Injecting Faith

by Patrick Logan

  The first blow that he’d delivered with the palm-sized rock was only meant to incapacitate, of that, Beckett was certain. The seventh or eighth strike, however…

  Beckett swallowed hard and turned to look at Suzan. She was curled on her side, her nose nestled close to his chest. The woman had been through a lot, and despite her sarcasm and tough outer shell, she was hurting.

  Her father had been murdered by none other than the Skeleton King, or one of his many proxies—shot dead while serving a routine warrant. For a long time, she’d blamed her father’s partner—Damien Drake—for his death. But that had come to pass when Drake himself started up a relationship with her mom, Jasmine. Shit, they’d even recently had a child together, making Suzan the older step-sister.

  But as twisted as the soap opera of Suzan’s life was, it was only the beginning. There were rumors, unfounded as they must be, that Jasmine herself was involved with the infamous ANGUIS Holdings Corporation. But rather than stick around and face these accusations head-on, the woman had opted to take her baby and flee.

  No one had seen either of them in over a month.

  Suzan loved to joke around, to talk, to shoot the shit. But rarely did she ever talk about herself, her own twisted life.

  Beckett unfolded his fingers, reached over and brushed a lock of hair from her cheek.

  He recalled something she'd said when the news of Winston Trent’s suicide finally broke: Looks like that asshole got what he deserved.

  She was wrong; Winston had deserved much worse.

  “One day I'll tell you who I really am,” he whispered. He hadn’t meant to speak, and as soon as the words left his mouth, he felt silly.

  Suzan stirred but didn’t wake.

  Beckett felt silly because there's no way he could tell anybody who he really was.

  The only people who knew were those represented by the horizontal tattoos that started just below his armpit and continued down his ribcage.

  Chapter 11

  “He clammed up pretty good,” Dunbar said as they made their way toward their car. Yasiv lit a cigarette.

  “No kidding. He's not gonna talk to us.”

  “What about some of the other guys? Not a supervisor maybe but a fellow worker? You think they’d tell us where Wayne might be? Where he liked to go?”

  Yasiv, cigarette dangling from between his lips, stared up at the moon.

  “Probably not. Guys like him, like Wayne, usually stick to themselves. I doubt he had any friends at all, let alone at work. Like that Frank guy said, he was none too popular here. I'm surprised that they didn’t make it so miserable for him that he had no choice but to quit.”

  “You think that happened? Maybe one of the guys got pissed off one day and took his anger out on Wayne? Did more than make him just quit?” Dunbar asked.

  Yasiv thought about it. It wasn’t out of the question. There’d been many a case of vigilante justice, especially when it came to accused child molesters.

  “Maybe. We should follow up on Will’s parents, see what they were up to the last few nights.”

  “I’d… I’d rather not. I mean, they’ve been through so much…” Dunbar let his sentence trail off. He was taking this personally, which was not conducive to a thorough investigation. Yasiv wondered what Dunbar would do if it came to light that Will Kingston’s parents had something to do with Wayne’s disappearance.

  Yasiv knew what he would do, but he wasn’t so sure about his partner.

  “We gotta be level-headed about this, Dunbar. We can’t—”

  “Excuse me? Excuse me?”

  Yasiv turned to see a man in a white lab coat hurrying toward them. Perhaps it was the fact that it was late at night, or maybe it was because the man was holding some sort of hook in his hand, but for some reason, Yasiv’s hand immediately went to his gun.

  “Can we help you?” Dunbar asked, taking a defensive stance.

  The man stopped maybe a dozen feet from them, and then put his hands on his knees to catch his breath. He must have only just now noticed the hook in his hand, as he slipped it into his pocket.

  “Who are you?” Dunbar demanded. The man finally caught his breath, stood up straight and offered his hand.

  Dunbar glanced at the blood on the man's sleeve and opted not to touch him.

  “Sorry,” the man grumbled, pulling his hand back. “My name's Kyle, Kyle Hill. I work here at the plant, for a long time, actually. I heard you guys in there talking to Frank, asking about Wayne.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Yasiv saw Dunbar clench his jaw, and decided that it might be best if he stepped in.

  “Yeah, we want to talk to Wayne, that's all,” he offered, trying to keep things light. “You know where we might find him?”

  The man rubbed the back of his neck, looking off to one side as he spoke.

  “Nah, I don't—”

  “Before you lie to us, keep in mind that you’re protecting a man who was accused of raping and murdering a boy—an eight-year-old boy,” Dunbar said, standing up tall, and puffing out his chest.

  The man, who had been averting his eyes, suddenly looked at Dunbar.

  “No, not Wayne. He didn't—he didn’t do that.”

  “Just because some asshole on the jury couldn’t make up his mind, doesn’t mean he didn’t do it,” Dunbar shot back. “I saw the video. Everyone did. I know he did it.”

  Yasiv raised an eyebrow; he didn't know what video Dunbar was referring to. Clearly, not everyone had seen it.

  “Think whatever you want, man, but trust me on this one. Wayne didn’t do that. He didn’t do nothin’.”

  Dunbar stepped forward aggressively.

  “Yeah? And why are you so sure, huh?”

  Yasiv flicked his cigarette and it erupted into sparks.

  “C’mon, Dunbar. Let’s get out of here.”

  Dunbar stared the man down for a moment longer, before turning to head to the car. But, apparently, Kyle wasn’t done yet. He reached out grabbed for the back of Dunbar’s arm. The detective spun around, while at the same time, grabbing the man’s thumb. He twisted, immediately bringing Kyle to his knees.

  He cried out, but Dunbar held fast.

  “Don’t touch me. Don’t you ever touch me.”

  Yasiv immediately kicked into action, cursing himself for letting it go this far.

  “Dunbar, let him go.”

  Dunbar glowered at the wincing man.

  “Don’t you ever fucking touch me.”

  “Dunbar…”

  Dunbar let go and held his hands up while taking a step backward.

  “You saw him, he tried to grab me.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I saw,” Yasiv said, readying himself for another outburst.

  The entire encounter was out of character for the big detective. He wasn’t usually aggressive in the least.

  What the hell is going on here?

  “Go back inside,” Yasiv ordered. The man looked at him with wide eyes, and then rose to his feet. He turned and took a handful of steps before stopping. Yasiv shook his head. “Just go—”

  “Harvey Park Church in Queens. Every night at ten.”

  Dunbar sneered.

  “What’d you say?”

  Kyle cleared his throat and repeated the words. And then, before either of them could question him further, he started running back toward the meat factory.

  “What the hell was that?” Dunbar asked when the man was out of earshot.

  Leaning on the hood of his car, Yasiv looked over at his partner and shrugged.

  “I dunno… maybe he thinks you need salvation. Shit, you need something.”

  Chapter 12

  Blood flooded Beckett's nose and mouth like an ebbing tide. In addition to not being able to breathe, he also gagged; the fluid had a strong metallic taste that churned his stomach. He flailed, but the sea of blood kept dragging him down.

  His eyes snapped open, but at first, all he saw was red.

  “I didn't do it!” he heard someone sho
ut. Wayne Cravat’s pale face suddenly came into focus, hovering over him. “I didn't do it!”

  The words weren’t coming from his mouth. Instead, the man seemed to breathe them through the gash in his throat.

  Wayne’s entire body suddenly materialized, and all his substantial weight was pushing down on Beckett. Blood was flowing out of his neck relentlessly, unbidden, unrepentant.

  Beckett was in full survival mode now, desperately trying to clear the geyser of fluid from his face.

  “I didn't do it!” Wayne screamed again. The way the words were whistling out of his neck wound was horrible. “I didn't do it!”

  Somewhere in the distance, he heard police sirens.

  Beckett tried to look around, to figure out where he was, to find a way out of this nightmare. But Wayne had other ideas. The man suddenly leaned down close, bringing the flapping and wheezing scalpel incision within inches of Beckett’s face. Blood continued to flow from the orifice, but the words that accompanied the deluge were somehow clear.

  “I didn't do it.”

  The makeshift mouth was so close that Beckett could feel the hot air that accompanied those words.

  With a growl, Beckett finally managed to pull his hands free of the tar-like blood and he gripped the man’s throat.

  “Beckett! Beckett, wake up!”

  Beckett blinked, and then immediately let go of Suzan’s neck.

  “What? What happened?”

  He could still hear sirens and was unsure of whether this was a remnant of his dream or if the cops were after him. If they’d figured out what he’d done, who he’d killed, what he was.

  “Christ, you squeezed me hard, Beckett.”

  Beckett wiped the drool from his cheek and tried to usher his mind back into reality.

  The damn sirens…

  He sat bolt upright, his eyes moving to the window, expecting to see the telltale sign of flashing lights.

  “Is that the cops?”

  Still massaging her throat, Suzan looked at him with her brow knitted.

  “What the hell are you talking about? It's the alarm, Beckett. It’s just the alarm.”

  All the air left Beckett’s lungs then, and he grabbed his cell phone from the table and turned off the alarm.

  Drawing a full breath, he observed the wreck he’d made of his bed. His sheets were a tangled mess, heavy with his sweat. Beckett realized that the breathing he’d felt—Wayne’s horrible, sputtering, gasping neck wound—must have been Suzan.

  “Jesus,” he groaned, shaking his foot free of the bedsheets. “I’m sorry, Suzan. I was having a nightmare.”

  “No kidding,” she said, still massaging her throat. “You kept saying that you didn’t do it. And then you just grabbed me.”

  Beckett sat up and gently pulled her hands away from her throat.

  “Here, let me see.”

  Her fair skin was red, but it didn't look like he’d bruised her or done any real damage.

  “I think you’ll be all right. Ice will help…”

  Suzan looked unimpressed.

  I was shouting that I didn’t do it? Get it together, Beckett.

  “I'm sorry.”

  “Ah, it’s okay,” Suzan replied, swinging her legs over the side of the bed and rising to her feet. She was wearing a long T-shirt and nothing underneath. As she moved, Beckett could see the bottom cleft beneath her ass cheeks and, despite everything, he felt a stirring in his sweat-drenched boxers.

  Fuck off, Little Beckett. Not now.

  “I'm really sorry. I don’t know what happened. Must've drunk too much.”

  “Or you’re overcome by guilt,” Suzan said absently as she made her way to the bathroom.

  Beckett could've sworn that she intentionally took a large step so that he could glimpse more of what lay beneath her nightshirt.

  “I can… I can make it up to you?”

  “Don't even think about it,” she said as she started to brush her teeth. “Besides, don't you have that thing with the residents today? That special project you’ve been gabbing about all year?”

  Beckett stared at Suzan as she moved her toothbrush up and down, side to side, which caused her breasts to jiggle seductively.

  “Special project?”

  Suzan pulled the toothbrush from her mouth.

  “Yeah, some mystery box thing? You asked me to help, remember, but I can’t because of my anatomy test.”

  Beckett sat bolt upright and he checked the time on his phone.

  Seven forty-seven.

  “Shit!” he cried as he pushed by Suzan and turned on the shower. “Shit! Shit! Shit!”

  “What?”

  “I'm going to be late, that's what!”

  ***

  “You're okay to lock up?” Beckett asked as he grabbed his travel mug full of coffee and headed towards the door. “Suzan? You gonna lock up?”

  “Yeah, I'll see you tonight, okay?” Suzan hollered from the upper floor.

  Beckett slipped his keyring off the hook and then opened the door.

  “Thanks! Good luck on your test!”

  He was about to step outside when his eyes fell on the basement door. It was closed, and since Suzan had been staying with him off and on for the past few months, as far as he knew, she’d never gone down there. It unnerved him to know there was a corpse in his basement, but he couldn't do anything about it—not today. Any other day he might've been able to call in sick, wait for Suzan to leave then deal with Wayne Cravat, but not today.

  Suzan was right, he’d been planning this day for months, and she wasn’t the only one he’d talked to about it.

  If he missed today, people would notice. And that's the last thing he wanted. Things had finally started to settle down after the whole random organ fiasco; drawing attention to himself now was a recipe for disaster.

  “I'll see you later,” he whispered, his eyes locked on the basement door. Then Beckett left his home, all the while wondering why Wayne of all people haunted his dreams when none of his other victims ever had.

  Chapter 13

  They drove in silence for some time, heading away from Lucius Meats and toward the address that Wayne Cravat had listed on his parole form. The same address that PO Salzman claimed to have seen food cooking on the stove when he’d dropped by after Wayne had missed his first scheduled visit.

  Yasiv debated bringing up how Dunbar had snapped, but he didn’t think the man’s action warranted any sort of reprimand. After all, Kyle had reached for him first.

  Sure, Dunbar’s reaction had been severe, but Wayne wasn’t your normal parolee. And cases like his almost always caused those involved to overreact—it was expected. Yasiv’s job was just to make sure that nobody stepped over the line.

  “Dunbar?” Yasiv said, breaking the silence. “What video were you talking about back there?”

  “Huh?”

  Dunbar clearly still hadn’t let go of the anger that brewed inside him.

  “I asked what video you and that guy Frank were talking about back there. Something about Wayne and his trial?”

  “Oh yeah,” Dunbar replied, in a faraway voice. “Someone uploaded footage of Wayne, which led to his arrest. It showed him walking in the woods and he just ‘happened’ to find first Will’s backpack and then his corpse. The prosecution said that it was some sort of trophy video, but the defense claimed that Wayne was only guilty of discovering the kid’s body. Jury couldn’t decide which was the truth, I guess.”

  “And the video is still online? You’ve seen it?”

  “It was taken down, but it pops up every couple of weeks. I’ve seen it. Fucking creep smiles at the end like he knows he’s gonna get away with it. Makes me sick just thinking about it.”

  Yasiv made a face. He’d seen enough death close-up, he didn’t need it in video form as well. He took another left, moving away from the city center toward the outskirts.

  Something occurred to him then; they’d been talking about Wayne’s parole for some time now, and yet Yas
iv didn’t even know what the man was on parole for. He posed the question to Dunbar.

  “Wayne may have been acquitted for killing Will, but he was convicted of concealing or improperly disposing of a body. Yeah, bullshit, I know. But still, they had to get him for something when that video leaked.”

  Yasiv internalized this and they drove in silence for several minutes. Eventually, he spoke up again.

  “Hey, Dunbar? Can I ask you something?”

  Now that his partner had calmed down considerably, he thought it safe to ask the question that had been on his mind ever since Lucius Meats.

  “Yeah?”

  “Why’d you go off back there? Why’d you get so pissed off?”

  Dunbar scowled.

  “That kind of shit… crimes against kids, it just gets to me. That and the fact that somehow guys like Wayne Cravat and Winston Trent, the worst kind of criminals, always seem to buck the system. It’s like people don’t want to believe that someone can be that bad, you know? That people are capable of the worst things imaginable.”

  Yasiv had a feeling that there was more to it than that, but he decided not to press. If Dunbar wanted to talk about it more later, he’d make himself available, but he wouldn’t pry. They all had their secrets, and some were never meant to be told.

  “Yeah, well, I guess I’m just jaded. I’ve seen the worst in people, and then some.”

  Yasiv took a hard right into the Happy Valley Trailer Park. He wasn’t sure if the person who had named the place had a wry sense of humor or if the Park had just seen better days.

  The single dirt road leading into the complex ran beneath a sign that was so weathered that it was impossible to read the name. On either side of the ad hoc road were rows of trailers one cockroach from condemnation.

  “Shit, people live here?” Dunbar said under his breath.