by Kyle Mills
“Stop!” she screamed, digging her nails into the arm pulling her along.
The cold was beginning to penetrate her skin as Nolan released her and she dropped to her knees in the snow. She looked up through the blood that was beginning to freeze to her face and focused on the two silent men standing a few feet behind Nolan. “Whichever one of you stops this will take Gregory’s place and will have whatever he wants. Do you understand? Tomorrow I will be the final authority of the church. I will.”
One of them stepped toward her. She pulled away from Nolan and crawled to the man. She held a hand out to him, but he stopped a few feet away and threw a single piece of computer paper onto the snow in front of her.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Sara has betrayed me.
I have allowed her attacks on my
granddaughter and Mark Beamon, as
well as the death of my most
devoted follower, Ernestine Waverly
did this clinging to the hope that
she would look into herself and find
the strength of her faith. That she
would come back to me.
As the day of my ascension
approaches, I must accept that all
she has found is a consuming
jealousy and greed, and that
mankind has not come as far as I
had hoped. It seems that every time
has its Judas.
If allowed to, Sara will destroy the
church and with it, humanity’s
hopes and dreams. It is her time to
stand before God and be judged, as it
is mine.
God Bless.
AK
Sara struggled to keep her breathing normal as the shadow of a pistol crossed in front of her on the snow.
“This is wrong,” she said, turning toward Nolan and the barrel of the gun. “It’s not from Albert. I’m telling you it’s not from Albert. Mark Beamon has broken the codes we use. He sent this.”
Nolan shook his head sadly, but kept the gun steady. “Those codes have never been broken. We checked the encryption signature you gave us. It is from Albert.”
“No! Don’t you see? That’s how Beamon found her at the airport. He wasn’t watching the plane like we thought. He read the e-mail!”
“No,” Nolan, said, reaching out and pulling the slide back on the pistol. “Albert told him. He was giving you a chance to repent.”
This couldn’t be happening. She would not allow her life to be ended by Mark Beamon, a drunken nobody whose pathetic life she’d had the power to destroy with a few words.
“None of this would be here if it weren’t for
me, and none of it will survive without me! I am Albert Kneiss!” ‘
Nolan pressed the gun against her temple, grabbing her by the collar as she tried to back away. “That’s for God to decide.”
65
BEAMON PULLED HIS FEET UP ON THE BUMPER of the car and struggled to light another cigarette in the wind. The hood was quickly losing its warmth as the engine cooled, but it was still better than the alternative. The interior of the car had been closing in on him.
The fate of the two e-mails he’d sent was a complete mystery to him. What the hell did he know about computers? It was entirely possible that the little zeros and ones that the e-mails were constructed from had just been dispersed to the digital void of the Internet. If that was the case, Jennifer was dead and he was waiting for no one.
More likely, the e-mails had been received and immediately reported to Sara, who wouldn’t have had much trouble figuring out who wrote them. In that case, he was waiting for a church hit squad.
He’d FedExed the Vericomm audio disks to an attorney who had kicked his ass in court about five years ago. Meanest, most ruthless sonofabitch he’d ever met—a man who clearly could be trusted to carry out his instructions. Upon hearing reports of Beamon’s death, he was to distribute copies of the disks—and the handwritten explanation of how Beamon had come to possess them—to twenty-five major newspapers. And with that final act, Beamon’s hat was officially out of rabbits.
He took a deep drag on the cigarette and moved to a warmer part of the hood, thinking about the contents of the e-mails he’d sent. The ironic thing was, what he’d written in them was true. Or at least as close to the truth as he could get. After spending the last month studying Albert Kneiss through reading just about everything ever written by or about him, it had been surprisingly easy to get into the old man’s head and create a message in an electronic hand that would be indistinguishable from his. A message that Albert might have composed himself if he’d been able to.
Except for the last part, perhaps—the purposefully ambiguous sentence that Beamon knew the Guardians would interpret as a death sentence for Sara.
And that was the drawback to his plan. In the unlikely event that it worked, he was a murderer. But what choice had he been left with? A breathing Sara Renslier couldn’t be trusted to stay away from the girl. And she sure as hell wasn’t going to let him stroke out playing bridge in an old folks’ home. Or was that just a rationalization that freed him to take his revenge?
Beamon spotted the gray panel van slowly approaching from the other side of the parking lot and slid his hand around the butt of the shotgun lying under a towel on the hood next to him. Those assholes who had shoved him in that trunk in D.C. still had his pistol. If he was still alive five minutes from now, he’d have to see if he could get that back. It had been a good friend.
“Mr. Beamon!”
The van hadn’t yet come to a complete stop when Jennifer burst from the passenger door and ran to him. She almost knocked him off the slick hood when she grabbed hold of him.
“I knew you wouldn’t let them kill me.”
“A promise is a promise,” he said, stroking her hair with one hand but keeping the other under the towel.
“She’s gone,” Jennifer said, beginning to sob. “She was in the snow! There was—” her voice caught for a moment. “There was so much blood. It was just like Mom.”
Beamon was only about half-listening, concentrating on the van as a young man he hadn’t seen before stepped from it and walked around to face him. He patted her on the rear and peeled her arms from around him. “Go sit in the car, okay? I’ll be there in a second.”
She pulled away from him, and a moment later Beamon heard the door slam shut behind him.
“Mr. Beamon. I wanted to tell you—” the man in front of him started.
Beamon cut him off, speaking authoritatively. “It’s okay. We understand. You were only doing what you thought Albert wanted. He holds Sara solely responsible.”
“I only wanted to do what was right,” he said looking at his feet. “I contacted the others and told them what happened.”
Beamon nodded sagely. “Albert wanted me to tell you he was sorry to put you through what he did—to ask of you what he did. But that he knew you were strong enough to handle it.” Beamon slid from the hood. “He loved Sara so much. I think he believed that she would come back to him until the very end.”
The man turned and began walking slowly back to the van. Beamon thought he said, “He always saw the good in people,” but couldn’t be sure. The wind had picked up and carried the man’s words away.
Beamon adjusted himself in the sofa and looked down at Jennifer, who was lying on the floor in front of the television. “I find it kind of disturbing the way you stare at things but don’t really see them, Jennifer.”
“Sorry … I was thinking.”
“Too much reflection can be bad for you. Why don’t you come sit up here and have some ice cream?”
She slowly peeled herself off the linoleum and fell onto the couch next to him.
“Oh, by the way, the place looks great.”
She’d spent the last four hours scrubbing and straightening the worn-out little apartment they were holed up in, glan
cing at the clock on the desk every five minutes or so.
He’d tried to convince her that she was no longer in danger, but the fact that his record was a little spotty on that subject, and the loaded shotgun resting on the sofa next to him, made his argument less than convincing.
They both watched as the numbers on the clock flipped over to twelve o’clock. Jennifer sat completely still, ignoring the dented spoon Beamon was holding out to her. It looked as if she was waiting for something. The sound of the church’s enforcers rushing the apartment? A lightning bolt from heaven?
“Midnight, Jen. They don’t want you as their new messiah. I hear they’re looking for someone with a college degree and some practical experience.”
Dumb humor didn’t seem to be working, so he tried the ice cream again. Women weren’t supposed to be able to resist the stuff. “It’s Ben and Jerry’s. Cherry Garcia.” He stuck the extra spoon in the carton and wiggled it seductively. “Won’t last much longer.”
She looked like she was going to crumble into another crying fit, and Beamon felt his stomach tense. He just wasn’t built for this kind of thing. He hoped to hell that he could get his job back so he could return to the good old days of finding ‘em and instantly turning ‘em over to the Bureau’s shrink.
Fortunately, the spell passed with only a hint of a tear visible in the corner of her right eye. Beamon shook the carton again.
This time she took the spoon. “Thanks. For everything.”
66
“WON’T THE FBI BE LOOKING FOR YOU here, Mr. Beamon?” Jennifer asked, lifting herself off the car seat and yanking at one of her pantlegs. The jeans he’d purchased for her were apparently less than a perfect fit.
Beamon looked up at the front door of his condo. “Doubt it. FBI’d probably assume I wouldn’t be stupid enough to come back here while they were looking for me.”
“So you’re a lot stupider than they think.”
He pointed to her wide grin as he stepped from the car. “That looks good on you, smartass.”
Beamon pulled off his sunglasses and squinted against the bright mid-morning sun. “Can you see my gun?” he said, turning his back to Jennifer and adjusting his sweater.
”No. But this is a problem.” She reached over and buttoned his collar. “There. You look good.”
He gave a short nod and started up the walkway.
“You all right?” Jennifer asked, following alongside him.
“Why?”
“I don’t know, you look a little nervous. You really like her, don’t you?”
Beamon rolled his eyes.
“You should tell her you’re sorry.”
“I think we may be beyond that, Jen.”
“Nah. Women go in for apologies in a big way. Trust me on this.”
Beamon took a deep breath and knocked on Carrie Johnstone’s door. It opened a moment later.
“Mark!” Carrie threw her arms around him and kissed him hard on the mouth.
“Probably don’t need to bother with that apology,” he heard Jennifer mumble as he tried to keep from stumbling.
Carrie pulled back and turned toward her. “Oh my God. You’re Jennifer Davis, aren’t you?”
“Uh-huh. It’s nice to meet you, Ms. Johnstone. You’re all Mr. Beamon talks about.”
“I don’t think that’s really true,” Beamon stammered as Carrie put her arm around Jennifer and guided her in the door.
“Are you all right, honey? Maybe you’d like to talk?”
“Mr. Beamon!” Emory squealed as she ran around her mother and attached herself to his leg. He peeled her off and picked her up. “How are you, honey? The Easter bunny didn’t bring you healthy candy, did he?”
She bobbed her head as he produced a chocolate moose from the pocket of his jacket and kicked the door closed behind him. “Don’t tell your mother.”
“Mark, I want to hear everything. Are you hungry?”
Beamon looked skeptically at the casserole cooling on the stove. It looked normal, but he knew that it was a trick. “Uh, sure, Carrie, thanks.”
“Jennifer, hand me that spatula over there, please,” Carrie said, pointing to a copper bucket full of cooking utensils.
She scooped a large piece onto a plate and handed it to Beamon. “This is a great recipe. I just make a few substitutions and it turns out perfect.”
Beamon smiled weakly and shoveled a forkful into his mouth. “Can’t tell a bit,” he said through a glob of something that tasted a little like an empty styrofoam cup.
“Mark’s such a liar,” Carrie said to Jennifer. “He hates my cooking, but doesn’t have the guts to tell me. I admire that kind of cowardice in a man.”
Jennifer accepted an even larger piece and retreated with Emory to the small table in the kitchen.
Carrie laid her plate on the counter and began speaking in a voice low enough that the girls couldn’t hear. “Where did you find her, Mark? I haven’t seen anything on the news about it. Are you back with the FBI?”
“You’re the only person who knows. And no, I’m not back with the FBI. I may never be.”
“You found her on your own?”
Beamon thought of Ernie and Jack Goldman. “I had some help.”
She looked over at Jennifer, who was helping Emory cut up the food on her plate. “Is she okay, Mark? Did she actually see her parents murdered? Was she abused?”
Beamon took another bite of the casserole and chewed slowly. “Her parents weren’t murdered—her father shot her mother and then himself right in front of her, and yes, she was physically and mentally abused. Not sexually, though.” He leaned a little closer to her. “I have no idea what to say to her, Carrie. I’ve tried, but you’ve got to help me here.”
Carrie waved at Jennifer. “Finished? Why don’t you help me with the dishes while Mark takes Emory for a walk and explains why it would be wrong for her to eat that chocolate moose he gave her?”
“You told?” Beamon said as Emory flew off the chair and disappeared down the hall to bundle up. Beamon stepped aside as Jennifer carried the dishes into the kitchen. “There’s one more thing I’m going to need your help with, Carrie. Maybe we can talk about it when I get back.”
67
THE SUNLIGHT WAS BARELY STARTING TO appear over the mountains as Beamon pulled a Post-it note out of his pocket and slipped his glasses onto his nose. He read the address written on it and checked it against the one stenciled on the neatly kept house in front of him. This was it.
He knocked on the door and waited impatiently as muffled footsteps became audible on the other side. The man who answered was dressed in a meticulously pressed white shirt and gray wool slacks. An unimaginatively tasteful maroon tie was hanging untied around his neck.
It took a few moments—probably because Beamon was backlit by the rising sun—but recognition began to slowly register on the man’s face. He tried to back away, but Beamon reached out and grabbed him by the collar, just as a woman wearing a long green robe appeared in the hallway. “Who is it, honey?”
“Excuse me, ma’am,” Beamon’ said, dragging the man through the door. “I just want a quick word with your husband.”
“Gary,” she called in a worried voice, “is everything all right? Should I call someone?”
“Just finish getting the kids ready for school. It’s okay.”
Beamon smiled and waved at her, then pulled the door shut.
“You just aren’t real bright, are you, Beamon,” the man said, trying to jerk away. There was a quiet ripping sound, but Beamon easily kept hold of his shirt. “You still have no idea what you’re dealing with, do you?”
Beamon didn’t say anything, but dragged him across the driveway and shoved his face into the passenger window of the car idling there, resisting the urge to break the glass with the man’s nose.
“You haven’t been informed as to the new world order, I take it,” Beamon said, looking through the windshield at Carrie. She nodded nervously.
He pulled
the man away from the car and released him. Instead of backing away, he stepped forward, bringing his face to within inches of Beamon’s. “What’re you going to do, Beamon? Arrest me? Oh, no, wait. You can’t do that anymore, can you?”
Beamon smiled engagingly and stomped hard on the man’s foot. He howled in pain and surprise and limped back a few paces. Beamon turned back to the car and shrugged. Carrie looked horrified.
There had been no prints on the Child Safety Administration’s business card other than his and Carrie’s, but the eighth stationery store Beamon called had had a record of printing the offending card. “Guess you shouldn’t have had the printer mail those cards directly to your home, huh, dumb- shit.”
The man looked like he was going to charge, but Beamon stopped him by sliding a hand suggestively beneath his parka. The gesture seemed to have the desired effect.
“I have to admit to being a little impressed,” Beamon said. “For fifty dollars in business cards and a few hours’ work, you could irretrievably fuck up hundreds of people’s lives. How many times have you used this little trick?”
The man straightened up and looked Beamon directly in the eye. “As many as we wanted to.”
68
“MARGIE! HOW YOU DOIN’, HON?” BEAMON said jovially.
Jake Layman’s secretary bolted upright at her desk and then jumped to her feet. “Oh my God. Mark! What are you doing here? I mean, they’ve been looking everywhere for you!”
Beamon put his hand on Jennifer’s back. “Margie, I’d like you to meet the girl everyone’s been talking about—Jennifer Davis.”
The woman’s eyes widened as Jennifer fidgeted uncomfortably and tried to get behind Beamon. “Don’t stare,” he said. “I think she’s a little uncomfortable that I bought her clothes in the Junior-Miss section of Kmart.”
“And … and who’s this?” Margie stammered, looking at the man standing next to Beamon.
“This is my friend from the Child Safety Administration. He has a story he wants to tell—”