James Beamer Box Set

by Paul Seiple

  Reid ran out of the WLNC studio, gun drawn.

  "He's in Michael's car," Barbara said, between gasps. "He took her."

  Reid placed his hand beneath Barbara's elbow and helped her to her feet. A steady stream of crimson ran down the shin of her left leg.

  "Are you OK?" Reid asked.

  "Just a flesh wound. I'll live." Barbara held out her leg. The asphalt acted as a cheese grater on her skin when she dove out of the car's path.

  "I'll call you an ambulance," Reid said.

  "No time for that. We have to get to Rebecca."

  Reid handed Barbara a handkerchief. She wrapped it around her knee.

  "I'll have Raines send units to both Michael and Rebecca's houses."

  "He won't take her there," Barbara said, hobbling to Reid's cream-colored Duster.

  "That's the point. I want to find him before they do."

  Forty-Two

  Gunshots.

  The loud clang against metal shook me free from Death's grip. The sound of glass shattering followed the second shot. Someone was shooting at the car. After the third shot, the car jerked, throwing me upwards against the trunk hatch. I guess I didn't seem much of a threat to George since he just tossed me in the trunk like a bag of garbage getting hauled to the dump. His mistake.

  Blood loss made me weak. The pain still felt like my gut was being torn to shreds with each pothole. But I was getting stronger. Not physically. Mentally. And that's what mattered at this point. George should have killed me. His confidence blinded him. I was already dead to him. But I was still breathing. And down to my last breath I was going to see this through. I was going to spoil George's fun. He didn't know that I had a nine millimeter taped to the left inside quarter panel. A trick that Bill Ash had taught me. One of his crazy ideas that didn't seem all that crazy after I thought about it. And now it was genius.

  I closed my eyes. Bill was sitting at his desk, wiping coffee from his tie with a damp napkin. "Prepare for the unexpected, Mike." Bill licked the napkin and scrubbed the stain. "You never know what kind of tricky situation you'll end up in."

  "Have you ever been trapped in the trunk of your car?" I asked.

  "No, but best believe I'll be ready to shoot my way out of the son-of-a-bitch if the time comes."

  I started to laugh. It hurt like hell. But the burning in my abdomen meant that I was still alive. And the metallic taste in my mouth wasn't blood. It wasn't the precursor to expelling bile. It was the taste of vengeance and the hunger inside made me want more. Revenge for everyone that George had hurt. Retribution for Bill.

  My mind jumped from thought to thought just like a kid hopping from rock to rock crossing a creek. Where is he taking me? Who was shooting at him? Before I could run down a list of suspects, George spoke.

  "Well, hello, sleepyhead. Nice of you to finally join me."

  There was a mumble. Barely audible, but I could tell the sound came from a female.

  "I hope I haven't let you down," George said. "I'm not who you expected me to be."

  "You're exactly who I expected you to be."

  Rebecca. He has Rebecca.

  "You're not disappointed that the cop is the killer?"

  "Cut the shit. You're not Michael," Rebecca said.

  Laughter bounced off the walls of the trunk. I couldn't help but smile again. That woman had spunk.

  "And just who am I?" George asked.

  "You're Michael's inadequate brother."

  "Speaking of inadequate, how long have you been fucking my brother?"

  "Wouldn't you like to know? Does it get you off to know your brother's getting laid? You obviously have a case of sibling envy."

  Cool it, Rebecca, I thought. Don't press him too hard.

  "I'm not jealous of Michael. He's weak."

  "He's stronger than you'll ever be," Rebecca said.

  "Let's see if you're still staying that when I'm ripping your intestines from your body."

  "Michael will not let that happen," Rebecca said.

  George laughed. "Honey, you have a better chance of God Almighty coming down from Heaven and jamming a lightning bolt in my ass before Michael saves you."

  "You're thinking of Zeus, dumb ass," Rebecca said.

  Before George could respond, off key singing drew my attention away. I heard the words, "I've been waiting so long." It was all too familiar. The song was 'Sunshine of Your Love' and the voice was the homeless man in the wheelchair. George was taking us to the abandoned store where he killed Ashley Harris. My sister.

  It was still hard to believe. I had a sister that I never knew and will never know. A stabbing sharpness clutched my chest. Not yet, I thought. Hold on. I closed my eyes. Brightness lit up the darkness behind my eyelids. I opened my eyes. Ashley Harris was sitting beside me, in the trunk, sipping on a coke.

  "Not the best way to meet, is it, big brother?"

  "I'm sorry," I said.

  "No need to be," Ashley took another sip. "God puts us here for a reason. Mine was to brighten the lives of those that felt there was nothing left to live for."

  "But I should have been there for you," I said.

  Ashley smiled. "You didn't know I existed. I served my purpose. You hear that voice?" Ashley pointed to the roof of the trunk.

  The homeless man's voice wavered during the chorus to the Cream classic.

  "That's Pipes. He lost the ability to use his legs to a drunk driver. Lost his wife to cancer. Lost the house when he couldn't afford to pay her medical bills. I met him the day he wanted to end it all. I told him the world needed a voice like his."

  "You're really an angel," I said.

  "I suppose I am for those who have lost hope. But not for you, brother." Ashley smiled again. "You've never lost hope."

  I blinked and Ashley started to fade away. I reached out for her. "Don't go." She was a mere reflection that wavered around my hand just as if she were sun shining on a pool of water that I dipped my fingers in.

  "We will meet again, brother. It's not your time yet."

  Forty-Three

  The second verse to 'Sunshine of Your Love' escaped Pipes. It always did. He repeated the first verse. No one was listening anyway. The champagne-colored Cutlass rounded Fifth. Cops. Pipes would have known even if he hadn't recognized the car. Behind the wheel was the tall, sharp-dressed man. In the backseat was a blonde. Not Sunshine, but from the looks of her movement, she was there against her will. Pipes wasn't the smartest, but he knew if he didn't do something the blonde would end up like Sunshine. Just a memory.

  Pipes pulled Bill Ash's business card from a small satchel affixed to the side of his wheelchair. The ink smeared by drops of water was still legible. Pipes dug through the cigarette wrappers in his Tips can and fished out two dimes.

  The Cutlass pulled in front of the broken down building that used to be Redd's Tools and Gardening Supplies. Pipes crossed the street but never stopped singing. Silence would draw unwanted attention. He pulled up next to the payphone and dialed the number on Bill's card. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the Tall Man drag the blonde around the building. Pipes fumbled with dimes, dropping one to the ground.

  "Pigs are back," Smiley said, walking towards Pipes toting a brown bag covering a liquor bottle.

  "Get out of here, Smiley."

  "Why? You hear something? They coming for me?"

  Smiley's eyes lit up saw the dime beside the wheel of Pipes's chair.

  "Don't think about, Smiley."

  Smiley ignored Pipes and bent down to pick up the dime. Pipes grabbed the collar of Smiley's stained windbreaker. Pipes held out his hand and tilted his head, in a motion suggesting that if Smiley knew what was good for him, he would drop the dime in Pipes's open hand.

  "All right. All right. I wasn't going to take it."

  The Tall Man came around the building. Smiley recognized him and took off running in the opposite direction. He didn't scream "Pigs" this time. He knew the Tall Man wasn't a cop. And if Smiley stayed around any longer his f
ate would be much worse than jail.

  Pipes maneuvered the dime into the payphone, keeping one eye on the tall man who waited for Pipes to turn his back before opening the trunk. Pipes squinted. A small, chrome piece on the phone provided eyes in the back of his head. He saw the Tall Man pull a heap from the trunk and drag it down the alleyway.

  "Twelfth Precinct," said the faceless woman.

  "Bill Ash. I need to speak to Bill Ash now."

  "Who is this?"

  "Not important. Put Bill Ash on the phone."

  "Sir, I'm going to need you to calm down and tell me who you are."

  Pipes hung up the phone and started to nervously hum the chorus of 'Couldn't Get it Right' by the Climax Blues Band.

  Forty-Four

  The Duster roamed the downtown streets of Winston. To the naked eye, the car and its passengers looked lost in a sea of dilapidated buildings haunted with ghosts of a thriving past. But Reid Hoffman wasn't lost. He had a plan. He always had a plan.

  "How are we going to find them?" Barbara asked.

  "Hopefully with technology and luck. George will take Rebecca somewhere familiar to him but off of our radar."

  Reid drove at least ten miles under the twenty-five mile per hour speed limit. Traffic wasn't the problem. There were no signs of life save for the occasional homeless person wandering aimlessly. Reid was looking for a payphone. There were remnants of phones on just about every corner, but they suffered from the same ailment the once proud buildings did — neglect. Usually the receiver was snapped clear free from the metal cord. In several instances, the entire phone was missing, leaving a shell of a box that would have Superman second guessing his choice of changing room. Reid spotted a working phone at the corner of a 7-11.

  "I need to use the phone."

  Reid opened the car door and tripped over a pile of empty wine bottles. He caught himself on the back quarter panel of the Duster saving himself from a face-to-face greeting with the pavement. Cosmetically, the phone booth screamed "Do Not Enter." Bright yellow graffiti accentuated the film of dirt that tinted the glass doors. Reid half expected a body to tumble out when he opened the doors. The odor that assaulted him made him wish for the smell of a decaying body. The last working payphone in downtown Winston moonlighted as a toilet. Reid stepped out of the cloud of noxious fumes and inhaled a deep whiff of garbage from the nearby dumpster. He coughed, closed his eyes, and entered the phone booth. On faith, he dropped his change into the phone and dialed Quantico. There was only about a twenty percent chance the phone wouldn't steal his money. Reid was shocked when the phone rang.

  "Yemana."

  "Jack, it's Reid."

  "Perfect timing. Just got a hit. Call came from a payphone on Fifth Street. And get this, the guy asked for Bill Ash," Special Agent Yemana said.

  "Bill Ash is dead," Reid said.

  "The caller doesn't know that. He was frantic about speaking with Ash."

  "Did he say anything else?"

  "Nah, he hung up when pressed about why he was calling."

  "Thanks. I'll check it out. Keep listening," Reid said.

  "Will do, buddy."

  Barbara eavesdropped from the car. She rolled the window all the way down. "You tapped the Twelfth Precinct?"

  Reid smirked. "I don't put as much faith in luck as I do technology." He dodged the wine bottles on his return to the car. That was the thing about Reid Hoffman, you might be able to catch him by surprise one time. Just one time. After that he would be ready for you.

  "Get a hit?" Barbara asked.

  "Someone called looking for Bill Ash."

  "Can't be our guy."

  "No, but from what little I know about Ash, he probably had eyes on the streets and a pair of those eyes saw something that would be of interest to Ash. Nothing could be of more interest to Ash than finding his niece."

  "It's worth a shot," Barbara said.

  Forty-Five

  George lit the first candle. Citronella swirled around a puff of black smoke to fill the room with the scent of lemons and ash. He walked to the next candle and then to the next until a dull yellow hue lit the walls and concrete floor. He took a moment to reflect on the first kill — Ashley Harris — his sister. No remorse, but there was embarrassment. How could he have been so naïve to believe his father? To believe that he was the antichrist and his father was the Devil. Killing the fireflies was prophecy. Art Staley or Norman Wallace, whatever you wanted to call him, was no more than a serial killer. And he passed the disease on to his son. George knew the truth now. He knew every truth. He hated his father. Not for lying to him. Not for grooming him to be a murderer. George hated his father for not having the balls to kill Michael himself. After this was over George planned to have a talk with Art.

  Light from the soft flames raced across the cold, concrete floor where he took his sister's life. She took her last breath, looking into his eyes as he shoved the knife deeper. George admired her fearlessness. Not once did she blink in the face of death. Not once did she plead for her life. Ashley would always hold a special place in George's heart. It had nothing to do with being his sister. She was the first. She set the beast free. But the time to reflect was over. There was work to be done.

  There was a wooden chair in the center of the room. Leather straps were attached to the arms and legs. A metal bar extended about three feet above the chair, affixed to the back with rope. A crude homage to Harold P. Brown and Arthur Kennelly, inventors of the electric chair. George wasn't planning on using electricity to torture Rebecca. Too easy. But once restrained, the possibilities were endless.

  Rebecca huddled in a corner. Her eyes darted from the psycho to Michael, curled in a fetal position. Michael hadn't moved. Not a twitch. She was sure he was dead. But she still watched, refusing to blink, refusing to give up hope. Her fingers tingled. The nylon cord was tight against her wrists. Her hands were cold. George didn't bother restraining her ankles. The sick bastard wanted her to try to run. He was faster. He knew it. She knew it. It was bait. A dare that Rebecca wouldn't take. Rebecca's lips burned beneath the stickiness of the duct tape. The taste of glue made her want to vomit.

  "Look what I made," George said. "Just for you."

  If her mouth weren't taped, the chamber was loaded full of insults to hurl in George's direction. That's sweet, but I prefer diamonds. Looks like you spent a lot of time on that piece of shit. A Gucci bag would have said so much more. Smart move to tape her mouth. Rebecca was a tough woman. A fighter and if she was going down, she was going down swinging.

  "Nothing to say? Ungrateful bitch." George grabbed Rebecca under her elbow and lifted her. He pressed her face against the wall. A whiff of mold initiated her gag reflex. She fought through it. She couldn't vomit. With her mouth taped shut, it would be certain death. George pulled the hair away from her neck. Pressed his mouth to her spine. "Is this the way my brother does it?"

  George's lips didn't feel human, more like the slithering tongue of a snake. The sensation made her skin crawl in an army of gooseflesh. He unzipped her dress to the dip in her back just above her ass.

  "Oh, look, matching panties," George said, sliding two fingers under the waistband of her black underwear. "A thong, huh? Such a slut." He jerked the dress from her shoulders. It pooled on the concrete around her Dior heels.

  Rebecca closed her eyes. If he tries to rape me, I'm going to rip his dick off, she thought. She didn't flinch, not even from the cold air circling her nearly naked body.

  "Do you like it rough?" George asked. "My brother doesn't strike me as the type that can give it to you hard." He smacked her ass and whispered in her ear. "I'm going to give it to you rough, but you're not going to like it." George grabbed a handful of Rebecca's blond hair, wrapped it around his fingers, and dragged her to the chair, using her hair like a leash. He pushed her down onto the chair. "Think Michael likes to watch?"

  George tied the leather restraints around her wrists. She kicked him in the shin with the point of a shoe. He grabbed for
his leg. "Dumb bitch." George ripped the heel from Rebecca's foot. He pressed the heel against her cheek, just below her eye. "I should poke your fucking eye out."

  Rebecca tried to smile through the duct tape. Her cheeks rose.

  "Are you smiling?" George tossed the heel. There was a crack against the concrete when it landed. He grabbed the heel from her other foot and threw it. He held her ankles tight as he restrained her legs. "Since you think this is fun, let's play a game of This Little Piggy." George pressed the barrel of Michael's .357 against Rebecca's big toe.

  Forty-Six

  Pipes took up residence in his usual spot — the corner of Sixth and Montague. The corner provided the perfect vantage point to keep an eye on the Cutlass without being too conspicuous. He went on with his daily routine — strumming songs and serenading Mother Nature — while keeping a lookout for the tall man. Pipes attempted to play 'A Taste of Honey' by Herb Alpert, but it sounded more like the theme to The Gong Show.

  "What the hell are you doing? Trying to start a cat fight with that racket?" Smiley said, handing a bottle, wrapped in a brown bag, to Pipes.

  "I'm not drinking after you," Pipes said. "No telling where that mouth's been."

  "Suit yourself." Smiley took a swig of cheap whiskey.

  "What's the paper bag for, Smiley? No one gives a damn what happens down here."

  "Protecting my investment." Smiley tipped the bottle to his mouth.

  "Good cover."

  "Is he gone?"

  Before Pipes could answer, a cream-colored Duster crept around the corner.

  "Pigs flying," Smiley said, before running away.

  Pipes waved his guitar in the direction of the car.

  "Over there," Barbara said.

  Reid eased the car to the curb next to Pipes. Barbara rolled down the window and flashed her badge.

  "No need for that. That car is your badge. Where's Bill Ash?" Pipes asked. "Wait, did that say FBI?"