by Paul Seiple
A beat-up notebook drew her attention to the wooden table below the whiteboards. She opened the book to the center. It looked to be a journal.
August 25, 1980
I’ve had my doubts that George was the one. I lived with the horror that Michael was the one with the urge. But since the dreams began, I am quite certain that George can follow through with the plan. I won’t know for sure until he silences his sister, but soon I will know.
“Sunshine?”
Michelle closed the book like someone hiding her eyes in the scary part of a movie. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know more. She ran her hand over the desk, shuffling through newspapers as she wrestled with digging deeper into her family’s past. Another notebook appeared. The contents would be bad. Everything about her grandfather was, but she had to know. She had to be strong. Michelle opened the notebook and read.
November 1, 1981
This will be the last entry. Today starts a new chapter. George failed. Part of me always knew he would, but I held out hope. It was not to be. But today, I’ve been granted a new way. My granddaughter was born. When I visited the hospital, I had a feeling. She’s the one to carry on when I’m gone.
Michelle sighed. “I forgot my birthday.”
“You finished down there? We need to get out of here before the neighbors call the cops,” Jessie said. His words were barely audible, muffled from stuffing his face with a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
Michelle spread the newspapers over the desk. She tucked the notebooks under her arm, turned off the light, and locked the door.
Jessie was standing at the top of the stairs with a half-eaten sandwich in one hand and a glass of milk in the other. “Find anything good?”
Michelle held up the notebooks. “I wouldn’t say good, but I think I found out how bad my grandfather really is, he thinks I’m like his kindred spirit or something?” She walked up the stairs and by Jessie.
“You’re thirteen. How do you know about kindred spirits?”
“I know a lot. I know that if you don’t wash that glass when you’re done, Aunt Barbara will know someone has been here. She is a clean freak. There is no way she’s ever been in that room down there.”
“And you don’t think Reid will miss those?” Jessie pointed to the notebooks.
“Well…”
A piece of yellowing paper fell from one of the notebooks. Michelle picked it up and read.
I’m going to tell you a story. A story where the bad guy wins and the good guy dies. Soon it will begin. You’ll know the first. I’m sure you’ve seen her in your dreams. You’ve probably seen them all by now. Poor things! You can’t save her, Michael. I already have her. You can’t save any of them. I already have them all.
“What is it?” Jessie asked, gauging it had to be bad from horror on Michelle’s face.
“It’s a note to my dad.” Michelle shoved the paper back into a notebook. “We have to go before someone catches us here.”
“All right, give me one second.” Jessie rinsed the glass and put it back in the cabinet wet.
Michelle cocked her head. “Really?”
“What? It’ll be dry before anyone gets home. I hate doing dishes. Why don’t they have a dishwasher?”
Twenty-Nine
Mack Root
Charlotte, North Carolina
Mack crashed on a couch in a lounge at the Bureau. After the night he had, he was too tired to drive to Winston. He arranged to meet James and Reid at 11am at Denny’s. He looked at his watch — 9:45. He was going to be late.
Mack hopped off the couch, shook his legs a few times to get blood pumping, and made a cup of coffee.
“Shouldn’t you be gone already?” Jill asked, bumping him out of the way to get herself a cup.
“Last night was hell.”
“I heard.” Jill sipped the coffee. “You thinking Wallace? There’s no way he was the one picking you guys off.”
“No. The shooter definitely knows what he’s doing. Wallace couldn’t steady his hand to be that accurate.” Mack tasted the coffee and turned his nose up. “Can’t anyone make a decent cup of coffee anymore?”
Jill took another sip. “It’s not that bad.” She frowned. “OK, maybe it is.”
“Do me a favor; locate anyone locally with sniper experience. This guy is a pro.”
“Already on it. I should have a list by the time you meet up with James.”
“Dr. Root.”
Mack and Jill turned to see two agents walking toward them.
“Dr. Root, come with us.”
“I’m already late…”
“It can wait.”
The agents walked in front of Mack and Jill leading them to the entrance of the building.
“I don’t like surprises,” Jill said.
“This way.”
The agents parted giving Mack and Jill a clear view of what was waiting for them on the other side of the door. Slumped against a sign that read Federal Bureau of Investigation was a body, dressed in a black robe and wearing a replica plague doctor’s mask.
“How the hell…”
“No clue, sir. We are checking the cameras now. But it looks like someone killed the feeds.”
As Mack grew closer to the body he saw a white V spray painted on the robe.
“Shouldn’t that be scarlet,” Jill said.
“It’s not an A,” Mack said.
“I know. I joke at bad times,” Jill said.
“There’s this, sir.” The agent handed a pair of gloves to Mack. Once he had the gloves on, the agent handed him a letter.
Here lies the body of John Richard Hiatt, who affectionately referred to himself as The Plague Vendor. Consider this a gift from your friend Norman Wallace. That’s right, you decided to announce to the world that the boogeyman was real and alive and well. I suppose there is no reason to hide in the shadows any longer.
P.S. sorry about the dead cops, but in war, there will be casualties. Just remember who declared this war.
“Has the body been properly identified?” Mack asked.
“Waiting on the coroner, sir.”
Mack bent down and snatched the mask away revealing John Hiatt. “I’m identifying him. It’s Hiatt.”
“Make a copy of this,” Mack said.
Jill fumbled to get gloves on before taking the letter. “What now?”
“I have to warn James. Wallace is playing his endgame.”
Thirty
Norman Wallace
Arlington, Virginia
The air smelled of disinfectant. It reminded Norman of something he had forgotten due to the excitement of the last few days — he had been given a death sentence. The cancer almost seemed in remission. Wishful thinking. At any moment it could make its power felt. The sterile environment surrounding him was a warning for Norman to keep up his guard. Death wanted him. Death would take him. Not before he passed on his legacy to his granddaughter. But that was to be another day. On this day, Norman had a special gift for an old friend.
He stepped into the elevator and asked the boy, propped against a trashcan, in front of him to push the button for the fourth floor.
“A little cuckoo, huh?” the boy asked.
“Excuse me?”
“Going to see, Doc Hoffman. What a babe. She’s like in her fifties or something and she’s still hot. Can you imagine what she looked like when she was my age? Top level boner material, I bet.”
Norman didn’t respond to the boy. He was too busy trying to figure out how many ways he could kill him before the elevator reached the fourth floor. Mop handle shoved down his throat sounded good. Two birds with one stone — end the kid’s life and shut him up.
“Too good to talk to the janitor, huh? I’m just here during the summer. I’m in school to be a vet tech.”
The kid’s goal of higher education didn’t impress Norman. The elevator dinged. Third floor. Norman spied a pocket knife clipped to the boy’s jean pocket. He could gut him and let his innards spill in
to the trash can.
“So, is this your first time seeing Doc Hoffman? I don’t think I’ve seen you around here before.”
The elevator dinged. Fourth floor. Norman could just take the Beretta from his shoulder holster and blow the boy’s brain against the elevator wall. He smiled without saying a word and stepped off the elevator.
“You need to work on your social skills,” the boy said as the elevator door closed.
“I plan on it,” Norman said, walking through a door with the words BARBARA A. HOFFMAN PHD FORENSIC in white letters across the glass.
A young woman, probably around twenty-four peeked above a tall desk.
“Good morning…” she looked at a calendar on the desk.”Mr. Mantas. I hope you are having a pleasant morning.” She stood up. “Since this is your first time visiting Doctor Hoffman, we have a little paperwork for you to fill out.” She handed a metal clipboard with two forms attached to it to Norman. “Have a seat over there. Doctor Hoffman will be with you shortly.”
Norman read the forms, standard information. Information he had no intentions on giving, but to humor the situation, he filled the forms out with clues to some of his victims. Only Reid could figure it out. For birthdate, he put the day he killed Reid’s mother. For address, he put the location of the cabin where he buried Reid’s mother in Statesville many years ago.
“Mr. Mantas, come on in.”
The soft voice drew Norman’s attention from the paperwork. The kid was right. Barbara Hoffman aged well. She wore heels that most women her age wouldn’t attempt. Her burgundy dress hugged her in all the right places. Her hair was dark brown and not a hint of gray. Definitely colored, but no one would look beyond her beauty to notice. Reid was a lucky man. It pleased Norman to know this plan would finally destroy his enemy.
Norman placed the clipboard on the receptionist’s desk and followed Barbara into her office.
“Have a seat,” Barbara pointed to a leather sofa. “I know. Yes, I’m playing into the stereotype.”
Norman chuckled and fell back onto the plush leather. He closed eyes and for a moment thought back to when Michael Callahan used to confide in him at the church. This couch was much more comfortable than the flowered one with spring tentacles in Father Abraham’s office. He thought about all the mistakes he made throughout the years and how Michael should have been the one to carry out the legacy.
“Looks like you’re comfortable. So, what can I help you with today, Mr. Mantas?”
Norman flashed back to sitting on the porch with George after teaching him to hunt. How things could have been different if George wasn’t such an arrogant asshole.
“Mr. Mantas?”
“Arthur. Call me Arthur?”
“OK, Arthur, what brings you here today?”
“One of these days the world will end. It may not be how it’s portrayed in the Bible. But as sure as the grass is green, and the sky is blue, everything will cease to exist. We all die.”
Puzzled, Barbara looked at her notes. Her 11am appointment claimed to have self-esteem issues not a doomsday phobia.
“I’m not too comfortable on this couch after all. Would you mind trading places with me?” Norman asked.
Barbara was at a loss for words. Never had a patient asked to sit in her chair. She wasn’t sure how to handle the question. There was something in this man’s expression that chilled her. The empty stare in his eyes made it impossible to read him. The stone-faced expression hid his true intentions. While in the Bureau, Barbara came in contact with the most evil people this world ever birthed. Something told her not to upset Arthur. The best course of action would be to change places with him.
“Sure, no problem,” Barbara said, showing no hint of doubt in her voice. She waited for him to take a seat in her chair, and then she sat on the couch. “I’ve heard many theories about how the world will end. Do you think about it a lot?”
“Every day.”
“And why do you feel you think about so much?” Barbara asked, tapping a pen against a notebook acting business as usual.
“I’ve had these delusions of grandeur that I was to be the one who brings the world to an end. But I was wrong.”
Barbara jotted delusional disorder? into the notebook.
Norman watched wide-eyed and laughed. “I used to have a notebook I wrote in as well. Let me guess, you wrote delusional disorder.”
A chill latched onto Barbara’s spine. The hair on her arms stood, gooseflesh formed. Her instincts were right. This was not the typical patient. She hadn’t encountered anyone that made her feel this uneasy since her days at the Bureau.
“Somewhere along the way the definition of bringing the world to an end got lost in translation. I looked at the bigger picture when my purpose was a much smaller ecosystem. It’s not really my fault though. I blame the media. One death makes a five-minute segment on the evening news. Now multiply that by hundreds, even thousands, and you have an entire broadcast.”
“Do you have aspirations of being famous, Arthur?”
“Doesn’t everyone? Wasn’t it Andy Warhol who said everyone will be famous for fifteen minutes? Fifteen minutes isn’t that long.”
“There’s a difference between famous and infamous,” Barbara said. “Bringing harm never produces the fame one desires.”
“What if I were to tell that I’m already infamous?”
Barbara shifted. The leather crackled underneath her like smoldering wood on a fire. Fitting since she felt like she was being roasted. Norman flashed a grin.
“Your name’s not Arthur Mantas, is it?” Barbara asked.
Norman reached inside of his suit jacket and produced the Beretta. He placed it on Barbara’s desk. “Was I that obvious?”
Barbara looked at the clock. There were forty-five minutes before her next appointment. Barbara made it clear to the receptionist she was never to be disturbed during appointments unless it was an emergency. This was definitely an emergency, but she had no way of letting anyone know. It would be forty-five long minutes before anyone would check on her and by then it may be too late.
Norman caught on that Barbara was counting time. “You’re making me feel rushed. Don’t worry, we have plenty of time. Shelby Ryan, your twelve 0’clock isn’t feeling well. She won’t make it in today.”
“What did you to her?”
“Relax, Barbara. Shelby Ryan doesn’t exist. I made her up in my delusions.” He smiled. “You better write that down.”
“What do you want?” Barbara eyed the gun with an idea to reach for it. Back in her Bureau days, she wouldn’t have hesitated, but that was another life.
“It pains me to think you feel I would harm an innocent, non-existent person, Barbara. I have this mantra I live by — after my son found me burying a body —I promised myself I wouldn’t kill again until it meant something.”
Barbara knew Arthur was Norman Wallace. There was no longer a need to keep up the charade. “But you’ve killed many of people.”
“Ah, so you know who I am?”
“Norman Wallace.”
“I’m flattered. But you’re wrong. I have killed no one since I made the promise. Have I had others kill? Maybe.”
“Having someone do the job for you makes you a coward.” Barbara’s words trailed off to an almost whisper. She wished she could take back the sentence. It was too late, so she watched Norman’s hand. If he reached for the gun, she would dive into him. She may die, but the bastard would know he had been in a fight.
Wallace didn’t move. A slight smile cracked through the stone expression. “I’m no coward. I’m a messiah, Barbara. The people who follow me are lost. I show them the way to happiness.” Norman motioned toward Barbara’s notebook. “God complex. Write that down.”
“No need to. I already knew that from your grandiose delusions. Do you ever hear voices, Norman?”
“Only those of the people pleading for their lives.” Norman laughed. “If this is your way of deducing if I have schizophrenia, let m
e save you the trouble. I don’t. I do have Stage IV cancer though.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
Norman laughed again. “No you’re not. You want to see me dead, just like your husband.”
“You’re right. I do.” This time Barbara’s words were firm, there were no whispers.
“I respect your honesty, Barbara. How is Reid?”
“Still infatuated with you.”
“It must be horrible to know that your husband’s mistress is the hope of one day putting an end to me.”
“You get used to it. So, tell me, Norman, what do you plan to do with the gun?”
“Well, Barbara, what does one usually do with a gun?”
“You came to see me. I’m asking the questions.” Barbara’s tone was impermeable. The initial shock wore off. She was in FBI agent mode.
Norman chuckled. “I guess you are right.” He placed his fingers on the barrel of the gun and traced an outline. “Don’t worry, the gun is just an intimidation factor. But I see it’s not working. I shouldn’t be surprised with you being the mighty Reid Hoffman’s wife.”
“Let’s cut to the chase. You never answered my question. What do you want?”
“Oh, my dear, Barbara, I’m not sure you will like the answer.”
“Give it to me straight. I’m the wife of the mighty Reid Hoffman, remember?”
Norman chuckled again. “I like your spunk. All right, here it is straight and no chaser. I have little time left in this world. The last thing I’m going to do before saying goodbye to this cesspool is kill your husband.”
Barbara looked around the room. “OK, well, he isn’t here. So, it looks like this plan is working about as well as your others. Reid is in North Carolina with James Beamer looking for you. No matter what you do to me, those two will find you.”