “I'm sorry? I didn't hear you.”

  “It's true. I did the tests myself. Brittany Laberge had cystic fibrosis, but now she doesn’t. I don’t know how you did it, but you did it.”

  A hush fell over the crowd, and Rev. Cameron basked in this glory.

  “What can I say? The Lord works in mysterious ways.”

  The crowd erupted again, and Beckett's eyes darted down to Suzan's. She was looking at him, but she wasn't smiling anymore. There was an expression of
concern on her face, the same expression that she had had when Beckett was in the hospital.

  I must look pretty terrible, he thought. Just then, searing agony shot between his temples.

  He swallowed hard and clenched his jaw until the pain eased a little.

  The last thing he wanted was to slice through the crowd again, elbow his way through the throngs of sweaty parishioners.

  Instead, he slipped behind the Reverend and made his way down the side of the stage. There was a door there, and he slid out without too many people taking notice. They weren’t here for him, anyway.

  His headache started to clear the moment he stepped outside, but it didn't go away entirely.

  Beckett was humiliated, he was sick, but he was also determined.

  The Reverend was a fraud, he knew this, as did Suzan, he just had to find a way to prove it.

  And what better place to find evidence against the man than where this all started?

  Beckett pulled out his phone and opened the Uber app, typing in the hospital address as his destination.

  ***

  “I honestly didn't expect to see you back here, Dr. Campbell,” Dr. Blankenship said. He obviously wasn't happy about Beckett sneaking off the way he had, but it was clear that he at least partially expected it.

  “Yeah, well, you know…”

  The man crossed his arms over his chest and waited for Beckett to continue.

  “I have a question for you; have you treated anyone for cystic fibrosis recently? A female teenager, perhaps?”

  The man's eyes gave it away: he had.

  “I'll answer your question, but only if you submit yourself to a few tests.”

  Beckett tried to remain neutral.

  “The ones you planned for me before?”

  The doctor nodded.

  “Deal,” Beckett said quickly. The man eyed him curiously, then gestured towards one of the vacant rooms. Beckett didn't hesitate; he moved in that direction.

  “I'll go prepare the paperwork,” Dr. Blankenship said as Beckett opened the door to the room and stepped inside. The man scratched his head, then added, “You’re not going to be here when I get back, are you?”