by Paul Seiple
She’s food for the fish in the Potomac.
I wanted to cut myself. Watch Norman Wallace’s blood leave my body. It felt like a parasite growing inside of me. But, killing the host wouldn’t kill the parasite. I flipped the paper back over. Fourteenth Street Bar. 6pm. My watch read 5:45. Fifteen minutes was the only thing between me and an end to this nightmare. Reid looked at peace, but I knew it was lie brought on by alcohol. If Barbara didn’t make it, Reid would never find peace, even after Wallace as gone. Faith was something I lost more of each day, but what little I had left I put in Mack finding Barbara alive.
The Fourteenth Street Bar was a hole in the wall. It was easy to miss unless you were a regular. The bar sat on the corner of an alleyway flooded with prostitutes. Part of me thought this was well below Wallace’s standards. But the seediness fit the side of him he fought to keep hidden. I sat in the Cutlass, listening to the engine idle and went over all the scenarios of how this would play out. When Wallace left the note for Reid he knew there was no way both of them were getting out of this alive. He always had a plan. Last time he encountered Reid, he had an old church rigged to leak carbon monoxide. Who knows what he had planned for the grand finale. In the note Wallace asked Reid to take his rage out on him. The words made it seem like Wallace planned to suicide by ex-FBI agent. It was just another game. Wallace had every intention of being the one to leave alive. He wanted to savor the death of his nemesis. There was no other acceptable outcome.
The bar could be full of his disciples. The thought didn’t strike enough fear in me to run. There was a point when a hint of doubt would cause me to turn a blind eye. I tried to shroud myself in lies hoping no one would learn the truth. The bar could be a trap. It no longer mattered. The truth chased me and would never stop trying to catch me. It was time to face it even if it meant my end.
I shunned the advances of several prostitutes and walked into the bar. The smell of spilled beer meant this dive probably lived up to its image. Cigar smoke strong enough to neutralize the smell of beer nearly choked me. “Your Cheating Heart” by Hank Williams played on a Wurlitzer jukebox. Popping and static sounds from the old record nearly drowned Hank out.
The bar was empty, except for one man sitting at a table with his back to the door. I didn’t need to see his face. The profile was enough. It was Wallace.
“I took the liberty of getting you a drink before the bartender went on break. You’re a whiskey drinker aren’t you?”
The voice reached into my mind and ripped out deeply hidden memories. My heart fluttered. I should have recognized it when Wallace assumed the role of Father Abraham. Maybe it was my mind’s way of protecting me. But now, I knew the voice. There was no mistaking it. What the hell are you doing here? Your whore of a mother should be watching you. Those were the last words I remember my father speaking to me.
“Cat got your tongue, Reid? Don’t tell me you’re starstruck.”
Wallace pushed away from the table. The chair sliding against the wooden floor sounded like a creaking door. The type of door that opens just before a victim meets his end in a horror movie. This was my boogeyman. The man who destroyed everything in my life that meant anything to me. This was my hell, and I was going to face it without one flash of fear in my eyes.
Wallace turned to me. I saw myself as an old man. Mack was right. I did have his nose. A moment of fright came over Wallace’s face as if he saw a ghost. The brief emotion screamed louder than words. He knew me.
“We’ll you’re not Reid. You’re much too tall.” Wallace pulled the chair next to him away from the table. “Have a seat, son.”
Son. The word pierced my neck and traveled my spine. For a moment I was paralyzed. Wallace was a master manipulator. He mined for any sign of weakness. I knew more about him than I would have if we spent every Christmas together for the last twenty-five years. Wallace was sizing me up, looking for any crack he could use to control me. My hesitation was a sign of weakness. That’s something for him to build on. I shook it off, hoping he didn’t catch it.
“I’m not a whisky drinker. Got a Coke, Dad?”
Dad. Wallace hated that word when I was child. I forgot, or blocked it out, but seeing him brought back a memory of a lecture he gave to my brother. “Dad” didn’t show proper respect. Wallace demanded we address him a father. The grimace that slapped his face led me to believe he still felt that way. I wanted Wallace to know I didn’t respect him. I didn’t view him as my father. And most importantly, I didn’t fear him.
Wallace took a shot of whisky, chasing the look of disgust from his face. He knew the game all too well. Any sign of emotion was weakness.
“I can see you’re still having an issue with me being an absentee father.”
Wallace emphasized father in a subtle way to remind me he still demanded respect. I chuckled and poured a shot. I hadn’t touched alcohol since the dreams I had of my brother murdering the “fireflies.” I wasn’t an alcoholic. Falling off the wagon wasn’t a concern. Wallace was still digging for a weakness. I wasn’t about to show him one. Swirling the whisky around the glass, I saw Reid’s life drowning in bourbon. I wanted to lash out at Wallace. He hoped I would. There weren’t any cards on the table, but there was no doubt we were playing poker. No emotion, I told myself.
“Are you sure you want to do that, son? Wasn’t alcohol the cause of some nightmares when you were younger? Didn’t you tell that to Father Abraham?”
Wallace flashed a crooked grin. Underneath it, I saw a hint of desperation. He doubted that he could break me. I wasn’t the same person who confided in Father Abraham. Throwing that in my face didn’t pierce my armor. I swirled the whisky one last time and downed it.
“I had a damn good father and we both know alcohol had nothing to do with the nightmares.” My tone was solid. Wallace needed to know that I was bulletproof. I poured another shot.
“Take it easy, son. It would be a travesty if you ended up like your good friend Reid Hoffman.”
I swirled the whisky around the shot glass again. “I’m stronger than Reid.” While it pained me to say it, there was truth in the statement. Reid allowed his need to avenge his mother’s death to steal any chance of a happy life from him. Wallace knew it. He was a parasite feeding off the misery. That wasn’t going to happen with me. I downed the shot and slammed the glass on the table.
Wallace smiled. “I suppose you are, son. When I took your wife from you, you didn’t drown your sorrows in a bottle. You became a superhero…the great James Beamer. I have a gut feeling that Reid isn’t reacting the same way since I killed his wife.”
“Like I said, I’m stronger.” I placed my .38 on the table. “We’re all going to die at some point.” It took everything I had not to aim the gun at Wallace’s head and pull the trigger. I had the feeling that’s what he wanted. There wouldn’t be another chance to get Reid. This was the end of the road for him. There was no walking away from me. He wanted to call the shots one last time. His greatest accomplishment to take to the grave would be proving I was just like him. I fought the rage engulfing me to murder an unarmed man. I pushed the gun away, far enough to give me time to diffuse a knee-jerk reaction.
“Speaking of wives, have you spoken with Rebecca lately? She’s in San Diego. Did you know that?” Wallace paused to sip whisky. “She’s remarried though. That has to sting.”
I poured another shot and tried to get my mind off of shutting Wallace up for good. Holding the rage back helped me to hide the surprise of finding out he knew about Rebecca and Michelle.
“The guy’s no James Beamer though. Once this is over, I’m sure you can win her back. Michelle, on the other hand, she’s a teenager. It’s not going to be that easy. Even harder, now that she’s left home for greener pastures. Is there really such a thing as greener pastures, son?”
I chugged the whisky, hoping the burn would be enough to force me to keep my mouth shut.
“I know you think I’m a monster, but I only want what’s best for her.”<
br />
I laughed. “You want to turn her into a death machine just like you?”
Wallace flashed another crooked grin. “I’m really no different than you. I’ve always wanted to rid the world of filth. I go about it in a different way, but we have the same desire. Who’s to say being a death machine like me is wrong?”
I slid the empty shot glass toward the bottle. “We don’t have enough time for me to name the reasons why you are wrong for the world.”
“Time is invaluable.” Wallace took another sip. “I know I’ll never get the chance to explain myself to Michelle. She’s in North Carolina. Once you do what you have to do here, find her. She’s with that Jessie boy. I don’t trust him. He’s a bad egg.” Wallace laughed.
I worked hard on building a solid defense for Wallace’s manipulation. Never did I think he would crack it with his human side. His tone changed when he spoke of Michelle. He wanted to turn her into a killer, I thought, blocking out his moment of caring.
“What do you think I have to do here?” I asked
Wallace finished off the whisky in his glass. “You have to right the wrongs I’ve done to you. You have to punish me for the deaths I’ve caused. That’s what superhero FBI agents do…make the world safe from monsters like me. Right?”
“That and land seven-figure book deals to write about psychos like you.”
Wallace laughed and picked up a shot glass. “Do I have time for one more drink?”
I nodded.
“I never was a part of someone’s death that wasn’t deserved.” Wallace poured another shot.
I took the bottle from him. “That’s bullshit, and it’s not going to fly when you try to manipulate your way through the afterlife. No death you were a part of was justified.”
“Everyone sins. Sinners have to be punished. Leviticus 20 says…”
I cut Wallace off. “I don’t have time for Sunday School. We both know you use religion to validate your actions. What did your daughter do to deserve death?”
“Ashley was a drug addict and a thief.”
“She was neither. You made George kill her because she reminded you of our mother. The ‘fireflies’ who George killed were all related to the women you murdered. Did you think we would never figure that out?”
It was Wallace’s turn to swish the whisky around the glass. “Your partner, Bill Ash, wasn’t related to the women.”
“You lost control of George. Bill’s death was a result of George’s power trip, but his blood is on your hands.”
Wallace flashed his hands, first palms up and then palms down. “No blood on these hands.”
“Finish your drink.”
“It should have been you, not George. You have control. We could have brought Armageddon to this unappreciative world.”
“It’s like this, Dad. I’m really no different than you. I rid the world of filth. I just go about it in a different way than you.”
Wallace smiled and downed the whisky. He stuck out his chest. “I’m ready. Don’t miss the heart.”
I reached for my .38 and holstered it before taking my cellular phone from my jacket. “What are you doing?” Wallace asked.
I ignored him and dialed a number. “I’m finished. He’s all yours.” I hung up and stood up from the table.
“You’re not going to kill me?”
I leaned in and said, “Weren’t you listening? I go about ridding filth differently than you.”
Jill walked into the bar, flanked by Special Agents Motley and Marlowe.
“I wasn’t here,” I said.
Motley and Marlowe nodded.
“So, you’re going to have them kill me?”
“Isn’t that what you do?” I asked. “You have others kill for you, right?”
“Coward,” Wallace said.
“Oh, shut up, old man. No one’s killing anyone,” Jill said.
Jill turned to me and tugged on my arm. I bent down, and she whispered. “You sure this is the way you want to go down?”
I smiled. “This is exactly the way it has to go down.” I faced Wallace as Marlowe cuffed him. “In case I don’t get to see you again. Have a Merry Christmas, Dad.”
Dad. The word was like a dagger piercing Wallace’s side. It didn’t do enough damage to kill him, but it ensured a slow, painful bleed out.
I stepped out of the bar. The hookers were gone. The sight of law enforcement tends to make them scatter. I closed my eyes and inhaled. The air was surprisingly fresh. It flushed the cigar smoke and stale beer from my nostrils. I opened my eyes. The moon brightened the night sky. I smiled. The world was a little safer now that Norman Wallace was off the streets.
Thirty-Five
Barbara Hoffman
Statesville, North Carolina
Shade fell over the thicket. Pure darkness wasn’t far behind. Barbara guessed it was about seven. It felt as though the woods were her prison for days, but it had only been several hours. Time dragged. Barbara feared stir craziness setting in. Think about something happy, she thought.
Barbara loved the fall, the fireworks show leaves put on as they change color, and the cooler nighttime temperatures. She cherished the moments she sat on the back porch buried beneath a soft blanket with Rockford snuggled next to her hip as she read romance novels. Barbara never came across as a romantic. If she dissected her marriage to Reid, romance would be the equivalent of the human body’s appendix. Romance had no purpose. Over time, she accepted it as something relationships have; she didn’t need it. But, on the rare occasion she wanted a hug, the pain set in. Reid spent too much time locked away in his dungeon studying Wallace to notice. The empty hug was the scar left by the organ she didn’t think she needed. Yeah, definitely an appendix.
Reid loved her. Doubt never seeped into her mind. He would find her…as long as her kidnapping didn’t send him over the edge. Living with Reid presented many challenges. Alcoholism was one of the biggest hurdles. He hadn’t had a drink in years. Barbara never saw Reid when he lived in a drunken stupor, but she knew it all too well. Her father died from liver failure just after her high school graduation. Liquor played a huge role. Barbara loved Reid, but distance has a way of diluting love. When Reid buried himself in the latest Wallace theory, he seemed millions of miles away. Love wasn’t enough to keep Barbara there. She couldn’t save her father. It was a guilt she carried with her. Keeping Reid off the bottle was her way of coping with her mistakes. She hoped he was strong enough to resist the bottle, but the fear gnawing her brought doubt. So much for the happy thoughts.
Chill from the night air nipped at Barbara’s toes, reminding her Wallace ruined her new suede heels. Her mouth was dry. A dull ache pounded against the base of her neck like an offbeat drum. With each thump, regret grew. The cool evening was a nuisance, but thirst was Barbara’s enemy. She shouldn’t have spit water in Wallace’s face. A smart woman wanting to survive would have savored the water. Sometimes the need to be tough is so strong it makes you dumb.
“Just drink the damn water,” Barbara said. “Why didn’t you drink the water?”
A sting against her calf made Barbara forget her poor decision. Itching followed.
“Are you serious? A mosquito?”
Unseasonably warm weather earlier in the month meant the mosquitoes weren’t surrendering quietly to autumn. The itch brought on temporary insanity. Barbara’s shackles didn’t allow her to scratch. She hated mosquitoes. Every time one of the little bastards bit her, at least a quarter-sized welt would appear. Barbara had no choice. She scraped her calf against the ground. Dead weeds and hardening soil felt like a cheese grater against her flesh. She didn’t care. The itch was worse. Barbara rubbed her leg on the ground until it bled, but the itching finally stopped. Blood trickling down her calf mimicked a bug crawling on her. It didn’t matter as long as there was no itching.
Barbara relaxed. With the back of her head cradled in a groove in the tree, she closed her eyes and prayed that Reid didn’t take a drink. One drink meant another, and
that meant disaster.
“You sure this is the place? It doesn’t look like there’s a cabin here.”
“We are in the right place,” Mack said. “There should be a path to the left around this corner. We may have to walk though… There.” Mack pointed to a narrow opening in the weeds.
Agent Jim Webb drove the Bronco onto the path. “We won’t need to do much walking with this thing.”
Mack opened a pack of spearmint gum and offered a piece to Webb before holding it over his shoulder to Agent Pete Sheridan in the backseat.
“I’m good,” Sheridan said.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you without gum,” Webb said.
“I like gum.” Mack chucked a piece into his mouth. “Stop here.”
“Why?” Webb said, killing the engine.
“Do I need to remind you what happened on Halloween? Wallace never works alone. He may not be here. But there is a chance we are not alone.”
“How long have you known Wallace was alive?” Sheridan asked.
“Just found out.” An obvious lie, but Mack could convince John Larson he wasn’t lying. “After looking at a few unsolved cases, Beamer put it together that Wallace was alive.”
“We studied The Morning Star Killer in Profiling. It didn’t seem like that big of a case. He killed like four or five women, right?”
Mack didn’t answer right away. He thought back to every murder that had Wallace’s fingerprints on it. Wallace spent time in California right before the Zodiac killings. He was in New York just before Son of Sam terrorized the city. Wallace influenced his own son to kill. Patty Cline and Richard Lick became serial killers under Wallace’s influence. There was no way of knowing how many deaths Wallace played a role in.