James Beamer Box Set

by Paul Seiple

  "What did she say about this man?" Bill asked, surprising me, pushing his way into the conversation. His tie was twisted. The bottom two buttons of his shirt unbuttoned. Signs that he had been running again.

  "Miss Brand, this is my partner Bill Ash."

  Jackie nodded. "She didn't say much. Just that she met some guy jogging at Dalton Park yesterday. She said she didn't know him, but he knew her name and where she worked."

  "You jog at that park, right, Mike?" Bill asked.

  "Yeah."

  "Were you there yesterday?"

  "No." I turned the focus back to Jackie Brand. "She hadn't seen this man before?"

  "That's what she said. I figured he was a patient at some point. We see so many faces go through here."

  Bill wrote in his notebook. "Did you see the man at all?"

  "I saw someone. Just for a second. From behind. Not long enough to notice anything. I had my back to the door talking to Jessie." She pointed to the security guard.

  "Did you see him?" Bill pointed his pen at the security guard and never looked up.

  "Yeah. Not good enough to give you a description though." Jessie looked at me. "I guess he was about your height. A tall guy. How tall are you?"

  "Six-five," I said before nausea hit. There was a strong urge to vomit again. I swallowed hard and asked if Maggie had a boyfriend.

  Jackie chuckled, thinking about the previous conversation she had with Maggie and then wiped her cheek. "I don't even think she dated. At least she never mentioned it to me. Her family is in Colorado. Maggie wasn't very social." Jackie stopped talking. Tears flowed down her cheeks. "Look at me, saying 'wasn't.' I mean she is shy. I don't think she likes the bar scene."

  Bill kept writing. I feared if I opened my mouth again I would puke.

  "Is it a lot of blood?" Jessie asked, pointing to the yellow evidence cards arranged in a zig-zag pattern on the concrete. "You think she's all right?"

  "Tough to say, kid. From the splatter, my guess is she's in a lot of trouble." Bill closed his notebook and put it back in his pocket.

  Ten

  Cup O' Joe's was packed. There wasn't room to move. A typical morning. George sat in the back at a two-person table near the restroom. It was always available; no one wanted the smell of shit to taint the aroma of coffee. George didn't care. Filth fueled him. The odor was assurance that the world was turning to shit.

  He sipped coffee and straightened his tie as he waited for his father. Image was important to George. He demanded to be taken seriously in a world that he felt didn't deserve the same respect. He wanted to be the wolf in sheep's clothing. Between sips, his eyes shifted to her. Kat Daniels would be next. She didn't recognize him from dreams or else she would run screaming. She only knew him as "black coffee and two sugars."

  The dreams confused George. Sunshine was the only one that seemed to recognize him. He wanted answers. Could it have been a sibling bond? Were the dreams so horrible for the others that their minds protected them from remembering? A stupid move since the danger was real. Not just a nightmare that could be swept under the pillow.

  "What did I tell you about this place?"

  George sat the coffee down, smiled, and kicked out a chair opposite him with his foot. "Don't worry, Dad. Officer Bill has more important things to deal with today."

  "I heard. They are swarming over the hospital like a plague of locusts." Art grinned.

  "Nice reference."

  "I take it you caught another firefly?"

  "I'm not a kid anymore. You don't have to call them that. Yes, the second seal has been cracked."

  "Excellent. How did it feel?"

  "Different than Sunshine. This one wanted to fight. She couldn't. I was a little upset that she hadn't dreamed of me."

  "Not all will, George. Not all have accepted their roles. Not all believe that it's possible for angels to walk this world. Even when the signs are so obvious. It's a good thing, I suppose. Their stubbornness makes your job easier. Otherwise you wouldn't be sitting here right now."

  "I don't like surprises. I want them to know when they look into my eyes. I want them to know that death has come. I want them to know that I am their end. That fucking Michael is stealing my glory."

  "What do you mean?"

  "She knew him."

  "Knew him, how?"

  "I'm not sure. She met him jogging or something. It really put a damper on it for me. Sunshine said Michael will win."

  Art laughed. "Oh naïve angels. Michael is already dead. He just doesn't realize it yet. Don't get discouraged. I have to hear about him," Art pointed to the sky, "all the time."

  "How do they know Michael?" George asked.

  "Michael is a part of you."

  George slammed his fist on the table. "I'm nothing like him."

  "Calm down. You have to control the rage or else this will not end as prophesied. Don't let your hatred ruin this. We will have the last laugh. The world will not operate on his terms. It will end on mine."

  Eleven

  Bill Ash knew no other life than homicide detective. He was one of the few that didn't call Michael, the boy with a silver badge. An obvious jab that Michael didn't pay his dues before becoming homicide. He fell into the job thanks to his father. That was bullshit. Bill knew it. Michael had everything it took to make it in Homicide. He was loyal, trustworthy, and most important; he loved putting the bad guys away. That's why it pained Bill to doubt him. But the cop inside told Bill that Michael was hiding something. Did Michael kidnap Maggie Hoover? Bill doubted it, but he was sure that his partner knew more about the crime. Michael had lied to Bill. He'd gauged it in Michael's demeanor. On several occasions Bill caught Michael displaying obvious signals of deceit. That broke the trust clause in the partner contract.

  Neighborhood kids getting even with Michael didn't stick with Bill either. He needed to find out more about the homeless girl. Was she really missing? Was there a connection to Maggie Hoover? After his shift, Bill would go out of his way to cruise Baker and Rafferty looking for the girl called Sunshine. She was never there. One night, he saw Pipes sitting on the corner, strumming his guitar. Bill circled the block and pulled in behind Pipes.

  Pipes was singing "Desperado" when Bill dropped a five in his tip can.

  "Appreciate it," Pipes said, without looking up, never missing a note of the chorus.

  "I love the Eagles," Bill said.

  Pipes recognized him. He stopped singing. "Look man, I don't want any trouble. I'm just making a living out here. I'm not a drunk or a doper. This money feeds me."

  "I'm not here to give you any shit." Bill dropped another five in the can. "I just have a few questions. Have you seen Sunshine around?"

  Pipes sat the guitar down beside his wheelchair. "Not since that morning. It's not unusual for someone to disappear for a few weeks or so. But she never did. She made it a point to say hello to me every day. I miss that. I miss her. These streets are hell. They'll eat you up if you're not careful, but I don't have time to mourn."

  "Has anyone mentioned anything about her?"

  "You don't know the streets, do you?" Pipes coughed. "We have to spend too much time wondering where our next meal is coming from and if we can find a warm place to sleep. Never mind safety. We don't have tea parties down here. We don't gossip. There is no 'How was your day' talk. If someone leaves that's just one less person you have to fight for a warm night's sleep. Don't get me wrong, I love Sunshine. I miss her smile. But this is survival. You learn not to get attached to anything, cause you have nothing."

  "You said the man she left with looked like my partner. Are you sure of that?"

  "I don't booze, man. It's not every day someone comes down here dressed like that. He was tall. Yeah, he could have been your partner's twin."

  "Have you seen this man since?"

  "Nope." Pipes picked up his guitar and started to strum the opening chords to "Always on My Mind."

  Bill reached into his wallet, pulled out a business card and a
twenty. He dropped the twenty in the can and handed the card to Pipes. "Call me if you see him again."

  Pipes dropped the business card in the tip can. "Will do." He started singing, stopping when Bill opened the car door. "And you let me know if you find Sunshine."

  Bill drove to the abandoned hardware store that Michael insisted was the scene of a crime. He walked around back. The piece of wood used to board the window still lay on the ground. The setting sun projected a blood-orange hue on wooden planks on the side of the building that were one swift wind from crumbling to the ground. Bill looked over his shoulder. He was alone. The only signs of life were a few empty vodka bottles. Most dry, but one looked to be used as someone's toilet. Bill took a small flashlight from his jacket pocket, aimed it at the door. One hard kick later, the door was on the ground. The sound ricocheted off adjacent buildings like a gunshot. A scream came through the echo.

  "Don't shoot me."

  Bill drew his revolver. Pointed it toward the voice. A red-headed man crawled out from underneath a stack of rotting newspapers.

  "I was just catching some shut eye. Don't kill me."

  Bill lowered the gun. "I'm not going to shoot you. Calm down." He flashed the light in the man's eyes. "You alone?"

  "Just me and the critters." The man started to stand.

  Bill aimed his gun again.

  "I don't have a weapon, man. I'm just getting up. This ground is hell on my back." He put his hand on his knees, brushing the dirt away from his soiled pants. "See, man, no weapon." He held his arms above his head.

  "You live back here?" Bill asked.

  "Home sweet home. I'd offer you a drink, but I'm fresh out. It ain't much." The man pointed to the newspapers. "But it keeps me warm. And I don't have to fight those vagrants that walk the streets."

  "What's your name?"

  "What's yours?"

  Bill pulled his badge. "I'm a cop. Don't fuck with me. What's your name?"

  The man took a step back. About to run. Bill reached for his gun again.

  "OK, Ok, man. They call me Smiley. But I ain't doing nothing wrong. No need to harass me."

  "Smiley, huh? OK, Smiley, why do you sleep out here and not in there?" Bill pointed to the hardware store.

  "Oh no. That's his place. I ain't going in there."

  "Whose place?"

  "The Tall Man. At least that's what I call him. I don't ask no questions. I ain't seen him for a few days. Not since he took that girl in there."

  Bill walked closer. Smiley backed away, positioning himself behind a trash can.

  "The Tall Man took a girl in there?"

  "I figured he was just getting him some. Pretty girl from the streets, but we all have to eat, ya know?"

  "What else did you see?"

  "I ain't saying nothing else. Snitches get stomped." Smiley turned and ran from the alley shouting, "Pigs are flying. Run. Pigs are flying."

  Bill shook his head. "How the hell did you know, Michael?"

  The stench of mold latched onto Bill's nostrils when he stepped through the doorway. The flashlight bounced off the paint cans. Someone had been here. They were in a straight line. Bill drew his .38, placed the flashlight over the barrel and crept towards the workbench. Flecks of wax glistened under the glow from the light. Bill lowered his head for a closer inspection. A faint scent of citronella bullied its way through the mold. "Why didn't I check this better?" Blood rushed to Bill's head from bending over. His blood pressure was high. He knew it. He placed the light on the workbench before bracing against it. Palms down. He caught a glimpse of something etched in the wood.

  The Lamb's death opened the first seal. I have my crown. I am here to conquer. Come and see!

  The O's had lines through them.

  "The O's are marked out," Bill said, thinking back to the letter Michael received.

  Twelve

  The circles under my eyes were spreading across my face like an oil spill. Tiny bumps started to pop out on my forehead. Acne. I hadn't had a breakout since high school. These types of tragedies were usually reserved for first dates. In sixth grade I had a date with Melanie Mosely, the best looking girl in school. A huge zit decided to crash the party. I hoped nothing that massive decided to rear its ugly head. I rubbed the pimples between my fingers as if they were braille. These bumps think I am killer was all I could muster as I couldn't get the image of a smiling Maggie Hoover out of my mind. I saw her everywhere and yet I knew she was gone. He took her two days ago. The killer didn't keep victims as pets. They only served as stepping stones to an ultimate goal that taunted me with vagueness. If I could figure out what drove him to kill, then maybe I could stop the murders. Daddy issues? An extra chromosome?

  I sat waiting for Father Abraham. My stomach grumbled, cursing me for not eating. My joints ached. Head throbbed for the same reason. I couldn't remember the last time I ate, but the tingling in my hands and feet told me that I better nourish my body soon. I decided that I would grab a burger after talking to Father Abraham. My stomach gurgled again. I didn't know if it was in applause or protest that it would have to wait a while longer.

  "Come on back, Michael." Father Abraham ushered a teen from his office. The kid's face flush with streaks of red looked as though he had taken forty verbal lashes to the cheeks.

  I walked by Father Abraham and flopped down on the couch, ignoring impalement from the springs.

  "Sorry to keep you waiting. That was an emergency. Youth and drugs. I tell you, as I stand here, drugs are the number one weapon in Satan's army. The downfall of man. Not that rock music."

  I shook my head. "It's OK, Father. I understand." And I did understand. Being a homicide detective, I knew all too well the side-effects of drugs. Overdoses, deals gone wrong, murdering a friend over five dollars.

  Father Abraham turned his notebook to a blank page, stuck the tip of a ballpoint pen on his tongue and then proceeded to write. "What would you like to talk about today?"

  I took a deep breath. I really wanted to know why he licked the pen before he wrote, but that wasn't keeping me up at night. "The dreams." I paused and let my next words play out in my mind before I spoke. I am about to tell someone that the women being murdered in my dreams are being murdered in real life. The implications of that could be disastrous. But I have to tell someone. He is a man of the Lord. Confessions of sin are nothing new to him. Hell, I doubt he will even believe me. I took another deep breath. "The dreams are coming true."

  Father Abraham jotted something on the page. "What makes you say that, Michael? Is this about the nurse?"

  I didn't say anything. I needed to talk about Ashley. How I dreamed of her. And now a knife covered with her blood was locked away in my house. I wanted to tell Father Abraham. I needed to tell someone. I just couldn't.

  "Michael, is this about the missing Hoover girl?"

  I was the only person that truly knew Ashley was gone. Not gone, dead. Father was asking about Maggie, the woman the entire state of North Carolina knew was missing. It was a safer bet to talk about her.

  "She was in my dreams," I said, failing to mention that I met her the day she disappeared.

  "I'm sure you dreamed of someone that resembled her. Your job is taxing. Maybe you should hand this case to someone else and take a few days off. You look terrible."

  "I can't do that. It's my responsibility to find her."

  It was my fault she was missing. I had to be the one to find her. I knew she wouldn't be alive. But finding Maggie Hoover was the key to saving the others. There was no way I was going to hand the case to someone else. I would die before that happened.

  "That's the natural instinct of a homicide detective. But you're not doing anyone justice if you kill yourself in the process. Look at you. You're not sleeping. And when was the last time you ate? You look skinny. Too skinny."

  Father Abraham tried to hand me a piece of licorice. The smell kicked my nausea into overdrive. I hated licorice. "It's not much. It's all I have here, take it."

  "N
o thanks. I'm fine, Father," I said cupping my hand over my mouth to keep the aroma of licorice away. My impatience for Father Abraham's inability to believe me hitched a ride on my aggravation train, taking a seat right next to exhaustion. Talking to the Father about the dreams used to be therapeutic even though he didn't believe. Now, I wasn't so sure. It felt like a parent trying to convince a child that monsters didn't live in the closet.

  "Michael, you been having these dreams for how many years? Five? Six? When did the dream involving this girl start?"

  "I don't remember." I said. But I did remember. The dreams of Maggie started about three years ago. By this point, I was shutting down. Father Abraham wasn't going to believe me. He couldn't help me. I was alone in this fight.

  "Son, it's not her in your dreams. You're imagining it's her. You're trying to make sense of the dreams. But this isn't the way."

  I stood up. Knees weak. His response was just as imagined. No one would believe I dreamed the murders without thinking I was responsible for them. In a way, I was, even if I didn't take the lives. I couldn't save them. Hell, I would haul myself off to jail. To Father Abraham I was still one of the good guys, incapable of evil doing.

  "I need to get back to work, Father. Thanks for the ear."

  I had to get out of there. The nausea was too much. Bile crept up my throat. I left without shaking Father's hand. I had never done that before. Father Abraham didn't seem to notice. He was too busy writing something in his notebook.

  Thirteen

  The theories weighed heavy on Bill. The cop, in him, said to talk to Captain Raines and suggest a warrant be issued for his Michael's arrest. But his gut told him something different. This was his partner he was talking about. And while he didn't have the rapport of Starsky and Hutch with Michael, Bill knew that Michael was an honest cop. And then there's the fact that Michael came from the lineage of the greatest police chief Winston has even seen, James Callahan. The statue erected outside of the Twelfth, after James lost his battle with cancer, was a constant reminder that heroes do exist. They may not fly or shoot webs from their wrists, but they are real.