by Paul Seiple
“How long have ya’ll been together?”
Reid dropped the burger onto the tray. “What?”
“A couple? How long?”
Reid smiled. “Seven years. Have you ever given thought to joining the Bureau? Maybe a profiler?”
I laughed. “Wasn’t hard to tell. The way you look at her gave it away.”
“Great,” Reid said, picking the burger up again. “So much for my poker face.”
“I know where your mother is buried,” I said.
Reid stopped eating mid-bite.
“While he had Rebecca tied up, George said your mother is buried at a cabin in Statesville.”
“Can you find it?”
“I think so.”
Three Months Later
Chapter 51
“That’s the tree,” I said.
After several exhaustive hypnotherapy sessions with Barbara, I finally saw the secret Norman hid. It was buried deep, much deeper than my memory of catching my father at the docks. Buried so deep, that Norman had every intention of taking it to his grave with him. Playing the role of grave robber sickened me as I unearthed the decay caused by my father.
The cabin in Statesville was his getaway. Norman's place to escape the responsibility of being a husband and a father and to spend quality time with the monster that lived within. No need to lie to mother. No need to come up with excuses as to why he wasn’t home for dinner. No need to hide the imaginary horns that he was convinced set atop his receding hairline.
In order to find the cabin, I had to go to a place that banished me for being an unruly guest — my brother’s mind. After George's death the dreams stopped leaving questions unanswered. Reid saved my future when he unloaded those bullets into George's face. A future that erased the years of insomnia and now involved the girl of my dreams, but Reid still suffered. He needed closure and I owed him that. I wanted to pay Reid back by helping him reunite with his mother. I wanted to give Reid the opportunity to give his mother a proper burial.
As children, Norman never took us to his sacred place. But as an adult, during his grooming phase, Norman took George to the cabin. He recounted the atrocities like a proud parent reliving his son's game-winning homerun. He reveled in every sadistic moment. And with each memory, Norman hated me more. He never spoke of the hatred to George. For his plan to work, he needed to make George hate me. And what better way to make someone hate you than to make them envy you. It pained Norman to paint a perfect picture of me when all that he wanted to do was watch me suffer for ruining his double life. Hunger for the kill never goes away for serial killers. The pangs ate away at Norman every time he saw a woman that fit the pattern. His mouth watered, begging for a taste of precious blood, but he suppressed the feelings. There was no other choice. He hadn't taken a life since I pulled the curtain on his secret. He loved murder, but he loved freedom more. Killing again could put his freedom in jeopardy. So he chose to become a modern day Dr. Frankenstein. George was his monster.
The first memory I recovered was Norman convincing George that the women buried in Statesville deserved their death sentence. Norman was a master manipulator. He made George feel hatred for the women by divulging their sin — adultery. A sin that none of them committed. Norman made George feel the betrayal of the husbands. The heartbreak of the children when they learned mother was a whore. Reinforcing the crimes to George made it easier to justify the sentence. Norman never realized that it wasn’t necessary. Rage for me blinded Norman to the bigger picture — the thirst for murder inside George was already nearing a level of dehydration. As Norman recounted the murders, George’s fixation with what the women looked like from the inside grew. He didn’t need to be convinced that the murder of innocents was his prophecy.
“Are you sure?” Reid asked, bringing the pickup to a stop.
“Yeah, take the path to the right. The cabin will be at the end of the road, about twenty feet through the trees.”
The thin blanket of white almost made the land feel pure. But snow couldn't cover up the inhumanity that had risen to the surface. Five graves that became the final resting place for someone's daughter, someone's wife, someone's mother. Five more women who became nothing more than practice for the beast. Human life held no value, so why should it get a proper burial? Norman wasn’t happy with the first kill. A whore he picked up in uptown Charlotte. She didn’t live up to his expectations. Like the time he had sex with Mary Sue Bell. Sex was unsatisfying; she didn't put up a fight as he raped her, so he choked the life out of Mary Sue. That’s what got him off. He used the same logic with the whore. But left unfulfilled, he needed more. Over the next three days in 1955, Norman Wallace abducted three women. One was Victoria Hoffman. Victoria, and the other women, wouldn’t consent to sex; no amount of money would get them to change their minds, so he raped them. Norman was a man and men were supposed to like sex. Find pleasure in bedding women. He didn’t, and that made him feel broken, less of a man. Murder was the glue that put him back together — made him whole again.
The pickup hit a root that extended across the path. The truck bounced, throwing me against the passenger door, bringing me back to the present.
“Through there,” I said, pointing to a row of Oak trees. The flakes were wetter, heavier. Forecast called for a foot of snow. Soon the sins would be harder to uncover.
Reid stopped the pickup and took a shovel from the truck bed. I grabbed another shovel and blew warm air into my closed fists, regretting the choice not to bring gloves.
“Lead the way,” Reid said.
I swung the shovel, on the ground, in front of me, pushing the snow to the side. The path, covered in white, was no longer visible. I didn’t need to see it. This was the right place. The map was etched in mind. Through the words Norman spoke to my brother, I felt the fear, the horror, that Victoria Hoffman felt when Norman dragged her through the woods. It was a pain that I kept to myself. Reid didn’t need to know how scared his mother was when the beast took her.
“You know, I’ve been waiting for this moment for twenty-five years,” Reid said. “I’ve wanted to find my mother’s body. To lay her to rest. Why am I dreading this?”
I didn’t have an answer. I couldn’t begin to imagine the emotions overtaking him. Norman killed my biological mother, but I never had time to mourn. Things happened so fast. I hadn’t had time to truly start hating my father for what he was, for what he made my brother.
“This has been the only thing keeping me going through the years. The only thing that stopped me from eating a bullet during all those drunken nights.”
“This is about healing,” I said. “We are going to find your mother. You’re going to finally get to say goodbye. And then you’ll be able to heal. You’ve wanted revenge. Revenge doesn’t make your mother proud. She’s already proud. It’s time to heal for her.”
A hint of barn red color flashed through the falling snow. I saw Norman walking George to the cabin. My stomach grew queasy. Reality and memories were blurred to the point that I couldn’t tell if I was about to vomit or if I was experiencing the butterflies George felt. This moment was a huge impact on him becoming a ruthless killer. This was like meeting your favorite baseball player for George.
“You OK?” Reid asked.
“Yeah. I still get winded.”
“Shit, I’m sorry, Michael. Do you need to rest?”
“I’m fine,” I said, holding my stomach. “The cabin’s just over there.”
The foundation of the cabin had given way to rot. The building sloped to the right. The only remnant of a front porch was one column supporting a caved-in roof. Ivy grew up the sides of the red cabin. It looked like cartoon hands squeezing, strangling, robbing the last breath from a heart. While everything else green turned to brown in the winter ivy remained defiant. Reid was too my left, but I saw Norman standing there. George sitting on a stump watching him reenact a kill. I grabbed Reid’s arm.
“What?”
“Walk over here,” I sai
d. “There’s a body buried there.”
Out of respect, we couldn’t walk on the dead. This was our chance to honor them. To say goodbye for their families, who couldn’t be there.
“How do you know?’ Reid asked.
“I can see Norman playing out the kills to George.”
“Is it my mother?”
“No,” I said, placing a red handkerchief on the spot. If we didn't act soon, the handkerchief would disappear beneath the snow.
I followed Norman, just as George did that day, to the side of the cabin. Norman turned and smiled. He told the story of how the “whore” buried here put up a fight. He showed George a scar just above his right eye. She was feisty. The bitch tried to gouge his eyes out.
“Stop,” I said.
Reid turned to me.
“She’s here.” I started shoveling snow, but immediately couldn’t catch my breath.
Reid grabbed my arm. “Let me.”
I moved to the side, used the shovel as a crutch, and watched Reid dig through years of dead leaves to unearth the last resting place of his mother. The frozen ground was tough. It was as if it didn’t want to give up the evidence. Trying to hide the horrors of Norman Wallace. But Reid fought physically and mentally to take back what had been stolen from him. Something lavender appeared beneath the dirt. Reid dropped to his knees and started crying.
“The dress she wore that day,” Reid said. “I can see her waving as she said goodbye.” Reid tossed the shovel aside and starting to dig with his bare hands ignoring the cold. He was finally reunited with his mother. She was there to comfort him. To free him from the hate that haunted him for twenty-five years.
A flash of light pierced the gray air. I turned. Standing against a tall Oak near the front of the porch was Sunshine — Ashley Harris, my sister. She smiled and made a heart with her hands before placing them against her chest. She mouthed the words, "You did good, big brother" and faded into the snow just as a huge, wet snowflake smacked my check. I smiled.
Chapter 52
Helping Reid find his mother served as an exorcism of sorts for me as well. All of the visions stopped. No George, no Norman. There was no longer room in my life for them.
“I’m going, don’t push me,” Rebecca said. “You try walking with a dragon tail.”
She was arguing with her father as he walked her down the aisle to marry me. Finally, he picked up the back of her dress.
“She’s going to be a handful,” Father Abraham said, patting me on my shoulder.
“Don’t I know it. But she is beautiful.”
Rebecca made the ugliest face as she wrestled with the wedding dress. Her blond hair started to fall from its bun. She grabbed for it, dropping a bouquet of and white flowers. Even disheveled she was gorgeous.
“Sorry,” she mouthed to me, straightening her dress.
“Everything situated?” Father Abraham asked. “Can we begin?”
I nodded. Rebecca smirked and tilted her head.
The ceremony went smooth until Father Abraham asked if anyone objected. There was a moment of silence. Then a baby started crying. Rebecca buried her head on my shoulder. “Just great. It’s not embarrassing enough that you knock me up on the first date. Now, the brat has to make sure everyone knows her mother is a slut.”
Chapter 53
“She’s beautiful, isn’t she?” Barbara asked, watching the new silver Cutlass, with ‘Just Married’, written in shaving cream, on the back window, pull away.
“He has no idea what he’s in for,” Reid said.
Barbara smacked Reid on the knee.
“Oh hush. Young love is wonderful.”
“Don’t tell me you’re getting soft now, Dupree.”
Someone bumped into Reid pushing him into Barbara.
“You better not be on the sauce again,” Barbara said.
“I’m so sorry, Father Abraham said. “Wasn’t watching where I was walking. Weddings take it out of me.” He laughed.
“No problem, Father,” Reid said.
“Looks like you dropped something.” Father Abraham bent down, picked up a wedding program, and handed it Reid. “You two have a blessed evening.”
“I didn’t drop this. Did you?” Reid asked, handing the program to Barbara.
“I don’t think so.”
Reid caught a glimpse of something written in red ink inside the program. He opened it.
I took your mother. You took my son. But we are not even. That’s a mighty fine looking woman you have there. I hope she has as much fight as your mother. Let's catch up soon - Norman.
Author’s Note
I hope that you enjoyed Chasing Fireflies, the first book in the James Beamer/Michael Callahan Morning Star Series. The second book, Babylon Sister, should arrive by winter 2014.
One question that readers might have is — Why spoil, in the first book, the fact that Michael Callahan will eventually become James Beamer. Shouldn't that be a "holy shit" moment later in the series? Good question, but there will be plenty of "holy shit" moments as the life of Michael Callahan progresses. Mike's a hero in every sense of the word and Norman is ultimate evil.
I chose to divulge that Michael Callahan eventually becomes James Beamer to put it out there that something awful is going to happen to make this man kill the identity he spent his entire life creating. Imagine someone on train tracks, a train racing for them. You want to yell, "Get the hell off the tracks," but your screams are drowned out by the locomotive. So you just sit back and hope for the best.
In a way, The Morning Star series will be a prequel to the life of James Beamer, one of the FBI's most prolific serial killer hunters. This series will give readers insight to every horror that pushed James into that direction. Hold tight, it's going to be a fun ride.
In the immortal words of Norman Wallace — Let's catch up soon.
Acknowledgments
If I were to list everyone that has influenced me in some way I would have to pay my formatter a lot of money. That's a joke. But seriously, you know the cliché, this list is too long to include everyone. So, I'll start by saying to everyone I've encountered, good and bad, throughout my life, you've had some sort of influence on who I am today.
To my parents — Steve and Pat, I'd like to say thanks for having such an awesome kid. To Christy — thanks for putting up with me being right 99.9 percent of the time. To Scott Brooks, thanks for making me a better writer. To Joe Konrath — thanks for making me fall in love with writing serials through your Jack Daniels series. To Jerry Reed and Jim Croce — thanks for teaching me how to write stories through your songs. To Norman the cat — thanks for being the inspiration for you know who. And to Chipotle — thanks for being you.
Babylon Sister
The Morning Star Has Risen
Coming Soon
About the Author
Paul Seiple is a Virginia Press Association Award winning editor and writer. Paul currently resides in Charlotte, North Carolina. He spends most of his time applying his useless wealth of pop culture to stories for the world to read. He is the author of :
The Shape of Thing to Come
The Dark Stuff
Lover's Requiem
If you would like to sign up for my new release newsletter, you can do so here. I'll only contact you when I have something new coming out and I will never share your email.
If you would like to stay in touch, I can be found at www.paulseiple.com or at Twitter. You can shoot me an email at [email protected]
For up-to-date news in the James Beamer world visit James Beamer Thrillers
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