James Beamer Box Set

by Paul Seiple

  Twenty-Eight

  "Why are you doing this to me?" the short-haired brunette asked between sniffles.

  "Why?" George laughed. "Because you are one of the lucky six."

  It wasn't supposed to happen like this. George was to feign car trouble. Convince the girl to give him a ride. Make her drive to the abandoned tobacco barn on Mayfield Road. George spent a lot of time making the place perfect for Laurie McGuire. Candles strategically placed to shed just enough light. Leave a little to the imagination. Ropes that burned flesh when twisted. Knives sharp enough to cut through to the soul. Laurie's final night would be full of torture. For George, it was evolution. Another step towards greatness. Until now, George hadn't deviated from the dreams. From his father's words. But as George grew more powerful, he doubted the authenticity of his father's claim. How the hell can an overweight, aging man be the Devil? George was stronger than his father. This was his game, and it was to be played on his terms from here on out.

  George tied Laurie McGuire's wrists together and latched them to a hook above her head. Water trickled down her face. She sniffled again.

  "Those better be tears of joy, missy." George kissed Laurie's cheek. "Salty."

  Laurie dangled, swinging her body from side to side trying to snap the restraint. She only weighed about a hundred and five pounds. The swaying was nothing more than a wasting of energy. George put on a pair of black gloves, pressing between each finger to ensure a snug fit.

  "You probably won't believe this, but I spent a lot of time creating a special place for you. It feels like cheating now that I've brought you back to the place I lost my virginity. Right over there," George shined a flashlight on the floor. "Right there is where the first one happened."

  "Don't kill me," Laurie said.

  "I don't kill. I free."

  George took a Bible in his hand. "Ever read this thing?"

  Growing up the daughter of a Southern Baptist preacher, Laurie knew the Bible. She just didn't always believe every word. Every story. At sixteen, Laurie rebelled, smoked her first cigarette, drank her first beer, and got her first tattoo, a fairy that she hid from her parents. Three days shy of her eighteenth birthday; Reverend Arnold McGuire saw the tattoo and kicked her out. But before she left, Arnold told her that one day she would beg for the religion she had forsaken. Laurie moved in with some friends, and got another tattoo, a weeping angel on her left shoulder. She chose to major in Psychology, determined to prove that God had absolutely no control over a person's actions.

  "Behold. What's that I see over there?" George placed his hand over his forehead as if he were a sailor looking out to sea for a ship. "I do believe that is a pale horse. A pale horse and he who sat on it was called Death."

  Laurie writhed. The psychopath quoting Revelations didn't need scythes to reveal his intentions. He wasn't setting her free. She was going to die. No amount of pleading would change that.

  George wiped his gloved hand against his leg as if to clean it of dirt. He stuck out his hand. "Nice to meet you. I'm Death." He made an up and down motion mimicking shaking hands. Laurie started to scream. George grabbed a knife and placed the blade to her lips like it was a finger telling her to be quiet. "I'm not finished yet." He cleared his throat. "Hades followed with him." George ran the blade over Laurie's lips. "These precious, little lips should be kissing my feet for saving you from the Hell I'm about to unleash on this world."

  Laurie spit in George's face. "You're not the Devil."

  "Bitch," George said, as he grabbed her suspended arm and drew her close. He put his cheek against Laurie's. "I know I'm not the Devil. I'm much worse."

  The sickening smell of death on George's breath made Laurie gag. She closed her eyes and saw her father and remembered the last words he said to her, "You'll beg for the religion you've forsaken." Laurie started to recite the Lord's Prayer. When she got to "But deliver us from evil," George shoved the knife into her stomach.

  "Prayers answered," he whispered in her ear. "You're welcome."

  Twenty-Nine

  Special-agent Reid Hoffman coached me on how to tell Rebecca that she was part of my brother's plan. The short version was he said not to tell her. Not yet anyway. Could I trust her? She was a journalist, and the story was a bombshell. Normally that sort of pressure would make my nerves worse, but when I left Reid, I felt confident. I could convince her that I was not crazy and that she would have to trust that I needed her to spend the night with me. I couldn't tell her why; I had to rely on my charm to persuade her. Reid assured me that I had it in me, even though I hadn't been on a date since the dreams started. I didn't trust myself alone with women. What if I actually did have a deep desire to murder them? Reid helped to answer that question by letting me in on the secret that my biological father was an infamous serial killer and my twin brother grew up to be a murdering psychopath. And there I was worrying if I had it in me to convince Rebecca Aaron to spend the night with me, giving no care to the revelation that I was born into the same evil I risked my life to protect the world from. There would come a time when I had to face that reality, Reid knew it. But there were more important things — saving Rebecca and stopping my brother. To do that, Rebecca had to stay with me. Reid Hoffman was good at his job. I walked away with the confidence of Burt Reynolds.

  That was four hours ago. Four hours is 240 minutes — more than enough time for the buzz of confidence to wear off. I fought to keep up the façade, but my mirage of charm was fading with each glance in the mirror. I recited my lines, editing them each time to the point of broken sentences and gibberish. I needed to get this over with before I became a pile of throwaway words. Minutes seemed to last hours. Time waits for no man, but it takes its sweet time when it feels like torturing a man.

  Reid was at Piedmont Tech with Reynolds and Baker canvassing the campus for any clues that could lead them to Laurie McGuire. Reid decided long before arriving in Winston that there were things that weren't to be discussed with all invested parties. He asked me not to mention Norman Wallace to anyone, not even Rebecca. He asked me not to mention my brother to anyone. Part of me felt guilt for withholding this information from the Twelfth. I was betraying my partner, my co-workers, and my city, but if it meant stopping my brother, I would atone later. Reid didn't show any signs of guilt for keeping silent. He wore a look of determination that told me this case meant more than just getting another serial killer off the streets. Rules didn't matter. This was personal for him too. It was going to make it much harder for Rebecca to believe that I wasn't a raving lunatic and possibly the killer, but Reid was right. Mentioning that you were the son of an infamous killer and the brother of a soon to be infamous serial killer was not something you wanted to do around a reporter starving for the story that will make her a star.

  There is a term in chess — zugzwang. It's the point of a game when a player realizes it's over. He's going to be checkmated. For my brother this time had come. But this wasn't chess. I couldn't let him take his king and run. Keeping the endgame a secret was the only way to ensure that my brother stopped killing.

  The drive to Luigi's was about ten minutes from my apartment. In that short time what little confidence I had left melted like an ice cube on hot asphalt. But I had to keep Rebecca safe. It was only one night. In the morning, I could explain everything and Reid would back me up. Just like a partner should. I thought about my own partner and the hell he must be going through searching for his niece. The lost confidence was replaced with hate for my brother. I had to pull this off.

  I looked into the rearview mirror, hoping that my reflection would morph into Knute Rockne and give me one hell of a pep talk, but staring back at me was Rebecca mouthing the words, "I'm not going to sleep with you."

  I walked into Luigi's at two minutes to seven. Rebecca was already seated. She waved in my direction as I stepped to the seating hostess. "Never mind," I said, interrupting the hostess as she asked ask how many were in my party. I pointed at Rebecca. "My date's already here."<
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  Date. Funny. Under different circumstances I would have killed to have Rebecca as my date. Killed was probably not the best choice of wording. Rebecca was stunning. Long, blond hair that curled over her shoulders. A living, breathing Vidal Sassoon commercial. She was a woman that didn't need to wear makeup, but could make a fortune selling it. A woman whose body could make every other woman in the restaurant rethink their dinner choice and kick themselves for not ordering a salad. Rebecca was tall enough to make shorter men feel beneath her. Hell, I was six-foot-five. A good five inches taller than her and she made me feel inferior.

  "Been waiting long?" I asked, taking a seat opposite of Rebecca.

  "I like to get to places early."

  I opened a menu and buried my face in it. "The lasagna is the best in town."

  "Yeah, well I'm a vegetarian," Rebecca said. "I'll just stick to a salad."

  I swore I heard every woman in the restaurant collectively yell, "Bitch."

  "So, what's the scoop, Columbo?"

  "Huh?"

  "You said, you wanted to tell me about the kidnappings. Let's hear it."

  "Can we eat first? I'm starving," I said.

  "We can eat. And talk. This isn't a date. No offense, but I don't mix business and pleasure," Rebecca said.

  Apparently my face morphed into that of a sad puppy.

  Rebecca smiled. "I'm sorry. You wouldn't believe how many times I get propositioned. I don't mean to come off as a bitch. I'm just defensive. I'm not blind. I see how people look at me. Tall blonde —she must be sleeping her way to the top. I hate that. Believe me if I slept my way to the top, I'd be hosting the NBC Evening News right now."

  I smiled back. Tension no longer massaged my neck and shoulders with imaginary nails. I felt comfortable with Rebecca. "Well, if it's any consolation, I don't think that way. You're like a pit bull out there on the streets."

  Rebecca laughed. "Thanks, I think."

  "What I'm about to tell you is going to sound like fiction. You're just going to have to trust me," I said.

  "The last time a man told me to trust him; I ended up at the drugstore at seven in the morning buying pregnancy tests." She smiled. "I can't promise anything."

  While we ate dinner, I proceeded to give Rebecca a heavily edited version of the kidnappings, leaving out just about everything that would make the story believable.

  "So, let me make sure I have this right," Rebecca said. "You think this kidnapper, who is actually a serial killer, is targeting me next and you want me to spend the night at your apartment to ensure my safety? Do I have that right?"

  It sounded like a horrible pick up line. But given the circumstances and the censorship that had to be placed on the story, it was right. "Yes," I said.

  Rebecca laughed at a volume that drew all attention to our table. "Either you're telling me the truth or that's the most creative pick up line I've ever heard. I like you, but what's in this for me?"

  "Well, for one, you don't die."

  Rebecca smiled. "Keep going."

  "Usually, life is enough."

  "I'm a demanding girl, what else ya got?"

  I liked Rebecca Aaron. After one meal and about forty-five minutes of back and forth banter, I liked her more than any woman I'd ever known. At face value it looked like infatuation — a beautiful woman giving the guy who hadn't been on a date in years the time of day. But it was more than that. Rebecca was a guarded person that's the first thing I took away from the earlier phone call. Not a bitch. Just protective. Here she was smiling and laughing — letting down that guard, she worked so hard to keep up. She was being a little too carefree for someone who was told they were the next target for a killer. I doubted she believed me. But I wasn't skeptical when she said she liked me. Feeling more comfortable, I decided to tell her a bit more. "You'll have exclusive access to the case. In the morning I'm meeting with Reid Hoffman. And…"

  "The Reid Hoffman? From the Gacy documentary?"

  "That's him. And I'm going to bring you with me. You'll get the story no one else will."

  Rebecca pursed her lips and took a swallow of water. Her red lipstick left a perfect impression of a kiss on the glass. "Sounds fair. But I'm not sleeping with you to get the story."

  "I wouldn't ask you to," I said.

  Rebecca traced the lipstick on the glass with her matching fingernail. "If, and that's a big if, I do sleep with you, it's because I want to."

  Thirty

  Bill Ash was a troubled youth. The irony of becoming a cop wasn't lost on him after he spent his early teens running from the law. Bill was a good criminal. He never got caught. Nothing major, but he could pick a lock faster than someone could open a door using a key. That skill would come in handy when he broke into Michael's apartment.

  Bill waited until the sun bowed, giving way to the rising moon. Fall days meant earlier nights. He didn't need to look at his watch. The sun always set at around seven o'clock. He watched Michael leave his apartment. Watching Michael trip over the doorstep and nearly face-planting on the concrete made Bill question his theory that Michael was behind the crimes, but only for a moment and then the cop kicked in. Michael was in a rush. Bill's first inclination was to follow his partner. But he was there to see what Michael was hiding in his apartment. So he waited for Michael to round Marshall and disappear at the corner Fitz Street. Bill had spent the last hour crammed in his car, stalking the one person that he was supposed to trust with his life. That seemed a lifetime ago. When Kat went missing, it became a game of every man for himself.

  Bill opened the door and stretched his legs to the pavement in an exhaustive effort to get the blood flowing back to his lower extremities. He shook his legs, each having the density of an Oak tree trunk, trying to regain feeling. The tingling sensation meant that it worked, but it came at a cost. Bill was winded. He needed a minute to catch his breath. He looked at his watch which read 7:15. Bill waited a few more minutes for his breathing to steady, contemplating a diet, but changed his mind when the aroma of grilled steak surrounded him. Maybe tomorrow, he thought, getting out of the sedan and walking towards Michael's apartment.

  George was three cars behind Bill, watching, waiting. Bill was a threat to his future. George had to deal with him before it went any further. 'Bat Out of Hell' by Meat Loaf bounced off the windows of George's silver station wagon. He hated the family car, but it blended into just about any situation. Meat Loaf sang about a man in the shadows with a gun and a bright blade as George picked flecks of Laurie McGuire's blood from his knife. George sang along with Meat Loaf — evil in the air, thunder in the sky. When George got to the part about the killer in the bloodshot streets, he smiled and cut the car's engine. The killer had come for Bill Ash. George grabbed a backpack and walked toward Michael's apartment, just as Bill opened the door of his car.

  Michael and Bill spent so much time together at the Twelfth. It never occurred to him that he had never been in Michael's apartment until he picked the front door lock. The cleanliness was not surprising given Michael's OCD. Bill would have loved to turn the place upside down. But time was limited. No one hid anything in their living room. It's the entertaining room. The room specifically made for guests. Not the place for the darkest secrets. The kitchen wasn't a good locker for murder keepsakes either unless you were a cannibal.

  Bill started his search in Michael's bedroom. He walked down the narrow hallway, barely fitting without scraping the walls. Michael's bedroom door was slightly open. With all of his attention focused on the room in front him; Bill didn't see the shadow climbing the wall from behind. He nudged the door open with his foot and hit the light switch. Michael's bedroom was a shrine to the missing women.

  Ashley Harris's shredded ski jacket was placed on the bed, arms outstretched, resembling a crucifixion pose. Maggie Hoover's blood-stained cross necklace was on top of the jacket. Below it, folded neatly, to show the embroidered name Kat, was Kat Nelson's work apron.

  "What the fuck have you done, Mike?"

&
nbsp; Bill stepped closer to the bed. The stench of death, chased down with a shot of betrayal nearly made him vomit. He pulled his revolver and nudged Kat's apron to reveal a Bible opened to Revelations 12. Bill read.

  Now war arose in Heaven, Michael and his angels fighting against the dragon. And the dragon and his angels fought back, but he was defeated, and there was no longer a place for him in Heaven.

  The rest of the verse was marked out with red ink and replaced with "Who needs Heaven when you can make Earth your Hell." The O's were marked with lines through them.

  A creak of the old hardwood floors, startled Bill, he swung around to be greeted by the barrel of a .357 Magnum.

  "Drop the gun, Bill. Don't try to be a hero."

  Bill tossed the gun onto the bed. It clanked against Maggie's necklace. "Why, Mike?"

  "Why?" George paused. "Because my father told me this world is a negative place and God isn't very happy with it."

  "Your father was a great man. James Callahan would have never said anything like that," Bill said.

  George laughed.

  "So, what are you going to do, Mike, shoot me, right here in your bedroom? How are you going to explain that?"

  George pressed the gun against Bill's sweaty forehead. "Well, Bill, I could kill you. Blame the murders on you and aim for Lieutenant in the near future. I came home from work to find you in my house, in my bedroom, gun aimed and ready to make me your next victim. It wouldn't be a hard sell. How did you get in any way? Did I give you a key?"

  "You don't have to do this, Mike. I can help you."

  George chuckled. "Help me? Help me how? You want to hold the next one down while I slice her from ear to ear. Would that be fun?"

  "You're a sick bastard. If you're going to shoot me, get it over with, you son of a bitch."