Injecting Faith

by Patrick Logan

  “Nigh impossible,” Beckett corrected. “Werner Syndrome? You really cured that? Because you'd be the first.”

  The Reverend’s eyes narrowed, and Beckett finally thought that he’d broken the man’s facade. But then he realized his error; Alister Cameron wasn’t angry or frustrated with him but was trying to understand him. To read him.

  Yeah, this is a nut you won’t be able to crack, my good man.

  “Ah, I understand now, my good son. You are a doctor.”

  Beckett crossed himself.

  “Guilty as charged.”

  “Now, I understand your skepticism. But let me assure you that I have the genetic tests to prove that Bethany Anne was once afflicted by Werner Syndrome, but is now healed.”

  Beckett recalled the last line of the article about the Reverend in the Times.

  “Well then, you wouldn’t mind if I were to take a look at said genetic tests, would you?”

  He expected the man to say no, to come up with something about how the Lord worked in mysterious ways, but Rev. Cameron was full of surprises, it seemed.

  “But of course. In fact, why don't you and your girlfriend join me and my wife for dinner tonight? I would be happy to share these tests with you then. After all, I was a doctor once, and I know how important it is to have evidence backing up extraordinary claims.”

  “I—uhh—I—uhh—I think—” Beckett gave up.

  A doctor? This guy was a doctor? And he wants me to join him for dinner? I would rather stick a white-hot needle in my eye. Even if he could give me two more inches, I wouldn’t—

  A third elbow in the ribs, this one hard enough to leave a bruise.

  “I don't—I mean—”

  “We’d be happy to,” Suzan said with a shit-eating grin. “We’d be more than happy to join you in prayer before the meal, as well. Isn't that right, Beckett?”

  Beckett glared at his girlfriend. He came here to investigate this asshole, not to break bread with him.

  He made a face and gave in. After all, Suzan had gotten him good.

  “But of course. I'll be sure to bring the wafers and wine,” Beckett grumbled.

  Chapter 23

  “I heard that he came here, yeah. Never saw him myself, though,” PO Salzman told both Yasiv and Dunbar. They’d migrated from the bar to a booth.

  Yasiv realized that he liked Tully, and thought that even under different circumstances, they might still be in a bar like this one having a drink.

  “And you don't think that was strange?” Dunbar asked.

  “I've read Wayne's file; nothing about his life is ordinary. Even though I’m his PO, our interactions were limited. He really didn’t say much. Like I told you guys earlier, Wayne isn’t really working with a full deck, if you know what I mean.”

  “Yeah, but he was allowed to drink? Like, as a condition of his parole?”

  Clearly, Dunbar was taking his conversation in another direction. Yasiv was trying to keep things cordial, friendly, civil, but Dunbar had other ideas.

  “Nothin’ against drinking. So long as he kept a steady job, stayed away from schools and that sort of shit, he was okay. I'm telling you, he was a good parolee until he disappeared.”

  Yasiv was tired and the alcohol was making him sleepy. The beer in his hand was to be his last, he decided. He just hoped that things didn’t escalate before then.

  “Good parolee? It sounds like you liked the man,” Dunbar remarked sourly.

  Fuck. Here it comes.

  Salzman sighed and roughly put his drink down on the table. Then he turned his entire body to face Dunbar, who was seated beside him. Yasiv's muscles tensed as he prepared to step between the two of them in case things got physical.

  “Look, I didn't hate the man, that much is true. Did he do some fucked up shit in the past? Yeah, he did. Reprehensible shit, shit I don’t condone. But I got a tough gig, man. These cons come at me one of two ways: they either try to bribe me or they try to intimidate me. Wayne wasn’t like that. He just went about his business, kept to himself, and checked in on time.”

  “Yeah, he tried to keep a low profile, so he could keep molesting little boys,” Dunbar said, refusing to back down.

  “He was acquitted of that, Detective Dunbar.”

  “Yeah, I know, and OJ was acquitted of killing his wife. That doesn't mean they didn't do it.”

  Tully suddenly rose to his feet and Dunbar practically leaped up to meet him. The latter had a good forty pounds and maybe three inches on the PO, but it appeared that only one of them had any desire to take this further.

  “I'm tired, boys,” Tully said. “Sorry I couldn't be of more help.”

  Yasiv had to physically move Dunbar out of the way so that Salzman could get by.

  “You helped plenty,” Yasiv said. “Thanks. We’ll be in touch if we find anything.”

  Tully gave him a tired look and nodded. Then he left the bar. When he was gone, Yasiv turned to Dunbar.

  “You gotta keep it together, Dunbar. Seriously. PO Salzman had nothing to do with this, he wasn’t on the jury that acquitted Wayne. He’s just the man’s PO.”

  Dunbar lowered his gaze.

  “Yeah, I know. It's just that this type of thing gets to me.”

  “No kidding. The fact is, though, all we gotta do is find this asshole. That's it. Get the DA off our backs for a while. You can’t take this so personally… that’s when mistakes are made.”

  “You think that's what happened here? Someone took this case too personally and decided that if the court couldn’t deal with Wayne, that they’d take care of him on their own?”

  The question surprised Yasiv, and he had to think about it for a moment. In the end, he resigned himself to just rubbing the back of his neck.

  “How the hell should I know? All I know is that we need to find him. That, and the fact that I’m beat. I’m heading home to get some sleep. Want me to drop you off?”

  Dunbar shook his head.

  “No, I think I’ll hang around for a bit.”

  Yasiv cringed; he didn’t like that idea one bit. But the man was off the clock and he had no authority to tell him differently.

  “All right, I'll see you tomorrow. We'll pick this up then. And Dunbar?”

  Dunbar raised his eyes.

  “Yeah?”

  “Don't do anything stupid. You want that SVU job? Then stick to the plan. I'm telling you this as a friend.”

  Dunbar said nothing, which made Yasiv worry even more.

  Chapter 24

  “I think I hate you, Suzan Cuthbert,” Beckett said.

  Suzan laughed.

  “You wanted this, not me. Shit, I wanted to go to Montréal. But no, you had to come here to check out some douchebag who claims to be able to cure death. This is your doing, Beckett, not mine.”

  Beckett rolled his eyes. Sure, he wanted to come here to investigate Rev. Alister Cameron’s claims, but he didn’t want to have dinner with the man.

  “You did this on purpose, didn't you? Set this up from the start… probably called the Reverend up while we were still in New York.”

  “I don't think planning is either of our strong suits,” she remarked.

  Suzan was standing in the bathroom, applying mascara. For some reason, her eyelashes were connected to her lips; every time she used the tiny brush to apply the mascara, her lips turned downward in an expression that reminded him of a guppy.

  So far as Beckett knew, there were no muscles connecting eyelashes and lips, but they most definitely were attached somehow.

  Reverend Cameron was right about one thing; there were some mysteries that neither science nor medicine could resolve.

  “And you're not going to embarrass me, either,” Suzan remarked.

  Beckett pulled a T-shirt out of his bag and held it up for her to see in the mirror.

  “Does this work?”

  Suzan didn't have to say anything; she simply stared. Beckett looked at his Marilyn Manson T-shirt and shrugged.

  “I
like it.”

  “I packed a dress shirt in there for you, a short sleeved one. Wear it.”

  Suzan used her no-nonsense tone and Beckett groaned. He reached back into the bag and pulled out the shirt she wanted him to wear. It was off-white, practically see-through, and looked about as comfortable as a burlap sack.

  He sighed but slipped it on.

  “And you’re going to bring a bottle of wine, too. And not that cheap shit from the gas station. A nice bottle. I also want you to be polite.”

  He shifted uncomfortably in his shirt; it looked as comfortable as a burlap sack but felt more like barbed wire against his delicate skin.

  “Yes, Mom,” he said. “You owe me for this.”

  Again, Suzan gave him that stare.

  “No, Dr. Beckett Campbell, you owe me,” she corrected.

  ***

  “Welcome,” Rev. Cameron said with a broad smile. He looked almost normal out of his priest regalia and dressed in a button-down shirt and tan-colored slacks. His hair was neatly parted to one side.

  “Thanks for having us,” Suzan said.

  “Of course, mi casa, su casa. I'm sorry, but I was never good with names.”

  “Suzan, Suzan Cuthbert.”

  Rev. Cameron leaned in and gave her a kiss on the cheek before turning to Beckett.

  “And it’s a pleasure to see you again, Dr. Campbell.”

  Beckett shook the man’s hand, discomforted by the fact that his was completely swallowed by the other man’s massive palm.

  “Just Beckett,” he said. Then he extended the wine bottle.

  The man looked at the bottle with keen interest and smiled.

  “A Châteauneuf-du-Pape. Very nice. Come on in.”

  As they stepped inside the large foyer, a woman sporting an apron appeared from what Beckett assumed was the kitchen. She was petite and pretty, with dark hair that fell just below her ears. She also had piercing blue eyes, but Beckett was more interested in her considerable bust. As she moved toward them, her impressive rack didn’t so much as bounce.

  Rev. Cameron can cure death and also imbue any woman with implants with the simple flick of his tongue.

  “And this is Mrs. Cameron,” the Reverend said.

  “Holly. My name is Holly.”

  Beckett leaned in and gave her a kiss on the cheek as Alister had done to Suzan, and somehow invoked the power of the Lord to resist the temptation to look down at her breasts.

  As if sensing his moral conundrum, Beckett heard a chirp and his eyes were drawn to a side room. He spotted a white bird cage—one of the cheap plastic kinds—and a yellow budgie inside. Neither fit with the décor and struck him as a little odd.

  “You like birds?” he asked.

  Rev. Cameron hooked a thumb at Holly.

  “My wife does. Personally, not my favorite animal. Too many allergens.”

  Beckett nodded. He hated birds, himself. They just squawked and shit everywhere.

  At least they keep the cage clean, he thought, noting what looked like fresh newsprint on the bottom of the cage.

  “Enough about birds; let’s have a drink, shall we? Holly, do you mind opening this bottle of wine and letting it aerate? Dr. Beckett has brought a good one.”

  Holly Cameron nodded and took the bottle from her husband. As she walked back to the kitchen, the big man gestured for them to enter the room to their right.

  The smell of freshly cooked chicken filled Beckett's nostrils. His appetite had waned somewhat over the past few months, coinciding with the nasty headaches he’d been getting. But for some reason, the smell that inundated his sense now was particularly intoxicating.

  He said as much, and the Reverend nodded.

  “Yes, Holly is an excellent cook—you’re in for a treat. Can I offer you something to drink before dinner? I've got a wonderful scotch collection.”

  Beckett looked at Suzan, who shrugged. This wasn’t turning out the way he thought it would. He thought this night was going to be stuffy, uncomfortable. Never did scotch make an appearance in his expectations.

  “What's your favorite dram?” the Reverend asked Beckett. His expression was kindly enough, but those eyes…

  Beckett was suddenly struck with a strong sense of déjà vu.

  The man’s eyes were so similar to Flo-Ann McEwing’s and Winston Trent’s, that it was unnerving.

  Feeling another headache coming on, Beckett clenched his jaw.

  “Are you okay?” Suzan asked, suddenly at his side and reaching for his arm.

  “I'm fine,” he replied. “As for the scotch, I'll take something peaty.”

  The Reverend, who was watching him closely, nodded.

  “How does Ardbeg work for you? I've got Corryvrecken and Uigeadail.”

  “Uigeadail is one of my favorites,” Beckett said.

  “And for you, Suzan?”

  “I'm fine for now, thank you.”

  Rev. Cameron nodded and then walked over to the bar to get Beckett’s drink.

  “You all right?” Suzan asked quietly, concern etched on her face.

  “I'm fine. Likely just the devil coming out of me.” Suzan didn't laugh. “Just a headache. I'll pop an Excedrin and be fine.”

  Suzan seemed unconvinced, but the Reverend returned with the drinks.

  “Here you go. I assumed you wanted it neat?”

  “You got it,” Beckett said, taking the glass. The Reverend had made one for himself and they clinked glasses.

  Beckett inhaled deeply as he brought the golden liquid to his nose and took a sip.

  It tasted like cigar ash mixed with campfire, and he loved every ounce of it.

  “Why don’t you come sit with me while Holly finishes the meal,” the Reverend offered. “We can talk about our trials and tribulations at medical school. Where did you go, by the way? I attended Brown…”

  Chapter 25

  Dunbar lied; he wasn't planning on heading home any time soon.

  He was planning on doing some research of his own.

  After sucking down two more beers, he once again found himself at the bar, trying to get the attention of the bartender with the handlebar mustache.

  Eventually, he came over.

  “Yeah? What can I help you with?”

  “You can help me with getting another beer,” Dunbar said sharply. He tried to keep it together and had done a pretty good job in Yasiv's company. But the man wasn’t here to babysit him anymore. “And after you get me a beer, you can tell me more about Wayne Cravat.”

  “I think it's about time you headed home, Officer,” the bartender said, taking a step back.

  Dunbar quickly gauged his reach and concluded that the bartender was three or maybe four inches out of his range. Clearly, the man was no rookie.

  “I'll leave after I get my beer and after you tell me more about Wayne.”

  The man shook his head and crossed his arms over his chest. His eyes quickly darted over Dunbar’s shoulder before returning to center.

  “You're done here. Take off before you do something you might regret.”

  Dunbar sneered.

  “Don't tell me what I'm going to regret,” he warned. “Give me my goddamn beer.”

  It was only now that he realized that he was slurring his words, and Dunbar did his best to speak clearly.

  “Just—”

  A hand came down on his shoulder and he swatted it away.

  “I think he’s right, you should take off, sleep it off. You’ll think more clearly in the morning.”

  The man who grabbed him was a stocky fellow with spectacles and slicked-back hair.

  “Who the fuck are you?”

  Before the man could answer, Dunbar slapped his badge down on the counter.

  “I'm NYPD; if you touch me again, I’ll—”

  The man moved quickly. He reached out and grabbed Dunbar by the arm and dragged him off the stool, slipping him into a half-nelson before he could even take his badge back.

  “Let go of me!”

/>   “Go home,” the man whispered in his ear.

  “I'm a cop, goddamn it! Somebody do something!”

  Dunbar struggled against the man’s grip, but he was seamlessly transitioned from a half- to a full-nelson before he could break free. As he was dragged toward the door, he realized that several other men had joined the first and were giving him a lending hand.

  “So am I,” the man said. “Now get the fuck out here.”

  The door was thrown open and Dunbar was tossed into the street. He fell hard on his ass and grimaced.

  “Fuck you!” he shouted, but the men were already heading back into the bar.

  Dunbar couldn't believe that these assholes were protecting Wayne, after what he’d done.

  “Fuck you! Fuck—”

  The man who’d grabbed him suddenly appeared in the doorway again, only this time he was clutching something in his hand.

  “Don't show your face here again,” he said calmly. Then he tossed the item at Dunbar. It struck him in the cheek, just below his eye.

  “Shit,” he cursed. He tried to scramble to his feet but staggered and fell back down again. He did, however, manage to grab the thing that had been thrown at him and picked it up. He was going to launch it back, hopefully break a window or something, when he realized it was his badge.

  With a grunt, he pulled himself to his feet and staggered.

  “Dunbar, what the fuck are you doing? What happened to you… that had nothing to do with this.”

  And yet, his anger continued to build.

  He was more than thirty miles from his home, but he walked the entire way until his feet were shredded and blistered, and his body was soaked with sweat despite the cool air.

  Chapter 26

  Beckett dabbed his lips with a napkin, soaking up some of the chicken grease that made them glisten. Then he had a sip of wine. They’d finished his bottle long ago and had moved on to the Reverend’s. It was good but paled in comparison to the chicken.

  “Holly, the chicken was amazing.”