by Paul Seiple
“We got off on the wrong foot. At this point, we need each other, so, we have to make this relationship work. You have to trust me. And I have to trust you. Can I trust you to carry out your plan tomorrow night?”
The Vendor nodded.
“All right then, I will trust you. But if you do not follow through, you will not have to worry about Walker contacting the police. There will be nothing left of you for them.”
As Wallace turned to leave, his phone rang. He took it from his blazer pocket and looked at the screen.
SPOTTER
“Did you find her?”
“She’s living on the streets in Winston.”
“Did you make contact?” Norman asked.
“I tried. She’s keeping house with this overprotective old man in a wheelchair.”
“Keep her in your sights, but don’t make contact again. I’ll be there tomorrow.”
Twenty-Two
James Beamer
Charlotte, North Carolina
Reid sipped on what seemed to be his twelfth cup of coffee. Even with caffeine it was still better than him breaking down and resorting to alcohol. He hadn’t spoken in well over an hour. Mack watched a documentary on missing persons in Alaska. Jill decided that ten straight hours with three men was enough. She went back to her room, but not before handing out strict orders to call her if something happened.
I stared at the phone. Nothing happened. I knew Jessie well enough to know that it wouldn’t take him this long to find something in that video. The erratic way The Plague Vendor came across in his introduction to the world led me to believe it wouldn’t be hard to find him. He was amateur. Announcing himself was a mistake. I was sure it wasn’t the only one he made. No thought was put into the video. Sloppy dialogue. Nervous movement. This guy wasn’t an accomplice of Wallace’s. Wallace wouldn’t want the added job of babysitter.
I waited for a commercial and asked Mack to call Jessie again.
“He said he’d call me when he had something, James.”
“It takes this kid less than fifteen minutes to crack the encryptions on State Bank’s passwords, but he can’t find anything in some video a hack made. It’s been…” I looked at my watch. “…eleven hours now.”
“It was a mistake to bring Wallace into this,” Reid said. “You know damn good and well he has nothing to do with this after watching that shit show of a video. Let the Bureau handle this and let’s get the son-of-a-bitch before it’s too late.”
“Listen to yourself, Reid. You’re really suggesting that we ignore a possible national disaster to chase Wallace?”
“I’m saying let’s finish what we started. Let the Bureau take this, and let’s get Wallace. Have you forgotten that your daughter is out there, and Wallace wants her?”
Reid’s last sentence was a punch to the gut. Had I forgotten, Michelle? The only reason for putting Wallace on display to the media was to make finding my daughter harder for him. Reid was right. We had to chase Wallace.
“I’ll get Jill to work with Rodriguez on The Plague Vendor,” I said.
“I’ll go with Jill. You guys get Wallace,” Mack said, turning off the television.
Reid bounced up with the pep of a teenager going to his first concert. “You heard the man.”
“Too much caffeine, old man,” I said.
I handed Mack a manila folder, thin from lack of content, but it was everything I had on The Vendor. Truth be told, Mack was the right man for the job. He knew more about the case than anyone else. “Wish I had more for you to go on.”
Mack popped a stick out gum into his mouth. “I’m insulted that you think I need more than this.”
“Come on, let’s go,” Reid said. He tapped his foot like someone needing to relieve his bladder, but the porta-potty was occupied by a serial killer. “It’s about time we got off our asses and did something.”
The traffic in Uptown was bumper to bumper. Sidewalks were littered with people, pushing and weaving to get to their destination.
“I hate big city life,” Reid said. “After we catch this bastard.” He stopped and looked at me. “And this time, we will catch him. I’m buying that island we talked about and leaving this city life behind.”
A group of teenage girls shimmied between the stopped traffic. I couldn’t help but think of Michelle. She was out there, somewhere, maybe in this city. Guilt wrapped its dirty fingers around my throat. I should look for her, not Wallace.
“Let’s start with these hotels?” Reid pointed to The Omni, an impressive piece of architecture on the corner of East Trade. “If he’s here, he will be where he can blend in. He is not lowering his standards.”
Finding Wallace is the best protection for Michelle.
“James, are you listening to me?”
I shook my head, trying to lose the stupor. “Yeah, sorry, you’re right.”
I pulled into a parking garage.
“So, what are we going to do? Ask if any old men, around your age, are staying here?”
Reid ignored me and walked to the check-in counter. A man in his early twenties opened his mouth to speak. Reid cut him off.
“Any men around my age staying here?”
I laughed.
“Excuse me.”
“Forgive my colleague. Too much caffeine.” I flashed my FBI credentials and then showed the guy a sketch of what we determined Wallace to look like these days. “Does this man look familiar?”
A blonde woman, a bit younger than the man, looked over his shoulder. “Looks like Room 212.”
The man laughed. “Carol’s got a photographic memory. But yeah, that looks like the guy staying in 212.”
“What’s his name?” Reid asked.
“Give me a sec.” The man typed on a keyboard.
“Callahan,” Carol said. “Arthur Callahan. He’s a good tipper too.”
The man stopped typing and threw his hands up in the air.
“We got the son-of-a-bitch,” Reid said.
“I need you to give me access to 212,” I said.
“He’s gone,” Carol said. “Checked out last night. Which is strange cause he rented the room until…” she looked at the ceiling. “until the fourth. Why leave five days early?”
“We still need to see the room,” I said.
“OK, but maid service has already been there.”
Carol led us to the second floor. She unlocked room 212. “Have it, boys, but don’t steal any towels.” she winked and ran to the elevator just as it was closing.
“This is the closest we’ve ever been to catching Wallace,” Reid said. “But you know he didn’t leave anything.”
“You’re slipping, old man. He did leave something. He left early. Checking out early means he’s worried we are on to him.”
Reid gave the room a once over and stood by the door, tapping his foot again. “There’s nothing here. The maid cleaned the place.”
No one knew Wallace better than Reid, but I knew when killers felt threatened they made mistakes. I scoped the room, stopping at a desk. It was faint, but I saw red ink on the woodgrain. It looked as though ink bled through paper onto the desk and thankfully the maid wasn’t too thorough. There were two words. The first word smeared to the point it wasn’t legible. I made out the second one.
“Salem. Winston-Salem.”
“What?” Reid walked over to the desk.
Memories of the final altercation with my brother rushed through me. He had a kill room in downtown Winston. But why would Wallace go there?
“Michelle,” I said. “He’s found Michelle.”
It made sense. My daughter was smart. She knew the first place anyone would look for her was Charlotte. We left Winston when she was a year old. She would have been too young to remember, but she knew Winston was her birthplace. I turned to Reid. He was already out the door and in the hall, motioning for me.
Twenty-Three
Norman Wallace
Winston-Salem, North Carolina
Norman
parked the rental Cadillac in the most crowded area of the mall parking lot. He read a passage from Machiavelli’s The Prince while he waited. “‘ Since love and fear can hardly exist together, if we must choose between them, it is far safer to be feared than loved.’” Norman laughed. “Machiavelli got it.” He put the book down and watched a burgundy sedan circle the lot for about ten minutes before the car next to Norman pulled out. The sedan took its place. The driver rolled down the window.
“You saw me looking for a place, didn’t you?”
“I did,” Norman said.
“Another one of your mental tests, right?”
Norman held up the book. “No, I just wanted to finish this chapter. What do you have for me?”
The Spotter smirked and shook his head. “She’s downtown. The homeless have taken her in. It won’t be hard to get her. The guy in the wheelchair is always by her side like he knows something and is protecting her. But, he is in a wheelchair…so.”
“How many are with her?”
“The wheelchair guy. And there’s one other red-headed creep who shows up sometimes. But who knows how many are passed out in the alleyways.”
“Get in. Let’s go get her.” Norman looked to the sky; dark clouds forced their way onto a brilliant blue sky.
“Looks like a storm’s coming,” The Spotter said.
Norman smiled.
“There,” The Spotter pointed. “That’s the red-headed guy.”
Smiley rummaged through a trash can behind the 7-11. He found a half-smoked cigarette, tossed it between his lips, and lit it. “Heaven.” He blew out a smoke ring.
“Hey.”
Smiley whirled around.
“Where’s your friend in the wheelchair?” The Spotter asked.
“Got no friends,” Smiley said.
“Don’t lie to me. I saw you with him yesterday.”
“Tell us where he is and I’ll make it so you no longer have to go through the trash to get your nicotine fix,” Norman said, leaning over The Spotter.
Smiley spit the cigarette out. “Hide Pipes,” he yelled. “Incoming.”
“Get him,” Norman said.
Smiley turned to run, but The Spotter was already within arms’ reach. He grabbed Smiley’s shoulder and slammed him into the side of a dumpster. Smiley’s head smacked against the metal. A sickening thud echoed off the concrete walls. The Spotter dragged Smiley’s limp body to the Cadillac and tossed him in the backseat.
“Things will go a lot easier from here on out if you cooperate,” Norman said.
Smiley groaned and rubbed his left temple.
“Now, I’ll ask again. Where is the guy in wheelchair?”
Smiley coughed and spit blood against the car window. “He’s in a damn wheelchair. Find him yourself.”
The Spotter grabbed the collar of Smiley’s torn flannel shirt and pulled him close. “What about the little girl? Where is she?”
“I don’t know any…”
The Spotter squeezed Smiley’s cheeks, making it impossible for him to speak. “Where is the girl?” He loosened his grip.
“Screw you,” Smiley said before spitting blood in The Spotter’s face. “You’ll have to kill me before…”
A bullet from The Spotter’s revolver finished Smiley’s sentence for him. And the punctuation was Smiley’s brain across the back window of the Cadillac.
“Still don’t have that rage under control, I see,” Norman said, looking around to see if the shot drew any attention.
“He practically begged for it.” The Spotter wiped his face with the sleeve of his shirt. Smiley’s blood left smears on the white fabric.
“You’re cleaning this car before I return it. Now, you’ve made it much harder for us.”
“Just look for the guy in the wheelchair. He can’t be hard to find. That guy said so himself.” The Spotter looked at Smiley’s lifeless body slumped in the backseat. “You’re right. I have to get this rage thing under control.”
Twenty-Four
Michelle Callahan
Winston-Salem, North Carolina
Pipes stopped singing mid-chorus of Carole King’s “So Far Away.” “You hear that?”
“Sounded like a firecracker,” Michelle said, digging through her backpack for candy.
“That wasn’t a firecracker. It was a gunshot.” Pipes put the guitar on his lap. “Come on, we have to find shelter.”
Michelle zipped up her bag, slung it over her shoulder, and pushed Pipes’s chair. “Where are we going?”
“The back door of the old ice cream shop is unlocked. The front’s bordered up. We should be safe in there. Turn down this alley.”
“You think we are in danger?” Michelle asked, straining to turn the wheelchair at a hard angle.
Pipes caught sight of the black Cadillac as it pulled onto First. “Hurry.”
“I’m going as fast as I can,” Michelle said as the car grew closer.
“They are too close. Leave me here and go. The shop is just around the corner. Hide in the utility closet.”
“I’m not leaving you.”
“Go, now.” Pipes clenched the neck of his guitar. “I’ll be fine.”
The car stopped. A man exited from the passenger side. “Why the rush? We just want to talk.”
“Run,” Pipes said.
Michelle stumbled, but regained her footing and disappeared down the alley.
Norman stepped out from the driver’s side. “So, you’re the singing wheelchair guy,” he said, walking toward Pipes. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
The Spotter dumped Smiley’s body from the backseat like he was a bag of garbage.
“I don’t sing,” Pipes said. “You must be looking for someone else.”
Norman ran his fingers over the strings of the guitar as Pipes held it at angle to swing.
“Actually, I am looking for someone else,” Norman said. “My granddaughter.”
Pipes brought the guitar back to his lap. “So, you’re Norman Wallace. I’ve heard a lot about you too.”
“Lies. Don’t believe everything you’ve heard.”
“I haven’t seen your granddaughter.”
“Who was the girl that ran away,” The Spotter said standing behind Norman like a shadow.
“Her name’s Sunshine,” Pipes said.
Norman smiled. “We both know that isn’t true.”
Pipes smiled back, flashing the gaps where he was missing teeth. “That’s right, Forgive me, I’m old, and I confuse easily. Sunshine’s dead. We both know that is true.”
“Where’s the fucking girl?” The Spotter’s words echoed throughout the abandoned street.
“Calm down. The rage, remember? Go back to the car and give us a few minutes to talk about old times,” Norman said.
“How can you live with yourself?” Pipes asked. “You killed your own daughter.”
“Technically, I didn’t kill her, but she had to die. She didn’t have the urge.”
“Like your son?”
“George was an idiot. Michael, now that one could have been something special. Unfortunately, he didn’t have the urge either.” Norman’s lips curled upwards. “But my granddaughter…she has it.” He put his hands on Pipes’s wheelchair. “Where is she?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Was that man your friend?” Norman pointed to heap that used to be Smiley.
“I don’t have any friends.”
“That’s a shame. If you do not want to end up like him, you’ll tell me where she went.”
Pipes grabbed the guitar and started to strum “Enjoy the Silence” by Depeche Mode. Norman motioned for The Spotter.
“He’s not going to talk. Make it so he can never sing again.”
“My pleasure.” The Spotter jerked the guitar away from Pipes and flung it against a wall, shattering it. He wrapped his hand around Pipes’s neck. “I’m going rip your throat out.”
A jangling of trash cans drew everyone’s attenti
on.
“Don’t hurt him,” Michelle said, stepping out from behind the cans. “Don’t be mad, but I couldn’t let them hurt you,” she said to Pipes. “I’m the one you want. Let him go.”
Norman grabbed The Spotter’s wrist and motioned for him to move away. “No one’s getting hurt, honey. Do you know who I am?”
“Yes.” Michelle moved closer. “You’re the devil.”
Norman shrugged his shoulders. “I guess I am. Come with me, and I’ll let your friend live.”
Pipes shook his head. “Don’t go with him.”
When Michelle got close enough, Norman grabbed her forearm. “Kill the old man.”
“No.” Michelle swung her arms, but Norman’s grip was too strong. Michelle was all he wanted. He was not letting her go.
The Spotter grabbed Pipes’s throat again. Something pierced his shoulder just as a loud bang bounced through the alley. The Spotter grabbed for his arm. Blood trickled between his fingers. “I’ve been shot.”
Another bullet flew by Norman’s head causing him to duck. When he crouched, Michelle broke free. The Spotter ran back to the Cadillac as another bullet tore at the flesh of his calf. The next bullet grazed Norman’s arm, ripping through the fabric of his Armani suit.
“Run, Michelle.”
The faceless voice filled the streets before another bullet hit the Cadillac.
“Come on, Wallace. I’m not dying here,” The Spotter said gritting his teeth.
A bullet flew by Norman’s head and shattered the back window of the car. He watched, unaffected as Michelle ran farther away from him.
“Come on, Norman.” The Spotter applied pressure to his calf. “I’m bleeding bad, here.”
A blur of motion caught Norman’s eye. Jessie Walker stepped out of the doorway of an abandoned dry cleaners. He pointed the gun at Norman. “I told you I wouldn’t let you take her.”