James Beamer Box Set

by Paul Seiple

  I replayed lyrics again in my mind, more thorough. The beach was burning. Fog crawling over the sand.

  "There's no beach here," I said not realizing I was still in the company of people.

  "What?" Bill asked.

  "Nothing, just singing out loud," I said, taking the headphones off.

  Beach? He must mean Potter's Dam.

  Potter's Dam was the closest thing Winston had to a beach. The nearest beach was three hours away. There was a makeshift beach near the dam. There was no sand, just dirt. But the kids would hang out there on sunny days just as if they were at South Beach. Ritter Lake was nearby, but there was no place that could pass for a beach. More importantly the only access was two gravel roads that led to boat docks. It had to be Potter's Dam.

  "I gotta run," I said, grabbing my coat from the back of my chair.

  "Where ya going?" Bill asked.

  I didn't answer him.

  Fall brought dusk early to the southern skies. Potter's Dam wasn't far. The killer wouldn't be there yet. I banked on the hope that he didn't think I could figure out the clue so fast. I needed a hiding spot. A place to go unnoticed. The most traveled area of the dam was the rope swing, which was actually a thick vine, dangling over the water. The spot had the most space. Enough room to torture a victim.

  I was so set on getting to the dam that I didn't think about the fact that I hadn't dreamed of this place. No hint of it at all. The locations in the dreams were the kill spots. Potter's Dam was never in a dream. The closer I got the more I realized that something should be familiar. It wasn't. An eerie feeling of walking into a trap came over me, but I couldn't stop, even if it meant my death. I pulled into a parking area not far from the dam. The lot was empty, nowhere to hide. I backed up and drove around to a fenced-in utility building. I unhitched a chain that kept vehicles out of the area and parked beside a beat-up pickup that had four trash cans in the back. The truck provided just enough cover to shield the Cutlass. I hitched the chain and walked through the woods to the dam.

  The vine swung gently in the cool breeze. The setting sun's glow shimmered off the water creating a light show that ran up the length of the vine. I was just about to camouflage myself in bushes when I heard a faint whistle. I stood back to a tree, held my gun tight, and waited. Something I had always hated — waiting. I never had the patience for it. But I had to bite the bullet and sit still. This was it, I was about to confront my demon. The whistle grew louder with the breeze. There was a flash — a reflection — almost like an S.O.S. signal coming from the vine. Something attached to it gave off shards of dying sunlight as the breeze swayed.

  I bent my knees, aimed my gun, and walked toward the vine. One small step at a time making sure to keep any rustling of leaves to a minimum. The object became clearer as I grew closer. It was a necklace tacked to the vine. Dangling was a cross.

  The sky lit up. Bright enough to momentarily blind me. When my vision came back, I saw Maggie Hoover jogging in place, standing over me as I dry heaved. I hadn't noticed it when we met, but the necklace was around her neck.

  "It's hers," I said, reaching for the vine to pull it closer. I grabbed the necklace not giving a care to preserving any evidence. No one at the precinct would ever see this. I took a small flashlight from my pocket and aimed the beam of light at the necklace in the palm of my hand. Engraved on the back of the cross were the words, To Maggie, You're an Angel. Blood covered the rest of the etching. Cross-contamination was the last thing on my mind. I wiped the blood away to reveal the hidden words — From Mom.

  That son of a bitch. The killer wasn't bringing a new victim here. He left a clue to confirm what I already knew. Maggie Hoover was dead. I clutched the necklace as the killer's words haunted me. "You can't save any of them."

  Twenty-Two

  Kat Nelson left yoga class at seven sharp. Her timing never ceased to amaze George. He admired that about her. She was never late and always left at the same time. Her routine hinted to compulsion, something George knew about. It took years for him to break the habit of having to have everything in order. If one toy was out of place, George would throw a fit. The disorder was so bad that Art questioned if George was the one to carry out his plan. He knew that his son would face uncertainties as he marched to the endgame. There would be times when everything wasn't organized. Things would be sloppy. Art doubted that George would be able to handle those situations. But when George became an adult, he focused on his father's words. His compulsion became destroying the world and revenge for his father against a God that had forsaken him.

  Kat got in her red Celica and pulled off.

  "Red for the roses. Red for the blood about to spill," George said, pulling out behind her.

  He was supposed to take her as she left the gym. That was the prophecy. But there was something about following her. She drove along, probably listening to the latest one-hit pop wonder. Singing along, off key, not knowing this would be her last night on Earth. He got off on that.

  Kat turned on Carmichael Street. Two blocks from her house. George never intended to follow her all the way home, but the rush took over. This wasn't in his father's plans. Not like this. He watched Kat bob her head to the music. An innocent victim. Pleasure started to outweigh his father's approval.

  "It's time for Michael to feel a little heat," George said, parking two cars behind Kat.

  George took a half dozen roses from the backseat. The Meat Loaf reference that he taunted Michael with was an afterthought. The song played on the radio when he called Michael. George bought the flowers from a street vendor just after the call. The plan was to profess his admiration to Kat when she left the gym and invite her to dinner. She would think he was Michael. And if she said no, there was always the crowbar. But since he had teased Michael, George needed to take things further. He didn't want to be a disappointment. He waited for Kat to get out of her car. He opened his door.

  "Excuse me," he said. "Can I get a coffee, lots of sugar?"

  Kat grabbed her mace and turned around. George shielded his face with the roses.

  "Don't shoot," he said. "It's me, Bill's partner."

  George lowered the flowers from his face and extended his arm. "See, it's just flowers." He smiled.

  "How did you know where I live?" Kat asked, still clutching the mace.

  "I'm a detective. I'm pretty good at staking people out."

  "Well, it's creepy."

  "I'm sorry. Please accept these as my apology."

  George handed the flowers to Kat. She took them without saying a word.

  "This is quite embarrassing. Not the reaction I had hoped for."

  "What do you expect when you follow someone home and nearly scare the shit out of them?"

  George chuckled. "You're right. Again, I'm sorry. Let me make it up to you. Let me take you to dinner."

  "I already have my dinner, but thanks for the apology. I'm going in now. It's chilly out here." Kat turned away from George, grabbed a bag of groceries from the car, and started to walk toward her house.

  "Are you sure? I feel really bad about this. I know this nice little Italian place," George said walking up behind her.

  "I'm sure."

  "Well, that's a shame."

  George hit Kat in the back of her head with a forearm, knocking her to her knees. The bag of groceries spilled onto the asphalt sending oranges and avocados over the road. She reached for the mace. George kneed her in the temple knocking her unconscious. He didn't care if anyone saw what was happening. The power was intensifying. He was becoming unstoppable. He straightened his suit and picked Kat up, tossing her over his shoulder, and dumping her in the back of his car, not much different than she had done the groceries just minutes earlier.

  He shut the door, checked his tie in the side-view mirror, and picked up the roses. Plucking one from the arrangement, he walked to Kat's front porch and placed it on a Welcome Mat decorated with paw prints.

  "I'm the wolf with the red rose," he said, walking back
to the car.

  Kat opened her eyes. Black. Even in the absence of light she knew her vision was blurry. She blinked rapidly — an exhaustive attempt at focusing. The side of her face ached. The taste of blood filled her mouth. She swirled her tongue over her teeth, wincing as it brushed over a jagged stub that used to be a front tooth. She wanted to touch her face, to survey the damage, but her hands were tied behind her back. A nylon cord dug into her wrists. Her fingers tingled. She didn't know if it was lack of circulation or the position she was in. She kicked her legs out, feeling around the room for anything. There was nothing, just empty space. The floor smelled of pine cleaner, but wasn't clean. Sticky, much like a surface would be after a soda spill. She rolled onto her side, her flesh stuck to the linoleum floor.

  "Stand up."

  The deep voice rumbled off the walls. Without seeing them, the echo let Kat know the walls were bare too. The reality of the situation set in. Tied up in a darkened room. The only escape was through a psychopath. She froze.

  "I said, stand up."

  The flame from a lighter pierced the dark. Behind the fire, George smiled through the flickering flame.

  "Why are you doing this?" Kat asked.

  George ignored her plea. "Do you like Meat Loaf? The fat singer, not the food."

  Kat started to cry.

  "Here's a funny story. I was talking to Michael earlier, and I mentioned Meat Loaf. He acted like he had never heard of him. I mean, seriously, who hasn't listened to Bat Out of Hell?"

  "You are Michael, you sick bastard."

  "You don't know how bad it pisses me off when someone confuses me with him. It happens quite often. No wonder I'm such an angry boy." George threw something in Kat's direction. It stuck in her thigh. In the faint glow she could make out that it was a dart. Her thigh muscle started to throb.

  "Oh God," Kat said, between sobs.

  "Why is it that all of you always ask God for help? I'm the one actually helping you."

  "Why are you doing this?"

  George inched his chair closer to Kat, squeaking the legs against the linoleum. "Why am I doing this? You see this light?"

  Kat felt heat against her cheek. The smell of butane, so strong, it burned her nostrils.

  "This light is you," George said, waving the lighter through the air like a toy airplane. "When I was little, my dad called your kind fireflies."

  "You're crazy," Kat screamed.

  George laughed. "Would you believe you're not the first person to tell me that? Now can we get back to the story," he paused. "My dad told me that it's my job to catch the fireflies. Thinking about that now it sounds kinda silly. I'm not here to catch you. I'm here to kill you."

  Kat felt something cold against her throat. She swallowed hard.

  "Would you give your throat to the wolf?" George asked.

  Kat whimpered. George ran the blade of the knife over her cheek catching a tear on the point. He held it under the light. The liquid shined light blue. "Just beautiful," George said.

  "Please don't kill me."

  George picked under his fingernails with the blade of the knife. "Oh, but I have to kill you. It's written, so it shall be done. Blah, blah, blah." He pointed the knife at Kat who let out a scream. "That's it; get it out if it makes you feel better. No one can hear you though."

  "Please don't," Kat said, squirming, the cold floor burned against her skin.

  "When he opened the third seal a black horse appeared and upon its back sat a rider carrying a balance." George cleared his throat. "So, tell me, firefly, do you believe in justice?"

  Kat couldn't speak. Her life dangled on the words of a madman. At any moment the puppeteer could slice through the strings and it would be over. She whimpered.

  "I can't hear you, firefly." George leaned closer, placing the knife against his ear. "Do you believe in justice?"

  Something in Kat snapped. She smelled the evil on George's breath. She wasn't getting out of this alive. She let out a scream. "Yes, I believe in justice. And you're going to burn in Hell."

  George laughed. "A feisty little thing, now, aren't we? That's what I like to see. Put up a fight."

  Kat muscles relaxed. A peace fell over her. Her voice was calm, barely above a whisper as she spoke. "I'm not going to fight you. That's what you want. I'm not afraid to die."

  "You sure were a few minutes ago."

  "That's before I saw how weak you are."

  "Oh, another clairvoyant. I've dreamed about you for months. Right down to this blade," George placed the point of the knife against Kat's chest, "piercing your heart. But nothing is as it seems in dreams. Why don't you want to fight for your life? Enlighten me?"

  "My death will save the world from you. Killing me will be your downfall."

  "That's the spirit. Martyrdom at its finest. I hate to tell you this, firefly, but your death gets me one step closer to the end."

  "Go to Hell, Michael."

  George felt rage in his cheeks. The lobes of his ears burned. He was tired of hearing about Michael. The future didn't involve Michael, just George standing triumphant on a pile of death and damnation. Without saying a word he grabbed Kat's hair and slit her throat. Not as he planned. In the dreams, he toyed with her longer extending the cat-and-mouse game until his prey became exhausted and then plunged the knife into her heart and watched the light fade from her eyes. In the visions, George was more controlled. Something he knew he had to work on as he watched blood pool in a canal around his Italian loafers. He sat beside Kat's lifeless body, waiting for the light to extinguish. No drug could compete with the rush.

  "Michael will die at the same hands that took your life," he said, smearing his fingers in blood before writing I bet you say that to all the boys on the linoleum floor.

  Twenty-Three

  The necklace hung from my bedpost like shame from a one-night stand with a married woman. I stared at it, hoping to elicit another clue. Nothing, just the reminder that women were dying and I, the homicide detective, couldn't do a damn thing to stop it. My eyes watered, not from tears, but from being held open too long. Closing my eyes could show me another death. I was foolish to believe that I could stop them by not sleeping. The killer didn't give a damn if I slept. The girls were going to die. What I did or didn't do wouldn't change the outcome. The deck was stacked against me. There was no need for the killer to bluff. I knew the cards he was holding. I knew I had lost. Such a hopeless feeling.

  Hints of blood trapped in the etching You're An Angel glistened in the flickering light from a candle like screams of the victims begging me to stop the monster. My eyelids fell. The weight of no sleep forced them closed. Fighting it was futile. The pressure was too much. I twisted like an animal trying to escape a trap. And then there was calm. Warmth cradled me as a soft, female voice spoke, "Stay calm, you need to watch this."

  A shock charged through my body, robbing air from my lungs. I gasped and opened my eyes to see a woman giving birth. A group of doctors hovered over her, shielding her face from me. High pitch screams of agony made my ears ache. One of the doctor's said, " Keep pushing, just a little more." A crying baby joined in on one last wail from the woman.

  "Congratulations, it's a baby boy," another doctor said to a man standing in the back of the room with his back to the doctors. He turned around. It wasn't a man, but a seven-headed dragon that set fire to the room, torching the doctors as the baby cried.

  My body lurched forward. I grabbed the sides of the mattress just like someone would do while trying to stay on a mechanical bull. The sheets soaked with sweat. Through the smoke I saw Rebecca Aaron crouched in the corner. Her wrists and ankles were tied, her blond hair matted with blood, mascara streaking down her face, but she wasn't crying. Her smile confused me.

  "I know it looks hopeless, Michael. But you're the one. The savior. The dragon is rising, but you will defeat him. Send him back to the bowels of Hell where he belongs."

  "There is no dragon. I'm losing my mind."

  "You're not go
ing crazy. The Devil is real. Maybe not as you pictured him in the biblical sense. But pure evil is here. Only you can stop it."

  Before Rebecca could finish, a loud bang caused her to disappear.

  "Stop what?"

  The knocking grew louder.

  "Mike, you in there. Open the door."

  Bill.

  Twenty-Four

  The doctors were gone. The dragon was gone. No sign of Rebecca. No smoke. No fire. The room was no longer an operating room. It was once again my bedroom.

  Another knock.

  "Mike, I'm going to bust this fucking door down, if you don't answer."

  I jumped off the bed. Grabbed the necklace and hid it in my sock drawer. I answered the door in a sweat-soaked t-shirt and boxers. "What's wrong, Bill?"

  "Kat's missing."

  "Who?"

  "My niece. She works at Joe's. She didn't make it to work this morning. With everything going on in this town, I decided to ride by her house. Found her car, driver's door open, groceries all over the street."

  "Let me get dressed," I said, "Come in."

  Bill grabbed my shoulder, spun me around, and shoved a red rose in my face. "What do you know about this?"

  Wolf with the red roses, I thought. He took Bill's niece.