James Beamer Box Set

by Paul Seiple

  Thirty-Seven

  "Just close your eyes and relax," Barbara said.

  It was hard to relax with six eyes watching my every move. Reid was right about Rebecca. She was calm and even supportive now. I just hoped he was also right about hypnotism. I'd read stories of suppressed memories that once allowed to surface haunted people for the rest of their lives. People fight to keep these memories hidden for a reason.

  "OK, Michael, I want you to think back to your earliest childhood memory. How old are you?"

  My world was black. I saw nothing and then a child appeared riding a tricycle. Quickly, the child disappeared into the emptiness. Replaced by an image of my father, James Callahan tossing a baseball with me in the yard. I was about seven.

  "Seven" I said.

  "And where are you?"

  "I'm playing ball with my father."

  The image started to fade to an even darker black. An emptiness that chilled me with despair. The child on the tricycle was back. There was a squeaky sound. I remembered it. The wheels of the tricycle.

  "Stop riding that damn thing until I can oil it," a man said.

  I knew the voice.

  "I'm not seven," I said to Barbara. "I'm five or six."

  "What do you see?"

  I saw Norman Wallace digging a hole near the back of a building next to a boat dock.

  "What are you doing, Papa?"

  Norman threw the shovel to the ground. "Get the hell out of here. I'm working."

  "There's a woman's foot hanging out of the hole," I said.

  "Stay calm, Michael. It's OK. Where are you?" Barbara asked.

  "At home. Near the boats. Papa told me never to go by the boats. Bad things happen by the boats."

  My world goes black again. I flinch.

  "What's wrong, Michael?" Barbara asked.

  "I shouldn't have gone to the boats."

  Another scene materialized. Norman was arguing with a woman. She looked vaguely familiar. My biological mother. I heard the crying of a baby. I was in my room with a pillow over my head.

  "Papa said not to," a little boy said. "Now he's mad at Mama."

  "Shut that fucking baby up, before I do, Margaret. The secret's out. You know what I'm capable of. I told you never to come to the dock," Norman said.

  "What's happening, Michael?" Barbara asked.

  "Papa is mad because I went to the boats. Mama followed me trying to stop me, but she saw it."

  "Saw what, Michael?" Barbara asked.

  "She saw Papa cutting up Mrs. Hendricks. I shouldn't have gone to the boats. George says it's my fault that Papa killed Mama."

  I woke up screaming.

  Rebecca hugged me. "It's OK, Michael."

  Barbara looked at Reid and raised her eyebrows in amazement.

  Rebecca placed her hands on my face, lifted my head, and kissed me. "You're safe."

  Physically, I felt safe in Rebecca's arms, but my mind was anything but safe. I remembered everything. I remembered going to the boat dock, catching my father burying Mrs. Hendricks, an elementary school teacher who went missing after a trip to the grocery store. I remembered the look on my mother's face when she looked into the hole and saw the dismembered body. I remembered my mother's screams as she pleaded for her life. I remembered my father saying over and over again, "All you had to do was keep that fucking brat away from the dock," as he beat my mother with a mallet in front of me and my brother. I remembered my father leaving me and my sister to die. My sister?

  "You OK to talk?" Reid asked.

  "He killed my mother," I said.

  "The boat dock. Is this at the house where the police found you? The house where they dug up those bodies?" Reid asked.

  "No. Norman had a cabin near the Outer Banks. That's where he killed my mother."

  "Do you remember where it was?"

  "No, sorry."

  "Do you think you can if you go back under?" Reid asked.

  "You're not doing that to him again," Rebecca said.

  "It's probably a good idea to wait a bit, Reid," Barbara said. "Let him come to terms with this."

  "I'm fine," I said.

  I wasn't fine. I watched my biological father kill my mother right in front of me. What about my sister? Reid didn't mention that I had a sister. Did he know? What did Norman do to her? Terror pressed against my chest with the force of a stampeding elephant. My lungs ached. My heart banged against my breastbone like a victim banging against a locked door. I was the victim. My memories had me trapped. There was no way around them. Now, I had to go through them.

  "OK, count down from ten and when you get to one you'll be six again," Barbara said.

  "You don't have to do this," Rebecca said.

  I held her hand and closed my eyes. I had no choice but to confront these demons. This time the black was more of a gray. I was in the woods staring at a deer through the scope of a gun.

  "How old are you?" Barbara asked.

  "I'm not sure."

  "Where are you?"

  "In the woods," I said.

  "Pull the trigger, end its suffering," the male voice said.

  "I don't know if I can." With tears in my eyes, I turned to see Norman Wallace looking at me. A hint of disappointment, only overshadowed by a look of impatience.

  "I'm not me," I said.

  "Who are you?" Barbara asked.

  "George, you're going to save the world by ending it. This deer is one of God's creatures. Don't make it suffer through the harshness of winter. You must provide it passage to a safer place," Norman said

  "George," I said to Barbara. "I'm my brother. Norman is trying to convince him that by killing, he is purging the word."

  I opened my eyes and looked at Reid. "Norman thinks he is the Devil and he has convinced George that he is the antichrist. George sees the women as fireflies — angels. He will kill six because he associates that with opening the seals in Revelations. He thinks I'm the sixth seal."

  "Is Norman alive?" Reid asked.

  "I don't know. I'm only a kid."

  A fog encased the vision, starting at the ground, swirling around Norman. Then me. The world was dull gray again. I clenched my teeth, strained my eyes, but couldn't bring the scene back.

  Thirty-Eight

  "This is the last time we can meet in public until this is over," Art said, taking a seat on a park bench next to George.

  "See that woman with her dog?"

  A woman, probably in her early thirties, was tossing a ball with a Collie. Two small children sat on a checkerboard blanket next to the woman playing with colored blocks.

  "Yes," Art said.

  "Do you think God would spare her?"

  "She's not a firefly," Art said. A burning rushed through him. Saliva flooded his mouth. The woman met his profile. His mouth watered at the thought of ending her life.

  "But she seems like a good person. Two kids. A dog. Living the American Dream. I bet she goes to church on Sundays and gives God all the praise for every blessing in her life."

  "Maybe so." Art couldn't get the image of gutting the woman out of his mind.

  "So, why do you think God wouldn't allow her into Heaven?" George looked at Art. "Because she doesn't have a fucking glow?"

  The tone of defiance in George's voice brought Art back to reality. "What are you getting at, son?"

  "I had another dream. A strange dream," George said, smiling. "Not a dream. An epiphany. You're not being honest with me, father."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "This isn't about getting revenge on God for banishing you to Earth. You're not the Devil. It's just another one of your lies. You're just a regular man who cuts, bleeds and dies just like that bitch with her kids. This is about Michael. I took a nap earlier. Naps are essential to a healthy, long life. Did you know that, Papa?"

  Art didn't answer.

  "I saw things through Michael's eyes. I saw him catch you as you tried to cover up your kink. Remember that school teacher you cut to pieces? Michael spoi
led your fun and you're using me to get him back. He's been the reason all along."

  Art slid away, putting some space between him and George.

  "Don't worry, Papa. I'm not going to hurt you. I'm going to see this through. But no more bullshit. Sure, it's been fun playing the Revelations card. I'm going to kill Michael for you and then I'm going to make this world my bitch. Are we clear?"

  "You cannot go about this without a plan," Art said.

  "Oh, I have a plan. It's just no longer your plan. This epiphany allowed me to see everything about you, Norman. The pits, as you called them, where you buried the women." George smiled. "You've been lying to me all along, Papa."

  "I haven't lied, son. You can still be the antichrist."

  George laughed, loud enough to draw attention. "I have no doubt that I will be the most feared man on this planet. I no longer need your reassurance with that. I saw things from Michael's eyes. You didn't adopt me because my family threw me out. You threw Michael out. You blame him for raining on your little murder parade."

  "Son..."

  "I'm not mad at you. I understand that you had to fuel me with hate to get me to become the killing machine you wanted. But, Papa, you're in my blood. You should have never doubted me."

  "I've always had faith in you, George."

  "Faith. What a funny word. It gets tossed around more than a twenty dollar whore giving five dollar blowjobs. Fuck faith, Papa."

  "What about the fifth firefly?"

  George looked at Art and inched toward him. "Call them fireflies again and I'll rip out your fucking windpipe and play fetch with Lassie over there."

  Art stood up. George grabbed his arm and pulled him back down.

  "What's wrong, Norman, don't you like the monster I've become? Is my real name even George?"

  "Yes," Art said.

  George smiled. "Don't worry, I'm still going to kill Rebecca Aaron. Not because she is an angel, but because she is a pretty bitch. And all pretty bitches need to suffer."

  George and Art sat silent for a few moments watching the woman fold up the blanket and gather the kids' toys. She made her children lock hands, and she took the hand of the oldest. The strength of a family chain was hard to break. The symbolism wasn't lost on Norman. For a moment, he didn't see the woman. He saw his wife, Margaret; she was holding George's hand. He must have been about six years old. And George was holding Michael's hand. Norman saw himself get up, a sort of out-of-body experience, from the park bench and walk over to Margaret and hit her with a mallet. Michael cried. George looked at him and said, "You shouldn't have gone to the boats."

  The woman called the dog. The Collie trotted beside the children to a silver minivan.

  Norman leaned in to George and whispered in his ear. "Don't ever forget that I created the monster. I can slay the monster. If you ever threaten me again, I'll show you Hell firsthand." He gave George a light peck on the top of his head and turned to walk away.

  George smiled.

  Thirty-Nine

  "Are you sure you're OK with this?" I asked. "You don't have to do it. We can find another way."

  "I'll be fine," Rebecca said.

  I looked to Reid for reassurance. I trusted him. I allowed him into the darkness that plagued me for years. I gave him the letters, the mementos, my brother had sent me. Reid knew everything. He wouldn't lie to me if this wasn't going to be all right. The confidence in his nod eased my mind, but we were still dangling Rebecca over the nose of a hungry shark. This was something I'd never be comfortable with, but it was the only way. The gnawing in the pit of my gut intensified at the thought of Rebecca being used as a pawn. Strategically pawns are throw away pieces. Weakened soldiers used to lure the enemy into the open. There was no value of life for pawns.

  Rebecca sensed my uneasiness. She winked. Just a solitary blink of her icy, blue eye appraised her value to me — priceless. Until her smile melted me, I placed soul mates in the same category as fairies — fictional characters written into stories to give hope. But the way I felt with Rebecca — the warmth, the comfort, in such a short time —showed me that soul mates were real. There was no way I was going to devalue this queen with pawn status.

  "I'll be fine," Rebecca said. "I have you two super cops to back me up."

  She smiled, but it was forced. Something wasn't right.

  "You really don't have to do this," I said.

  "I'm not scared," Rebecca paused, "But I need to tell you something."

  Rebecca proceeded to tell me about going uptown and visiting Redd's hardware. She went there looking for a story and planned on going back until she received the call from me. She told me about the ramblings George had written on the wall.

  "I'm really sorry I didn't tell you," Rebecca said with a tear forming in the corner of her eye.

  I brushed the water away. I wanted to be mad. Not so much because she kept this from me, but more so because she risked her life. For what? An exclusive story? That's the life of a reporter. If things worked out between us, I would worry more about her job hazards than she would worry about mine. I put my hands on either side of her head and kissed her forehead. "It's OK," I said.

  "I really want to catch this bastard," Rebecca said.

  I smiled and wiped away another tear from her cheek. "Then catch this bastard, we will."

  "How does it go down, Michael?" Reid asked.

  I gave a play-by-play of the dreams where George took Rebecca. He would be watching for her when she left the television station. But he wouldn't take her there. George would wait until she left yoga. He watched them for weeks before acting. I wasn't sure if George was being meticulous or if he just got off on stalking his prey. The evolution of the attacks led me to believe that he probably started out rehashing every move ad nauseam. But with each kill he felt more powerful. With an inflated ego, George was less predictable. He could strike at any time.

  In the dreams George followed Rebecca to her condo, just as he did Kat Nelson. He would pull into the parking space beside Rebecca and open his door against her car. After apologizing profusely and exchanging insurance information, George hit her with a closed fist to the temple — a quick knockout. He practiced the trajectory of the punch in his car as he waited for the opportune time.

  "You're sure he follows her from work?" Barbara asked.

  "Little things in the dreams are off. The abduction always seems to be right. The location is a blur. Like a puzzle with missing pieces. But he follows her from work to the yoga studio. I can hear his thoughts. He takes the victims from places they feel the most comfortable. I didn't recognize any of the others. Well, I saw Maggie Hoover before he took her, but I couldn't save her. After meeting her, the dreams involving Maggie became clear. I just couldn't save her. I'm certain that he will try to take Rebecca after yoga."

  "This is where we have the leg up on George," Reid said. "To this point he knew Michael was a blind mouse chasing the scent of cheese. As far as he knows that's still the case. George doesn't have a clue that Michael knows Rebecca is the next victim."

  "When I saw Rebecca at the Hoover crime scene, everything involving her abduction became clear," I said.

  "You can tell the truth," Rebecca said. "It was the legs that jarred your memory wasn't it?" Rebecca extended her leg in an attempt to ease tension.

  "OK, just to be safe, I'm going to go to work with Rebecca," Barbara said. "There is no way the perp will recognize me. I'll shadow her as a new anchorwoman in from Colorado."

  "Good idea," Reid said. "Michael, you'll be too recognizable. We can't take the chance of George seeing you with Rebecca. I'll tail Rebecca and Barbara. You go back to the precinct."

  "No," I said. "Four women have died and I couldn't do a damn thing to stop it. I'm going to make sure Rebecca is safe."

  "Rebecca will be safe," Barbara said. "I'll be with her and Rich will be our backup. You have to trust us."

  "Hey guys, I'm still in the room," Rebecca said. "I'm not helpless either. I have a black belt i
n Shotokan."

  Reid started to speak, but was interrupted by Barbara turning the volume up on the television. It was a Breaking News report. Across the bottom of the screen in white letters on a red background where the words "Killer speaks. Calls himself Murmur."

  "I bet Sam's got a boner a mile long," Rebecca said.

  Sam Watlington was the model of a perfect newscaster — tall, chiseled jawline, deep voice, well-spoken, and annoyingly impeccably parted blonde hair. The shoulders of his gray blazer hugged his frame without a hitch in the fabric. Something that never happened for me. I blamed it on my lanky frame. We sat in silence; hanging on Sam's every word, as if he were describing the end of the world.

  "At approximately eleven am this morning a call came into WLNC. The male caller took responsibility for the rash of kidnappings. This caller referred to the four missing women as sacrifices and boasted that more would come. Before hanging up, he mentioned the third victim, Kat Nelson, by name. He alluded to a surprise at her house. We have a crew there now along with S.W.A.T. and the bomb squad. We will be going to Kaley Harris at the scene momentarily."

  "That bitch Kaley Harris," Rebecca said.

  "As we wait for Kaley to set up, I want to share the caller's final words." There was a dramatic pause. "As he ended the call, he spat a few expletives about the world hearing his screams and signed off as Murmur."

  "He's entered the bragging stage," Barbara said.

  "What?" I asked.

  "One aspect of serial murder is empowerment. It goes back to what you said about your brother's predictability. George feels so confident that he is now ready to show the world what he can do. In the end it will help us catch him. But at the moment he may not stick with his plan. Serial killers are motivated by many things — financial gains, sexual gratification, attention, or just for the thrill of it. Gacy was a textbook example of killing for sexual gratification. That's not your brother. He is doing it for the attention and for the thrill of it. The way the television and papers handle this news could dictate his pattern," Reid said.